which they rendered splendidly with stopping and damping.

After yours I had Berlioz’s Overture, “Les Francs Juges,” to conduct. We were all curious to know what the result of French genius would be. I say French, for so far no other country but France has recognized Berlioz as a genius. But, oh! what a rattling of brass, fit for the Porte Saint-Martin! What cruel, wicked scoring! as if to prove that our ancestors were no better than pedants! And, oh! again, for the contrast of the middle subject, that would console us with a vaudeville melody, such as you could not hear to more advantage in “L’Ours et le Pacha,” or the “Viennese in Berlin.” Then the mystic element,—a progression of screeching harmonies, unintelligible to all but the March cats! To show that something terrible is agitating the fevered brain of the composer, an apoplectic stroke of the big drum shakes to shivers the efforts of the whole orchestra, as also the auditory nerves of the assembled audience....

Our “Gipsies’ March” is out,—in London at Cramer’s, in Paris at Schlesinger’s, in Leipzig at Kistner’s. Kistner has sent a copy in our name to Frau von Goethe, to whom we have dedicated the piece. You approve of that dedication to her, don’t you? Your half-share of the proceeds is, eight Napoleons from Schlesinger, eight Louis d’or from Kistner, and fifteen to twenty pounds from Cramer.

I will carefully keep the account; so, if you want money, draw on your banker and friend,

I. Moscheles.

Düsseldorf, April, 1834.

My dear Moscheles,—I cannot tell you how much pleasure those letters from you and from your wife gave me. I don’t think the post ever put me in such high spirits before. I certainly never felt so happy and elated for days together

as I did after getting them. You know how often I am beset by grievous misgivings, how I cannot do anything to my satisfaction, and how, when such doubts lay hold of me, I fancy the whole world must be aware of my shortcomings, even more than I am myself, and must overlook the very existence of my works. But such kind and friendly words as you have written about my Overture give me greater pleasure than anything that I could hear after completing a composition. This I know for a certainty: you might have sent me three of the finest Russian orders or titles for the Overture without giving me one hour’s happiness such as I have had from your letter. Do you really know how kind and amiable you were? Because, if you do, I need not attempt to thank you.

But now let me say how grateful I am for all the trouble you have taken with my Overture. It is quite a painful feeling to have a piece performed and not to be present, not to know what succeeded and what went wrong; but when you are conducting I really feel less nervous than if I were there myself, for no one can take more interest in his own works than you do in those of others, and then you can hear and take note of a hundred things that the composer, preoccupied as he is, has no time or mind for.

I had already heard from Klingemann what a true friend you had been to my Overture, and now your description puts it all so visibly before me. After reading your letter, I took up the score, and played it straight through from beginning to end, and felt that I liked it better than before.

By the way, you complain of the difficulty in getting the pianos observed; and as I was playing the piece over again, it struck me that that was really my fault. It is easily remedied, for the whole thing, I believe, is due to the marks of expression; if you have those altered in the parts, it will be set right at once. First, everything should be marked one degree weaker; that is, where there is a p in the wind instruments, it should be pp; instead of mf, piano; instead of f, mf. The pp alone might remain, as I particularly dislike ppp. The sf’s, however, should be everywhere struck out, as they really are quite wrong, no abrupt accent being meant, but a gradual swelling of the tone, which is sufficiently indicated by the . The same again wherever the

etc. recurs; in all such passages the sf’s should be done away with; and in the strings as well: for instance, at the very opening, and where the trumpets first come in, it should be pp; the f’s should simply disappear. Klingemann would, I am sure, oblige me by making these alterations in the score, a copyist would transfer them to the parts, and then the whole thing would sound twice as mermaidish.

What you say of Berlioz’s Overture I thoroughly agree with. It is a chaotic, prosaic piece, and yet more humanly conceived than some of his others. I always felt inclined to say with Faust,—

For his orchestration is such a frightful muddle, such an incongruous mess, that one ought to wash one’s hands after handling one of his scores. Besides, it really is a shame to set nothing but murder, misery, and wailing to music; even if it were well done, it would simply give us a record of atrocities. At first he made me quite melancholy, because his judgments on others are so clever, so cool, and correct, he seems so thoroughly sensible, and yet he does not perceive that his own works are such rubbishy nonsense. I am very glad to hear what you say about the “Gipsy Variations;” but do tell me whether you are not treating me much too liberally, for I never in my life should have dreamed of such high terms as now fall to my share alone. The E flat for the horns and trumpets I put down trusting to luck, and hoping that Providence would show the players some way to do it; if they have new contrivances for it, so much the better.

