109.

Paris, July 18, 1778.

I hope you got my last two letters.  Let us allude no more to their chief purport.  All is over; and were we to write whole pages on the subject, we could not alter the fact.

The principal object of this letter is to congratulate my dear sister on her name-day.  I think I wrote to you that M. Raaff had left this, but that he is my very true and most particular friend, and I can entirely depend on his regard.  I could not possibly write to you, because I did not myself know that he had so much affection for me.  Now, to write a story properly, one ought to begin from the beginning.  I ought to tell you, first, that Raaff lodged with M. Le Gros.  It just occurs to me that you already know this; but what am I to do?  It is written, and I can’t begin the letter again, so I proceed.  When he arrived, we happened to be at dinner.  This, too, has nothing to do with the matter; it is only to let you know that people do dine in Paris, as elsewhere.  When I went home I found a letter for me from Herr Weber, and the bearer of it was Raaff.  If I wished to deserve the name of a historian, I ought here to insert the contents of this letter; and I can with truth say that I am very reluctant to decline giving them.  But I must not be too prolix; to be concise is a fine thing, which you can see by my letter.  The third day I found him at home and thanked him; it is always advisable to be polite.  I no longer remember what we talked about.  An historian must be unusually dull who cannot forthwith supply some falsehood—­I mean some romance.  Well! we spoke of the fine weather; and when we had said our say, we were silent, and I went away.  Some days after—­though what day it was I really forget, but one day in the week assuredly—­I had just seated myself, at the piano of course; and Ritter, the worthy Holzbeisser, was sitting beside me.  Now, what is to be deduced from that?  A great deal.  Raaff had never heard me at Mannheim except at a concert, where the noise and uproar was so great that nothing could be heard; and he had such a miserable piano that I could not have done myself any justice on it.  Here, however, the instrument was good, and I saw Raaff sitting opposite me with a speculative air; so, as you may imagine, I played some preludes in the Fischietti method, and also played a florid sonata in the style and with the fire, spirit, and precision of Haydn, and then a fugue with all the skill of Lipp, Silber, and Aman. [Footnote:  Fischietti was Capellmeister in Salzburg; Michael Haydn and Lipp, organists.] My fugue-playing has everywhere gained me the greatest applause.  When I had quite finished, (Raaff all the time calling out Bravo! while his countenance showed his true and sincere delight,) I entered into conversation with Ritter, and among other things said that I by no means liked being here; adding, “The chief cause of this is music; besides, I can find no resources here, no amusement, no agreeable