"What more shall I write? I am all confusion about my hasty departure. I have now only to write the verses to my _Wiland_; otherwise the whole poem is finished--German, German! How my pen flew along! This _Wiland_ will carry you all away on its wings; even your friendly Parisian hopes. If K---- does not write soon, I shall presume that he is raving too madly about Krebs. Krebs is clever--so is Michalesi--what more do you want? But K---- should restrain himself, and not give himself away so much as he does, as with me!
"Farewell! Another time you will receive a more sensible letter, with a list of misprints in my last book. If people do not comprehend me even after this work, if I am charged with improprieties, I clearly see the reason; one cannot understand my writings for the misprints. To my joy some one is playing the piano overhead; but no melody, only accompaniment, which has a charm for me, in that I can practice myself in the art of finding melodies"--
And, finally, these few bitter lines, sent after his return to Zurich--
"It is impossible for me to conduct my overture myself in Paris, for this reason, that it will not be performed there at all, as there was not proper time for rehearsal--perhaps "next year". I received this answer on the eve of my departure from Paris, and truly in a very pleasant quarter. I think I never laughed so loud and so from the bottom of my heart as on that evening and in that place."