Chapter IV: Book II: On Shopping (1)

My father requests you to let him come to-day or to-morrow morning, to arrange when he may go out with you, according to your kind promise and Stone’s prescription (to walk). This note is business-like; you must give me a verbal answer to Book I.

Yours,

F. M.

* * * * *

103 GREAT PORTLAND STREET, June 20, 1833.

DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--I am very sorry I could not be with you yesterday evening, all the more as I am sure you again thought you had read in my face that I had made up my mind not to go. This time it was not so, however; but the check-taker would on no account let me pass without a ticket. I gave your name; he could not fetch you. I beckoned and called, and as I could not catch your eye, I waited and thought you might pass in my direction; but the cruel Cerberus in livery intimated to me that I had better retire to Portland Street, and that is what I did....

* * * * *

In another note he says:--

* * * * *

Here is my verbal answer--Oh dear! how unlucky, we can’t come! You see, we are giving a dinner ourselves to-day. I have just ordered fish and lobster for five,--that is, salmon,--and so I must present our regrets.

* * * * *

103 GREAT PORTLAND STREET, July 17, 1833.

With best thanks I return the books you lent me, namely, Nathan, two volumes of Zschokke, the last volume of “Phantasie-Stücke,” and the musical paper; so please destroy whatever acknowledgment of these you may have. Please give bearer the address of that faithless laundress, with whom I should be in a rage if she were not under your immediate patronage.

Best love to Moscheles.

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

P. S. So far I have not yet learned to tie that cravat (I practised yesterday before the looking-glass); but it is beautiful all the same.

* * * * *

On the 29th of August Mendelssohn left London; and after a short stay in Berlin, he proceeded to Düsseldorf to assume his new duties as “Musikdirector.” He had accepted this position for three years, at a salary of six hundred thalers per annum, with three months’ leave of absence.

The original score of his Overture to the “Isles of Fingal” he gave to Moscheles. We reproduce

the first page of it. On perusing it some fifty years after it was written, Gounod made the note at the foot.[23]

* * * * *

SEPT. 13, 1833.

DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--Here is Berlin, September 13, and my father once more safely lodged in the Leipzigerstrasse, and feeling quite well. I should write you a long and detailed letter, if I did not wish to send a few words without delay from this place, which we reached yesterday, and which I must leave again the day after to-morrow; you can fancy how the whole day is spent in the family circle, with neither time nor inclination for letter-writing. But to look back upon the anxious days I have gone through, to remember all the kindness shown me, to feel that I am relieved of a great responsibility, and to think of those who assisted me in bearing its weight,--_that_ I have both leisure and inclination to do, and that is the purport of this letter. Here all are well and cheerful, and send their best love. My father was unlucky enough to tread a nail into his foot, as we were visiting my uncle’s place on the Rhine, on the very day the steamer brought us the Dirichlets.[24] So he was laid up again for several days, and had to perform the whole journey to Berlin stretched out in the coupé. This little accident caused him more depression than his serious illness in London, so that he felt excessively impatient to see his own home again, and almost despaired of it. This, and in particular our necessarily slow progress, with so many inns and nights’ lodgings, made the whole journey most irksome, and my own impatience became the greater for having to conceal it. But at last I felt happy indeed, as we drove into the well-known courtyard, and the journey was safely over. The foot was but slightly injured, and to-day my father is allowed to walk about.

Excuse haste. I shall write properly from Düsseldorf, where I must be in a few days. And now farewell to you both. My love to Felix, Emily, and Serena. Wish I could send her two carnations. Pray give them to her in my name.

Wishing you all happiness, I am yours,

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, Nov. 25, 1833.

DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--Should this piece of paper have turned red by the time Klingemann arrives, it will but reflect my blushes. But when once a man has become callous, he is no longer amenable to kindness and friendliness; callous he remains, and keeps on sinning to his heart’s content. And that, I am sorry to say, is my case. And this does not even pretend to be the answer to your most kind letter, but my own act of accusation, bearing witness that I really received your letter, and nevertheless remained deaf and dumb,

and that you would be quite justified in not even reading all this. The truth is, that since I have got used to this place, I feel quite at home and settled in it. I am working a good deal for myself and for the outer world, and that, in other words, means that I am happy. This I ought to have described to you at full length, but could not (perhaps Klingemann can do so verbally), and so kept silent; but towards Christmas I mean to send you some new compositions and a letter as well, and then Moscheles must give me his opinion of the music, according to his promise. He will by that time have conducted my Overture in F, and will report about it, so that I shall have a letter in spite of my sins. Now, that is being hardened indeed! Better change the subject.

Herewith is the book of Songs formally made over to you, your heirs, executors, and assigns; if Klingemann doesn’t give it up, he is worse than a _gazzo-ladro_. I do intend sending you a proper book of manuscript songs at Christmas; but you won’t believe me, so I’ll set about writing it first.

And how about Moscheles’s four-hand Sonata?

