The Project Gutenberg eBook of Felix Mendelssohn’s Letters to Ignaz and Charlotte Moscheles.

away as if I were sitting next to you by the piano. Would it were so! But for that I may have to wait some time; so, meanwhile, write to me and let me know what you are doing and what composing; and above all, tell me that you are my friend, as I am yours,

My dear Friend,—Those kind letters of yours and your wife’s came yesterday, and a most agreeable surprise they were. A thousand thanks. You cannot imagine how refreshing it is to me to get a letter from you. Besides all that is new and interesting in it, there is so much that comes straight from the heart, so much that is thoroughly Moscheles, that I quite fancy I hear you. And, do you know, one of the invigorating effects of your letters is the desire they give me to go to England, whereas, in truth, I fight rather shy of the journey. I don’t know how it is, but when I read your letter urging me to go to Birmingham, I am seized with the desire to be off. There is my wife, too, who is in favor of the journey, and who, this time, would like to accompany me; and that sets me to thinking that we might do worse than bring our wives together, and let them become friends; and then—and then—I long for the steamer and for the perfume of British coal, and I put in the daintiest touches to complete the pleasant picture. I wonder whether it is to be realized.

What you tell me about the Philharmonic and Lord Burghersh, I must say, does not particularly attract me; that the society should be losing ground, as you say, I most sincerely regret. It was so flourishing when I knew it, and had such a halo of glory round it, that I could not believe the evil I hear of it on all sides; but since you confirm such reports, they must be true.

Your remarks on Spohr’s C minor Symphony, I indorse word for word; and without knowing his historical Symphony, one feels how correct and fair your analysis of it must be, just as one can judge of the likeness of a portrait without knowing the subject.[39] But what an unlucky idea the whole thing is! After all, a joke is out of place in a serious orchestra. This leads me to a request that I meant to make long ago. Would you not let us have your own Symphony in C [40] for one of our concerts? I am sure it would be appreciated on all sides, and why should you withhold such a work from the public? For this winter it would be too late, as our last concert takes place on Thursday; but it might come as an opening feature of the concert season next autumn, if you are agreeable.

We have had an interesting musical time of it, this winter: Dreyschock, Prume, Madame Pleyel, Hiller, Ernst, and now, to wind up, Liszt. Our Subscription Concerts and the six Quartet evenings were more crowded than ever; and with their close the time has come when one longs for home music and no concerts. Liszt has been here for the last six days. He has given one concert, and announces another for next Tuesday; after which he goes to Dresden and to Paris, where he means to play; afterwards to London for the season, and then to Russia to spend the winter. His playing, which is quite masterly, and his subtle musical feeling, that finds its way to the very tips of his fingers, truly delighted me. His rapidity and suppleness, above all, his playing at sight, his memory, and his thorough musical insight, are qualities quite unique in their way, and that I have never seen surpassed. With all that, you find in him, when once you have penetrated beneath the surface of modern French polish, a good fellow and a true artist, whom you can’t help liking even if you disagree with him. The only thing that he seems to me to want is true talent for composition, I mean really original ideas. The things he played to me struck me as very incomplete, even when judged from his own point of view, which, to my mind, is not the right one. And, if I am not mistaken, that explains why Thalberg would meet with more success in many places,—England, for instance. He, in his way, is just perfect; he plays the pieces he has mastered, and there he stops: whereas Liszt’s whole performance is as unpremeditated, as wild and impetuous, as you would expect of a genius; but then I miss those genuinely original ideas which I naturally expect from a genius. A mere pianist he is not, nor does he give himself out as such; and that perhaps makes him appear less perfect than others whose talent cannot be compared with his. We are together the greater part of the day, and seem to be mutually attracted. His appreciation of you, and the cordial way in which he expresses it, have drawn me still nearer to him. It is a pity that he should be saddled with a manager and a secretary who, between them, succeeded in so thoroughly mismanaging things that the public were furious, and we had the greatest trouble to smooth matters to some extent for the second concert. The advertisements and subsequent modifications, the prices and the programme,—in fact, everything that Liszt himself did not do was objectionable; and consequently the mildest of Leipzigers were in a rage. By this time, however, they seem to have calmed down again.

