_1st Motto_: “Tell it none but the wise.”
_2d Motto_: “Worrying pays.”
_Old Play._
Therefore I write to you now, for if it pays to worry, worry I will till
it would move a stone; and you--tell it none, not even your friends, but
come to Berlin. Now look here, since I have your letter from Hamburg I
am doubly convinced that come you must, were it but to spend a few days
with us here; we will make so much of you! Yesterday I made a thorough
inspection of my rooms, and I found that they would suit you splendidly;
nowhere else shall you be permitted to take up your quarters than in the
Green-score Hotel, Leipzigerstrasse, No. 3,--that is to say, in my room.
It faces the street, but it is very quiet and pleasant, and as large as
your whole house in Norton Street; and the bedroom next to it is of the
same size. I should move a story higher, where another room could be
also cleared for servants or any one you choose to bring; a piano awaits
you; the stove acts well; in short, you see I am cut out for a
house-agent. I really do not exaggerate; you should be comfortably
quartered, and all would be well, were not the principal point--your
coming--still unsettled. So settle that, and when you do come, let it be
to our house; we will have a merry time of it. I should like to send you
a fugue in fifteen parts, and the subject of each part should be, “Come
to Berlin.” True, the country about here is not fine, our theatrical
cast not good, no singers worth speaking of, of either sex, but still
one can have music.
A thousand thanks for your kind assistance in reference to the
“Piano-Songs;”[11] had already heard from Simrock that you had written
to him, and I quite reproach myself for having added one more to the
innumerable claims upon your time in London. I cannot sufficiently
admire your getting through all you do, with such method and precision;
but then, that is just what makes you the “lady patroness” of all
musicians who come to London, and it must seem quite hackneyed to you
when one of them attempts to thank you for your kindness. Nevertheless,
I do so, and thank you with all my heart. You would oblige me by sending
me a copy of the “Piano-Songs,” as you say you could do so. My father
has commissioned his correspondent, Mr. Giermann, to pay you without
delay the sum you were so kind as to disburse for me; and now once more
accept my best thanks for all the trouble you have taken. The work will
certainly go through at least twenty editions, and with the proceeds I
shall buy the house No. 2 Chester Place[12] and a seat in the House of
Commons, and become a Radical by profession. Between this and that,
however, I hope we shall meet, for possibly a single edition may prove
sufficient. But what is that allusion to the gravel-pits and the
beautiful city? Do you take me for a _damoiseau_, a shepherd, or maybe a
sheep? Do you think that I would not hear Madame Belleville because she
is not a Bellevue, or because of the wide sleeves she wears? I was not
influenced by any such reasons, although I must admit that there are
certain faces that cannot possibly belong to an artist, and are so icily
chilling that the mere sight of them sends me to freezing-point. But
why should I hear those Variations by Herz for the thirtieth time? They
give me as little pleasure as rope-dancers or acrobats: for with them at
least there is the barbarous attraction that one is in constant dread of
seeing them break their necks, though they do not do so, after all; but
the piano-tumblers do not as much as risk their lives, only our ears;
and that, I for one will not countenance. I only wish it were not my lot
to be constantly told that the public demand that kind of thing I, too,
am one of the public, and demand the very reverse. And then she played
in the interval between two plays; that, again, I cannot stand. First
the curtain rises and I see all India and the Pariahs, and palm-trees
and cactuses, and villany and bloodshed, and I must cry bitterly. Then
the curtain rises and I see Madame Belleville at the pianoforte, playing
a concerto in some minor key, and then I have to applaud violently; and
finally they give me “An Hour at the Potsdam Gate,” and I am expected to
laugh. No, it cannot be done, and there are my reasons why I do not
deserve your scolding. I stopped at home because I felt happiest in my
own room, or with my friends, or in the garden, which, by the way, is
beautiful this year. If you do not believe it, come and see for
yourself; that is the conclusion I always arrive at.
I am working on the Morning Service for Novello, but it does not flow
naturally; so far a lot of counterpoint and canons, and nothing more.
It suddenly crosses my mind that one Sunday evening you did not send me
away when I awoke you from a nap at eleven o’clock P.M., but assured me
you were not thinking of going to bed yet. That was not right of you;
but it also recalls to my mind the Bach pieces we played together, and
that leads me to tell you that I have come across a whole book of
unknown compositions of the same kind, and that Breitkopf and Härtel are
going to publish them. There are heavenly things amongst them that I
know will delight you.
Here I have found dreadful gaps; some of the best beloved are missing. I
cannot describe to you the feeling of sadness that comes over me when I
enter the Academy; it is as though something were wanting in the
building, as if it had changed its aspect since those who made it so
bright and dear to me are no longer there. Thus the remaining friends
are doubly dear, and thus I say, “Come,” or rather, “Come, all of you!”
for if you come, your people cannot remain in Hamburg, but _must_
accompany you; it is but a short journey. You can fancy the loads of
kind messages I have to give you and your wife from all my friends, and
how they rejoice at the prospect of seeing you here. Above all, I beg of
you both not to say a word about this letter to your friends of the
Jungfernstieg or the Esplanade; the walls have ears, and if it once got
known how selfish I am I should never be able to show myself in Hamburg
again.
I meant to write you a short letter, but you know, when we began
chatting of an evening, I never noticed how much too late it was getting
till your faces grew ceremonious; and as unfortunately I cannot see you
now, I must be warned by the paper, and conclude. Farewell, and remember
kindly yours,