After all, this is but a note, and I ought to conclude by saying: “I am truly sorry I cannot dine with you this day week, because I have a previous engagement at Mrs. Anderson’s.”

All love to Emily and Serena, and every good wish for your welfare. Should little Felix show his content by saying “Ba!” or otherwise prove his friendly disposition, you must tell him about his godfather, and give him his love. Now farewell, and fare ever well.

Yours,

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, Feb. 7, 1834.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--Pardon my long silence; I know how guilty I am, but I reckon on your indulgence. I am so deeply buried in my work and papers, that even now I think I should not have emerged from them, were it not that a special circumstance obliges me to write to you. So let me pass over the last four months and all my excuses into the bargain, remembering what a dear old friend you are, and how ready to forgive.

Thus encouraged, I fancy myself in Chester Place, and wish you “Good-evening.” What I have to say is this: I have ventured to dedicate to you, without asking your permission, a piece which is to appear at Simrock’s, and which I am very fond of. But that is not what I was going to say. I had thought how nice it would be if you met with it during one of your trips to Germany; but now my Rondo Brillant is just finished, and I have the very greatest desire to dedicate that also to you: but I do not venture to do it without your special permission, for I am well aware that it is not the correct thing to ask leave to dedicate two pieces at once; and perhaps you will think it rather an odd proceeding on my part, but I cannot help it, I have set my mind upon it.

In general, I am not very partial to dedications, and have seldom made any; but in this case they are to convey a meaning, inasmuch as, not having been able to send you a letter for a long while, I wanted at least to let you have some of the work I have been doing. Write me a line on the subject, as the Rondo is to appear in Leipzig too; and once you have written that line you may feel inclined to add another, or perhaps a few more, as you did in your last kind letter, for which I have not even thanked you yet.

Klingemann is not prodigal of words, so that I have heard but little of London friends, and particularly little of those in Chester Place. What do you all look like? What can Felix say? Does Serena remember her humble servant with the carnations? And how fares the Sonata for four hands? Do tell me all about that and your other work. I would ask Mrs. Moscheles to let me know all about it, but I feel she must be so angry with me that I don’t think I can summon courage to write to her. The last of your compositions I heard of was the Impromptu for Mary Alexander, and since then I am sure you have produced all manner of delightful things. My own poverty in shaping new forms for the pianoforte once more struck me most forcibly whilst writing the Rondo. It is there I get into difficulties and have to toil and labor, and I am afraid you will notice that such was the case. Still, there are things in it which I believe are not bad, and some parts that I really like; but how I am to set about writing a calm and quiet piece (as you advised me last spring), I really do not know. All that passes through my head in the shape of pianoforte music is about as calm and quiet as Cheapside; and when I sit down to the piano and compel myself to start improvising ever so quietly, it is of no use,--by degrees I fall back into the old ways.

My new Scena,[25] however, which I am writing for the Philharmonic, will, I am afraid, be only too tame. But so much self-criticism is no good; so I stick to my work, and that means, in plain language, that I am well and happy.

I feel particularly comfortable in this place, having just as much official occupation as I want and like, and plenty of time to myself. When I do not feel inclined to compose, there is the conducting and rehearsing, and it is quite a pleasure to see how well and brightly things go; and then the place is so charmingly diminutive that you can always fancy yourself in your own room; and yet it is complete in its way. There is an opera, a choral society, an orchestra, church music, a public, and even a small opposition; it is simply delightful. I have joined a society formed for the improvement of our stage, and we are now rehearsing the “Wasserträger.” It is quite touching to see with what eagerness and appetite the singers pounce upon every hint, and what trouble they will take if anybody will be at the pains of teaching them; how they strain every nerve and really make our performances as perfect as can be imagined considering the means at our disposal. Last December I gave “Don Juan” (it was the first time I conducted an opera in public), and I can assure you many things went better and with more precision than I have heard them at some of the large and famous theatres, because from first to last every one concerned went in for it heart and soul; well, we had twenty rehearsals. The lessee of the theatre had, however, thought fit to raise the prices on account of the heavy expenses; and when, at the first performance of “Don Juan,” the curtain rose, the malcontent section of the public called for Signor Derossi like mad, and made a tremendous disturbance; after five minutes, order was restored, we began and went through the first act splendidly, constantly accompanied by applause; but lo and behold! as the curtain rises for the second act, the uproar breaks out afresh, with redoubled vigor and persistence. Well, I felt inclined to hand the whole concern over to the devil,--never did I conduct under such trying circumstances. I countermanded the opera which was announced for the next night, and declared I would have nothing more to do with the whole theatre; four days later I allowed myself to be talked over, gave a second performance of “Don Juan,” was received with hurrahs and a threefold flourish of trumpets, and now the “Wasserträger” is to follow. The opposition consists mainly of beerhouse keepers and waiters; in fact, by four o’clock P.M., half Düsseldorf is intoxicated. Anybody wanting to see me must call between eight and nine in the morning; it is quite useless attempting to do any kind of business in the afternoon.