You sent me word not to let Mori have anything more gratis, on account of his indiscretion; I am doubly sorry for this, as I have just presented him with a manuscript, to make up for having kept him waiting six months for the Rondo. I did not like the idea of his having to pardon any shortcoming of mine, so I thought it the best way out of the difficulty, and now, although regretting the circumstance, I must of course keep my word; but for the future I will act upon your hint. That piece for Fanny Stone I should of all things like to write, but how am I to compose something easy? Well, I will set about it, and do my best to avoid octaves and broken chords; then there will be no ornamental passages at all, for you know I never write any others. No, but really I will look out seriously for a piece that I can dedicate to her.

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.

Düsseldorf, May 11, 1834.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—On the very day I received your dear kind letter and the beautiful present, I was going to answer at full length, and with best thanks, but there arrived at the same time the news of my mother’s dangerous illness. To-day there is excellent news, thank God! My mother has been walking in the garden, and is quite herself, and of course so am I; and in this happy mood, when a great load has been taken off my mind, and I can breathe more freely, I sit down at once to write and thank you.

Not being able to cross over to you this year, I do hope and trust you will let me have a few lines now and then; for while I read them I am in Chester Place, I follow your descriptions, live through it all with you, rejoice at Lord Burghersh’s absence from the party, make remarks about Miss Masson’s delicate form of “couching her refusal,” abuse Masoni for that Beethoven Sonata, and admire Miss Use’s beauty, although I know it only by hearsay.

And how grateful I am to you, dear Moscheles, for doing my Rondo the honor of playing it at your concert! You may believe that I fully appreciate it, and feel greatly flattered; and now, if anybody abuses it ever so much, I shall still love the piece and hold it in high consideration. Please write me word if you like the accompaniments, or if you find fault with any part of them. I may perhaps write something of the kind in the course of this year, and should like to avoid former faults.

The cravat, however, dear Mrs. Moscheles, I put on at once, and, so adorned, went out for a ride. You must know I have bought a nice bay horse, and it gives me immense pleasure. When I went to the Hübners’ in the evening, Madame Hübner asked if that cravat was English too. I gave her your message, and she reciprocated it very sincerely. But you have not told me what composition I am to write in the time saved by this cravat which does not require tying. It is to you I shall owe the spare time, and you ought to say how I am to employ it. Shall I write pianoforte pieces, songs, or what else?

And so the people at the Philharmonic did not like my “Melusine”? Never mind; that won’t kill me. I felt sorry when you told me, and at once played the Overture through, to see if I too should dislike it; but it pleased me, and so there is no great harm done. Or do you think it would make you receive me less amiably at my next visit? That would be a pity, and I should much regret it; but I hope it won’t be the case. And perhaps it will be liked somewhere else, or I can write another one which will have more success. The first desideratum is to see a thing take shape and form on paper; and if, besides, I am fortunate enough to get such kind words about it as those I had from you and Moscheles, it has been well received, and I may go on quietly doing more work. I cannot understand your news that Moscheles’s new Concerto met with the same reception. I thought it as clear as sunshine that that must please the public, when played by him. But when is it to be published, that I may pounce upon it? Pray do excuse these disconnected sentences. Ries, the violin-player, is here (you remember his playing in Moscheles’s Trio at Berlin); he is going to give a concert to-morrow, and so I have been constantly interrupted by all sorts of people employed in the arrangements, and have to rehearse every day, in consequence of which my poor bay has not left its stable for the last three days (this, you see, is the principal subject on which my mind turns).

At Whitsuntide I must go to Aix-la-Chapelle to the musical festival, and am not the least inclined for it, since they perform pieces which my musical conscience revolts at; but go I must, for a quiet life, as the people of this place will have it that Ries and I are pope and anti-pope; and, Ries happening to conduct, they fancy me jaundiced with vexation, and think that I shall not go. But they are mistaken; I sip my “Maitrank,”—an excellent drink made of hock, aromatic herbs, and sugar,—and mean to go. This reminds me of Siboni. Oh, Siboni! how can you presume seriously to bring out your recipes for salad-mixing? And is De Vrught there too? And what sort of a figure does he cut at a dinner in Chester Place? Stop! By the by, have you heard of a Mademoiselle Meyer who has gone with her father from here to London to play the piano? She must, some time or other, pass in review before Moscheles, and I should like above all things to hear of her doings in London. The father would set me up here as his daughter’s rival, and has tried to abuse and vex me in every way, and, finding that I took no notice, is going to try what he can do in London.

