Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Paris, December 20th, 1831.

Dear Rebecca,

I went yesterday to the Chambre des Députés, and I must now tell you about it; but what do you care about the Chambre des Députés? It is a political song, and you would rather hear whether I have composed any love songs, or bridal songs, or wedding songs; but it is a sad pity, that no songs but political ones are composed here. I believe I never in my life passed three such unmusical weeks as these. I feel as if I never could again think of composing; this all arises from the "juste milieu;" but it is still worse to be with musicians, for they do not wrangle about politics, but lament over them. One has lost his place, another his title, a third his money, and they say this all proceeds from the "Milieu."

Yesterday I saw the "Milieu," in a light grey coat, and with a noble air, in the first place on the Ministerial bench. He was sharply attacked by M. Mauguin, who has a very long nose. Of course you don't care for all this; but what of that? I must have a chat with you. In Italy I was lazy, in Switzerland a wild student, in Munich a consumer of cheese and beer, and so in Paris I must talk politics. I intended to have composed various symphonies, and to have written some songs for certain ladies in Frankfort, Düsseldorf, and Berlin; but as yet not a chance of it. Paris obtrudes herself, and as above all things I must now see Paris, so I am busily engaged in seeing it, and am dumb.

Moreover I am freezing with cold—another drawback. I cannot contrive to make my room warm, and I am not to get another and warmer apartment, till New Year's Day. In a dark little hole on the ground floor, overlooking a small damp garden, where my feet are like ice, how can I possibly write music? It is bitterly cold, and an Italian like myself is peculiarly susceptible. At this moment a man outside my window is singing a political song to a guitar.

I live a reckless life—out morning, noon, and night: to-day at Baillot's; to-morrow I go to some friends of the Bigots; the next day, Valentin; Monday, Fould; Tuesday, Hiller; Wednesday, Gérard; and the previous week it was just the same. In the forenoon I rush off to the Louvre, and gaze at the Raphaels, and my favourite Titian; a person might well wish for a dozen more eyes to look at such a picture.

Yesterday I was in the Chamber of Peers, who were engaged in pronouncing judgment on their own hereditary rights, and I saw M. Pasquier's wig. The day before I paid two musical visits, to the grumbling Cherubini, and the kind Herz. There is a large sign-board before the house: "Manufacture de Pianos, par Henri Herz, Marchand de Modes et de Nouveautés." I thought this formed one, not observing that it was a notice of two different firms, so I went in below, and found myself surrounded by gauze, and lace, and trimmings: so, rather abashed, I asked where the pianos were. A number of Herz's fair scholars with industrious faces, were waiting upstairs. I sat down by the fire and read your interesting account of our dear father's birthday, and so forth. Herz presently arrived, and gave audience to his pupils. We were very loving, recalled old times, and besprinkled each other mutually with great praise. On his pianos is inscribed: "Médaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." This was very imposing.

From thence I went to Erard's, where I tried over his instruments, and remarked written on them in large letters: "Médaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." My respect seemed to diminish. When I went home I opened my own instrument by Pleyel, and to be sure there also I saw in large letters: "Médaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." The matter is like the title of "Hofrath," but it is characteristic. It is alleged that the chambers are about to discuss the following proposition: "Tous les Français du sexe masculin ont dès leur naissance le droit de porter l'ordre de la Légion d'Honneur," and the permission to appear without the order, can only be obtained by special services. You really scarcely see a man in the street without a bit of coloured ribbon, so it is no longer a distinction.

Apropos, shall I be lithographed full length? Answer what you will, I don't intend to do it. One afternoon in Berlin, when I was standing unter den Linden before Schenk's shop looking at H——'s and W——'s lithographs, I made a solemn vow to myself, unheard by man, that I would never allow myself to be hung up till I became a great man. The temptation in Munich was strong; there they wished to drape me with a Carbonaro cloak, a stormy sky in the background, and my fac-simile underneath, but I happily got off by adhering to my principles. Here again I am rather tempted, for the likenesses are very striking, but I keep my vow; and if, after all, I never do become a great man, though posterity will be deprived of a portrait, it will have an absurdity the less.

It is now the 24th, and we had a very pleasant evening at Baillot's yesterday. He plays beautifully, and had collected a very musical society of attentive ladies and enthusiastic gentlemen, and I have seldom been so well amused in any circle, or enjoyed such honours. It was the greatest possible delight to me to hear my quartett in E flat major (dedicated to B. P.) performed in Paris by Baillot's quartett, and they executed it with fire and spirit. They commenced with a quintett by Bocherini, an old-fashioned perruque, but a very amiable old gentleman underneath it. The company then asked for a sonata of Bach's; we selected the one in A major; old familiar tones dawned once more on me, of the time when Baillot played it with Madame Bigot. We urged each other on, the affair became animated, and so thoroughly amused both us and our audience, that we immediately commenced the one in E major, and next time we mean to introduce the four others.

Then my turn came to play a solo. I was in the vein to extemporize successfully, and felt that I did so. The guests being now in a graver mood, I took three themes from the previous sonatas, and worked them up to my heart's content; it seemed to give immense pleasure to those present, for they shouted and applauded like mad. Then Baillot gave my quartett; his manner towards me has something very kind, and I was doubly pleased, as he is rather cold at first and seldom makes advances to any one. He appears a good deal depressed by the loss of his situation. I saw a number of old well-known faces, and they asked after you all, and recalled many anecdotes of that former period.

When I was passing through Louvain two years ago with my "Liederspiel" in my head, and my injured knee,I seized the brass handle of a pump to prevent myself from falling; and when I returned this year in the same miserable diligence, driven by a postilion exactly similar, with a big queue, the "Liederspiel," my knee, and Italy, were all things of the past; and yet the handle of the pump was still hanging there, as clean and brightly rubbed up as ever, having survived 1830, and all the revolutionary storms, and remaining quite unchanged. This is sentimental; my father must not read it, for it is the old story of the past and the present, which we discussed so eagerly one fine evening, and which recurs to me among the crowd here at every step. I thought of it at the Madeleine, and when I went to aunt J——'s, and at the Hôtel des Princes, and at the gallery, which my father showed me fifteen years ago, and when I saw the coloured signs, which at that time impressed me exceedingly, and are now grown brown and shabby.

Moreover this is Christmas Eve; but I feel little interest in it, or in New Year's Night either. Please God, another year may wear a very different aspect, and I will not then go to the theatre on Christmas Eve, as I am about to do to-night, to hear Lablache and Rossini for the first time. How little I care about it! I should much prefer Polichinelles and apples to-day, and I think it very doubtful whether the orchestra will play as pretty a symphony as my "Kinder-Sinfonie." I must be satisfied with it however. I am now modulating into the minor key, a fault with which the "École Allemande" are often reproached, and as I profess not to belong to the latter, the French say I am cosmopolite. Heaven defend me from being anything of the kind!

And now good-bye; a thousand compliments from Bertin de Vaux, Girod de l'Ain, Dupont de l'Eure, Tracy, Sacy, Passy and other kind friends. I had intended to have told you in this letter how Salverte attacked the Ministers, and how during this time a little émeute took place on the Pont Neuf; how I sat in the Chambers along with Franck, in the midst of St. Simoniens; how witty Dupin was; but no more at present. May you all be well and happy this evening, and thinking of me!

Felix.