A thousand thanks for your kind offer about my Trio. I need not trouble you again about its publication, as it is to appear at Ewer & Co.’s; but your offer to look through the proof-sheets is too tempting to refuse, however indiscreet my acceptance may be. So I have told Ewer to send you the proofs, and am sincerely obliged to you. They asked me for an arrangement for the flute instead of the violin, and I suggested that they should publish only the Andante and Scherzo in this form, under the title “Andante et Rondo (tiré de l’œuvre 49,” etc.); because the first and last movements appear too heavy and substantial for such an arrangement. However, I have left the decision in their hands. What do you advise? I have told them to consult you on any question which might arise. That, too, you must excuse; but, above all, let me soon know what you think of the work itself.

You know how highly I value your remarks, and how much at all times I learn from them. For that self-same reason I wish I could show you a new Psalm I have just written, and a Symphony I have begun. Well, perhaps that may be next autumn.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I should have thanked you for your kind and friendly letter by return of post, had I been able to say anything certain about my visit to England. But that is so far impossible. What with constant conducting and preparing for public performances, I have lately been so knocked up that the doctor seriously advises me to take a few months’ rest before the beginning of our busy season in October. You can fancy that I shall only do so if necessity compels me; so one day I am quite resolved to go to England, and the next, I feel obliged to abandon the idea. To-day I leave for Mecklenburg, where, for some time past, I have promised to conduct a festival; and until we see what effect that has on my health, I cannot make any further plans. Should I, after that, feel strong enough to stand the fatigue of an English music festival, nothing shall detain me, and come I will. I shall let you know the when as soon as I can clearly see my way out of the ifs and buts....

And now farewell to you and yours; and to Moscheles, especially, the most cordial and hearty messages I can think of.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—Hurrah! I’m coming. I cannot give you a date; for if I bring my wife [41] (as I hope and trust to do), I shall start in about a fortnight, whereas, if I come alone, I shall be in London on the 8th of September, remain for the Festival, and return immediately after it. In the latter case I should have to abandon the long-cherished plan of introducing my wife to the country of my predilection and the dear friends I have there.

I fully rely upon your remaining in England and going to Birmingham as you promised. What a delightful trip we could make of it! What a pleasure to see Moscheles again, and to hear him! And then, all his new compositions which I shall really get to know and enjoy, whereas hitherto I have had to be satisfied with a kind of a sort of a description, or half a bar here and there doled out to me by some friend just fresh from London. We’ll have a regular feast of music. I, for one, am hungrier and thirstier for it than ever. And my godson, and the two charming young ladies, now grown to the dignity of real “misses,”—I shall have to renew my friendship with them, or rather take it up where we left it; and possibly Emily may have some dim recollection of former pianoforte lessons, and Serena of certain carnations. I shall expect my godson to remember having met me at St. Pancras Church,[42] and to call me by my name. Of myself I can only say, you will find me a hopeless case. Whatever talent I might have shown for speaking the English language or behaving like a gentleman, has been lost in the atmosphere of German petty provincialism. In some things you will find me unchanged, but won’t it annoy you all the more that I have not improved? Well, all that crosses my mind occasionally; but then I console myself with the thought that you will be pleased to see an old friend, whether he is improved or not, cleverer or less clever, and will give him, as of old, your friendship and your indulgence. How glad that friend, on his part, is at the idea of soon finding himself in your family again, it needs no words to assure you. May we meet in health and happiness, and may you be as kindly disposed as ever to

On the 18th of September Mendelssohn arrived in London. Mrs. Moscheles writes of him to her relatives in Hamburg:—

“Our dear Mendelssohn—I cannot call him otherwise—arrived at four o’clock, was with us at seven, just the same warm and genial friend as of old; bright, cordial, and hearty,—in a word, the type of a true man. Klingemann and Chorley joined him here at dinner; and in the evening Felix junior had such a tremendous romp with his godfather, that the whole house shook. One can scarcely realize that the man who was presently improvising in his grandest style, was the same as the Felix senior, the king of games and romps.”

On the 20th of September Mendelssohn and Moscheles went to Birmingham. From there the latter writes:—

“Whilst all Birmingham was congratulating itself on having the heaven-born composer within its walls, and on the privilege of hearing him conduct his latest work, he, in the midst of a thousand duties, found leisure to make for the children a pen-and-ink sketch of the city, with its town hall, its houses, smoky chimneys, and all.”[43]

Further on Moscheles describes the performance of Mendelssohn’s “Hymn of Praise,” and ends with the words:—

“A powerful Fugue next breaks in triumphantly, the majestic tone of the organ resounds, and a double set of kettledrums marks the rhythm, much as a throbbing pulse marks the course of the life-blood through a man’s veins. Then follows a Chorale of such dignity, that involuntarily the whole audience rose from their seats as is usually done only during the ‘Hallelujah.’ Afterwards, when the hall was emptied, he played for three quarters of an hour on the organ, before a small circle of friends, just as if he had neither been hearing nor conducting music, but as if his day’s work was only then beginning.”

