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DÜSSELDORF, May 11, 1834.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--On the very day I received your dear kind letter
and the beautiful present, I was going to answer at full length, and
with best thanks, but there arrived at the same time the news of my
mother’s dangerous illness. To-day there is excellent news, thank God!
My mother has been walking in the garden, and is quite herself, and of
course so am I; and in this happy mood, when a great load has been taken
off my mind, and I can breathe more freely, I sit down at once to write
and thank you.
Not being able to cross over to you this year, I do hope and trust you
will let me have a few lines now and then; for while I read them I am in
Chester Place, I follow your descriptions, live through it all with you,
rejoice at Lord Burghersh’s absence from the party, make remarks about
Miss Masson’s delicate form of “couching her refusal,” abuse Masoni for
that Beethoven Sonata, and admire Miss Use’s beauty, although I know it
only by hearsay.
And how grateful I am to you, dear Moscheles, for doing my Rondo the
honor of playing it at your concert! You may believe that I fully
appreciate it, and feel greatly flattered; and now, if anybody abuses it
ever so much, I shall still love the piece and hold it in high
consideration. Please write me word if you like the accompaniments, or
if you find fault with any part of them. I may perhaps write something
of the kind in the course of this year, and should like to avoid former
faults.
The cravat, however, dear Mrs. Moscheles, I put on at once, and, so
adorned, went out for a ride. You must know I have bought a nice bay
horse, and it gives me immense pleasure. When I went to the Hübners’ in
the evening, Madame Hübner asked if that cravat was English too. I gave
her your message, and she reciprocated it very sincerely. But you have
not told me what composition I am to write in the time saved by this
cravat which does not require tying. It is to you I shall owe the spare
time, and you ought to say how I am to employ it. Shall I write
pianoforte pieces, songs, or what else?
And so the people at the Philharmonic did not like my “Melusine”? Never
mind; that won’t kill me. I felt sorry when you told me, and at once
played the Overture through, to see if I too should dislike it; but it
pleased me, and so there is no great harm done. Or do you think it would
make you receive me less amiably at my next visit? That would be a pity,
and I should much regret it; but I hope it won’t be the case. And
perhaps it will be liked somewhere else, or I can write another one
which will have more success. The first desideratum is to see a thing
take shape and form on paper; and if, besides, I am fortunate enough to
get such kind words about it as those I had from you and Moscheles, it
_has_ been well received, and I may go on quietly doing more work. I
cannot understand your news that Moscheles’s new Concerto met with the
same reception. I thought it as clear as sunshine that _that_ must
please the public, when played by him. But when is it to be published,
that I may pounce upon it? Pray do excuse these disconnected sentences.
Ries, the violin-player, is here (you remember his playing in
Moscheles’s Trio at Berlin); he is going to give a concert to-morrow,
and so I have been constantly interrupted by all sorts of people
employed in the arrangements, and have to rehearse every day, in
consequence of which my poor bay has not left its stable for the last
three days (this, you see, is the principal subject on which my mind
turns).
At Whitsuntide I must go to Aix-la-Chapelle to the musical festival, and
am not the least inclined for it, since they perform pieces which my
musical conscience revolts at; but go I must, for a quiet life, as the
people of this place will have it that Ries and I are pope and
anti-pope; and, Ries happening to conduct, they fancy me jaundiced with
vexation, and think that I shall not go. But they are mistaken; I sip my
“Maitrank,”--an excellent drink made of hock, aromatic herbs, and
sugar,--and mean to go. This reminds me of Siboni. Oh, Siboni! how can
you presume seriously to bring out your recipes for salad-mixing? And is
De Vrught there too? And what sort of a figure does he cut at a dinner
in Chester Place? Stop! By the by, have you heard of a Mademoiselle
Meyer who has gone with her father from here to London to play the
piano? She must, some time or other, pass in review before Moscheles,
and I should like above all things to hear of her doings in London. The
father _would_ set me up here as his daughter’s rival, and has tried to
abuse and vex me in every way, and, finding that I took no notice, is
going to try what he can do in London.
Lovely weather we have had for some time, and there is every temptation
to be perfectly idle, saunter about all day, and become a candidate for
the title of Inspector of Nightingales, which they have conferred on an
old lounger of this place. Warm days, and so delightfully long, and I
have already begun my Oratorio, which is the reason I cannot go to the
Westminster Abbey Festival, but must keep to my work. I have
[Illustration: 15. “Mailied,” in Letter of May 15, 1834, to Mrs.
Moscheles. (See page 107.)]
written a few Capriccios for the pianoforte (or Fantasias, or----) that
I like very well, but an abominable _Étude_. This morning, for the first
time after a long interval, a song has come to me; and such a present is
at all times refreshing. I really must write it down for you, although I
am sorry to say it is not at all suited for your voice, but rather for a
tenor. You need not even play it; yet I write it down for you all the
same. Moscheles can hum the melody to himself.
[Illustration: musical notation]
[Illustration: musical notation]
[Illustration: musical notation]
Dein Reiz is aus der Maassen
Gleichwie der Pfauen Art,
Wenn Du gehst auf der Strassen,
Gar oft ich Deiner wart’
Gar oft ich Deiner wart’.
Ob ich gleich viel muss stehn
Im Regen und im Schnee,
Im Regen und im Schnee,
Kein Müh soll mich verdriessen,
Wenn ich Dich Herzlieb seh’,
Wenn ich Dich Herzlieb seh’,
Wenn ich Dich Herzlieb seh’,.
(Aus dem Wunderhorn.)
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