Munich, October 18th, 1831.
Dear Father,
Pray forgive me for not having written to you for so long. The last
few days previous to my concert, were passed in such bustle and
confusion, that I really had not a moment's leisure; besides I
preferred writing to you after my concert was over, that I might
tell you all about it, hence the long interval between this and my
former letter.
I write to you in particular to-day, because it is so long since I
have had a single line from you; I do beg you will soon write to
me, if only to say that you are well, and to send me your kind
wishes. You know this always makes me glad and happy; therefore
excuse my addressing this letter, with all the little details of my
concert, to you. My mother, and sisters, were desirous to hear
them, but I was anxious to say how eagerly I hope for a few lines
from you. Pray let me have them. It is a long time since you wrote
to me!
My concert took place yesterday, and was much more brilliant and
successful than I expected. The affair went off well, and with much
spirit. The orchestra played admirably, and the receipts for the
benefit of the poor will be large. A few days after my former
letter, I attended a general rehearsal, where the whole band were
assembled, and in addition to the official invitation the orchestra
had received, I was obliged to invite them verbally in a polite
speech, in the theatre. This, to me, was the most trying part of
the whole concert; still I did not object to it, for I really
wished to know the sensations of a man who gives a concert, and
this ceremony forms part of it. I stationed myself therefore at the
prompter's box, and addressed the performers very courteously, who
took off their hats, and when my speech was finished, there was a
general murmur of assent. On the following day there were upwards
of seventy signatures to the circular. Immediately afterwards, I
had the pleasure of finding that the chorus singers had sent one of
their leaders to me, to ask if I had not composed some chorus that
I should like to be sung, in which case, they would all be happy to
sing it _gratis_. Although I had decided not to give more than
three pieces of my composition, still the offer was very
gratifying, and the hearty sympathy especially delighted me, for
even the regimental musicians whom I had to engage for the English
horns and trumpets, positively refused to accept a single kreuzer,
and we had above eighty performers in the orchestra.
Then came all the tiresome minor arrangements about advertisements,
tickets, preliminary rehearsals, etc., and in addition to all this,
it was the week of the October festival. In Munich the days and
hours always glide past so very rapidly, that when they are gone,
it really seems as if they had never been, and this is more
peculiarly the case during this October festival. Every afternoon
about three o'clock you repair to the spacious, green "Theresien
Wiese," which is swarming with people, and it is impossible to get
away till the evening, for every one finds acquaintances without
end, and something to talk about, or to look at; a fat ox,
target-shooting, a race, or pretty girls in gold and silver caps,
etc. Any affair you are engaged in, can be concluded there, for the
whole town is congregated on the meadow, and not till the mists
begin to rise, does the crowd disperse, and return towards the
"Frauen Thuerme." The people are in constant motion, running about
in all directions, while the snowy mountains in the distance look
clear and tranquil, each day giving promise of a bright morrow, and
fulfilling that promise; and, what after all is the chief thing,
none but careless happy faces to be seen, with the occasional
exception perhaps of a few Deputies, drinking coffee in the open
air, and discussing the lamentable condition of the people,--while
the people themselves are standing round them looking as happy as
possible. On the first day the King distributes the prizes himself,
taking off his hat to each winner of a prize, and giving his hand
to the peasants, or laying hold of their arms and shaking them; now
I think this all very proper, as here externally at least society
appears more blended, but whether it sinks deep into the heart, we
can discuss together at some future time. I adhere to my first
opinion; at all events it is so far well, that the absurd
restraints of etiquette should not be too strictly observed
outwardly, and so it is always something gained.
My first rehearsal took place early on Saturday. We had about
thirty-two violins, six double-basses, and double sets of wind
instruments, etc.: but, Heaven knows why, the rehearsal went badly;
I was forced to rehearse my symphony in C minor alone for two
hours. My concerto did not go at all satisfactorily. We had only
time to play over the "Midsummer Night's Dream" once, and even then
so hurriedly, that I wished to withdraw it from the bills; but
Baermann would not hear of this, and assured me that they would do
it better next time. I therefore was forced to wait in considerable
anxiety for the next rehearsal: in the meantime there was happily a
great ball on Sunday evening, which was very enjoyable, so I
recovered my spirits, and arrived next morning at the general
rehearsal in high good humour, and with perfect confidence. I
started off at once with the overture; we played it over again and
again, till at last it went well, and we did the same with my
concerto, so that the whole rehearsal was quite satisfactory.
On my way to the concert at night, when I heard the rattling of the
carriages, I began to feel real pleasure in the whole affair. The
Court arrived at half-past six. I took up my little English
_baton_, and conducted my symphony. The orchestra played
magnificently, and with a degree of fire and enthusiasm that I
never heard equalled under my direction; they all crashed in at the
_forte_, and the _scherzo_ was most light and delicate; it seemed
to please the audience exceedingly, and the King was always the
first to applaud. Then my fat friend, Breiting, sang the air in A
flat major from "Euryanthe," and the public shouted "Da capo!" and
were in good humour, and showed good taste. Breiting was delighted,
so he sang with spirit, and quite beautifully. Then came my
concerto; I was received with long and loud applause; the orchestra
accompanied me well, and the composition had also its merits, and
gave much satisfaction to the audience; they wished to recall me,
in order to give me another round of applause, according to the
prevailing fashion here, but I was modest, and would not appear.
Between the parts the King got hold of me, and praised me highly,
asking all sorts of questions, and whether I was related to the
Bartholdy in Rome, to whose house he was in the habit of going,
because it was the cradle of modern art, etc.[24]
[24] _Vide_ the letter from Rome of the 1st of February, 1831.
The second part commenced with the "Midsummer Night's Dream," which
went admirably, and excited a great sensation; then Baermann played,
and after that we had the finale in A major from Lodoiska. I
however did not hear either of these, as I was resting and cooling
in the anteroom. When I appeared to extemporize, I was again
enthusiastically received. The King had given me the theme of "Non
piu andrai," on which I was to _improviser_. My former opinion is
now fully confirmed, that it is an absurdity to extemporize in
public. I have seldom felt so like a fool as when I took my place
at the piano, to present to the public the fruits of my
inspiration; but the audience were quite contented, and there was
no end of their applause. They called me forward again, and the
Queen said all that was courteous; but I was annoyed, for I was far
from being satisfied with myself, and I am resolved never again to
extemporize in public,--it is both an abuse and an absurdity.
So this is an account of my concert of the 17th, which is now among
the things of the past. There were eleven hundred people present,
so the poor may well be satisfied: but enough of all this.
Farewell! May every happiness attend you all!