After a short stay in London, Mendelssohn, Moscheles, and Chorley started together for Leipzig. On the eve of his departure Mendelssohn made a pen-and-ink sketch in Mrs. Moscheles’s album, full of pleasant allusions to their stay in Birmingham. On the left he draws the Stork Hotel, in which they had taken up their quarters; and next to it a pair of scissors which he had presented to Mrs. Moscheles, and which are drawn stalking vaingloriously along and towering over the Town Hall, of Festival memories. Then comes the Bread-and-Butter Pudding, his favorite dish, the recipe of which he was carrying home with him.

Further on, the cravat which Mrs. Moscheles had given him. He was in the habit of protesting that he had never been able to master the art of adjusting his cravat, and that not until Mrs. Moscheles pronounced the magic words, “Pin it up,” was a flood of light thrown on the subject. Above the cravat the steamer stands in readiness for the morrow; below, the mail-coach and the luggage,—amongst the latter, a certain umbrella belonging to Moscheles, which Mendelssohn had unfortunately lost, is conspicuous.[44]

They started on the 3d of October; and their adventures by sea and land are recorded in a humorous letter penned by the trio of friends, Mendelssohn adding a little sketch of the pitching boat he had every reason to remember.[45]

During his ten days’ stay in Leipzig, Moscheles writes frequent letters to his wife. The following note of invitation Mendelssohn enclosed in one of them:—

MRS. MOSCHELES

is respectfully invited to a musical evening party to be given
on Monday, the 19th of October, at 6 o’clock precisely, in the
rooms of the Gewandhaus, by

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY,

there to hear his 42d Psalm, with Orchestra, his Overture to
“Fingal’s Cave,” and Moscheles’s Overture to “Joan of Arc.”
Moscheles, the “Father of Pianists” (as Fink calls him in the
“Musical Gazette”), will play his G minor Concerto, as also
Bach’s Triple Concerto, with Madame Schumann and Dr. F.
Mendelssohn Bartholdy, in addition to which he will perform
some of his characteristic Studies.

* * *

It is requested that this paper be presented at the doors;
should, however, this request not be complied with, Professor
Moscheles will have to proceed to London in order to receive
that applause which here can but be incomplete.

An answer by return of post will oblige.

The “musical evening party” turned out a most brilliant one. Moscheles describes the bright and festive scene, and the charming way in which Mr. and Mrs. Mendelssohn received their three hundred guests. The chorus of one hundred and forty voices was most effective, and the Gewandhaus orchestra was never heard to better advantage.

After a short visit to his mother in Prague, Moscheles hurried back to London, reluctantly foregoing the pleasure he had promised himself of once more shaking hands with his friends before leaving Germany.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I fancy Moscheles once more comfortably installed by your “fireside” (this can’t be expressed in German); so now I must write and send greetings, and say how often and with what heartfelt gratitude I remember our late meeting. After our parting there followed some pleasant days, which Moscheles’s and Chorley’s letters have long ago described to you. Now, however, that Moscheles has left us by train, and Chorley by Schnellpost, a quiet time has set in, with scarcely anything to describe,—for happiness itself is indescribable; and, indeed, I ought neither to form a wish nor to express a regret, when I enjoy, as I do at present, health and contentment with my wife and children, and have plenty of work to do; yet I must say we were truly sorry on receiving Moscheles’s letter, definitely putting off his return to us. He had become quite a member of the family during his short stay, and as such we parted from him. He seemed to be in most friendly sympathy with my wife; such feelings are generally mutual, and I know she took to him the very first day. But when will my prophecy be fulfilled, that you too will love my Cécile, and feel at home and intimate with her? Not this next spring, I fear; and whether Moscheles is so favorably impressed with Germany that he wishes soon to repeat his visit, that too remains to be seen; but I hope he did feel

what we all had at heart,—what every one of us would have liked to show in word and deed, if the very showing and saying had not been our weak point, though he will nowhere find it more strongly developed,—the most heartfelt reverence and love for himself and his work, and the most sincere gratitude for the immense enjoyment he has procured us. It is still our daily talk; and even little Carl [46] never passes a day without asking Papa, “How does my uncle Moschenes play?” Then I try to imitate it with my fists in A flat, six-eight time as well as I can, but the result is miserable. Now comes a song.[47] ...

