Paris, February 13th, 1832.
I am now leading a quiet, pleasant life here; neither my present
frame of mind, nor the pleasures of society, tempt me to enter into
gaiety. Here, and indeed everywhere else, society is uninteresting,
and not improving, and owing to the late hours, monopolizing a
great deal of time. I do not refuse, however, when there is to be
good music. I will write all particulars to Zelter of the first
concert in the Conservatoire. The performers there play quite
admirably, and in so finished a style, that it is indeed a pleasure
to hear them; they delight in it themselves, and each takes the
greatest possible trouble; the leader is an energetic, experienced
musician, so they cannot fail to go well together.
To-morrow my A minor quartett is to be performed in public.
Cherubini says of Beethoven's later music, "Ca me fait eternuer,"
and so I think it probable that the whole public will sneeze
to-morrow. The performers are Baillot, Sauzay, Urhan, and
Norblin--the best here.
My overture in A minor is completed; it represents bad weather. A
few days ago I finished an introduction, where it thaws, and spring
arrives; I have counted the sheets of the "Walpurgis Night,"
revised the seven numbers a little, and then boldly written
underneath--Milan, July; Paris, February. I think it will please
you. I must now write an adagio for my quintett without delay; the
performers are calling loudly for one, and they are right.
I do wish you could hear a rehearsal of my "Midsummer Night's
Dream" at the Conservatoire, where they play it most beautifully.
It is not yet certain whether it will be ready by next Sunday;
there are to be two more rehearsals before then, but as yet it has
only been twice played over. I think however that it will do, and I
would rather it was given on Sunday than at the third concert,
because I am to play on behalf of the poor on the 26th (something
of Weber's), and on the 27th at Erard's concert (my Munich
Concerto), and at other places, and I should like my composition to
appear first at the "Conservatoire." I am also to play there, and
the members are anxious that I should give them a Sonata of
Beethoven's; it may seem bold, but I prefer his Concerto in G
major, which is quite unknown here.
I look forward with the utmost delight to the symphony in D minor,
which is to be rehearsed next week; I certainly never dreamt that I
should hear it in Paris for the first time.
I often visit the theatre, where I see a great display of wit and
talent, but a degree of immorality that almost exceeds belief. It
is supposed that no lady can go to the "Gymnase"--still they do go.
Depict me to yourself as reading "Notre Dame," dining with one or
other of my acquaintances every day, and taking advantage of the
lovely bright spring weather after three o'clock, to take a walk,
and to pay a few visits, and to look at the gaily-dressed ladies
and gentlemen in the splendid gardens of the Tuileries--then you
will have my day in Paris. Adieu.