Читать книгу Letters of Felix Mendelssohn to Ignaz and Charlotte Moscheles - Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy - Страница 5
Оглавление3. Mons to Moscheles on the Latter’s Birthday. (See page 20.)
“Hail to the man who upward strives
Ever in happy unconcern;
Whom neither blame nor praise contrives
From his own nature’s path to turn.”[5]
Mendelssohn spent two months in London, during which time many notes passed between him and the Moscheleses relating to their respective plans and engagements. We translate one of these as showing his attachment to his old master, Professor Zelter, and the simple feeling that prompted him to turn to his friends in his bereavement.
May 15, 1832.
Dear Mrs. Moscheles—If you are quite alone at dinner and in the evening, I should much like to come to you. I have just heard of the death of my old master. Please send a line in answer to your
F. M. B.
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,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
At the close of the London season the Moscheleses went to Hamburg on a visit to Mrs. Moscheles’s relatives. The following letter was written on Mendelssohn’s hearing of their arrival:—
Berlin, Aug. 10, 1832.
Dear Moscheles—
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,
F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, Sept. 3, 1832.
Dear Moscheles—Excuse my long silence; I was very unwell at the time I received your last letter, suffering acutely from a musician’s complaint, the ear-ache. I meant to write every day, and was always prevented, till at last I am reminded, by Mr. Moore’s leaving, how heavily I am in your wife’s debt, not having even as much as thanked her for her last letter. Now I feel I must not write to her without also answering your question as fully as I can. Excuse me if I do this in a few words; a proper letter shall follow as soon as I have shaken off that dreadful fit of depression which has been weighing on me for the last few weeks; then only shall I be able to think again pleasantly of pleasant things. Just now I am passing through one of those periodical attacks when I see all the world in pale gray tints, and when I despair of all things, especially of myself. So for to-day, nothing but calculations.
Concerning the concert, I have made inquiries of those in a position to know, and, taking the lowest average, it seems to me you can rely on taking at least one hundred Louis d’or, as I am told that even a tolerably well-attended concert produces that amount, and you can reckon on the presence of the Court, which usually sends twenty Louis d’or to artists of high standing. The time when you ought to give your concert coincides with our Art Exhibition, when Berlin is fullest; it would be the first grand concert of the year, and they say that receipts amounting to one hundred Louis d’or may be expected, and even guaranteed. The cost of the large hall of the theatre is forty Louis d’or, all included (bills, porterage, etc.). The room in the Sing-Akademie is little more than half that sum, but it seems that the Court does not care to go there. The concert-room of the theatre ranks highest, and is considered the most aristocratic; so, at any rate, it would be more advisable for you to take that. All agree on that point. If you deduct forty Louis d’or from the total receipts, there remain, say, sixty Louis d’or. There is no doubt that this is amply sufficient to cover the expenses of posting from Hamburg to Berlin and back, and of making a fortnight’s stay with your whole family at the hotel here; and I would not enter into so much detail had not Neukomm mentioned yesterday that when he told you he estimated the net receipts at sixty Friedrich d’or, you thought there would be a risk in undertaking the journey. Let me show you, then, that two post-horses, including fee to post-boy, make one thaler per German mile; so the journey there and back, a distance of thirty-nine miles, and a night’s quarters, would come to a little more than one hundred thalers. How you could manage to spend the balance, namely, two hundred thalers, in a fortnight, I cannot see, unless you organized a popular fête on a small scale; that, however, probably not forming part of your programme, and your hotel expenses certainly not amounting to more than eight to ten thalers per day, your outlay would surely be covered. According to my estimate, you would have a surplus. To be sure, I admit, unforeseen circumstances might interfere with my calculations; but on the other hand the receipts may be far greater than I have assumed, and at any rate I, for one, have no doubt that your travelling and hotel expenses will be amply covered.
I need not tell you that I give the Berliners credit for sufficient musical taste to expect a crowded concert-room, nor need I say what my wishes on the subject are. The time to come would be between the end of this month and the end of October. The Art Exhibition is then open, and that draws many people to Berlin, and altogether it is the height of our season and the pleasantest time coming.