I will give the pen to my wife, and only add love to the dear children, to whom pray remember me. This letter is for Moscheles too. How glad I was to hear of his successes in Prague, I need not say. I trust he thinks of us as we do of him, and that we may soon hear of his safe arrival. Farewell, dear Mrs. Moscheles.

Dear Moscheles,—Just as I was sitting down to answer your kindest of letters (dated the 9th inst.), in comes bright No. 2, with its graphic account of the Taylor evening, and its other capital and vivid descriptions. David must take you my answer to both, and my very best thanks for the pleasure they have given me. He leaves to-morrow. There is no need once more to recommend him, his wife, and their little daughter to you and yours. You know and appreciate him and his art already, and are sure to contribute more than your share towards making his stay agreeable. Mind you don’t get too fond of him, and keep him there altogether; we Germans could not allow that, for men and musicians of his stamp are not as thickly sown out here as you might fancy. So make as much of him as you like, but send him back well preserved afterwards.

And now to return to your two delightful letters. The first contained the enclosures from Broadley and instructions in reference to the German publication; they shall be punctually carried out. Please ask him to mention on the titlepage of the English edition that Simrock of Bonn is the German publisher. May I beg you to communicate this to him without delay? Make my excuses to him (and yourself) for not having sent the short prelude. I would gladly do so; but really, with the best will in the world, I could not write a short prelude to suit that piece without altering the whole form and giving it a pretentious coloring, which it should not have. I would rather leave it to the organist to tumble his fingers about at random, making it long or short as he likes, and as rich or poor as he can afford.

I do wish I could hear your Psalm. You know how much I should enjoy it. But how could I venture to make suggestions, or even to think them, when I am so full of the beauties I find in your work, and so thankful, as we all have reason to be, for what you give us in so full a measure? At any rate, you know that I, for one, feel deeply grateful for the bright products of your art; and I trust you will always let me have the new things you write, and particularly that you will not let me wait long for the Psalm and the two new “Studies.”

According to your kind permission, I have put together a book of your Songs, selected from the ten you sent me through Dr. Becker. Kistner required six for a book; so I chose the following: “Stumme Liebe,” by Probald; “Der Schmidt,” by Uhland; “Zuversicht,” by the Countess Hahn; “Das Reh,” by Uhland; “Im Herbst,” by Uhland; “Sakontala,” by Klingemann. The keys certainly follow in the maddest of ways,—F major, B major, and so on anyhow; but I have always found that not a soul thanks you for the loveliest sequence in keys, and that it is rather a change from slow to fast, from serious to lively, that is particularly in demand. So pray excuse this fricassee of sharps and flats.

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

My dear Friend,—How shall I thank you for those two beautiful “Studies” you sent me! I cannot tell you how much I have found in them to enjoy and to admire, and how grateful I am that you should select me as the first to send them to, in advance of the whole musical world, that takes so lively an interest in all you write. That is truly kind of you.

To tell the truth, it is the one in D minor that is my favorite, particularly in that modulation on the seventh, after the long F , and the return to D minor, passing through C and E flat. But then there is that lively one in F major, which I love more and more each time I play it. And

finally, they are both so truly Moscheles that it is hard to choose! Well, there they are, both of them; so there is no necessity to make a choice.

Will you allow me an observation,—the only one that occurred to me? There is something in the last two bars of the D minor Study, the end of which I otherwise like so much, that sounds strange to my ear. The long rest on the seventh, and then the F in the melody (half a bar before the last) gives to that passage a melodious coloring that does not seem to me quite in keeping with the general character of the Study. I think some simpler, bolder final chord would be more in harmony with the whole. It is a trifling objection, you see, and perhaps I am altogether wrong; so excuse the liberty and set me right.

It does strut along so splendidly, that D minor Study; and I can play it pretty well already too. The one in F I cannot manage at all yet, although I have tried hard.

Your putting at the head of them the words “Without characteristic names,” is, I can see, an allusion to my pert remarks in Gotha. Well, you must pardon them, as well as all others in the past, and possibly in the future. Let me thank you too, my dear friend, in my wife’s name and in my own, for the dedication of your Songs. It is a kind gift we shall ever value.

