Were I in Berlin, I should seldom miss Möser’s quartet evenings. Exhibitions of that kind have always been, of all instrumental music, the most intelligible to me: one hears four rational people conversing among themselves, one fancies one has something to gain from their discourse, and one comes to know the particular character of the instruments. This time I lacked any such foundation, in mind and in ear alike; I heard only something meteoric, and could give myself no further account of it. It is telling, though, to hear people talk about it, the ladies especially; these are confessions in the truest sense, spoken in the fullest confidence.