Lovely weather we have had for some time, and there is every temptation to be perfectly idle, saunter about all day, and become a candidate for the title of Inspector of Nightingales, which they have conferred on an old lounger of this place. Warm days, and so delightfully long, and I have already begun my Oratorio, which is the reason I cannot go to the Westminster Abbey Festival, but must keep to my work. I have

written a few Capriccios for the pianoforte (or Fantasias, or——) that I like very well, but an abominable Étude. This morning, for the first time after a long interval, a song has come to me; and such a present is at all times refreshing. I really must write it down for you, although I am sorry to say it is not at all suited for your voice, but rather for a tenor. You need not even play it; yet I write it down for you all the same. Moscheles can hum the melody to himself.

May 14.

This letter was begun three days ago, and I have not yet been able to finish it. Ries has left again. We played Beethoven’s grand Sonata in A minor, dedicated to Kreutzer, at his concert, and that by heart, which was great fun. I do not know whether I told Moscheles that the scores of my three overtures, “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” “Meeresstille,” and “Isles of Fingal,” will appear in a few days at Breitkopf & Härtel’s, which makes me unspeakably proud. As soon as they are to be had, they shall be presented to you, and I only wish I could have again dedicated them to you, my dear Moscheles; but as that wouldn’t do, my friends at home wished me to inscribe them to the Crown Prince, who has shown himself extremely gracious to me this last autumn. For my own part, I was thinking of the Philharmonic, and so it is undecided. A knotty point, you see.

And do you know, dear Mrs. Moscheles, that Varnhagen is going to be married again,—six months after his inconsolable book about his wife,—and that to my cousin Marianna Saaling. A young musician has just been here with an atrocious Fugue for me to look through; also another native genius who feels an impulse to write Chorales, enough to make one turn yellow with impatience; and yet he has written Chorales ever since I came here, the last always worse than the one before it; and as we go on being vexed with one another, there are some lovely scenes, he not being able to understand that I still find his compositions bad, and I that he has not improved them. I am, however, the very type of a good Cantor, and preach so much to the point that it is great fun to hear me. The lilies of the valley are out; how pleased I should be to send Serena some! But even without them, may she live and prosper, and Emily and Felix as well. And how about Emily’s tune? Now there is an end to my paper; indeed, I have talked nonsense enough.

Ever yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Düsseldorf, June 26, 1834.

You amiable couple in Chester Place!—Let me thank you a thousand times for that nice, good, kind letter that you have treated me to again; they are high days and holidays for me when I receive your letters, and can read them over and over again. If you, my dear Moscheles, thank me for the Rondo, I must thank you for thanking me; but I still maintain you are too indulgent. The other day, Dr. Frank, whom you know, came to Düsseldorf, and I wished to show him something of my A major Symphony. Not having it here, I began writing out the Andante again, and in so doing I came across so many errata that I got interested and wrote out the Minuet and Finale too, but with many necessary alterations; and whenever such occurred I thought of you, and of how you never said a word of blame, although you must have seen it all much better and plainer than I do now. The first movement I have not written down, because, if once I begin with that, I am afraid I shall have to alter the entire subject, beginning with the fourth bar,—and that means pretty nearly the whole first piece,—and I have no time for that just now. The dominant in the fourth bar strikes me as quite disagreeable; I think it should be the seventh (A-G). But many thanks to you and the Philharmonic for playing so much of my music. I am sure I am delighted, if only the public does not grumble!

And what do you say to their hissing little Herz? Why, that implies a high degree of culture! Has he consoled himself with guineas and pupils, or was it too crushing? You are particularly silent on the subject; and yet it is true, and Moritz Schlesinger will not be slow to triumph. Well, if he will only abstain from writing Variations for four hands, or, if that is too much to ask, if he will only avoid winding up with those Rondos that are so frightfully vulgar that I am ashamed to play them to decent people, then, for aught I care, let him be made King of the Belgians, or rather Semiquaver King, just as one says “Fire-King.” After all, I like him; he certainly is a characteristic figure of these times, of the year 1834; and as Art should be a mirror reflecting the character of the times,—as Hegel or some one else probably says somewhere,—he certainly does reflect most truly all salons and vanities, and a little yearning, and a deal of yawning, and kid gloves, and musk, a scent I abhor. If in his latter days he should take to the Romantic and write melancholy music, or to the Classical and give us fugues,—and I should not be surprised if he did,—Berlioz can compose a new symphony on him, “De la Vie d’un Artiste,” which I am sure will be better than the first.