You will have heard that I am going for a year to Berlin. I could not refuse, but fully intend to return at the end of the time. I would rather be here than there. To be sure, I am to rejoice in the title of Kapellmeister, to get a lot of money, and to have no special duties, either at the theatre or elsewhere,—in fact, to be quite my own master; but with all that, I don’t quite like it. I shall be there in about ten days; and as soon as I can tell you more about it, you shall hear from me.

In June, 1842, Mendelssohn once more returned to London, this time accompanied by his wife; and so at last Mrs. Moscheles had the opportunity, to which she had been looking forward so long, of making Cécile Mendelssohn’s acquaintance, and of welcoming her to England. They met, as might be expected, fully disposed to indorse the bond of friendship that united their husbands. Sympathetically attracted to one another at the outset, they soon exchanged the more formal mode of address for the affectionate “Du,” therein following the example of their husbands, who, years ago, had in the same way taken the pledge of brotherhood. Their friendship continued and remained unchanged until the premature death of Cécile Mendelssohn.

On the 13th of June Mendelssohn conducted his A minor Symphony for the first time in the Philharmonic. He played with Moscheles in a concert arranged by the latter for the benefit of

the sufferers from the Hamburg fire,—a venture which was eminently successful, the net receipts amounting to £650. Sophocles’s “Antigone” was performed in Moscheles’s house, Mendelssohn being at the piano; the choir, however, it appears, did not prove equal to the occasion. It was during this stay that Mendelssohn spent the pleasant hours with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, of which he gives so graphic a description in his letters to his mother.

Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I returned three days ago, and will not delay writing you a letter on this broad sheet of paper. What it will contain, you guess; but I write it in fear and trembling, for my mother assures me she has it from you yourself that you intended leaving Hamburg at the beginning of October, to return to England, without stopping at either Leipzig or Berlin. That would really be too bad! But I cannot quite believe it, and so venture to write you a regular letter of invitation:—

Mr. Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy presents his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Moscheles, and is simply craving for Mr. and Mrs. Moscheles’s visit to Berlin for at least a fortnight. The country, music, and that sort of thing, in and about Berlin, are, to be sure, not worthy to be placed before them; if, however, a most hearty welcome can make the sandy soil appear fruitful, and the musicians inspired, nothing shall be neglected to produce the desired effect. The whole population of No. 3 Leipzigerstrasse joins in this most humble invitation. Dinner on the table at three o’clock. Il y aura un violon.

But, joking apart, dear Mrs. Moscheles, and you, my dear friend, should you still be in Hamburg, and these lines reach you there, then do not break our hearts by passing us by. Had I but known a little sooner when I should be here again, I should have written ere this; but we returned only four days ago from Switzerland and the South of Germany. Everything was uncertain, as it is still. However, here we are, and shall certainly remain for the next fortnight, so I say again, Come! If I could only send you a starling trained to say, Come! Come! True, my dear Moscheles, I should have nothing newer to show you in the way of compositions than the Song without Words in A major, which you had to hear but too often last spring. What with eating, drinking, walking, sketching, enjoying myself, and not caring for the morrow, I have not been able to write anything new. You, I am sure, will have all the more new and interesting things to show me. But even supposing we made no music at all, how delightful would it be to spend

some time together in Germany! We should see and hear much more of one another, in peace and quietness, than we could in the rush of a London season, crowded as you are there with work, and I with leisure. You would meet Klingemann too; we are daily expecting him; he must have been in Hanover for some time already. Once more, to wind up, Come!

