Yours,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, March 14, 1841.
Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—What a delightful letter of yours that was I received the day before yesterday, written beside the singing tea-urn, and taking me straight to Chester Place! By rights, my thanks ought to come in the shape of a song on one of these pages; but I cannot manage it to-day, and you must take these unmusical, prosaic, dry thanks for your musical, bright, poetical letter. For now, when our season is drawing to a close, you know from experience how hard-driven a man is,—and, to keep up the usual distinction, a musician into the bargain. Since January we are having an uninterrupted succession of musical doings, besides which the Leipzigers are so very sociable that at this time one is scarcely ever allowed a quiet evening at home. Our own house has become a lively centre too. Sophy Horsley has arrived, seems to feel at home with us, and is already making friends with my wife; and now we invite our friends, and they return the compliment. We speak German, French, and English, all in one breath; and all the while the orchestra is fiddling, trumpeting, and drumming every day, whilst one is expected to sit an hour and a half at supper, and sing four-part songs to a roast-beef accompaniment.
The only thing I regret in your charming letter is that you should have countenanced the strange attempts at making comparisons between Spohr and myself, or the petty cock-fights in which, for some inconceivable reason and much to my regret, we have been pitted against each other in England. I never had the slightest idea of such competition or rivalry. You may laugh at me, or possibly be vexed, at my taking up such a silly matter so seriously. But there is something serious at the bottom of it; and this pretended antagonism, imagined and started by Heaven knows whom, can in no way serve either of us, but must rather be detrimental to both. Besides, never could I appear as the opponent of a master of Spohr’s standing, whose greatness is so firmly established; for, even as a boy, I had the greatest esteem for him in every respect, and, with my riper years, this feeling has in no way been weakened.
And so the Philharmonic Society seems tumbling to pieces. Oh dear! oh dear! how sad that is! It is true they have worried me a good deal of late; still I have a sort of affection for the old familiar institution, and hope they may yet conceive the brilliant idea of appointing Moscheles as sole conductor; that would be the infallible remedy to save them (see Chorley’s MS. receipts).
And how are your children? Does Emily keep up her playing? Does she compose? And does Felix drop down all of a heap in his popular character of the dead man? We are all right, thank goodness! My wife has been in such good health all this time that I cannot be sufficiently thankful. There is, however, much to manage and arrange with three little soprano singers in the house, and that is why she returns your kind messages through me. Sophy desires her very best love, and repeats it three times, emphasizing alternately each of the three words; and I say, should you ever feel inclined to write such another truly charming letter by the side of the tea-urn, so enjoyable to your distant friends, drawing them into your family circle, then think of
Yours,