Now, what do you think of such a discreditable state of things, and can you have anything more to say to such boors as we are?

By the by, Mr. Spring of Moscow is quite destroying my peace of mind. He would have it that he knew you very well, and I would not believe him on any account; at last he showed me a manuscript note of invitation from Chester Place, and I had to give in, but still I cannot digest him;--a pity that at his age, and with as little talent as he seems to have, he should be obliged to give concerts and make money.

Blagrove was here. I took him to our Choral Society, where we were just rehearsing the choruses from “Alexander’s Feast;” our performance produced the most excellent effect on him,--it sent him to sleep.

Can you not send me one or the other of your new things (a copy or whatever you like)? The gentleman who takes charge of this returns shortly, and would, I am sure, be the bearer of your parcel. So, if you have anything, please send it to Klingemann’s, and it shall be called for.

I hear from my mother that the “Gipsies’ March,” or rather the “April Variations,” are out. Is that the case; and if so, could I have a copy of them? I hope you have done a good deal of patching and polishing to my part,--you know, I am thinking of those restless passages of mine. The whole of the last number wants repairing or lining with a warm melody; it was too thin. The first variation, too, I hope you have turned inside out and padded. Don’t I speak as if I were Musikdirector Schneider? And can’t you send me one of Mori’s annual gems? But I must really take courage and another little sheet of paper and write to your wife, for I haven’t half done. Good-by--till we meet on the next page.

Your

F. MENDELSSOHN.

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, Feb. 7, 1834.

DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--It is only after having given two hours to writing to Moscheles, that I venture on the letter to you. Never have I so richly deserved a scolding as now; I say deserved, for I may not get it, you have so often let me off. What, as compared with my other delinquencies, are such trifling peccadilloes as talking German at dinner, not carving at the Stones’, having threadbare coat-buttons, and not paying compliments _à la_ Hummel? But does it perhaps give you satisfaction to hear that I have a very bad conscience, or that I have some kind of feeling like a naughty child about to confess, or that Klingemann too has given up writing to me? To speak seriously, there are many minutes in the course of each day when I think of your dear home, wishing I were there, and enjoying the recollections of the time I have spent in it. That much you must believe; but whether out of such thoughts grows a letter or not, depends more or less upon chance. I am sorry to say I shall not be going to England this spring. I mean to have a good spell of work, and have something to show for it before I stir from here. You can hardly imagine how much better and brighter I feel for the last two months’ work, and how much easier I get on with it; so I must keep it up, and get into full swing. My birthday just came in time to remind me how necessary this was. Of my life here, I have already written a good deal to Moscheles. The other day we gave “Egmont” with Beethoven’s music. I doubly enjoyed it, for I hadn’t heard anything of his for a long time.

By the by, you are rather opposed to Goethe in some things; so I recommend you to read a newly published correspondence between him and Zelter, in which you will find plenty of matter to confirm your opinion; and yet I should vigorously oppose you, and stand up for my old favorite as formerly. Do you know the chorus on Lord Byron, which occurs in the second part of “Faust” and begins with “Nicht allein”? Should you not know it, pray read it at once, for I believe it will please

you. Just now English tea-time is coming on, and with it I feel all my fear vanishing. To-day there is a _grand déjeuner dansant_,--of all the hateful Berlin institutions the one I hate the most. A nice set they are! They meet at half-past eleven A.M., and spend their time eating and drinking until one o’clock next morning. There are few things so unsightly in my eyes, whether it is done in broad daylight, which is one way; or whether the shutters are closed at midday, and the chandeliers lighted, as they do at Court in Berlin. Besides, there has been dancing for the last fortnight, usually up to five o’clock in the morning, with Prince Frederick taking the lead, giving as many balls and accepting as many invitations as possible. I have been saved all these splendors by a bad cold, which has confined me to my room for more than a week. I am getting over it now; but it will serve as an excuse for keeping aloof until the end of the Carnival. So you see that we too are metropolitan to the best of our abilities; and if this page of mine has not made you feel quite Berlinese or Bœotian, an account of all our dinner-parties, I am sure, would.

I wanted to send you some new songs, but must again put it off, as I have a great deal to prepare for this parcel. I should like to know, too, how you are getting on with your singing,--whether you practise sometimes, and follow the wise rules of your wise professor.[26] You want to know whether I am rapidly degenerating here, and whether I stand in awe of any one as I did of you with regard to elegance, or rather neatness? Madame Hübner, whom you must have seen at Berlin, does sometimes take me to task, and sees at a glance, on my entering a room, some shortcoming which it might take me six months to notice; but she is not as good a Mentor as you, so that I fear you will find me quite run wild, should I venture again out of my backwoods; and as for my capacity for tying a cravat with taste, that will be a thing of the past. But when we meet, you will find me as willing a pupil as ever.

Love to Emily and Serena and to my little godson. The little man cannot yet understand it, but never mind. Adieu then, and be well and happy.