Now, whatever you decide, let me know without delay, so that in case you do not come, I may leave off rejoicing at the prospect, and that if you choose the better course—better for us—I may prepare everything for you to the best of my abilities. In that case I should beg of you to let me know the day of your arrival, date of the concert, etc., and I could get through all the preliminaries, the engagements to singers, and so on, before you were here. But all this is quite understood.
Could you not be induced to accept my offer concerning the use of my rooms? They are large and cheerful enough. I wish you would; but I fear, from what Neukomm said, that the whole plan is already abandoned. Well, I cannot press a matter very strongly that concerns me so closely. I must not be selfish, but wish you to do what seems best to you.
Good-by; remember kindly yours,
F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Under the same date Mendelssohn writes to Mrs. Moscheles:—
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,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, Sept. 17, 1832.
My dear Moscheles—Excuse my not having answered your letter of the 7th before; I was waiting until I should have something definite to communicate in reference to that plan of yours which I have so much at heart. It was only last night I received some information myself.
First, let me remind you that your wife promised me a good scolding in answer to my crotchety letter and my splenetic mood. I have been keeping savage all this while on purpose, and am still waiting in vain for that most radical of cures. At first I thought that sort of condition was best treated homœopathically, but I find that nothing of the kind does me any good. You see you will have to come yourselves, after all. And that leads me to the following historical particulars.
When I got your letter, I went to Count Redern, the present Director and Autocrat of all dramas and operas, to sound him as you desired. I am on a tolerable footing with him, which means that we esteem one another at a distance. But the noble Count was not to be got at; it was just the time of the manœuvres, and our man of business rode off every morning and received nobody; besides, for that day, a grand extra morning performance was announced for two o’clock, to which all the officers from the camp at Templower Berg were bidden. The civilians—that low set—were only admitted to the pit-boxes, all other seats being occupied by the military. The new opera of “Cortez” was performed, and the sons of Mars applauded mightily; the whole staff was on the alert, and there was no chance of talking to anybody until yesterday, when I at last succeeded in catching the Count. I gave him to understand that you were not disinclined to take Berlin on your way, and to arrange a concert with the authorities of the Opera House, but that you could only remain for a few days. He seemed greatly pleased, as well he might be, and no thanks to him. He said that during your former stay you had given a concert with the Directors of the Opera, and requested me to ask in his name whether the same terms as those stipulated on that occasion, namely, one third of the total receipts, would meet your views. He also proposed one half of the net receipts; but as these much depend on the expenses incurred, which can be made to attain a considerable figure, I advised the other arrangement, especially as the Opera House holds nearly two thousand persons. I begged him to ascertain from the books the exact terms of the former arrangement and let me have them in writing. This document was not completed until last night, and I forward it to you now. It is certain that you can expect good receipts, these however depending more or less on the piece to be acted, and on the general support given by the managers of the theatre. The authorities are always ready with the finest promises; but until the day of your concert is actually fixed, you can expect nothing definite from them.
Now, as you intend going to Dresden or Leipzig, you would actually have to go out of your way to avoid Berlin, and you surely would not treat us so unkindly. And if you care in the least for Serena’s pleasure, you must bring her here and let her play with my little nephew Sebastian. Don’t imagine that I am forming plans for a matrimonial alliance in that direction; but my nephew is certainly an amiable and well-informed young man of two years of age, whom Serena will love in spite of his paleness and delicacy, for looks of that kind are considered interesting. And then, how happy my two married sisters will be to receive your wife in their homes! How much we will do in honor of you, and how much more for love of you, all that I need not tell you. Come and judge for yourself.
I trust you do not object to my having spoken to Redern without your special instructions. I represented the whole affair, not as a proposal coming from you, but as my own idea and private communication. If you would let me know that you are coming, everything could be so settled that you might arrive on the day itself, if you chose, and leave after the concert. At that, however, I should take offence!
My piano has not yet arrived; I think Erard has forwarded it viâ the Equator, or has done something or other, Heaven knows what! Milder tells me her concert is to come off towards the end of October with Neukomm’s “Septuor,” and a Symphony of his, and some songs of his, and a lot more things of his.
Well, Meyerbeer is formally invested with his title. Were there not a distance of several German miles between a Court Kapellmeister and a real Kapellmeister, it might vex me. The addition of the little word “Court,” however, indicates that he has nothing to do, and that again proves the extreme modesty of our nobility; for whenever the word “Court” is put in conjunction with a title, it means that the recipient has the distinction only, not the office, and that he is expected henceforth to rest and be thankful. If they were to make a Court composer of me to-morrow, I should be bound not to write another note as long as I live. I am very glad that Lindenau remembers me kindly. How wicked of me not to have written to him! I really mean to do so shortly, but then you know I am a Court correspondent.
