* * * * *
DÜSSELDORF, Feb. 7, 1834.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Pardon my long silence; I know how guilty I am, but I
reckon on your indulgence. I am so deeply buried in my work and papers,
that even now I think I should not have emerged from them, were it not
that a special circumstance obliges me to write to you. So let me pass
over the last four months and all my excuses into the bargain,
remembering what a dear old friend you are, and how ready to forgive.
Thus encouraged, I fancy myself in Chester Place, and wish you
“Good-evening.” What I have to say is this: I have ventured to dedicate
to you, without asking your permission, a piece which is to appear at
Simrock’s, and which I am very fond of. But that is not what I was going
to say. I had thought how nice it would be if you met with it during one
of your trips to Germany; but now my Rondo Brillant is just finished,
and I have the very greatest desire to dedicate that also to you: but I
do not venture to do it without your special permission, for I am well
aware that it is not the correct thing to ask leave to dedicate two
pieces at once; and perhaps you will think it rather an odd proceeding
on my part, but I cannot help it, I have set my mind upon it.
[Illustration: 12. First Page of the Original Score of Mendelssohn’s
Overture to the “Isles of Fingal,” given to Moscheles. On perusing it
fifty years later, Gounod made the note appended. (See page 77.)]
In general, I am not very partial to dedications, and have seldom made
any; but in this case they are to convey a meaning, inasmuch as, not
having been able to send you a letter for a long while, I wanted at
least to let you have some of the work I have been doing. Write me a
line on the subject, as the Rondo is to appear in Leipzig too; and once
you have written that line you may feel inclined to add another, or
perhaps a few more, as you did in your last kind letter, for which I
have not even thanked you yet.
Klingemann is not prodigal of words, so that I have heard but little of
London friends, and particularly little of those in Chester Place. What
do you all look like? What can Felix say? Does Serena remember her
humble servant with the carnations? And how fares the Sonata for four
hands? Do tell me all about that and your other work. I would ask Mrs.
Moscheles to let me know all about it, but I feel she must be so angry
with me that I don’t think I can summon courage to write to her. The
last of your compositions I heard of was the Impromptu for Mary
Alexander, and since then I am sure you have produced all manner of
delightful things. My own poverty in shaping new forms for the
pianoforte once more struck me most forcibly whilst writing the Rondo.
It is there I get into difficulties and have to toil and labor, and I am
afraid you will notice that such was the case. Still, there are things
in it which I believe are not bad, and some parts that I really like;
but how I am to set about writing a calm and quiet piece (as you advised
me last spring), I really do not know. All that passes through my head
in the shape of pianoforte music is about as calm and quiet as
Cheapside; and when I sit down to the piano and compel myself to start
improvising ever so quietly, it is of no use,--by degrees I fall back
into the old ways.
My new Scena,[25] however, which I am writing for the Philharmonic,
will, I am afraid, be only too tame. But so much self-criticism is no
good; so I stick to my work, and that means, in plain language, that I
am well and happy.
I feel particularly comfortable in this place, having just as much
official occupation as I want and like, and plenty of time to myself.
When I do not feel inclined to compose, there is the conducting and
rehearsing, and it is quite a pleasure to see how well and brightly
things go; and then the place is so charmingly diminutive that you can
always fancy yourself in your own room; and yet it is complete in its
way. There is an opera, a choral society, an orchestra, church music, a
public, and even a small opposition; it is simply delightful. I have
joined a society formed for the improvement of our stage, and we are now
rehearsing the “Wasserträger.” It is quite touching to see with what
eagerness and appetite the singers pounce upon every hint, and what
trouble they will take if anybody will be at the pains of teaching
them; how they strain every nerve and really make our performances as
perfect as can be imagined considering the means at our disposal. Last
December I gave “Don Juan” (it was the first time I conducted an opera
in public), and I can assure you many things went better and with more
precision than I have heard them at some of the large and famous
theatres, because from first to last every one concerned went in for it
heart and soul; well, we had twenty rehearsals. The lessee of the
theatre had, however, thought fit to raise the prices on account of the
heavy expenses; and when, at the first performance of “Don Juan,” the
curtain rose, the malcontent section of the public called for Signor
Derossi like mad, and made a tremendous disturbance; after five minutes,
order was restored, we began and went through the first act splendidly,
constantly accompanied by applause; but lo and behold! as the curtain
rises for the second act, the uproar breaks out afresh, with redoubled
vigor and persistence. Well, I felt inclined to hand the whole concern
over to the devil,--never did I conduct under such trying circumstances.
I countermanded the opera which was announced for the next night, and
declared I would have nothing more to do with the whole theatre; four
days later I allowed myself to be talked over, gave a second performance
of “Don Juan,” was received with hurrahs and a threefold flourish of
trumpets, and now the “Wasserträger” is to follow. The opposition
consists mainly of beerhouse keepers and waiters; in fact, by four
o’clock P.M., half Düsseldorf is intoxicated. Anybody wanting to see me
must call between eight and nine in the morning; it is quite useless
attempting to do any kind of business in the afternoon.
Now, what do you think of such a discreditable state of things, and can
you have anything more to say to such boors as we are?
By the by, Mr. Spring of Moscow is quite destroying my peace of mind. He
would have it that he knew you very well, and I would not believe him on
any account; at last he showed me a manuscript note of invitation from
Chester Place, and I had to give in, but still I cannot digest him;--a
pity that at his age, and with as little talent as he seems to have, he
should be obliged to give concerts and make money.
Blagrove was here. I took him to our Choral Society, where we were just
rehearsing the choruses from “Alexander’s Feast;” our performance
produced the most excellent effect on him,--it sent him to sleep.
Can you not send me one or the other of your new things (a copy or
whatever you like)? The gentleman who takes charge of this returns
shortly, and would, I am sure, be the bearer of your parcel. So, if you
have anything, please send it to Klingemann’s, and it shall be called
for.
I hear from my mother that the “Gipsies’ March,” or rather the “April
Variations,” are out. Is that the case; and if so, could I have a copy
of them? I hope you have done a good deal of patching and polishing to
my part,--you know, I am thinking of those restless passages of mine.
The whole of the last number wants repairing or lining with a warm
melody; it was too thin. The first variation, too, I hope you have
turned inside out and padded. Don’t I speak as if I were Musikdirector
Schneider? And can’t you send me one of Mori’s annual gems? But I must
really take courage and another little sheet of paper and write to your
wife, for I haven’t half done. Good-by--till we meet on the next page.