Leipzig, February, 1838.

... In our concerts we are playing a great deal of what is called historical music, so in the last but one we had the whole of Bach’s suite in D major, some of Handel and Gluck, etc. etc., and a violin concerto of Viotti’s; in the last of all, Haydn, Righini, Naumann, etc.; and in conclusion Haydn’s “Farewell Symphony,” in which, to the great delight of the public, the musicians literally blew out their lights, and went away in succession till the violinists at the first desk alone remained, and finished in F sharp major. It is a curious, melancholy little piece. We previously played Haydn’s trio in C major, when all the people were filled with amazement that anything so beautiful should exist, and yet it was very long ago published by Breitkopf and HÄrtel. The next time we have Mozart, whose C minor concerto I am to play, and we are also to have a quartett of his for the first time from his unfinished opera, “ZaÏde.” Then comes Beethoven, and two concerts remain for every possible kind of modern composition, to make up the full number of twenty.

Yesterday evening we thought much of you. At a late hour, when I had finished writing, I read aloud ‘Nausikaa’ to CÉcile, in Voss’s translation, repeating to her at the end of every ten verses the profound philological remarks which you made when we used to read it together during our Greek lesson, and which now recurred to me in hundreds. Moreover, this poem is really irresistible when it becomes sentimental. I always felt an inclination to set it to music, of course not for the theatre, only as an epic, and this whole day I feel renewed pleasure in the idea; but is anything at this moment to be done with German poets? Last week four opera libretti were sent to me, each one more ridiculous than the other; the only result is to make enemies for myself. I therefore write instrumental music, and long for the unknown poet, who perhaps lives close to me or at Timbuctoo,—who knows?...