Paris, December 28th, 1831.
Dear Madam Fanny,
For three months past I have been thinking of writing you a musical
letter, but my procrastination has its revenge, for though I have
been a fortnight here, I don't know whether I shall still be able
to do so. I have appeared in every possible mood here; in that of
an inquiring, admiring traveller; a coxcomb; a Frenchman, and
yesterday actually as a Peer of France; but not yet as a musician.
Indeed there is little likelihood of the latter, for the aspect of
music here is miserable enough.
The concerts in the Conservatoire, which were my great object,
probably will not take place at all, because the Commission of the
Ministry wished to give a Commission to the Commission of the
society, to deprive a Commission of Professors of their share of
the profits; on which the Commission of the Conservatoire replied
to the Commission of the Ministry, that they might go and be hanged
(suspended), and then they would not consent to it. The newspapers
make some very severe comments on this, but you need not read them,
as these papers are prohibited in Berlin; but you don't lose much
by this. The Opera Comique is bankrupt, and so it has had
_relache_ since I came; at the Grand Opera, they only give little
operas, which amuse me, though they neither provoke nor excite me.
"Armida" was the last great opera, but they gave it in three acts,
and this was two years ago. Choron's "Institut" is closed, the
"Chapelle Royale" is gone out like a light; not a single Mass is to
be heard on Sundays in all Paris, unless accompanied by serpents.
Malibran is to appear here next week for the last time. So much the
better, say you: retire within yourself, and write music for "Ach
Gott vom Himmel," or a symphony, or the new violin quartett which
you mentioned in your letter to me of the 28th, or any other
serious composition; but this is even more impossible, for what is
going on here is most deeply interesting, and entices you out,
suggesting matter for thought and memory and absorbing every moment
of time. Accordingly I was yesterday in the Chambre des Pairs, and
counted along with them the votes, destined to abolish a very
ancient privilege; immediately afterwards I hurried off to the
Theatre Francais, where Mars was to appear for the first time for a
year past; (she is fascinating beyond conception; a voice that we
shall never hear equalled, causing you to weep, and yet to feel
pleasure in doing so). To-day I must see Taglioni again, who along
with Mars constitutes two Graces (if I find a third in my travels,
I mean to marry her), and afterwards I mean to go to Gerard's
classical _salon_. I lately went to hear Lablache and Rubini, after
hearing Odillon Barrot quarrel with the Ministry. Having seen the
pictures in the Louvre in the morning, I went to Baillot's; so what
chance is there of living in retirement? The outer world is too
tempting.
There are moments, however, when my thoughts turn inwards--such as
on that memorable evening, when Lablache sang so beautifully, or on
Christmas-day, when there were no bells and no festivities, or when
Paul's letter came from London, inviting me to visit him next
spring; the said spring to be passed in England. Then I feel that
all that now interests me is merely superficial: that I am neither
a politician, nor a dancer, nor an actor, nor a _bel esprit_, but a
_musician_--so I take courage, and am now writing a professional
letter to my dear sister.
My conscience smote me, especially when I read about your new music
that you so carefully conducted on my father's birthday, and I
reproached myself for not having said a single word to you about
your previous composition; but I cannot let you off that, my
colleague! What the deuce made you think of setting your G horns so
high? Did you ever hear a G horn take the high G without a squeak?
I only put this to yourself! and at the end of this introduction,
when wind instruments come in, does not the following note
[Music]
stare you in the face, and do not these deep oboes growl away all
pastoral feeling, and all bloom? Do you not know that you ought to
take out a license to sanction your writing the low B for oboes,
and that it is only permitted on particular occasions, such as
witches, or some great grief? Has not the composer evidently, in
the A major air, overloaded the voice by too many other parts, so
that the delicate intention, and the lovely melody of this
otherwise charming piece, with all its beauties, is quite obscured
and eclipsed?
To speak seriously, however, this aria is very beautiful, and
particularly fascinating. But I have a remark to make about your
two choruses, which indeed applies rather to the text than to you.
These two choruses are not sufficiently original. This sounds
absurd; but my opinion is that it is the fault of the words, that
express nothing original; one single expression might have improved
the whole, but as they now stand, they would be equally suitable
for church music, a cantata, an offertorium, etc. Where, however,
they are not of such universal application, as for example, the
lament at the end, they seem to be sentimental and not natural. The
words of the last chorus are too material ("mit dem kraftlosen
Mund, und der sich regenden Zunge"). At the beginning of the aria
alone, are the words vigorous and spirited, and from them emanated
the whole of your lovely piece of music. The choruses are of course
fine, for they are written by you; but in the first place, it seems
to me that they might be by any other good master, and secondly, as
if they were not _necessarily_ what they are, indeed as if they
might have been _differently_ composed. This arises from the
poetry not imposing any particular music. I know that the latter is
often the case with my own compositions; but though I am fully
aware of the beam in my own eyes, I would fain extract the mote
from yours, to relieve you at once from its pressure.
My _resume_ therefore is, that I would advise you to be more
cautious in the choice of your words, because, after all, it is not
everything in the Bible, even if it suits the theme, that is
suggestive of _music_; but you have probably obviated these
objections of mine in your new cantata, before being aware of them,
in which case, I might as well have said nothing. So much the
better if it be so, and then you can prosecute me for defamation!
So far as your music and composition are concerned, they quite suit
my taste; the young lady's cloven foot nowhere peeps forth, and if
I knew any _Kapellmeister_ capable of writing such music, I would
give him a place at my court. Fortunately I know no such person,
and there is no occasion to place you at my right hand at court, as
you are there already.[29]
[29] A play upon Fanny Hensel's house, in a court--No. 3,
Leipziger Strasse.
When do you mean to send me something new to cheer me? Pray do so
soon! As far as regards myself, shortly after my arrival here, I
had one of those attacks of musical spleen, when all music, and
more especially one's own, becomes actually hateful. I felt
thoroughly unmusical, and did nothing but eat and sleep, and that
revived me. F----, to whom I complained of my state, instantly
constructed a musical theory on the subject, proving that it could
not be otherwise; I however think exactly the reverse; but though
we are so entirely dissimilar, and have as many differences as a
Bushman and Caffre, still we like each other exceedingly.
With L----, too, I get on famously. He is very pleasing, and the
most _dilettante_ of all the _dilettanti_ I ever met. He knows
everything by heart, and plays wrong basses to them all; he is only
deficient in arrogance, for with all his undeniable talent, he is
very modest and retiring. I am much with him, because he is a
benevolent, kind-hearted man; we should thoroughly agree on all
points, if he would not consider me a _doctrinaire_, and persist in
talking politics (a subject that I wish to avoid for at least a
hundred and twenty reasons; and chiefly because I don't in the
least understand it); besides, he delights in hitting at Germany,
and in depreciating London in favour of Paris. Both these things
are prejudicial to my _constitution_, and whoever assails that, I
must defend it and dispute with him.
I was yesterday studying your new music, and enjoying it, when
Kalkbrenner came in, and played various new compositions. The man
is become quite romantic, purloins themes, ideas, and similar
trifles, from Hiller, writes pieces in F sharp minor, practises
every day for several hours, and is as he always was, a knowing
fellow. Every time I see him, he inquires after "my charming
sister, whom he likes so much, and who has such a fine talent for
playing and composing." My invariable reply is, that she has not
given up music, that she is very industrious, and that I love her
very much; which is all true. And now farewell, dear sister. May
you be well and happy, and may we meet at the New Year.