Paris, December 20th, 1831.
Dear Rebecca,
I went yesterday to the Chambre des Deputes, and I must now tell
you about it; but what do you care about the Chambre des Deputes?
It is a political song, and you would rather hear whether I have
composed any love songs, or bridal songs, or wedding songs; but it
is a sad pity, that no songs but political ones are composed here.
I believe I never in my life passed three such unmusical weeks as
these. I feel as if I never could again think of composing; this
all arises from the "juste milieu;" but it is still worse to be
with musicians, for they do not _wrangle_ about politics, but
_lament_ over them. One has lost his place, another his title, a
third his money, and they say this all proceeds from the "Milieu."
Yesterday I saw the "Milieu," in a light grey coat, and with a
noble air, in the first place on the Ministerial bench. He was
sharply attacked by M. Mauguin, who has a very long nose. Of course
you don't care for all this; but what of that? I must have a chat
with you. In Italy I was lazy, in Switzerland a wild student, in
Munich a consumer of cheese and beer, and so in Paris I must talk
politics. I intended to have composed various symphonies, and to
have written some songs for certain ladies in Frankfort,
Duesseldorf, and Berlin; but as yet not a chance of it. Paris
obtrudes herself, and as above all things I must now see Paris, so
I am busily engaged in seeing it, and am dumb.
Moreover I am freezing with cold--another drawback. I cannot
contrive to make my room warm, and I am not to get another and
warmer apartment, till New Year's Day. In a dark little hole on the
ground floor, overlooking a small damp garden, where my feet are
like ice, how can I possibly write music? It is bitterly cold, and
an Italian like myself is peculiarly susceptible. At this moment a
man outside my window is singing a political song to a guitar.
I live a reckless life--out morning, noon, and night: to-day at
Baillot's; to-morrow I go to some friends of the Bigots; the next
day, Valentin; Monday, Fould; Tuesday, Hiller; Wednesday, Gerard;
and the previous week it was just the same. In the forenoon I rush
off to the Louvre, and gaze at the Raphaels, and my favourite
Titian; a person might well wish for a dozen more eyes to look at
such a picture.
Yesterday I was in the Chamber of Peers, who were engaged in
pronouncing judgment on their own hereditary rights, and I saw M.
Pasquier's wig. The day before I paid two musical visits, to the
grumbling Cherubini, and the kind Herz. There is a large sign-board
before the house: "Manufacture de Pianos, par Henri Herz, Marchand
de Modes et de Nouveautes." I thought this formed one, not
observing that it was a notice of two different firms, so I went in
below, and found myself surrounded by gauze, and lace, and
trimmings: so, rather abashed, I asked where the pianos were. A
number of Herz's fair scholars with industrious faces, were
waiting upstairs. I sat down by the fire and read your interesting
account of our dear father's birthday, and so forth. Herz presently
arrived, and gave audience to his pupils. We were very loving,
recalled old times, and besprinkled each other mutually with great
praise. On his pianos is inscribed: "Medaille d'or. Exposition de
1827." This was very imposing.
From thence I went to Erard's, where I tried over his instruments,
and remarked written on them in large letters: "Medaille d'or.
Exposition de 1827." My respect seemed to diminish. When I went
home I opened my own instrument by Pleyel, and to be sure there
also I saw in large letters: "Medaille d'or. Exposition de
1827." The matter is like the title of "Hofrath," but it is
characteristic. It is alleged that the chambers are about to
discuss the following proposition: "Tous les Francais du sexe
masculin ont des leur naissance le droit de porter l'ordre de la
Legion d'Honneur," and the permission to appear without the order,
can only be obtained by special services. You really scarcely see a
man in the street without a bit of coloured ribbon, so it is no
longer a distinction.
_Apropos_, shall I be lithographed full length? Answer what you
will, I don't intend to do it. One afternoon in Berlin, when I was
standing _unter den Linden_ before Schenk's shop looking at H----'s
and W----'s lithographs, I made a solemn vow to myself, unheard by
man, that I would never allow myself to be hung up till I became a
great man. The temptation in Munich was strong; there they wished
to drape me with a Carbonaro cloak, a stormy sky in the background,
and my fac-simile underneath, but I happily got off by adhering to
my principles. Here again I am rather tempted, for the likenesses
are very striking, but I keep my vow; and if, after all, I never do
become a great man, though posterity will be deprived of a
portrait, it will have an absurdity the less.
