* * * * *
BERLIN, Sept. 3, 1832.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--That I should have not sooner answered all the
pleasant and friendly things you wrote, proves me quite a hardened
sinner; but I need scarcely say how happy and grateful I am to receive a
letter from you. All else concerning myself is as uncongenial as the
“gathering mists.” There are times when I should prefer being a
carpenter or a turner, when all things look at me askance, and gladness
and happiness are so far removed as to seem like words of a foreign
tongue, that must be translated before I can make them my own. Such
times I have experienced in their dullest shape for the last few weeks.
I feel unspeakably dull. And why, you will ask, write all this to me?
Because Neukomm last night treated me to a most beautiful lecture that
did me no good, and proposed all manner of excellent remedies, which I
am not inclined to apply; preached to my conscience, which I can do just
as well myself; and lastly asked why I had not yet answered your letter.
Because I am in a ferocious mood, said I. But he would have it that one
should always write according to one’s mood, and that, far from taking
it amiss, you would think it the proper thing to do. So it is upon his
responsibility I write; and should you be angry, I am a better prophet
than he, for I wanted to wait for a more favorable opportunity to send
you a cheerful letter, whilst he maintained that the tone mattered
little to you.
As for your journey to Berlin, I have written Moscheles a thorough
business letter, telling him how matters stand, according to _my_ notion
and that of others. I will not repeat my request and wish on that score;
it might appear selfishness and presumption, both of which I am so
thoroughly averse to, that I would avoid even the semblance thereof. If
you, however, say your sister has half pardoned me because you are not
likely to come here, that is but poor comfort, and I would much rather
it were the reverse. You could pacify your sister on your return, and I
would give you _carte-blanche_ to tell her the most awful things about
me, to paint me as black as any negro, for then we should have had you
here, and what would all else matter after that?
If Klingemann flirts, he is only doing the correct thing, and wisely
too; what else are we born for? But if he gets married, I shall laugh
myself to death; only fancy Klingemann a married man! But you predict
it, and I know you can always tell by people’s faces what they are going
to say or to do,--if I wanted bread at dinner, you used to say in an
undertone, “Some bread for Mr. Mendelssohn;” and perhaps your
matrimonial forecast might be equally true. But, on the other hand, I
too am a prophet in matrimonial matters, and maintain exactly the
reverse. Klingemann is, and will ever be, a Knight of the Order of
Bachelors, and so shall I.[13] Who knows but we may both wish to marry
thirty years hence? But then no girl will care to have us. Pray cut this
prophecy out of the letter before you burn it, and keep it carefully; in
thirty years we shall know whether it proves correct or not.
You want to know how the dresses pleased? But don’t you remember it was
you who chose them? And need I assure you that they play a prominent
part on all festive occasions, and are much admired and coveted?
Moreover, a professor of chemistry expressed his astonishment at the
color of my mother’s shawl, scarcely crediting that so beautiful a brown
could be chemically obtained. Now, whether everything has been cut
right, and according to the latest fashion, I cannot tell; and that is
one reason why you should come, just to enlighten me. But, oh! how I
should like you to lecture me as you used to do! For how to overcome
these fits of intense depression, I really do not know.
Excuse this stupid letter--it reflects the state of my mind--and give my
love to all around you.
Ever yours,