Munich, October 6th, 1831.
It is a delightful feeling to wake in the morning and to know that
you are to score a grand allegro with all sorts of instruments, and
various oboes and trumpets, while bright weather holds out the hope
of a cheering long walk in the afternoon.
I have enjoyed these pleasures for a whole week past, so the
favourable impression that Munich made on me during my first visit,
is now very much enhanced. I scarcely know any place where I feel
so comfortable and domesticated as here. It is indeed very
delightful to be surrounded by cheerful faces, and your own to be
so also, and to know every man you meet in the streets.
I am now preparing for my concert, so my hands are pretty full; my
acquaintances every instant interrupting me in my work, the lovely
weather tempting me to go out, and the copyists, in turn, forcing
me to stay at home; all this constitutes the most agreeable and
exciting life. I was obliged to put off my concert, on account of
the October festival, which begins next Sunday, and lasts all the
week. Every evening there is to be a performance at the theatre,
and a ball, so all idea of an orchestra or a concert-room is out of
the question. On Monday evening, however, the 17th, at half-past
six, think of me,--for then we dash off with thirty violins, and
two sets of wind instruments.
The first part begins with the symphony in C minor, the second with
the "Midsummer Night's Dream." The first part closes with my new
concerto in G minor, and at the end of the second I have
unwillingly agreed to extemporize. Believe me, I do so very
reluctantly, but the people insist upon it. Baermann has decided on
playing again; Breiting, Mlle. Vial, Loehle, Bayer, and Pellegrini
are the singers who are to execute a piece together. The locality
is the large Odeon Hall, and the performance for the benefit of the
poor in Munich. The magistrates invite the orchestra, and the
burgomasters the singers. Every morning I am engaged in writing,
correcting, and scoring till one o'clock, when I go to Scheidel's
coffee-house in the Kaufinger Gasse, where I know each face by
heart, and find the same people every day in the same position; two
playing chess, three looking on, five reading the newspapers, six
eating their dinner, and I am the seventh. After dinner Baermann
usually comes to fetch me, and we make arrangements about the
concert, or after a walk we have cheese and beer, and then I return
home and set to work again.
This time I have declined all invitations for the evening; but
there are so many agreeable houses, to which I can go uninvited,
that a light is seldom to be seen in my room on the parterre till
after eight o'clock. You must know that I lodge on a level with the
street, in a room which was once a shop, so that if I unbar the
shutters of my glass door, one step brings me into the middle of
the street, and any one passing along, can put his head in at the
window, and say good morning. Next to me a Greek lodges, who is
learning the piano, and he is truly odious; but to make up for
that, my landlord's daughter, who wears a round silver cap and is
very slender, looks all the prettier.
I have music in my rooms at four o'clock in the afternoon, three
times every week: Baermann, Breiting, Staudacher, young Poissl, and
others, come regularly, and we have a musical picnic. In this way I
become acquainted with operas, which, most unpardonably, I have not
yet either heard or seen; such as Lodoiska, Faniska, Medea; also
the Preciosa, Abu Hassan, etc. The theatre lends us the scores.
Last Wednesday we had capital fun; several wagers had been lost,
and it was agreed that we should enjoy the fruits of them all
together; and after various suggestions, we at last decided on
having a musical soiree in my room, and to invite all the
dignitaries; so a list was made out of about thirty persons;
several also came uninvited, who were presented to us by mutual
friends. There was a sad want of space; at first we proposed
placing several people on my bed, but it was surprising the number
of patient sheep who managed to cram into my small room. The whole
affair was most lively and successful. E---- was present, as dulcet
as ever, languishing in all the glory of poetical enthusiasm, and
grey stockings; in short, tiresome beyond all description.
First I played my old quartett in B minor; then Breiting sang
"Adelaide;" Herr S---- played variations on the violin (doing
himself no credit); Baermann performed Beethoven's first quartett
(in F major), which he had arranged for two clarionets, corno di
bassetto, and bassoon; an air from "Euryanthe" followed, which was
furiously encored, and as a finale I extemporized--tried hard to
get off--but they made such a tremendous uproar that _nolens_ I
was forced to comply, though I had nothing in my head, but
wine-glasses, benches, cold roast meat, and ham.