Ever your

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

* * * * *

On the 12th of February, 1834, Moscheles writes:--

* * * * *

I have read and studied your Overture (“Melusine”) with ever-growing interest; and let me say, in the fewest of words, that it is a splendid work. It is marked by vigorous and spirited conception, unity, and originality. Thus impressed, I proceeded to the first rehearsal, after having gone through it privately with Mori. But it was not an easy matter to moderate the orchestra in the _piano_ parts; especially at the outset they would make a desperate plunge, and the trumpets were somewhat surprised at having to fall in with their 7th on C. I winced and groaned, and made them begin again three times. The contrasting storms went as if Neptune held the sceptre; but when the voices of the Sirens were to disarm that boisterous ruler, I had to call for _piano, piano! piano!_ at the top of my voice, bending down to the ground, _à la_ Beethoven,[27] and in vain trying to restrain the ferocious violins and basses. However, at a second reading things went better. The work was studied with the liveliest interest, and received with the fullest appreciation. I hope to bring out the lights and shades still better at the performance. You have given the horns and trumpets, alternately, the

which they rendered splendidly with stopping and damping.

After yours I had Berlioz’s Overture, “Les Francs Juges,” to conduct. We were all curious to know what the result of French genius would be. I say French, for so far no other country but France has recognized Berlioz as a genius. But, oh! what a rattling of brass, fit for the Porte Saint-Martin! What cruel, wicked scoring! as if to prove that our ancestors were no better than pedants! And, oh! again, for the contrast of the middle subject, that would console us with a vaudeville melody, such as you could not hear to more advantage in “L’Ours et le Pacha,” or the “Viennese in Berlin.” Then the mystic element,--a progression of screeching harmonies, unintelligible to all but the March cats! To show that something terrible is agitating the fevered brain of the composer, an apoplectic stroke of the big drum shakes to shivers the efforts of the whole orchestra, as also the auditory nerves of the assembled audience....

Our “Gipsies’ March” is out,--in London at Cramer’s, in Paris at Schlesinger’s, in Leipzig at Kistner’s. Kistner has sent a copy in our name to Frau von Goethe, to whom we have dedicated the piece. You approve of that dedication to her, don’t you? Your half-share of the proceeds is, eight Napoleons from Schlesinger, eight Louis d’or from Kistner, and fifteen to twenty pounds from Cramer.

I will carefully keep the account; so, if you want money, draw on your banker and friend,

I. MOSCHELES.

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, April, 1834.

MY DEAR MOSCHELES,--I cannot tell you how much pleasure those letters from you and from your wife gave me. I don’t think the post ever put me in such high spirits before. I certainly never felt so happy and elated for days together

as I did after getting them. You know how often I am beset by grievous misgivings, how I cannot do anything to my satisfaction, and how, when such doubts lay hold of me, I fancy the whole world must be aware of my shortcomings, even more than I am myself, and must overlook the very existence of my works. But such kind and friendly words as you have written about my Overture give me greater pleasure than anything that I could hear after completing a composition. This I know for a certainty: you might have sent me three of the finest Russian orders or titles for the Overture without giving me one hour’s happiness such as I have had from your letter. Do you really know how kind and amiable you were? Because, if you do, I need not attempt to thank you.

But now let me say how grateful I am for all the trouble you have taken with my Overture. It is quite a painful feeling to have a piece performed and not to be present, not to know what succeeded and what went wrong; but when _you_ are conducting I really feel less nervous than if I were there myself, for no one can take more interest in his own works than you do in those of others, and then you can hear and take note of a hundred things that the composer, preoccupied as he is, has no time or mind for.

I had already heard from Klingemann what a true friend you had been to my Overture, and now your description puts it all so visibly before me. After reading your letter, I took up the score, and played it straight through from beginning to end, and felt that I liked it better than before.

By the way, you complain of the difficulty in getting the _pianos_ observed; and as I was playing the piece over again, it struck me that that was really my fault. It is easily remedied, for the whole thing, I believe, is due to the marks of expression; if you have those altered in the parts, it will be set right at once. First, everything should be marked one degree weaker; that is, where there is a _p_ in the wind instruments, it should be _pp_; instead of _mf_, _piano_; instead of _f_, _mf_. The _pp_ alone might remain, as I particularly dislike _ppp_. The _sf_’s, however, should be everywhere struck out, as they really are quite wrong, no abrupt accent being meant, but a gradual swelling of the tone, which is sufficiently indicated by the . The same again wherever the

etc. recurs; in all such passages the _sf_’s should be done away with; and in the strings as well: for instance, at the very opening, and where the trumpets first come in, it should be _pp_; the _f_’s should simply disappear. Klingemann would, I am sure, oblige me by making these alterations in the score, a copyist would transfer them to the parts, and then the whole thing would sound twice as mermaidish.