It is now the 24th, and we had a very pleasant evening at Baillot's
yesterday. He plays beautifully, and had collected a very musical
society of attentive ladies and enthusiastic gentlemen, and I have
seldom been so well amused in any circle, or enjoyed such honours.
It was the greatest possible delight to me to hear my quartett in E
flat major (dedicated to B. P.) performed in Paris by Baillot's
quartett, and they executed it with fire and spirit. They commenced
with a quintett by Bocherini, an old-fashioned _perruque_, but a
very amiable old gentleman underneath it. The company then asked
for a sonata of Bach's; we selected the one in A major; old
familiar tones dawned once more on me, of the time when Baillot
played it with Madame Bigot.[26] We urged each other on, the affair
became animated, and so thoroughly amused both us and our audience,
that we immediately commenced the one in E major, and next time we
mean to introduce the four others.
[26] The lady who instructed Mendelssohn in the piano in Paris,
when the family resided there for a time in 1816.
Then my turn came to play a solo. I was in the vein to extemporize
successfully, and felt that I did so. The guests being now in a
graver mood, I took three themes from the previous sonatas, and
worked them up to my heart's content; it seemed to give immense
pleasure to those present, for they shouted and applauded like mad.
Then Baillot gave my quartett; his manner towards me has something
very kind, and I was doubly pleased, as he is rather cold at first
and seldom makes advances to any one. He appears a good deal
depressed by the loss of his situation. I saw a number of old
well-known faces, and they asked after you all, and recalled many
anecdotes of that former period.
When I was passing through Louvain two years ago with my
"Liederspiel" in my head, and my injured knee,[27] I seized the
brass handle of a pump to prevent myself from falling; and when I
returned this year in the same miserable diligence, driven by a
postilion exactly similar, with a big queue, the "Liederspiel," my
knee, and Italy, were all things of the past; and yet the handle of
the pump was still hanging there, as clean and brightly rubbed up
as ever, having survived 1830, and all the revolutionary storms,
and remaining quite unchanged. This is sentimental; my father must
not read it, for it is the old story of the past and the present,
which we discussed so eagerly one fine evening, and which recurs to
me among the crowd here at every step. I thought of it at the
Madeleine, and when I went to aunt J----'s, and at the Hotel des
Princes, and at the gallery, which my father showed me fifteen
years ago, and when I saw the coloured signs, which at that time
impressed me exceedingly, and are now grown brown and shabby.
[27] Mendelssohn had been thrown out of a cabriolet in London in
1829, and his knee seriously injured.
Moreover this is Christmas Eve; but I feel little interest in it,
or in New Year's Night either. Please God, another year may wear a
very different aspect, and I will not then go to the theatre on
Christmas Eve, as I am about to do to-night, to hear Lablache and
Rossini for the first time. How little I care about it! I should
much prefer _Polichinelles_ and apples to-day, and I think it very
doubtful whether the orchestra will play as pretty a symphony as my
"Kinder-Sinfonie."[28] I must be satisfied with it however. I am
now modulating into the minor key, a fault with which the "Ecole
Allemande" are often reproached, and as I profess not to belong to
the latter, the French say I am _cosmopolite_. Heaven defend me
from being anything of the kind!
[28] A "Kinder-Sinfonie," composed by Mendelssohn in the year
1829, for a Christmas family fete.
And now good-bye; a thousand compliments from Bertin de Vaux, Girod
de l'Ain, Dupont de l'Eure, Tracy, Sacy, Passy and other kind
friends. I had intended to have told you in this letter how
Salverte attacked the Ministers, and how during this time a little
_emeute_ took place on the Pont Neuf; how I sat in the Chambers
along with Franck, in the midst of St. Simoniens; how witty Dupin
was; but no more at present. May you all be well and happy this
evening, and thinking of me!