There, I have answered your questions, and now I can give full vent to my wrath and ask you whether you think that I belong to the great brotherhood of grumblers and ought to join their order. Do you presume to laugh at me and my troubles? Imaginary or real, they are intensely worrying; and if, on the one hand, I have had two years of pleasure such as is rarely enjoyed, I have had my full share of misery since. You say I ought to put all that into music. Yes, if it were but so kind as to let itself be put; but it whirls and twirls and shuffles about, and is gone before I can catch it. I hope great things from your wife’s scolding, but it has not come yet. I am reading Lord Byron, but he does not seem to do me any good. In short, I do not know what to do. But never mind; good-by.
Yours,
F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, Sept. 26, 1832.
Dear Moscheles!
That’s a flourish of trumpets joyfully announcing that you have at last consented to come. It is too delightful to think that we are going to see you and have you here; and what spirits the bare thought puts me in, I need not say. A few lines are enough for to-day; all that is good, the very best, is to come in a fortnight. Tromba da capo.
In fact, I only write that you may answer and let me know exactly what I am to do for you here. First, have you quite decided to stay in a hotel (my offer does not seem acceptable to you), and should I not rather take rooms for you by the week? To do so, I ought to know the day of your arrival, and what accommodation you require. Secondly, you speak of putting yourself on good terms with the singers. Have you any special wish that I can communicate to Count Redern in reference to performers or programme? What do you say to having your Symphony performed? but then the whole orchestra should be on the stage, and you should conduct. Thirdly, I will see Count Redern to-day and let him know the good news that you have decided on coming. He must have the newspaper advertisements inserted, and I shall recall to his memory the “appropriate and interesting piece” to be performed. Fourthly, you say: “What piano? that is the question!” I answer: “There be none of Beauty’s daughters with a magic like Erard’s.” Now, my instrument left Hamburg a week ago. I expect it every minute; and as you have already played upon it at your concert in London, I should take it as a great kindness and a good omen if you would inaugurate it here in public. That the instrument is good, you know; so pray say, “Yes.” But if perchance you would rather not, then there is my youngest sister’s new piano that is to arrive to-morrow or the day after—a “Graf,” which they write wonders about from Vienna. She sends you word that it would be conferring the greatest favor on her, on the piano, and on Mr. Graf, if you would be the first to play upon it in public here. In addition to this, I know for a certainty that all the Berlin pianoforte-makers will besiege your door and go down on their knees to you. There are pear-shaped instruments; there are some with three legs; some with a pedal for transposing and with a small writing-desk inside; some with four strings, others with only one; giraffe or pocket size; black, white, and green. You will have the trouble and toil of selection, so you will have full scope for reflection. Where then is the question?
Now I understand what you say about Music and the great brotherhood of grumblers. Much obliged, but I am not composing at all, and am living much as an asparagus does; I am very comfortable doing nothing. When you come I shall feel quite ashamed at not having anything new to show you; upon my word, I shall not know what to say if you ask me what I have been doing ever since I came here. But, hush! I turn over the paper, and there I encounter the threatening figure of Mrs. Moscheles. Scold, but listen! Do you think that mine is a sort of drawing-room melancholy such as grown-up spoilt children indulge in? Don’t you know that I only wrote so stupidly because I was so stupid? But pardon me, I shall come round again, and by the time you arrive all melancholy will have vanished. You will find neither a discontented creature nor a spoilt child in me, and certainly not a genius; nothing but high spirits will greet you; and, to show that you are not angry, you must at once accept an invitation to a fête to be held in my rooms in honor of Moscheles. Several ladies have already promised to come; we will have music, and it will be grand.
A happy meeting then—but you, O Moscheles, let me have one more answer by letter, and soon after a much nicer one by word of mouth.
Yours,
F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
In a later letter dated Oct. 2, 1832, Mendelssohn recommends the Hôtel de Rome in Berlin. The particulars he gives of the route he advises are characteristic of the mode of travelling in those days.