Stop; by the by, a few hours after my last letter was posted I altered the beginning of my “Wunderhornlied,” although I had not noticed the resemblance, and simply because I did not like it; and now comes your remark about the reminiscence, which is very striking. Who in the wide world will believe that I altered it before? You, for one, I hope. Anyhow, there is the date upon it, and the following beginning:—

What do I think of Vrught? I really have heard him too little to judge,—only once, and then he sang a song in two verses: the first quite simply and in his natural voice, so that I thought him the greatest singer I had ever heard,—it was truly beautiful; but in the second verse it was all shakes and skipping about, and I quickly changed my mind. Since then he has not behaved very well to me; but, for my part, I have no objection to giving him a copy of my Scena, only I do not think I can do so on account of the Philharmonic.

There is a passage in your letter, dear Mrs. Moscheles, that I protest I am mightily offended at. You say I declare that your letters are agreeable to me; and that I am sure I have never declared, because it is simply a fact. Besides, “agreeable” is not the right word: I am really grateful for the pleasure they give me. Then you say, too, I am not to care for public and critics; and that is just as bad. Am I not by trade an anti-public-caring musician, and an anti-critic-caring one into the bargain? What is Hecuba to me, and what the press (I mean the press that depresses)? And if this very day I had an idea for an Overture to Lord Eldon, in the form of a canon alla rovescia, or of a double fugue with a cantus firmus, write it I would, although I knew it could never become popular; how much more the lovely Melusina,—a very different subject! Only it certainly would be annoying if one never had a chance of hearing one’s things performed; but as you say that is not to be feared, let us wish the public and critics long life and happiness,—and me too,—and let me live to go to England next year.

Oh, Seigneur de Fahl, you live in my rooms! If rooms could speak, what stuff they would tell me next year, or what would they have told you! But I hope he is not going to remain in London, for if I could not have my rooms in No. 103 Great Portland Street it would put me out very much, since I lived there through so much of sweet and so much of bitter,—a whole chapter of my life.

Yes, certainly, my horse is more attractive than all the young ladies I knew in Berlin, it is so glossy and brown; then it looks so healthy and so very good-natured (and good-nature, every one knows, is not exactly what the Berlinese are noted for). However, I do not forswear marriage, for my father has prophesied that I shall never marry. There certainly is little hope of it just now, but I shall lose no opportunity of getting myself placed; and surely, if Varnhagen has succeeded twice, why should I not finally meet with some girl who would take me?

From Frau von Goethe I have a very kind letter, in which she sends me so many thanks for the Variations that I feel I ought to forward the greater part of them to you, my dear Moscheles.

Now let me write my message to Serena, and inform her that I shall pay her a visit next year, and present her with a large nosegay of pinks; and to Emily I will bring a brand-new tune, and teach it to her. Will you have some mustard or an oil picture?—those are the only choice productions of the place. And what am I to do in the mean while with my Choir, and the Opera, and my horse? Well, there’s plenty of time to think of that; so now good-night and au revoir!

When Moscheles has a moment of leisure let him send me a line and his best love. No more room to sign my name.

Moscheles gives Mendelssohn full particulars of the Birmingham Festival. An Oratorio of the Chevalier Neukomm’s and an unusually large number of the same composer’s works figured in the programme. “His style is Haydn’s,” says Moscheles; “occasionally elevated and bordering on Handel, but when you go into detail, you find many hackneyed modulations and figures. For the higher development of Art he has not done much, but in his ‘David’ there are numbers showing excellent workmanship and much ability in the use of all the means at his disposal.”

A Fantasia on the Organ he entitled “A Concert on a Lake, interrupted by a Thunderstorm.” The poetical element was missing, and the introduction of incidental thunderclaps and forked lightning on the organ only served to show up the weakness of construction in the whole thing.

