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DÜSSELDORF, Feb. 7, 1834.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--It is only after having given two hours to writing
to Moscheles, that I venture on the letter to you. Never have I so
richly deserved a scolding as now; I say deserved, for I may not get it,
you have so often let me off. What, as compared with my other
delinquencies, are such trifling peccadilloes as talking German at
dinner, not carving at the Stones’, having threadbare coat-buttons, and
not paying compliments _à la_ Hummel? But does it perhaps give you
satisfaction to hear that I have a very bad conscience, or that I have
some kind of feeling like a naughty child about to confess, or that
Klingemann too has given up writing to me? To speak seriously, there are
many minutes in the course of each day when I think of your dear home,
wishing I were there, and enjoying the recollections of the time I have
spent in it. That much you must believe; but whether out of such
thoughts grows a letter or not, depends more or less upon chance. I am
sorry to say I shall not be going to England this spring. I mean to have
a good spell of work, and have something to show for it before I stir
from here. You can hardly imagine how much better and brighter I feel
for the last two months’ work, and how much easier I get on with it; so
I must keep it up, and get into full swing. My birthday just came in
time to remind me how necessary this was. Of my life here, I have
already written a good deal to Moscheles. The other day we gave “Egmont”
with Beethoven’s music. I doubly enjoyed it, for I hadn’t heard anything
of his for a long time.
By the by, you are rather opposed to Goethe in some things; so I
recommend you to read a newly published correspondence between him and
Zelter, in which you will find plenty of matter to confirm your opinion;
and yet I should vigorously oppose you, and stand up for my old favorite
as formerly. Do you know the chorus on Lord Byron, which occurs in the
second part of “Faust” and begins with “Nicht allein”? Should you not
know it, pray read it at once, for I believe it will please
[Illustration: 13. Chester Place. From a Drawing made by Mendelssohn in
an autograph album given by him to his godchild. (See page 69.)]
you. Just now English tea-time is coming on, and with it I feel all my
fear vanishing. To-day there is a _grand déjeuner dansant_,--of all the
hateful Berlin institutions the one I hate the most. A nice set they
are! They meet at half-past eleven A.M., and spend their time eating and
drinking until one o’clock next morning. There are few things so
unsightly in my eyes, whether it is done in broad daylight, which is one
way; or whether the shutters are closed at midday, and the chandeliers
lighted, as they do at Court in Berlin. Besides, there has been dancing
for the last fortnight, usually up to five o’clock in the morning, with
Prince Frederick taking the lead, giving as many balls and accepting as
many invitations as possible. I have been saved all these splendors by a
bad cold, which has confined me to my room for more than a week. I am
getting over it now; but it will serve as an excuse for keeping aloof
until the end of the Carnival. So you see that we too are metropolitan
to the best of our abilities; and if this page of mine has not made you
feel quite Berlinese or Bœotian, an account of all our dinner-parties, I
am sure, would.
I wanted to send you some new songs, but must again put it off, as I
have a great deal to prepare for this parcel. I should like to know,
too, how you are getting on with your singing,--whether you practise
sometimes, and follow the wise rules of your wise professor.[26] You
want to know whether I am rapidly degenerating here, and whether I
stand in awe of any one as I did of you with regard to elegance, or
rather neatness? Madame Hübner, whom you must have seen at Berlin, does
sometimes take me to task, and sees at a glance, on my entering a room,
some shortcoming which it might take me six months to notice; but she is
not as good a Mentor as you, so that I fear you will find me quite run
wild, should I venture again out of my backwoods; and as for my capacity
for tying a cravat with taste, that will be a thing of the past. But
when we meet, you will find me as willing a pupil as ever.
Love to Emily and Serena and to my little godson. The little man cannot
yet understand it, but never mind. Adieu then, and be well and happy.