What you say of Berlioz’s Overture I thoroughly agree with. It is a chaotic, prosaic piece, and yet more humanly conceived than some of his others. I always felt inclined to say with Faust,--

“He ran around, he ran about,
His thirst in puddles laving;
He gnawed and scratched the house throughout,
But nothing cured his raving;
And driven at last, in open day,
He ran into the kitchen.”

For his orchestration is such a frightful muddle, such an incongruous mess, that one ought to wash one’s hands after handling one of his scores. Besides, it really is a shame to set nothing but murder, misery, and wailing to music; even if it were well done, it would simply give us a record of atrocities. At first he made me quite melancholy, because his judgments on others are so clever, so cool, and correct, he seems so thoroughly sensible, and yet he does not perceive that his own works are such rubbishy nonsense. I am very glad to hear what you say about the “Gipsy Variations;” but do tell me whether you are not treating me much too liberally, for I never in my life should have dreamed of such high terms as now fall to my share alone. The E flat for the horns and trumpets I put down trusting to luck, and hoping that Providence would show the players some way to do it; if they have new contrivances for it, so much the better.

You sent me word not to let Mori have anything more gratis, on account of his indiscretion; I am doubly sorry for this, as I have just presented him with a manuscript, to make up for having kept him waiting six months for the Rondo. I did not like the idea of his having to pardon any shortcoming of mine, so I thought it the best way out of the difficulty, and now, although regretting the circumstance, I must of course keep my word; but for the future I will act upon your hint. That piece for Fanny Stone I should of all things like to write, but how am I to compose something easy? Well, I will set about it, and do my best to avoid octaves and broken chords; then there will be no ornamental passages at all, for you know I never write any others. No, but really I will look out seriously for a piece that I can dedicate to her.

But now I must write a few lines to your wife and beg her soon to let me have more of such good news about my dear Master Felix and Miss Serena and the grown-up young lady.

* * * * *

I suppress my thanks to you, dear Mrs. Moscheles, for all the kind things you say; I only wish I could now and then write something which would give you real pleasure, and that I could believe myself worthy of doing so.

I have just had a letter from my sister in Berlin. She tells me you had written all about the Overture to my father, and had given him immense pleasure; and there again I must particularly thank you, for you know how pleasant it is to have one’s praises sung to one’s parents.

I do wish I could once more call Emily “Du,” but this spring I shan’t be able to get away; in fact, I shall probably not travel at all, but buy a horse, and ride and swim and work all through the summer. Next spring, when, please God, I once more knock at the door of No. 3 Chester Place, I shall speak English and say, “You;” that will appear less strange to me than the formal “Sie.” Then, when I return some day a long time hence, I shall sit and play at _écarté_ whilst she dances, and shall notice Mr. Stone or some other young man extremely attentive to her. To be sure, he will have to be very cautious about it, for fear of losing your good graces. And then Felix will show me the score of his first Symphony and play it with Serena. By that time I shall be a _vieux garçon_ or a _ci-devant jeune homme_,--but this isn’t a pleasant subject; better drop it; it was really you who put me on to it by your artful allusions to the better things awaiting me, and by your remarks about the _soirée_ at the Taylors’, and about Mrs. Handley, who, by the side of her husband, must look like a white mouse by the side of a black tom-cat, or like a duet for clarinet and double bassoon, or kid gloves and a Warsaw dressing-gown, or vanilla ice next to roast beef, etc. You see at a glance that I am still a warm admirer of hers, or I should not compare her to such nice things, but rather to Maraschino ice, or a hautboy. I returned last night from a trip to Cologne, where I had to play at a charity concert, and where your description of the Cologne public and Cologne musicians, so dear to you, was most vividly brought back to my mind. I would rather live in any village than there; and much as I like Düsseldorf, I do not believe I could live for even a couple of months at Cologne.

I am taking regular lessons in water-colors now with one of our artists, and work most enthusiastically for several hours every Sunday morning. Shall I send you a sketch? And what country is it to represent? Switzerland or Italy? In the foreground I shall introduce a girl with a green apron and a carnation, to ingratiate myself with Serena. I only wish I had more leisure, but just now all my time is taken up by the rehearsals of the “Wasserträger.”

By the by, do you know a book by Thomas Moore[28] on religion? It has lately appeared; it is said to have gone through at least seventy editions, and to extinguish all Protestants, Dissenters, nations, and nationality. It is read here by all the Orthodox Catholics, and praised highly.

I have lately read Shakspeare’s “King John” for the first time. I do assure you it is downright heavenly, like everything else of his. But now I must end at once, or I shall begin talking about Goethe and Zelter’s letters, which I did not like much. You are of a different opinion, so my letter might become not only long, but tedious, which it is already; besides, the paper obliges me to conclude. Should Emily or Serena ask after me, or the baby be in good humor and crow, and should that American prodigy be so completely “finished” that not one finger remains untrained, or should some lady--thank Heaven--put off her lesson or not come, then, and that as soon as possible, let me have a few lines telling me that Chester Place is flourishing.

