* * * * *
DÜSSELDORF, June 26, 1834.
YOU AMIABLE COUPLE IN CHESTER PLACE!--Let me thank you a thousand times
for that nice, good, kind letter that you have treated me to again; they
are high days and holidays for me when I receive your letters, and can
read them over and over again. If you, my dear Moscheles, thank me for
the Rondo, I must thank you for thanking me; but I still maintain you
are too indulgent. The other day, Dr. Frank, whom you know, came to
Düsseldorf, and I wished to show him something of my A major Symphony.
Not having it here, I began writing out the Andante again, and in so
doing I came across so many _errata_ that I got interested and wrote out
the Minuet and Finale too, but with many necessary alterations; and
whenever such occurred I thought of you, and of how you never said a
word of blame, although you must have seen it all much better and
plainer than I do now. The first movement I have not written down,
because, if once I begin with that, I am afraid I shall have to alter
the entire subject, beginning with the fourth bar,--and that means
pretty nearly the whole first piece,--and I have no time for that just
now. The dominant in the fourth bar strikes me as quite disagreeable; I
think it should be the seventh (A-G). But many thanks to you and the
Philharmonic for playing so much of my music. I am sure I am delighted,
if only the public does not grumble!
And what do you say to their hissing little Herz? Why, that implies a
high degree of culture! Has he consoled himself with guineas and pupils,
or was it too crushing? You are particularly silent on the subject; and
yet it is true, and Moritz Schlesinger will not be slow to triumph.
Well, if he will only abstain from writing Variations for four hands,
or, if that is too much to ask, if he will only avoid winding up with
those Rondos that are so frightfully vulgar that I am ashamed to play
them to decent people, then, for aught I care, let him be made King of
the Belgians, or rather Semiquaver King, just as one says “Fire-King.”
After all, I like him; he certainly is a characteristic figure of these
times, of the year 1834; and as Art should be a mirror reflecting the
character of the times,--as Hegel or some one else probably says
somewhere,--he certainly does reflect most truly all salons and
vanities, and a little yearning, and a deal of yawning, and kid gloves,
and musk, a scent I abhor. If in his latter days he should take to the
Romantic and write melancholy music, or to the Classical and give us
fugues,--and I should not be surprised if he did,--Berlioz can compose
a new symphony on him, “De la Vie d’un Artiste,” which I am sure will be
better than the first.
Stop; by the by, a few hours after my last letter was posted I altered
the beginning of my “Wunderhornlied,” although I had not noticed the
resemblance, and simply because I did not like it; and now comes your
remark about the reminiscence, which is very striking. Who in the wide
world will believe that I altered it before? You, for one, I hope.
Anyhow, there is the date upon it, and the following beginning:--
[Illustration: musical notation]
What do I think of Vrught? I really have heard him too little to
judge,--only once, and then he sang a song in two verses: the first
quite simply and in his natural voice, so that I thought him the
greatest singer I had ever heard,--it was truly beautiful; but in the
second verse it was all shakes and skipping about, and I quickly changed
my mind. Since then he has not behaved very well to me; but, for my
part, I have no objection to giving him a copy of my Scena, only I do
not think I can do so on account of the Philharmonic.
There is a passage in your letter, dear Mrs. Moscheles, that I protest I
am mightily offended at. You say I declare that your letters are
agreeable to me; and _that_ I am sure I have never _declared_, because
it is simply a fact. Besides, “agreeable” is not the right word: I am
really grateful for the pleasure they give me. Then you say, too, I am
not to care for public and critics; and that is just as bad. Am I not by
trade an anti-public-caring musician, and an anti-critic-caring one into
the bargain? What is Hecuba to me, and what the press (I mean the press
that depresses)? And if this very day I had an idea for an Overture to
Lord Eldon, in the form of a canon _alla rovescia_, or of a double fugue
with a _cantus firmus_, write it I would, although I knew it could never
become popular; how much more the lovely Melusina,--a very different
subject! Only it certainly would be annoying if one never had a chance
of hearing one’s things performed; but as you say that is not to be
feared, let us wish the public and critics long life and happiness,--and
me too,--and let me live to go to England next year.
Oh, Seigneur de Fahl, you live in my rooms! If rooms could speak, what
stuff they would tell me next year, or what would they have told you!