The journey from Hamburg to Berlin, he says, would take about thirty-four hours. The rooms to be engaged at a hotel are discussed with as much careful insight as the road to be traversed; and then Mendelssohn concludes as follows:—
Count Redern is—a Count, and has gone to his estates, whence he does not return till the 23d. I have not yet been able to catch Arnim, who acts for him during his absence and has been conducting affairs all the summer, but hope to do so to-morrow, when I shall urge upon him to fix the concert no later than the 12th, as you desire.
And now enough of letters, and a happy meeting to all. Love to the children. They shall have sweets, although Emily[14] does prefer Moritz Schlesinger to me. Excuse these hurried lines.
Yours,
Felix M. B.
Moscheles left Hamburg with his family on the 6th of October, at seven A.M., and arrived the next evening in Berlin, making the journey in thirty-five hours. “Mendelssohn soon joined us at the Hôtel St. Petersburg,” he writes, “and complains of being frequently subject to fits of depression.” No further mention of such moods is, however, made in the diary. On the contrary, the twelve days of the stay in Berlin are marked by the brightest and liveliest incidents, both social and musical. The “Erard” had at last safely reached its destination; and, Pegasus-like, nobly bore the two friends in willing response to their artistic touch. “The fête shall be very grand,” Mendelssohn had written, “and we will have music.” And so it was; only that instead of one fête there were several. The “Hymn of Praise” and some selections from the “Son and Stranger” were performed and admirably rendered by some of the principal singers of the day. Improvisations followed; and no programme was complete without the name of the cherished master, Beethoven.
Moscheles’s concert was a brilliant success, the house crowded, and the public enthusiastic; the third part of the receipts, Moscheles’s share, was three hundred and one thalers. He left Berlin on the 19th of October. “We dined with Felix at Jagor’s,” he says; “and when we wanted to say good-by—he had disappeared! At half-past two we were wending our way through a somewhat English fog towards Leipzig, where we arrived next day at noon.” There, as in Weimar, Frankfurt, and Cologne, Moscheles played in public or at Court.
On the eve of his departure from Berlin, Mendelssohn presented a most interesting and valuable gift to Moscheles, in the shape of one of those musical sketch-books in which Beethoven was in the habit of jotting down his inspirations as they came to him. These pages, eighty-eight in number, contain chiefly the first ideas for his grand Mass; their appearance can only be described as chaotic, and they are a puzzle even to the initiated. Over one of them the inkstand has been upset; and the master’s sleeve, or whatever he may have had at hand, has evidently made short work of the offending pigment. Another page—besprinkled with a few bars here, and a word or two of the Latin text there—is headed: “Vivace. Applaudite amici.” The illustration on the next page is a fac-simile of the dedication on the fly-leaf.
In a letter dated November, 1832, Mrs. Moscheles mentions to Mendelssohn that she hears the Philharmonic Society intends commissioning him to write three compositions for one hundred guineas; it is to this that his answer in the following letter refers. She gives him full particulars of her husband’s artistic activity, and such news about personal friends as would interest him, and winds up by saying: “Moscheles has just waked from his siesta by the comfortable fireside. You must look upon these pages as if they reflected his dream; for his thoughts, awake or asleep, are constantly with you.”
Berlin, Jan. 17, 1833.
Dear Mrs. Moscheles—How good and kind of you to give me such graphic details! I felt quite happy and cheerful as the fireside, Moscheles’s siesta, and the whole establishment, snug and cosy as it is, rose before my eyes. I rejoice like a child at the thought of next spring, of my dignity as a godfather, of green England, and of a thousand things besides. My melancholy is beginning to vanish. I have again taken a lively interest in music and musicians, and have composed some trifles here and there; they are bad, it is true, but they give promise of better things—in fact, the fog seems lifting, and I again see the
4. Fac-simile of Mendelssohn’s Dedication to Moscheles upon the Fly-leaf of Beethoven’s Musical Sketch-Book. (See page 48.)
light. Whether I shall be able, after all, to bring some creditable work with me to London, Heaven only knows; but I trust I may, for I would like to figure not only as a godfather, but also as a musician. The former, however, comes first and foremost. I will make the most serious face possible, and bring the very best wishes and all the happiness I can gather together to lay down as a gift at the christening.
