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!”