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.