Now that our wanderings are concluded, we doubly feel what a happy summer we have spent, what English comfort we have enjoyed, what happiness and what never-to-be-forgotten kindness we have experienced. It was delightful indeed! And then, on our return home, we could not help saying that in the whole five months in which we wandered over land and sea, by steam or on muleback, across roads and rocks, we could not remember one unpleasant moment, not one dull day, but that we had been enabled to enjoy everything in undisturbed delight and health. Then I felt as though we never could be thankful enough, and ought never to pray for anything but a continuance of such happiness. From first to last we have felt deeply grateful for the mercies showered upon us, the remembrance of which will never leave us as long as we live. In Switzerland—oh, well, of that I could talk for whole evenings, till you were thoroughly tired of my long stories, as dull and dry as the incidents they would describe were lively and bright. Then came a delightful fortnight with the Souchays at Frankfurt, then Leipzig and the first Subscription Concert. They flattered themselves you would have come to it, dear Moscheles; for David told me they had specially invited you. Hauptmann’s first Mass was performed at St. Thomas’s Church; then we had three new violin Quartets by Schumann, the first of which most particularly delighted me. Madame Schumann played Weber’s Concertstück, and some Thalberg, as beautifully and with as much fire as ever. Here I found all well,—that is, music excepted, which, Heaven knows, is anything but well. They are performing “William Tell” for the wedding festivities, curtailed into three acts, and they call it “the composer’s arrangement for the Parisian stage,” and are racking their brains to discover whether Rossini had any call to write operas or not. The Weissbier, the cabs, cakes, and officials are wonderful here, but not much besides.

I have requested an audience of the King, with a view to obtaining his most gracious permission to depart; but what with the wedding, his journey, etc., I have not yet been received. Should I be more successful next week, I hope to be in my well-known Leipzig home in another fortnight; but it must be with a really good grace that he allows me to retire, for I love him too well, and owe him too much, to let it be otherwise.

Oh, how my pen has run away with me! I dare not touch the next page, which Cécile wants. So let me add, on this one, love to the children, and my wishes for your welfare, but, above all, the wish for an early and happy meeting.

My dearest Friend,—How busy I have been lately you may gather from the fact of my only answering your delightful letter of the 20th to-day. But my chief reason for delay was that I wished to answer with due care and full consideration that part of it which mentions your intention of returning to Germany. This is a matter of so much importance to all of us, and I am so immensely delighted at the prospect, that at first I could not bring myself to think of it quietly and impartially. Now I have looked at it in every light, and of nothing else will I write to-day. If you really mean to leave England,—and from what you say I can no longer doubt you are in earnest,—this is the best time you could select, particularly if you thought of giving Berlin the preference. It appears to me that just now, when the King is so unmistakably anxious to secure for his capital artists of great reputation, a mere hint from you would suffice to elicit the most acceptable offers from that quarter. Such a hint is necessary, as, without it, nobody would believe, any more than I did at first, that you are really inclined to give up your position in England. Now, you have the very man in London to whom you might casually drop a word. You are on a confidential footing with him; and whilst, on the one hand, he has the warmest friendship and esteem for you, on the other, his suggestions and counsels have the greatest weight with the King of Prussia. Of course, I mean Bunsen.[48] If you were to speak to him, mentioning in a general way your intention of returning to Germany, I am sure a few words would suffice, and he would do his very best to secure to the King and to Berlin the honor of possessing you,—for as an honor any town of Germany you may select will look upon it. That, perhaps, you do not know; but then I do, most positively. To be sure, there is no official position—I mean no regular programme of musical duties—suitable for you, any more than there is for me, or for any musician whose heart is in his work; so my departure from Berlin would leave no place vacant for another to occupy. The very fact that no such place exists is the cause of my hesitating so long.

Now, however, it is decided that I am to have nothing to do with the Berlin public, but only with the King, whose qualities of head and heart I value so highly that they weigh heavier in the scale than half a dozen Berlin publics. Whether I am there or not, an excellent and honorable position would be open to you. But just think how delightful it would be if I did return, and we lived in the same place and saw our old dreams, that seemed so unattainable, actually realized! But that is a picture I will not attempt to draw in this letter. That I may have to return to Berlin, you see from the above. Probably it may be next year.

But suppose, now, that the thing you thought feasible in Berlin should take shape in Leipzig! Not that I should think of offering you the post I have held here, merely as conductor of the Subscription Concerts; but there is every reason to believe that that office may be supplemented by the directorship of a musical school, which will probably be started within the next twelvemonth. Might not a combination of that kind suit you? The salary would scarcely be more than twelve hundred thalers, to begin with; but I have no doubt things would soon improve all round. The King of Saxony will probably grant the funds requisite for founding the institution; and considering the influential and central position of Leipzig, I am confident that excellent results might be anticipated. The principal outlines of the scheme are to be settled before the end of the year. I am bound up with it, heart and soul. But then the first and most important question arises, Who is to be at the head of it? Now, just see how all difficulties would be at once solved if, in answer to that question, we could put your name! Regular lessons there would be scarcely any to give,—only the general supervision of the whole institution to undertake. You would have Hauptmann (who is at the head of the St. Thomas choir), David, Becker, etc., to work with you; and there would be the twenty Subscription Concerts to conduct.