Once more thanks, and farewell.

FELIX M. B.

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, May 11, 1834.

DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--On the very day I received your dear kind letter and the beautiful present, I was going to answer at full length, and with best thanks, but there arrived at the same time the news of my mother’s dangerous illness. To-day there is excellent news, thank God! My mother has been walking in the garden, and is quite herself, and of course so am I; and in this happy mood, when a great load has been taken off my mind, and I can breathe more freely, I sit down at once to write and thank you.

Not being able to cross over to you this year, I do hope and trust you will let me have a few lines now and then; for while I read them I am in Chester Place, I follow your descriptions, live through it all with you, rejoice at Lord Burghersh’s absence from the party, make remarks about Miss Masson’s delicate form of “couching her refusal,” abuse Masoni for that Beethoven Sonata, and admire Miss Use’s beauty, although I know it only by hearsay.

And how grateful I am to you, dear Moscheles, for doing my Rondo the honor of playing it at your concert! You may believe that I fully appreciate it, and feel greatly flattered; and now, if anybody abuses it ever so much, I shall still love the piece and hold it in high consideration. Please write me word if you like the accompaniments, or if you find fault with any part of them. I may perhaps write something of the kind in the course of this year, and should like to avoid former faults.

The cravat, however, dear Mrs. Moscheles, I put on at once, and, so adorned, went out for a ride. You must know I have bought a nice bay horse, and it gives me immense pleasure. When I went to the Hübners’ in the evening, Madame Hübner asked if that cravat was English too. I gave her your message, and she reciprocated it very sincerely. But you have not told me what composition I am to write in the time saved by this cravat which does not require tying. It is to you I shall owe the spare time, and you ought to say how I am to employ it. Shall I write pianoforte pieces, songs, or what else?

And so the people at the Philharmonic did not like my “Melusine”? Never mind; that won’t kill me. I felt sorry when you told me, and at once played the Overture through, to see if I too should dislike it; but it pleased me, and so there is no great harm done. Or do you think it would make you receive me less amiably at my next visit? That would be a pity, and I should much regret it; but I hope it won’t be the case. And perhaps it will be liked somewhere else, or I can write another one which will have more success. The first desideratum is to see a thing take shape and form on paper; and if, besides, I am fortunate enough to get such kind words about it as those I had from you and Moscheles, it _has_ been well received, and I may go on quietly doing more work. I cannot understand your news that Moscheles’s new Concerto met with the same reception. I thought it as clear as sunshine that _that_ must please the public, when played by him. But when is it to be published, that I may pounce upon it? Pray do excuse these disconnected sentences. Ries, the violin-player, is here (you remember his playing in Moscheles’s Trio at Berlin); he is going to give a concert to-morrow, and so I have been constantly interrupted by all sorts of people employed in the arrangements, and have to rehearse every day, in consequence of which my poor bay has not left its stable for the last three days (this, you see, is the principal subject on which my mind turns).

At Whitsuntide I must go to Aix-la-Chapelle to the musical festival, and am not the least inclined for it, since they perform pieces which my musical conscience revolts at; but go I must, for a quiet life, as the people of this place will have it that Ries and I are pope and anti-pope; and, Ries happening to conduct, they fancy me jaundiced with vexation, and think that I shall not go. But they are mistaken; I sip my “Maitrank,”--an excellent drink made of hock, aromatic herbs, and sugar,--and mean to go. This reminds me of Siboni. Oh, Siboni! how can you presume seriously to bring out your recipes for salad-mixing? And is De Vrught there too? And what sort of a figure does he cut at a dinner in Chester Place? Stop! By the by, have you heard of a Mademoiselle Meyer who has gone with her father from here to London to play the piano? She must, some time or other, pass in review before Moscheles, and I should like above all things to hear of her doings in London. The father _would_ set me up here as his daughter’s rival, and has tried to abuse and vex me in every way, and, finding that I took no notice, is going to try what he can do in London.

Lovely weather we have had for some time, and there is every temptation to be perfectly idle, saunter about all day, and become a candidate for the title of Inspector of Nightingales, which they have conferred on an old lounger of this place. Warm days, and so delightfully long, and I have already begun my Oratorio, which is the reason I cannot go to the Westminster Abbey Festival, but must keep to my work. I have

written a few Capriccios for the pianoforte (or Fantasias, or----) that I like very well, but an abominable _Étude_. This morning, for the first time after a long interval, a song has come to me; and such a present is at all times refreshing. I really must write it down for you, although I am sorry to say it is not at all suited for your voice, but rather for a tenor. You need not even play it; yet I write it down for you all the same. Moscheles can hum the melody to himself.

Dein Reiz is aus der Maassen
Gleichwie der Pfauen Art,
Wenn Du gehst auf der Strassen,
Gar oft ich Deiner wart’
Gar oft ich Deiner wart’.
Ob ich gleich viel muss stehn

Im Regen und im Schnee,
Im Regen und im Schnee,
Kein Müh soll mich verdriessen,
Wenn ich Dich Herzlieb seh’,
Wenn ich Dich Herzlieb seh’,
Wenn ich Dich Herzlieb seh’,.

