But now I must write a few lines to your wife and beg her soon to let me have more of such good news about my dear Master Felix and Miss Serena and the grown-up young lady.
I suppress my thanks to you, dear Mrs. Moscheles, for all the kind things you say; I only wish I could now and then write something which would give you real pleasure, and that I could believe myself worthy of doing so.
I have just had a letter from my sister in Berlin. She tells me you had written all about the Overture to my father, and had given him immense pleasure; and there again I must particularly thank you, for you know how pleasant it is to have one’s praises sung to one’s parents.
I do wish I could once more call Emily “Du,” but this spring I shan’t be able to get away; in fact, I shall probably not travel at all, but buy a horse, and ride and swim and work all through the summer. Next spring, when, please God, I once more knock at the door of No. 3 Chester Place, I shall speak English and say, “You;” that will appear less strange to me than the formal “Sie.” Then, when I return some day a long time hence, I shall sit and play at écarté whilst she dances, and shall notice Mr. Stone or some other young man extremely attentive to her. To be sure, he will have to be very cautious about it, for fear of losing your good graces. And then Felix will show me the score of his first Symphony and play it with Serena. By that time I shall be a vieux garçon or a ci-devant jeune homme,—but this isn’t a pleasant subject; better drop it; it was really you who put me on to it by your artful allusions to the better things awaiting me, and by your remarks about the soirée at the Taylors’, and about Mrs. Handley, who, by the side of her husband, must look like a white mouse by the side of a black tom-cat, or like a duet for clarinet and double bassoon, or kid gloves and a Warsaw dressing-gown, or vanilla ice next to roast beef, etc. You see at a glance that I am still a warm admirer of hers, or I should not compare her to such nice things, but rather to Maraschino ice, or a hautboy. I returned last night from a trip to Cologne, where I had to play at a charity concert, and where your description of the Cologne public and Cologne musicians, so dear to you, was most vividly brought back to my mind. I would rather live in any village than there; and much as I like Düsseldorf, I do not believe I could live for even a couple of months at Cologne.
I am taking regular lessons in water-colors now with one of our artists, and work most enthusiastically for several hours every Sunday morning. Shall I send you a sketch? And what country is it to represent? Switzerland or Italy? In the foreground I shall introduce a girl with a green apron and a carnation, to ingratiate myself with Serena. I only wish I had more leisure, but just now all my time is taken up by the rehearsals of the “Wasserträger.”
By the by, do you know a book by Thomas Moore[28] on religion? It has lately appeared; it is said to have gone through at least seventy editions, and to extinguish all Protestants, Dissenters, nations, and nationality. It is read here by all the Orthodox Catholics, and praised highly.
I have lately read Shakspeare’s “King John” for the first time. I do assure you it is downright heavenly, like everything else of his. But now I must end at once, or I shall begin talking about Goethe and Zelter’s letters, which I did not like much. You are of a different opinion, so my letter might become not only long, but tedious, which it is already; besides, the paper obliges me to conclude. Should Emily or Serena ask after me, or the baby be in good humor and crow, and should that American prodigy be so completely “finished” that not one finger remains untrained, or should some lady—thank Heaven—put off her lesson or not come, then, and that as soon as possible, let me have a few lines telling me that Chester Place is flourishing.
Once more thanks, and farewell.
Felix M. B.