Moscheles goes on to describe with enthusiasm the performance of the “Messiah” and of some of the most effective Choruses selected from “Israel in Egypt.” In speaking of the brass instruments, he says that the ophicleide is a very useful addition to the orchestra in large performances; “for,” he remarks, “just as you say of a steam-engine, it has ten-horse power, so of this you can say, it has ten-trombone power.”

Düsseldorf, Dec. 25, 1834.

Dear Moscheles,—Upon my word, I cannot stand my own base ingratitude any longer! I really must write at last. And why haven’t I done so for the last two months? I really cannot say, and certainly cannot find an excuse. The monkeys on the Orinoco, I recollect reading somewhere, do not talk because they have nothing to say, and I suppose I was somewhat of their kind; and then really I was at first in no mood for anything and had plenty of time, and then I was in high spirits and had no time at all,—in fact, I procrastinated. And now that I am about it, what in the name of worry am I to write about from Düsseldorf to a Londoner, and to such a one as you? Really this is such a mite of a place, where nothing ever happens. I cannot possibly send you the news that the Tories are in power. Never mind; I write that I may soon again hear from you. It is just because your letters give me so much pleasure, and bring your interesting life so vividly before me, that I would rather say nothing about our petty provincial affairs. Whilst you are driving at headlong speed, we are really driven like a herd of cattle.

I have one fault to find with your letter. But for Klingemann, I should not have known that you had composed an Overture to “Joan of Arc;” yet you surely cannot doubt that that, of all news, would interest me most. I congratulate you with all my heart if only on the choice of such an excellent and serious subject. I long to hear the Overture itself, but you are absolutely silent about it; in fact, I am quite in ignorance of what you have composed lately, or what you have got in your mind. Please give me full particulars of it,—in what key it is, how it is worked out, and how scored. If possible, jot down a few notes for me. And have you written nothing new for the piano? It would be quite a boon, for there is great dearth in that line.

Thanks for your description of the Festival; it is so graphic and interesting that I could have fancied myself there: I hear Neukomm extemporizing, and see Miss Rylands in the box. (Your account and your wife’s must be taken together.)

I quite agree with you in all you say about Neukomm’s music. Isn’t it wonderful that a man of such taste and refinement should not be able to transfer those qualities to his music? To say nothing of the fundamental ideas of his compositions, the working out seems so careless and commonplace. The Fantasia is probably an example of that kind of thing; and had I come as the most favorably predisposed of listeners, the very title would have scared me away. Then, again, that constant use of the brass! As a matter of sheer calculation it should be sparingly employed, let alone the question of Art! That’s where I admire Handel’s glorious style; when he brings up his kettledrums and trumpets towards the end, and thumps and batters about to his heart’s content, as if he meant to knock you down—no mortal man can remain unmoved. I really believe it is far better to imitate such work, than to overstrain the nerves of your audience, who, after all, will at last get accustomed to Cayenne pepper. There is Cherubini’s new Opera, “Ali Baba,” for instance, which I have just been looking through. I was delighted with some parts, but in others it grieved me to find him chiming in with that perverted new fad of the Parisians, winding up pieces, in themselves calm and dignified, with thunder-clap effects, scoring as if instruments were nothing and effect everything, three or four trombones blasting away at you as if the human ear could stand anything. Then the finales with their uncouth harmonies, tearing and dashing about, enough to make an end of you. How bright and sparkling, on the other hand, are some of the pieces in his former manner; between Faniska and Lodoiska, for instance, and this there really is as wide a difference as between a man and a scarecrow,—no wonder the Opera was a failure. To an admirer of old Cherubini’s it really is annoying that he should write such miserable stuff, and not have the pluck to resist the so-called taste of the day and of the public, (as if you and I were not part of the public, and didn’t live in these times as well, and didn’t want music adapted to our digestive capacities!) As for those who are not admirers of old Cherubini, they will not be satisfied anyhow, do what he may; for them he is too much himself in “Ali Baba,” and after the first three notes they spot their man and put him down as a “vieille perruque,” “rococo,” etc.