(Aus dem Wunderhorn.)

* * * * *

MAY 14.

This letter was begun three days ago, and I have not yet been able to finish it. Ries has left again. We played Beethoven’s grand Sonata in A minor, dedicated to Kreutzer, at his concert, and that by heart, which was great fun. I do not know whether I told Moscheles that the scores of my three overtures, “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” “Meeresstille,” and “Isles of Fingal,” will appear in a few days at Breitkopf & Härtel’s, which makes me unspeakably proud. As soon as they are to be had, they shall be presented to you, and I only wish I could have again dedicated them to you, my dear Moscheles; but as that wouldn’t do, my friends at home wished me to inscribe them to the Crown Prince, who has shown himself extremely gracious to me this last autumn. For my own part, I was thinking of the Philharmonic, and so it is undecided. A knotty point, you see.

And do you know, dear Mrs. Moscheles, that Varnhagen is going to be married again,--six months after his inconsolable book about his wife,--and that to my cousin Marianna Saaling. A young musician has just been here with an atrocious Fugue for me to look through; also another native genius who feels an impulse to write Chorales, enough to make one turn yellow with impatience; and yet he has written Chorales ever since I came here, the last always worse than the one before it; and as we go on being vexed with one another, there are some lovely scenes, he not being able to understand that I still find his compositions bad, and I that he has not improved them. I am, however, the very type of a good Cantor, and preach so much to the point that it is great fun to hear me. The lilies of the valley are out; how pleased I should be to send Serena some! But even without them, may she live and prosper, and Emily and Felix as well. And how about Emily’s tune? Now there is an end to my paper; indeed, I have talked nonsense enough.

Ever yours,

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, June 26, 1834.

YOU AMIABLE COUPLE IN CHESTER PLACE!--Let me thank you a thousand times for that nice, good, kind letter that you have treated me to again; they are high days and holidays for me when I receive your letters, and can read them over and over again. If you, my dear Moscheles, thank me for the Rondo, I must thank you for thanking me; but I still maintain you are too indulgent. The other day, Dr. Frank, whom you know, came to Düsseldorf, and I wished to show him something of my A major Symphony. Not having it here, I began writing out the Andante again, and in so doing I came across so many _errata_ that I got interested and wrote out the Minuet and Finale too, but with many necessary alterations; and whenever such occurred I thought of you, and of how you never said a word of blame, although you must have seen it all much better and plainer than I do now. The first movement I have not written down, because, if once I begin with that, I am afraid I shall have to alter the entire subject, beginning with the fourth bar,--and that means pretty nearly the whole first piece,--and I have no time for that just now. The dominant in the fourth bar strikes me as quite disagreeable; I think it should be the seventh (A-G). But many thanks to you and the Philharmonic for playing so much of my music. I am sure I am delighted, if only the public does not grumble!

And what do you say to their hissing little Herz? Why, that implies a high degree of culture! Has he consoled himself with guineas and pupils, or was it too crushing? You are particularly silent on the subject; and yet it is true, and Moritz Schlesinger will not be slow to triumph. Well, if he will only abstain from writing Variations for four hands, or, if that is too much to ask, if he will only avoid winding up with those Rondos that are so frightfully vulgar that I am ashamed to play them to decent people, then, for aught I care, let him be made King of the Belgians, or rather Semiquaver King, just as one says “Fire-King.” After all, I like him; he certainly is a characteristic figure of these times, of the year 1834; and as Art should be a mirror reflecting the character of the times,--as Hegel or some one else probably says somewhere,--he certainly does reflect most truly all salons and vanities, and a little yearning, and a deal of yawning, and kid gloves, and musk, a scent I abhor. If in his latter days he should take to the Romantic and write melancholy music, or to the Classical and give us fugues,--and I should not be surprised if he did,--Berlioz can compose a new symphony on him, “De la Vie d’un Artiste,” which I am sure will be better than the first.

Stop; by the by, a few hours after my last letter was posted I altered the beginning of my “Wunderhornlied,” although I had not noticed the resemblance, and simply because I did not like it; and now comes your remark about the reminiscence, which is very striking. Who in the wide world will believe that I altered it before? You, for one, I hope. Anyhow, there is the date upon it, and the following beginning:--

What do I think of Vrught? I really have heard him too little to judge,--only once, and then he sang a song in two verses: the first quite simply and in his natural voice, so that I thought him the greatest singer I had ever heard,--it was truly beautiful; but in the second verse it was all shakes and skipping about, and I quickly changed my mind. Since then he has not behaved very well to me; but, for my part, I have no objection to giving him a copy of my Scena, only I do not think I can do so on account of the Philharmonic.

