Leipzig, February 18th, 1836.

Dear Mother,

I cannot write home without enclosing a few lines for you, and thanking you a thousand times for your dear letter, and begging you to write to me as often as you wish to make me very happy. I have scarcely thanked you, and Fanny, and Rebecca, for the beautiful presents you sent to me on the 3rd, and which made the day so pleasant to me. The leader of the orchestra, when I went to rehearsal on the morning of that day, addressed me in a complimentary speech, which was very gratifying, and when we sat down to dinner at S——’s, I found a silver cup, which four of my friends here had ordered for me, with an inscription and their names, under my napkin. All this was welcome and cheering. In the evening, when I had carefully put away your store of linen, and placed Rebecca’s travelling-case beside my map of Germany and the keys of my trunk, and had read “Fiesko” in Fanny’s book, which I was formerly so pleased with, (but now less so,) then I felt considerably older, and thought of Aunt Lette, who wrote me a note on my twentieth birthday, which began, “My poor Felix! actually ten years hence no longer a boy!”

I am curious to learn whether Gusikow pleased you as much as he did me. He is quite a phenomenon; a famous fellow, inferior to no virtuoso in the world, both in execution and facility; he therefore delights me more with his instrument of wood and straw, than many with their pianofortes, just because it is such a thankless kind of instrument. A capital scene took place at his concert here. I went out to join him in the room where he was, in order to speak to him and compliment him. Schleinitz and David wished to come with me; a whole group of Polish Jews followed in our wake, anxious to hear our eulogiums; but when we came to the side room, they pressed forward so quickly, that David and Schleinitz were left in the rear, and the door shut right in their faces; then the Jews all stood quite still, waiting to hear the compliments Gusikow was about to receive. At first I could not speak for laughing, seeing the small room crammed full of these bearded fellows, and my two friends shut out. It is long since I so much enjoyed any concert as this, for the man is a true genius.

The direction of the St. Cecilia Association at Frankfort-on-the-Maine has been confidentially offered to me. I can with truth say that it caused me more pain than pleasure, because it is evident from this that Schelble’s return is considered out of the question. If it really be so, (which I shall take care to ascertain), I will on no account accept the offer. But if there were a possibility of improvement, and I could in any degree be of service to Schelble, by giving an impetus to his Institute next summer (for I hear that all the winter it has been almost dead), and if he could resume the duties himself next winter, I should feel real pleasure in doing this for him, even if all my travelling projects were to be overthrown. For once it would be doing a real service, both to a friend, and to the cause itself.

And now I must dress, for I am going to direct a concert. Merk is here; he gives a concert next Sunday, where I am to play with him again: it is the seventh time this winter, but I could not possibly refuse; for when I see my old companion again, the whole autumn of 1830 is brought before my eyes, and our music at Eskele’s, our playing billiards at the KÄrnthner Thor, and driving to Baden in a fiacre, etc. Besides, he is beyond all question the very first of all living violoncello players. Farewell, dear Mother.—Your

Felix.