You will fancy I am in an all-devouring mood to-day; not at all,—I really don’t know what made me so pugnacious; on the contrary, I am in a most happy, peaceful frame of mind. It is Christmas Day; a fragrant odor of black gingerbread, with which I was regaled at the Schadows’ last night, pervades the room; all around are presents from home,—a lounging jacket, writing materials, confectionery, cup and saucer, etc. In the midst of such splendors I have been happy and cheerful all day long, and now in the evening that wicked pen of mine runs away with me. Düsseldorf, too, is not half as bad as I described it just now, and you would not be slow to appreciate it if you heard the members of our Choral Society sing their Sebastian Bach, true knights as they are. We are soon going to perform the “Seasons,” and during Lent the “Messiah;” in the last concert we had Weber’s “Lyre and Sword,” the first part of “Judas Maccabæus,” and the “Sinfonia Eroica.” I am held in tremendous respect here; but do you know, I think my ink has turned sour just now because my horse bolted with me this afternoon and ran like mad right through our Corso and half the town, straight to the stables. I kept my seat, but I was in such a rage; and weren’t the people just delighted to see the “Herr Musikdirector” racing along! And then really there are not enough pretty girls here; after all, one doesn’t want to be composing fugues and chorales all day long; but, upon my soul, I am getting so frumpy and old-fashioned that I dread the thought of putting on a dress-coat, and how I am to get on if I go to England next spring and have to wear shoes, I know not. Well, it will all come right again if I am really sufficiently advanced with my work in the spring to cross; and if so, you know with what feelings I look forward to No. 3 Chester Place.

My Oratorio is making great progress. I am working at the second part, and have just written a Chorus in F sharp minor (a lively chorus of heathens) which I thoroughly relish myself and should so much like to show you; in fact, I am ever so anxious to hear whether you are satisfied with my new work. I have lately written some Fugues, Songs without words and with words, and a few Studies, and should of all things like to take a new Concerto for piano with me to London, but of that I know nothing as yet. You once said it was time I should write a quiet, sober piece for the pianoforte, after all those restless ones; and that advice is always running in my head and stops me at the outset, for as soon as I think of a pianoforte piece, away I career, and scarcely am I off when I remember, “Moscheles said, etc.,” and there’s an end to the piece. But never mind, I’ll get the better of it yet; and if it turns out restless again, it will certainly not be for want of good intentions.

But now good-by, my dear Moscheles. When you have a leisure hour give me good news and much of it. Remain my friend, as I am yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

With the following letter Mendelssohn sent a small, highly finished water-color drawing of the Bridge of Sighs at Venice to Mrs. Moscheles, which we reproduce.

Düsseldorf, Jan. 10, 1835.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I ought to be kneeling on peas to do penance, all the time I am writing this letter, sinner that I am! And indeed, in my innermost heart, I am really on peas, when I think of my long silence. Such a shocking return for your kind letter after the Birmingham Festival! The courier who is to take my long-promised sketch to you leaves to-morrow, or I should scarcely have written to-day. The fact that I write only to accompany the sketch, you must not look upon as an aggravation of my offence,

but must interpret it favorably. You know, there are times when I feel but a poor mortal, and avoid speaking or even thinking about myself. Such tunes come upon me every now and then; and having no kind friend here to turn to for sympathy, I suffer more than elsewhere. If just on a day of that kind a letter reaches me like your last, I am carried into the midst of your busy interesting life, and, comparing that with the monotony of my own existence, I feel as if I could not write a word about myself; in such times, to speak of myself and my work, depresses me still more. Then I fancy I am but a nuisance, and don’t write to you. So it has been hitherto; but to-day I turn over a new leaf, and must present my water-color drawing to you, which I herewith do most gracefully. My most solemn and impressive bow you must here picture to yourself.

The sketch, taken at Venice in October, 1830, represents the Bridge of Sighs. Should it be out of drawing, you mustn’t set that down to me, but fancy the Doge’s palace just tumbling down, and consequently leaning on one side. The water is the partie honteuse. I have labored the whole morning to make it a little clearer, but it only got muddier; so there, again, imagine that the tide happens to be out, because then the water throughout Venice gets thick and muddy, and might look as unattractive as it does in my sketch. My sky, too, is rather murky; but a certain Nicolaï of Berlin has just published a stupid book meant to prove that there is nothing worth looking at in Italy,—that the country is devoid of beauty, and the people dull and heavy, no Weissbier, no oranges, and the sky no better than our own. If he speaks the truth, it would make the color of my sky right. Should my drawing, with all its shortcomings, find favor in your eyes, let me know, that I may make you another; for I am improving, and my next will be better; I might paint you a Swiss landscape, with meadows and houses, for nothing amuses me more. And now if I could only carry this one to you myself, and then and there alter it according to your suggestions!

