Knoop, for whom I have left little space, especially as I find my paper is
torn.

Evening. Have just come from Knoop's. It was beautiful to see the worthy
mate of such men as Ole Bull and Vieuxtemps. From what you and others had
told me, I knew I should like him. So calm and grand. Yet when I left the
room a mournful feeling came over me, that so he must leave and be heard
no more. Beethoven is not done when he is dead, nor Raphael nor
Shakespeare; but for him whose glory is action, which leaves no trace but
upon the heart, what shall remain? The notes he may transcribe for others,
but the charm of the musical artist lies not therein; it is a personal
effluence; how shall we measure it? I felt to-night that he played not for
an audience, but to the private heart. He was singing to me his deep
searching thought, his star-lost aspiration. Indeed, he is worthy to close
the brilliant winter; a calm planet fading from us, but with a mild,
steady lustre that condemns sorrow. How invisible, insensibly proceeds his
fame! My character must needs be strengthened and mellowed by such men,
and so my influence upon others is moulded, till perhaps it meets him
again. Surrounded by these intimate relations, we cannot touch one but all
thrill. In such a subtle shrine is the influence of genius fitly embalmed
and there worshipped. How grand an era in my life, when through a winter I
may justly use the word genius many times!

Good-night!

G.W.C.

I am 24! Will you write me the numbers of the "Tempest" sonata, and some
others that I liked particularly? The op. 14, No. 2, I have got, and Timm
played it to me on Monday. How inexorable is this space, that will not let