Now, what do you think of it? Just turn it over in your mind, and let me know the result soon, very soon. I fancy these will not be the only letters we shall exchange on the subject. The matter is of importance, not only to yourself but to all Germany; and the former consideration, you know, would be quite enough for me.

So now give me your views as candidly as I have given you mine; and let me thank you a thousand times, and tell you how proud I am of being taken into your confidence. I do hope and trust we Germans shall get you back amongst us.

If you do not like to mention the matter to Bunsen, I am quite ready to look about for another opening. But Bunsen is the right man, I am certain. However, first of all, let us see what you think of the two different plans.

Kindest remembrances to your wife. I will try to fit an orchestral dress on to the Broadley piece; and if I succeed, will send it to you without delay. For the present, I am still without books or music, and have composed nothing but a Sonata for piano and cello. However, the boxes arrived yesterday; to-morrow we unpack them, and then we will set to work in good earnest.

The above-mentioned scheme concerning the establishment of a Conservatorio in Leipzig was carried out in March of the following year. The other plan, that of living and working together in the same city, was ardently pursued by the two friends, until it was realized in the autumn of 1846, when Moscheles left London to accept an appointment as professor at the Conservatorio of Leipzig. The next letters show the friendly spirit in which Mendelssohn worked to bring about the result, and the solicitude with which he entered into every detail that might smooth the path for Moscheles and make his new home attractive. Moscheles, on the other hand, did not hesitate to abandon the brilliant and more lucrative position he occupied in London, in order to devote himself, by the side of his friend, to what he believed to be the highest and truest aims of Art.

My dear Friend,—I have to thank you and your wife for three very kind letters; excuse my not having done so before. At a time like that which we have passed through, when one feels completely unhinged and cannot regain one’s peace of mind, when all seems dark and hopeless, it is but gradually one can attempt to return to one’s occupations, even to the pleasantest of them.[49]

During the first days of darkness not even music, or the thought of music, could afford me any consolation; but my old love for it soon returned, and now my little study, with its view on to the fields and far beyond, is a refuge, in which I gather fresh strength, and can sometimes feel more cheerful. Any attempt to divert my thoughts into another channel only tends to increase my sorrow, and leaves me more depressed than before. I am sure you will forgive my not having written sooner; you may read between the lines that I really could not have done so, and that even now I find it difficult to take up the pen.

The Scena for Mr. Broadley accompanies this letter. I have thrown in a Fugue, and fancy it is the best piece of the whole. It is the gingerbreadnut they give into the bargain at the sweet-stuff shop. The idea of it occurred to me in happier days, and I then scored the first three pieces; the fourth I had commenced when the great trouble came upon us, and I had to leave everything for weeks just where it was. Now I have finished it, and beg you to give it with my regards to Mr. Broadley. Perhaps I may write and enclose a line to him, besides. Thanks for your kind offer about publishers in England. Under other circumstances I would have accepted, as I have so often done before; but just now I need not trouble you, having every reason to be satisfied with my present publishers.

The transaction with Addison and Benedict was of quite a different nature. Benedict told me last spring they wished to have my Symphony; that was all that was said about it. So I wrote to them offering it on the same terms as the former one. They certainly had given me a better price than the other publishers, either at that time or since. They thought it too much, and so I gave the piece to my ordinary publishers at the ordinary price, and therewith the matter ended. Lately, Benedict wrote me one of the kindest letters imaginable, that truly delighted and touched me, and in which I only regretted one thing,—that towards the end he mentions this long-forgotten incident. But the beginning is so kind and good that it would take a hundred such allusions to business transactions to outweigh the impression of his affectionate words. Tell him that, with my best love. And now I have not yet thanked you for your very kind and valuable present to Carl.[50] I was going to say you had given me more pleasure than him, because I so thoroughly enjoy these bright and graceful combinations; but the boy is so much in love with the music, and is so proud of his present from Uncle Moscheles, that nothing can surpass his delight,—in fact, you have started him on his musical career, for every morning after breakfast he insists on my teaching him his notes. And the other day, when he had to write to his godfather Bendemann, and Cécile asked what she was to put for him to copy, he said, “I have got notes from Uncle Moscheles;” which he wrote somewhat in this style:—