I shall be glad if I can get to you in the spring; though, much as I desire it, I fear it will hardly be possible. I shall have done my work by that time just as I planned it; but the question is, Ought I to begin something fresh, and go on working quietly, or should I take a holiday? However, one thing I do know, and that is, if I treat myself to a visit to England this year, I will lead a very different life in London to what I did before,—trying to keep as quiet and retired as I do here, and not going into society unless really obliged to; but as to you, I shall inundate you with as many visits as you can endure. Till then I must work hard at my piano, for I fear I have lost ground a good deal. The other day, however, in telling a friend how Moscheles and I used to improvise together, and showing him some of the passages, I could have given anything to start for London, once more to enjoy the same pleasure; for not only do I play but little here myself, but I rarely get to hear others. On the other hand, there are what I call good days, and most enjoyable ones, when the work prospers, and I have a long morning to myself in my own quiet room; then life is charming indeed.

And pray, how do you all get on? Is there already some “miss” playing her scales downstairs in Moscheles’s study, or is he allowed a little leisure to compose and make music? Does little Felix cry very much? Has Emily grown? Of her growing up, you know I stand in mortal fear. I was going to send you another song to-day, but could not get on with it, which annoys me; so you must even rest satisfied with this dull, unmusical letter. And now farewell. May you all be happy and merry in this new year! May it bring you every blessing, and to me a happy meeting with you and Moscheles! All my belongings keep sending messages, which I never give you, although my father is always mentioning your kindness to him and his regard for you.

Ever yours,

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

Düsseldorf, Feb. 7, 1835.

Dear Moscheles, and dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I sent you two such stupid letters the other day by the courier that I really must try if I can’t put together a more sensible one to-day. I do feel sometimes as if all the world of Philistines had got the better of me, and I were a Philistine myself; at such times I cannot write, as I amply proved the other day.

To-day I composed a chorus for my Oratorio, and I am quite pleased with it. So what better can I do in the evening than put my happy mood into the shape of a letter to Chester Place, and send my best love to you all? I heard too from Klingemann to-day, and that always makes me feel holiday-like; and besides, it was so desperately foggy that I quite fancied myself in England during my ride; and then for the last few weeks the number of Philistines sitting on me has decreased; and then—and then—spring is coming, and spring weather has come already—so, after all, life is worth living. By the way, is there a word in English for Philister? I don’t believe there is. Oh, land of happiness!

True, they may re-elect Mr. Fleming to a seat in Parliament; they may sing “Lord God of Israel” to my “Ave,” which is much as if they sang “The Old English Gentleman” to Lutzow’s “Jagd;” but for all that they are not really Philisters. This is the place for the genuine article.

If I had seen Mrs. Moscheles at that ball I went to last night, where there were such quantities of tallow candles, and we had ham and potatoes for supper, and the boards were sprinkled after the first dance, not after the second (that would have been no use, the dust was so thick that you could hardly see the people), and they danced down the stove to the capital music of some worthy members of my band,—the whole thing got up by the Commercial Club, commonly called “The Parliament,”—and the ladies’ dresses—no, but these baffle description—only, had I seen Mrs. Moscheles there, and she me, in my best English cravat too, I should just have collapsed for very shame; for on these occasions I positively cannot believe there is such a thing in the whole place as a gentleman. Now, what I should like of all things would be to go and enjoy myself at the fair; surely it could not be ungenteeler, but undoubtedly jollier; only, you see my rank as Musikdirector does not allow of my taking such liberties, a fact that the Burgomaster himself has strongly impressed upon me. And then we have the glorious rivalry between Düsseldorf and Elberfeld, which is twelve miles off; Düsseldorf styling itself Athens, and dubbing Elberfeld Rio de Janeiro or Augsburg. And then all the girls are plain; and that is quite a misfortune, or at least a grievance. So I really associate only with artists, and they are very good fellows. As for Immermann,[29] with whom I used to be on friendly terms, he is completely immersed in theatrical business, Uechtritz in æsthetics, and Grabbe in the bottle,—three things I don’t much care for, least of all perhaps for æsthetics.

The other day I was asked to edit a musical review. I should have liked to call out the firm that made the request; for nothing seems to me more unsatisfactory or distasteful than a concern of that kind, in which you have to suit other people’s pleasure and take all the annoyance to yourself. The other day I received from a local composer some songs with guitar accompaniment, for my opinion. The first began thus:—