The Cornelius ladies were next-door with my landlord and his
family, to listen to me; the Schauroths were making a visit on the
first story for the same purpose, and even in the hall, and in the
street, people were standing; in addition to all this, the heat of
the crowded room, the deafening noise, the gay audience; and when
at last the time for eating and drinking arrived, the uproar was at
its height; we fraternized glass in hand, and gave toasts; the
more formal guests with their grave faces, sat in the midst of the
jovial throng, apparently quite contented, and we did not separate
till half-past one in the morning.
The following evening formed a striking contrast. I was summoned to
play before the Queen, and the Court; there all was proper and
polite, and polished, and every time you moved your elbow, you
pushed against an Excellency; the most smooth and complimentary
phrases circulated in the room, and I, the _roturier_, stood in the
midst of them, with my citizen heart, and my aching head! I managed
however to get on pretty well, and at the end, I was commanded to
extemporize on Royal themes, which I did, and was mightily
commended; what pleased me most was, that when I had finished my
extempore playing, the Queen said to me, that it was strange the
power I possessed of carrying away my audience, for that during
such music, no one could think of anything else; on which I begged
to apologize for carrying away Her Majesty, etc.
This, you see, is the mode in which I pass my time in Munich. I
forgot, however, to say, that every day at twelve o'clock, I give
little Mademoiselle L---- an hour's instruction in double
counterpoint, and four-part composition, etc., which makes me
realize more than ever the stupidity and confusion of most masters
and books on this subject; for nothing can be more clear than the
whole thing when properly explained.
She is one of the sweetest creatures I ever saw, Imagine a small,
delicate-looking, pale girl, with noble but not pretty features, so
singular and interesting, that it is difficult to turn your eyes
from her; while all her gestures and every word are full of genius.
She has the gift of composing songs, and singing them in a way I
never heard before, causing me the most unalloyed musical delight I
ever experienced. When she is seated at the piano, and begins one
of the songs, the sounds are quite unique; the music floats
strangely to and fro, and every note expresses the most profound
and refined feeling. When she sings the first note in her tender
tones, every one present subsides into a quiet and thoughtful mood,
and each, in his own way, is deeply affected.
If you could but hear her voice! so innocent, so unconsciously
lovely, emanating from her inmost soul, and yet so tranquil! Last
year the genius was all there; she had written no song that did not
contain some bright flash of talent, and then M----and I sounded
forth her praises to the musical world; still no one seemed to
place much faith in us; but since that time, she has made the most
remarkable progress. Those who are not affected by her present
singing, can have no feeling at all; but unluckily it is now the
fashion to beg the young girl to sing her songs, and then the
lights are removed from the piano, in order that the society may
enjoy the plaintive strains.
This forms an unpleasant contrast, and repeatedly when I was to
have played something after her, I was quite unable, and declined
doing so. It is probable that she may one day be spoiled by all
this praise, because she has no one to comprehend or to guide her;
and, strangely enough, she is as yet entirely devoid of all musical
cultivation; she knows very little, and can scarcely distinguish
good music from bad; in fact, except her own pieces, she thinks all
else that she hears wonderfully fine. If she were at length to
become satisfied as it were with herself, it would be all over with
her. I have, for my part, done what I could, and implored her
parents and herself in the most urgent manner, to avoid society,
and not to allow such divine genius to be wasted. Heaven grant that
I may be successful! I may, perhaps, dear sisters, soon send you
some of her songs that she has copied out for me, in token of her
gratitude for my teaching her what she already knows from nature;
and because I have really led her to good and solid music.
I also play on the organ every day for an hour, but unfortunately I
cannot practise properly, as the pedal is short of five upper
notes, so that I cannot play any of Sebastian Bach's passages on
it; but the stops are wonderfully beautiful, by the aid of which
you can vary chorals; so I dwell with delight on the celestial,
liquid tone of the instrument. Moreover, Fanny, I have here
discovered the particular stops which ought to be used in Sebastian
Bach's "Schmuecke dich, O liebe Seele." They seem actually made for
this melody, and sound so touching, that a tremor invariably
seizes me, when I begin to play it. For the flowing parts I have a
flute stop of eight feet, and also a very soft one of four feet,
which continually floats above the Choral. You have heard this
effect in Berlin; but there is a keyboard for the Choral with
nothing but reed stops, so I employ a mellow oboe and a soft
clarion (four feet) and a viola; these give the Choral in subdued
and touching tones, like distant human voices, singing from the
depths of the heart.
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, by the time you will have received
this letter, I shall be on the "Theresien Wiese," with eighty
thousand other people; so think of me there, and farewell.