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
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.