* * * * *
BERLIN, March 17, 1833.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--I hope you may not be at home when this letter
arrives, and that the future Felix is playing with a rattle or screaming
lustily in English, which means that I trust you and the new member of
the family are as well as I could possibly wish. Klingemann gave an
excellent report in his last letter; and so all I can say once more is,
I congratulate you with all my heart.
I can’t help thinking that such an important event, such a change in the
equilibrium of the whole family and surroundings, such an increase of
happiness as well as of cares, must work quite a transformation; and I
shall soon come and find out for myself whether I am right. But if you
do not let me hear that I am mistaken (maybe with a scolding for not
writing, or rather for my last bad letter, or with a slight satire on my
genius, or something of that kind), I shall feel shy in Chester Place on
my first London evening, and timid if I am asked to play to you. Do you
happen to be engaged on the 21st of April? If not, I should like to come
to you with Klingemann, who is going to call for me, as I fully intend
being in London on the 20th. A “Schnellpost” is just driving past, and
reminds me that I shall soon sit inside one. Strange to say, since I
have begun to work hard, and have become convinced that Berlin society
is an awful monster, I should like to remain here some time longer. I
feel comfortable, and find it rather difficult to set out travelling
again. All the morning there is a constant knocking at my door, but I do
not open, and am happy to think what bores I may have escaped, unknown
to myself. But when the evening comes and I go round to my parents and
we all join in the liveliest discussion and the maddest laughter, then
indeed we have a splendid time, and one feels quite reluctant to shorten
such hours, not knowing when they shall recur again.
But why write any more? We will talk it all over. I shall have an answer
quicker; or rather, it is for me to answer, as I own that you have
heaped coals of fire upon my head. I am writing to-day to Moscheles to
ask him a favor. I want him to send me one of the many testimonials
which, all the year round, he is called upon to give. (It might be
lithographed _à la_ Smart.) The brothers Ganz, violin and violoncello,
wish, after being at Paris, to go to London for the season, if there is
a certainty, or at least a chance, of their paying their travelling and
other expenses; that is what they want to ask you about, dear Moscheles,
and I volunteered to write to you, as my father did for me three years
ago. But I have clean forgotten the matter for the last few weeks, and
entreat you to send me a few lines for them by return of post; but pray
let it be by the very next return, as they are dreadfully offended and
have left off bowing to me. And they are quite right, after all, as the
time is drawing near.
A most gentlemanly Russian called on me some few days ago, and told me a
good deal about Madame Belleville. I wish you could have heard him, dear
Mrs. Moscheles. The Russians seem to be more thoroughbred than our
Hamburgers. She cannot succeed with them, much as she tries; _she_
would, but _they_ won’t, and all my gentleman had to say about her
pretensions and affectation seemed incredible. Anybody passing for
affected in Moscow or Petersburg must be so indeed; _that_ even the
Berlin people allow.
The other day I heard a Berlin pianist play the worst variations on the
“God save” that I have
[Illustration: musical notation]
[Illustration: 6. The “Cradle Song.” (See page 69)]
ever listened to, and that is speaking volumes. The man had great
technical ability and good fingers; and yet his performance was hollow
and lifeless, and his banging about made me feel miserable. Where in all
the world has our Berlin good taste hidden itself? Then again, I have
lately heard the “Zauberflöte,”--the best performance, I believe, to be
met with nowadays. It is evident that each individual is doing his
utmost, that they one and all love the music, and that the only thing
wanting is an _ensemble_, which I fear will not be met with in Berlin,
as long as sand is sand and the Spree a river. That made me rather
melancholy last autumn; but now I look upon things more brightly, and
think of the coming spring with its return of warmth and verdure,--that
is the best opera one can see and hear. _Au revoir_, then, in the
spring.
Ever yours,