and that you would be quite justified in not even reading all this. The truth is, that since I have got used to this place, I feel quite at home and settled in it. I am working a good deal for myself and for the outer world, and that, in other words, means that I am happy. This I ought to have described to you at full length, but could not (perhaps Klingemann can do so verbally), and so kept silent; but towards Christmas I mean to send you some new compositions and a letter as well, and then Moscheles must give me his opinion of the music, according to his promise. He will by that time have conducted my Overture in F, and will report about it, so that I shall have a letter in spite of my sins. Now, that is being hardened indeed! Better change the subject.
Herewith is the book of Songs formally made over to you, your heirs, executors, and assigns; if Klingemann doesn’t give it up, he is worse than a gazzo-ladro. I do intend sending you a proper book of manuscript songs at Christmas; but you won’t believe me, so I’ll set about writing it first.
And how about Moscheles’s four-hand Sonata?
After all, this is but a note, and I ought to conclude by saying: “I am truly sorry I cannot dine with you this day week, because I have a previous engagement at Mrs. Anderson’s.”
All love to Emily and Serena, and every good wish for your welfare. Should little Felix show his content by saying “Ba!” or otherwise prove his friendly disposition, you must tell him about his godfather, and give him his love. Now farewell, and fare ever well.
Yours,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.