Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Paris, February 4th, 1832

You will, I am sure, excuse my writing you only a few words to-day: it was but yesterday that I heard of my irreparable loss. Many hopes, and a pleasant bright period of my life have departed with him, and I never again can feel so happy. I must now set about forming new plans, and building fresh castles in the air; the former ones are irrevocably gone, for he was interwoven with them all. I shall never be able to think of my boyish days, nor of the ensuing ones, without connecting him with them, and I had hoped, till now, that it might be the same for the future. I must endeavour to inure myself to this, but I can recall no one thing without being reminded of him; I shall never hear music, or write it, without thinking of him; all this makes the rending asunder of such a tie doubly distressing. The former epoch has now wholly passed away, but not only do I lose that, but also the man I so sincerely loved. If I never had any especial reason for loving him, or if I no longer had such reasons, I must have loved him all the same, even without a reason. He loved me too, and the knowledge that there was such a man in the world—one on whom you could repose, and who lived to love you, and whose wishes and aims were identical with your own—this is all over: it is the most severe blow I have ever received, and never can I forget him.

This was the celebration of my birthday. When I was listening to Baillot on Tuesday, and said to Hiller that I only knew one man who could play the music I loved for me, L—— was standing beside me, and knew what had happened, but did not give me the letter. He was not aware indeed that yesterday was my birthday, but he broke it to me by degrees yesterday morning, and then I recalled previous anniversaries, and took a review of the past, as every one should on his birthday; I remembered how invariably on this day he arrived with some special gift which he had long thought of, and which was always as pleasing and agreeable and welcome as himself. The day was a melancholy one to me: I could neither do anything, nor think of anything, but the one subject.

To-day I have compelled myself to work, and succeeded. My overture in A minor is finished. I think of writing some pieces here, which will be well remunerated.

I beg you will tell me every particular about him, and every detail, no matter how trifling; it will be a comfort to me to hear of him once more. The octett parts, so neatly copied by him, are lying before me at this moment, and remind me of him. I hope shortly to recover my usual equanimity, and to be able to write to you in better spirits and more at length. A new chapter in my life has begun, but as yet it has no title. Your

Felix.