they said they would send their physician that very evening.  When I came home, I told my mother that I had met Herr Heina with a German priest, who had heard a great deal about me and was anxious to hear me play, and that they were both to call on me next day.  She seemed quite satisfied, and though I am no doctor, still seeing that she was better I said nothing more.  I find it impossible not to write at full length—­indeed, I am glad to give you every particular, for it will be more satisfactory to you; but as I have some things to write that are indispensable, I shall continue my account of the illness in my next letter.  In the mean time you must have seen from my last letter, that all my darling mother’s affairs and my own are in good order.  When I come to this point, I will tell you how things were arranged.  Heina and I regulated everything ourselves.

Now for business.  Do not allow your thoughts to dwell on what I wrote, asking your permission not to reveal my ideas till the proper time arrived.  Pray do not let it trouble you.  I cannot yet tell you about it, and if I did, I should probably do more harm than good; but, to tranquillize you, I may at least say that it only concerns myself.  Your circumstances will be made neither better nor worse, and until I see you in a better position I shall think no more about the matter.  If the day ever arrives when we can live together in peace and happiness, (which is my grand object),—­when that joyful time comes, and God grant it may come soon!—­then the right moment will have arrived, and the rest will depend on yourself.  Do not, therefore, discompose yourself on the subject, and be assured that in every case where I know that your happiness and peace are involved, I shall invariably place entire confidence in you, my kind father and true friend, and detail everything to you minutely.  If in the interim I have not done so, the fault is not solely mine. [Footnote:  He had evidently in his thoughts, what was indeed manifest in his previous letters, a speedy marriage with his beloved Aloysia.] M. Grimm recently said to me, “What am I to write to your father?  What course do you intend to pursue?  Do you remain here, or go to Mannheim?” I really could not help laughing:  “What could I do at Mannheim now? would that I had never come to Paris! but so it is.  Here I am, and I must use every effort to get forward.”  “Well,” said he, “I scarcely think that you will do much good here.”  “Why?  I see a number of wretched bunglers who make a livelihood, and why, with my talents, am I to fail?  I assure you that I like being at Mannheim, and wish very much to get some appointment there, but it must be one that is honorable and of good repute.  I must have entire certainty on the subject before I move a step.”  “I fear,” said he, “that you are not sufficiently active here—­ you don’t go about enough.”  “Well,” said I, “that is the hardest of all for me to do.”  Besides, I could go nowhere during my mother’s