There is a passage in your letter, dear Mrs. Moscheles, that I protest I am mightily offended at. You say I declare that your letters are agreeable to me; and _that_ I am sure I have never _declared_, because it is simply a fact. Besides, “agreeable” is not the right word: I am really grateful for the pleasure they give me. Then you say, too, I am not to care for public and critics; and that is just as bad. Am I not by trade an anti-public-caring musician, and an anti-critic-caring one into the bargain? What is Hecuba to me, and what the press (I mean the press that depresses)? And if this very day I had an idea for an Overture to Lord Eldon, in the form of a canon _alla rovescia_, or of a double fugue with a _cantus firmus_, write it I would, although I knew it could never become popular; how much more the lovely Melusina,--a very different subject! Only it certainly would be annoying if one never had a chance of hearing one’s things performed; but as you say that is not to be feared, let us wish the public and critics long life and happiness,--and me too,--and let me live to go to England next year.

Oh, Seigneur de Fahl, you live in my rooms! If rooms could speak, what stuff they would tell me next year, or what would they have told you! But I hope he is not going to remain in London, for if I could not have my rooms in No. 103 Great Portland Street it would put me out very much, since I lived there through so much of sweet and so much of bitter,--a whole chapter of my life.

Yes, certainly, my horse is more attractive than all the young ladies I knew in Berlin, it is so glossy and brown; then it looks so healthy and so very good-natured (and good-nature, every one knows, is not exactly what the Berlinese are noted for). However, I do not forswear marriage, for my father has prophesied that I shall never marry. There certainly is little hope of it just now, but I shall lose no opportunity of getting myself placed; and surely, if Varnhagen has succeeded twice, why should I not finally meet with some girl who would take me?

From Frau von Goethe I have a very kind letter, in which she sends me so many thanks for the Variations that I feel I ought to forward the greater part of them to you, my dear Moscheles.

Now let me write my message to Serena, and inform her that I shall pay her a visit next year, and present her with a large nosegay of pinks; and to Emily I will bring a brand-new tune, and teach it to her. Will you have some mustard or an oil picture?--those are the only choice productions of the place. And what am I to do in the mean while with my Choir, and the Opera, and my horse? Well, there’s plenty of time to think of that; so now good-night and _au revoir_!

When Moscheles has a moment of leisure let him send me a line and his best love. No more room to sign my name.

* * * * *

Moscheles gives Mendelssohn full particulars of the Birmingham Festival. An Oratorio of the Chevalier Neukomm’s and an unusually large number of the same composer’s works figured in the programme. “His style is Haydn’s,” says Moscheles; “occasionally elevated and bordering on Handel, but when you go into detail, you find many hackneyed modulations and figures. For the higher development of Art he has not done much, but in his ‘David’ there are numbers showing excellent workmanship and much ability in the use of all the means at his disposal.”

A Fantasia on the Organ he entitled “A Concert on a Lake, interrupted by a Thunderstorm.” The poetical element was missing, and the introduction of incidental thunderclaps and forked lightning on the organ only served to show up the weakness of construction in the whole thing.

Moscheles goes on to describe with enthusiasm the performance of the “Messiah” and of some of the most effective Choruses selected from “Israel in Egypt.” In speaking of the brass instruments, he says that the ophicleide is a very useful addition to the orchestra in large performances; “for,” he remarks, “just as you say of a steam-engine, it has ten-horse power, so of this you can say, it has ten-trombone power.”

* * * * *

DÜSSELDORF, Dec. 25, 1834.

DEAR MOSCHELES,--Upon my word, I cannot stand my own base ingratitude any longer! I really must write at last. And why haven’t I done so for the last two months? I really cannot say, and certainly cannot find an excuse. The monkeys on the Orinoco, I recollect reading somewhere, do not talk because they have nothing to say, and I suppose I was somewhat of their kind; and then really I was at first in no mood for anything and had plenty of time, and then I was in high spirits and had no time at all,--in fact, I procrastinated. And now that I am about it, what in the name of worry am I to write about from Düsseldorf to a Londoner, and to such a one as you? Really this is such a mite of a place, where nothing ever happens. I cannot possibly send you the news that the Tories are in power. Never mind; I write that I may soon again hear from you. It is just because your letters give me so much pleasure, and bring your interesting life so vividly before me, that I would rather say nothing about our petty provincial affairs. Whilst you are driving at headlong speed, we are really driven like a herd of cattle.

I have one fault to find with your letter. But for Klingemann, I should not have known that you had composed an Overture to “Joan of Arc;” yet you surely cannot doubt that that, of all news, would interest me most. I congratulate you with all my heart if only on the choice of such an excellent and serious subject. I long to hear the Overture itself, but you are absolutely silent about it; in fact, I am quite in ignorance of what you have composed lately, or what you have got in your mind. Please give me full particulars of it,--in what key it is, how it is worked out, and how scored. If possible, jot down a few notes for me. And have you written nothing new for the piano? It would be quite a boon, for there is great dearth in that line.