* * * * *
The next letter is written soon after Mendelssohn’s return to Berlin.
* * * * *
BERLIN, July 25, 1832.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--Pity this is not a note, and the servant waiting
below to carry it to you in an instant, instead of a letter travelling
by post, steam, and water, in such a matter-of-fact and business-like
way, whereas what I have to say is anything but business-like! I merely
long for a chat with you,--a little innocent abuse of the world in
general, and a special attack upon phrenology; a weak-fingered pupil,
down below in Moscheles’s study, playing all the while a slow presto,
and being suddenly startled by a few brilliant notes from another hand
to relieve her dulness;--in short, I want to go to Chester Place;[6] for
if I wish to talk to you, it is you I want to hear and not myself. Now,
all these wishes are vain; but why have you strictly forbidden me to
thank you ever so little? For that is what I really want to do, but dare
not, feeling that you would laugh at me; and after all, there is no way
of showing gratitude for happy days. When you look back upon them they
are already past and gone, and while they last, you think all the
pleasure they bring merely natural; for I _did_ think it natural that
you and Moscheles should show me all the love and kindness I could
possibly wish for. I never thought it might be otherwise; whilst now I
do sometimes feel that it was a piece of good fortune, and not a matter
of course. All this seems stupid; but if you only knew how strange I
have felt these last few weeks, and how unsettled is all I say and
think! When I left you on Friday night to go on board the steamer, I
pictured to myself how very much changed I should find our house and the
whole family,--two years’ absence, married sisters, and so on; but I
arrive, and after the first two days, there we are as comfortably and
cosily settled as though there had been neither journey, absence, nor
change of any kind. I cannot conceive having ever been away; and did I
not think of the dear friends I have made meanwhile, I might fancy that
I had been but listening to a graphic description of the things and
events which I have really witnessed. That, however, would not hold good
long, for every step brings some fresh recollection of my journey, which
I dreamily pursue, while my thoughts are straying far away; then I am
suddenly back again amongst parents and sisters, and with every word
they say and every step we take in the garden,[7] another recollection
from _before_ the journey starts up, and stands as vividly before me as
though I had never been away, so that events of all shades get
hopelessly mixed and entangled till I am quite bewildered. Whether all
this will eventually subside or not, I cannot tell; but for the moment I
feel as if I were in a maze and didn’t know which way to turn. The past
and present are so interwoven that I have still to learn that the past
is past. Well, never mind: it was more than a dream; and a tangible
proof is this letter which, poor as it is, I write and forward to you.
You have sometimes forgiven me when I was quite unbearable, and excused
me on the score of my so-called genius. To be sure, it was nothing of
the kind; but what matters, “if only the heart is black,” as the beadle
says. (Klingemann must tell you that story if you don’t know it.[8])
Only fancy, I have not been able to compose a note since my arrival!
That is the cause of my troubles, I think; for if I could but settle
down again to work, all would be right. Haven’t you got some German or
English words for a song which I might compose? Of course for a voice
down to C and up to F,[9] and I could play the accompaniment in 1833 on
the Erard, with the “slow presto” coming up from below. But I think I
could not even write a song just now. Who can sing the praises of the
spring when shivering with cold in July,--when the green leaves drop,
flowers die, and fruit perishes in summer? For such is the case here. We
have fires; the rain pours down in torrents; ague, cholera, and the last
decision of the German Diet are the topics of the day; and I, who have
played my part at the Guildhall,[10] am compelled to be guarded and
conciliatory lest I should be considered too radical. To-day the
cholera is announced again, although not by desire. This Russian gift
will, I suppose, settle down amongst us, and not leave us again in a
hurry. I am glad there are no quarantine laws, as there were, or else
the communications between Hamburg and Berlin might be cut off, and that
would be inconvenient to me for certain reasons; though when I first
mentioned to your sister in Hamburg that you or Moscheles might possibly
come here, I suddenly fell into disgrace. She looked at me very angrily,
and asked what was to be got in Berlin, and who took any interest in
music _there_. I named myself, but found little favor in her eyes: I was
detestable, growing more and more so, the very type of a “Berliner,” she
thought; next I became a stranger, then yet more, a strange musician;
and lastly she turned severely polite. But I changed the subject,
remembering your good advice to try and win her favor; so I said that,
after all, it was not likely you would go to Berlin, and that quite
reconciled her. Secretly, however, I say come--do come! We shall do
everything to make Berlin as agreeable to you as it _can_ be made; and
if Moscheles were to tell me that you intended coming on the 1st of
October, I should begin this very day to think of that date with joy.
The “Schnellpost-coupé” has just room for two, and it is such easy and
comfortable travelling. You should really make up your mind to come. I
will not tease you any more to-day, but will only beg you will let me
know when you go to Hamburg, that I may write you a letter in sixteen
parts, with every part singing out, “Come, do come!”
Of course, I know all the attractions Hamburg has for you, and how
difficult it will be for you to tear yourself away. Nothing can be more
delightful than your father’s new house, looking out, as it does, upon
the “Alsterbassin,” and the city steeples,--all the rooms so bright and
cheerful, amply furnished, and yet not crowded, and no comfort wanting
that the most fastidious Londoner could want; besides which, the owner,
the rooms, the furniture, and, above all, the large music-room, plainly
show how anxiously you are expected. No doubt, then, you will find
everything charming and comfortable; but although we have no fine view
and no comforts to offer, we should one and all rejoice to see you, and
that, indeed, is the main point.
By the by, Madame Belleville is here, and has met with but little
success. She intended giving a concert, and the bills announced that Mr.
Oury, her husband, was going to assist her; but the Berlin people would
not be attracted, so she gave it up, and performed at the theatre
between two comedies. People said there was no soul in her playing, so I
preferred not hearing her; for what a Berliner calls playing without
soul must be desperately cold. Take it all in all, I am _blasé_ with
regard to Hummel’s Septet and Herz’s Variations, and the public was
quite right to be _blasé_ too. Then, again, the “Lovely City” (see
Moscheles’s unpublished correspondence) is plain, into the bargain, and
so I prefer Madame Blahetka. Dear me! how badly I’ve behaved to her,
never saying good-by! Do apologize for me; but, above all, take my part
if your sister calls me disagreeable and abuses me for what I said about
Berlin. Tell her it was from sheer selfishness I spoke, and that I
chiefly thought of my own pleasure in wishing to see you both and the
children again,--in fact, say that I’m an egotist, for I am, and do want
you to come. My love to Emily and Serena, and may you and Moscheles be
as well and as happy as I wish you to be!
Yours,