Berlin, January 26th, 1842.

Dear Eckert,

I have been long in your debt for an answer to your kind letter; pray forgive this. I have been living such a stirring, excited life this year, that I am more than ever unable to carry on any correspondence. I need not tell you the great pleasure I felt in hearing from you, and always shall feel every time that I do so. You know how entirely you won my regard during the years when you resided in Leipzig, and how highly I both honour and estimate your talents and your character. It is really difficult to say which, in the present day, should be considered most important; without talent nothing can be done, but without character just as little. We see instances of this day after day, in people of the finest capacities, who once excited great expectations, and yet accomplish nothing. May Heaven bestow on you a continuous development of both, in the same measure that within the last few years you have made progress; or rather, bestow all this on yourself, for Heaven can do no more than endow you with the germs and capabilities for this end, with which it has already so richly endowed you: the rest becomes the affair, and the responsibility, of each individual. Such a preaching tone must sound very strange to you, living in joyous Paris; but it is a part of the world and of life, that every wild animal has its own special skin and roar, so I continue to roar in my old tones.

Hofrath FÖrster sent me yesterday your “Lieder ohne Worte,” and your overture, so I have occupied myself with little else than with you and your compositions, and heartily rejoice in both; in the former from the memory of the past, and in the latter from the pleasure of the present. Both yesterday and to-day I have looked through, and played through, your charming “Lieder” with the greatest delight; they all please me, and are thoroughly genial, earnest music. More, more, a thousand times more, in this and every other style! The overture in F sharp major, too, caused me great pleasure, and suits me almost throughout; a few passages only seem to me rather too amplified: we must not write, however, but speak on this subject when we meet again, although the only really important thing I have to say with regard to your music, I have already said in this letter,—more, more! You have reached a standard, that may in every relation well be called a mastership, which all musicians or friends to music must highly esteem, and beyond which nothing actually extrinsic (whether it be called erudition or recognition, facility and knowledge, or honour and fame) is any longer worth striving for; but this is, in my opinion, just the time when true work really first begins. The question is then solely what is felt and experienced within a man’s own breast, and uttered from the depths of his heart, be it grave or gay, bitter or sweet,—character and life are displayed here; and in order to prevent existence being dissipated and wasted when brilliant and happy—or depressed and destroyed when the reverse—there is but one safeguard—to work, and to go on working. So, for your sake, I have only one wish, that you may bring to light what exists within you, in your nature and feelings, which none save yourself can know or possess. In your works, go deeper into your inmost being, and let them bear a distinct stamp; let criticism and intellect rule as much as you please in all outward questions and forms, but in all inner and original thought, the heart alone, and genuine feeling. So work daily, hourly, and unremittingly,—there you never can attain entire mastery or perfection; no man ever yet did, and therefore it is the highest vocation of life.

I was three weeks in Leipzig not long since, where I was well amused, and both heard and assisted in much good music. One morning I went to the Klengels; it was on the Wednesday of the fast-week, at eleven o’clock in the forenoon; the old gentleman was sitting in his dressing-gown at the piano. As during the whole week there had been no rehearsal of any concert, he had made NannÉ sing a little. The conversation turned on Julius’s “Lieder.” “If we only had an alto!” said they. I offered to sing falsetto; the music was brought, and good red wine beside. We sat round the table, and sang all his songs, which delighted me exceedingly, and some of yours also. I had a great deal to do that morning, but I stayed on till half-past one o’clock, and could not resolve to come away. See if you can find such mornings in Paris! “And you in Berlin,” you will reply.

Now, farewell; continue your regard for me, and ever believe me your friend,

Felix.