And so Moscheles is busy again? Klingemann mentioned a Septet,[15] and I hailed it with delight. What instruments is it for? In what key? Is it fair or dark? He must let me know all about it. And will other honest people be able to play it; or will it be again for his own private use, like the last movement of his Concerto in E flat, which all amateurs stumble over and sigh at without ever being able to master it? Do let me hear all about this Septet; for I am longing to know, and almost envy those who can watch its gradual progress.
I am most truly grateful to the Directors of the Philharmonic for setting me to work for them at the very time I felt so low-spirited and cross-grained. Their invitation to write something came most opportunely. But you don’t say whether Moscheles, too, is to compose for them. Will he accept, and what will he write? I will bring my Symphony completed, and possibly another piece, but scarcely a third one.
Do not for a moment think that I am put out about the Cologne affair. I have enjoyed a good many of the same kind in Berlin that were at first rather bitter to swallow. I know what it is to be a great man amongst the Berliners, now that I am on the eve of my third concert. In the case of my first I had the greatest difficulty to make them accept the whole of the receipts. I played my Symphony in D minor, my Concerto, and a Sonata of Beethoven’s, and conducted the “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” It was crowded, and people were enthusiastic; that is, “heavenly” and “divine” were used much like “pretty well” in ordinary language. And now you should have heard how polite the very people became who had been so obstructive before; how “my noble heart,” “my philanthropic views,” “my only reward,”—really it deserved to be put into the newspapers. If they had met me kindly at the outset, that would have given me pleasure; now their flow of words is simply a nuisance, and so is the whole place with its sham enthusiasm.
At the second concert we had “Meeresstille.” I played a Concerto of Sebastian Bach’s, a Sonata of Beethoven’s, and my Capriccio in B minor. Madame Milder sang some Scenas by Gluck, and the concert began with a Symphony by Berger. This I put into the programme to please him; but he found its success so short of his expectations, and its execution so bad, that it was only by dint of great exertion that I escaped a complete quarrel with him. At the third concert there will be my Overture to the “Isles of Fingal,” the “Walpurgisnacht,” a Concerto of Beethoven’s, and a Sonata of Weber’s for pianoforte and clarinet, with Bärmann of Munich—and therewith an end to the honor and pleasure. Excuse all these lengthy details, but indeed there is not much else to report in the way of music. Bärmann has lately given a concert, and enchanted us all (I mean all of us who live in the Leipzigerstrasse, and all Berlin besides). Lafont is shortly expected; Meyerbeer, too. Mademoiselle Schneider has appeared, and with moderate success. Her father is a Kapellmeister, her brother a singer, her uncle a government official, her aunt the wife of the father of the waiting-woman of some princess. That kind of thing is necessary in Berlin. Count Redern has lately taken me under his wing, saying that something might be made of me; so he would patronize me and get me a libretto by Scribe. Heaven grant it may be a good one! but I don’t believe it. Besides, we are on the road to improvement—going to have telegraphs like you! By the by, the two Elsslers—whom they call here “the Telegräfinnen”—are going to London. Should they bring letters to you, and should you have to receive them also, it would make me die with laughter; but present I must be. What will your John say—he who thought Schröder-Devrient not a lady? And how is Mademoiselle Blahetka? and is Madame Belleville again in London? Spontini wants to sell his instrument for no less than sixteen hundred thalers. If you see Erard, and wish to return him one compliment for ever so many, do tell him that my piano is excellent, and that I am delighted with it; for that is the truth.
And now, dear Moscheles, I answer your outside postscript in the same way. Write soon again, and let me hear at full length from you. The Sing-Akademie has not yet chosen a director, and there is as much gossip about it as ever. The Valentins are here for the winter; I see but little of them, as I scarcely go out. Thank you for your list of the Philharmonic concerts. I shall be glad if I can come to the last four; quite out of the question to hear them all. But when is the christening to be? When am I to be a witness to the solemn act? That is the question.
And now I send very best love to all Chester Place, wishing everybody joy and happiness and music, and all that’s good in this new year in which we mean to meet again. Until then, and ever, your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, Feb. 27, 1833.
Dear Moscheles—Here they are, wind instruments and fiddles, for the son and heir must not be kept waiting till I come—he must have a cradle song with drums and trumpets and janissary music; fiddles alone are not nearly lively enough. May every happiness and joy and