But I hope he is not going to remain in London, for if I could not have
my rooms in No. 103 Great Portland Street it would put me out very much,
since I lived there through so much of sweet and so much of bitter,--a
whole chapter of my life.
Yes, certainly, my horse is more attractive than all the young ladies I
knew in Berlin, it is so glossy and brown; then it looks so healthy and
so very good-natured (and good-nature, every one knows, is not exactly
what the Berlinese are noted for). However, I do not forswear marriage,
for my father has prophesied that I shall never marry. There certainly
is little hope of it just now, but I shall lose no opportunity of
getting myself placed; and surely, if Varnhagen has succeeded twice, why
should I not finally meet with some girl who would take me?
From Frau von Goethe I have a very kind letter, in which she sends me so
many thanks for the Variations that I feel I ought to forward the
greater part of them to you, my dear Moscheles.
Now let me write my message to Serena, and inform her that I shall pay
her a visit next year, and present her with a large nosegay of pinks;
and to Emily I will bring a brand-new tune, and teach it to her. Will
you have some mustard or an oil picture?--those are the only choice
productions of the place. And what am I to do in the mean while with my
Choir, and the Opera, and my horse? Well, there’s plenty of time to
think of that; so now good-night and _au revoir_!
When Moscheles has a moment of leisure let him send me a line and his
best love. No more room to sign my name.
* * * * *
Moscheles gives Mendelssohn full particulars of the Birmingham Festival.
An Oratorio of the Chevalier Neukomm’s and an unusually large number of
the same composer’s works figured in the programme. “His style is
Haydn’s,” says Moscheles; “occasionally elevated and bordering on
Handel, but when you go into detail, you find many hackneyed modulations
and figures. For the higher development of Art he has not done much, but
in his ‘David’ there are numbers showing excellent workmanship and much
ability in the use of all the means at his disposal.”
A Fantasia on the Organ he entitled “A Concert on a Lake, interrupted by
a Thunderstorm.” The poetical element was missing, and the introduction
of incidental thunderclaps and forked lightning on the organ only served
to show up the weakness of construction in the whole thing.
Moscheles goes on to describe with enthusiasm the performance of the
“Messiah” and of some of the most effective Choruses selected from
“Israel in Egypt.” In speaking of the brass instruments, he says that
the ophicleide is a very useful addition to the orchestra in large
performances; “for,” he remarks, “just as you say of a steam-engine, it
has ten-horse power, so of this you can say, it has ten-trombone power.”
* * * * *
DÜSSELDORF, Dec. 25, 1834.
DEAR MOSCHELES,--Upon my word, I cannot stand my own base ingratitude
any longer! I really must write at last. And why haven’t I done so for
the last two months? I really cannot say, and certainly cannot find an
excuse. The monkeys on the Orinoco, I recollect reading somewhere, do
not talk because they have nothing to say, and I suppose I was somewhat
of their kind; and then really I was at first in no mood for anything
and had plenty of time, and then I was in high spirits and had no time
at all,--in fact, I procrastinated. And now that I am about it, what in
the name of worry am I to write about from Düsseldorf to a Londoner, and
to such a one as you? Really this is such a mite of a place, where
nothing ever happens. I cannot possibly send you the news that the
Tories are in power. Never mind; I write that I may soon again hear from
you. It is just because your letters give me so much pleasure, and bring
your interesting life so vividly before me, that I would rather say
nothing about our petty provincial affairs. Whilst you are driving at
headlong speed, we are really driven like a herd of cattle.
I have one fault to find with your letter. But for Klingemann, I should
not have known that you had composed an Overture to “Joan of Arc;” yet
you surely cannot doubt that that, of all news, would interest me most.
I congratulate you with all my heart if only on the choice of such an
excellent and serious subject. I long to hear the Overture itself, but
you are absolutely silent about it; in fact, I am quite in ignorance of
what you have composed lately, or what you have got in your mind. Please
give me full particulars of it,--in what key it is, how it is worked
out, and how scored. If possible, jot down a few notes for me. And have
you written nothing new for the piano? It would be quite a boon, for
there is great dearth in that line.
Thanks for your description of the Festival; it is so graphic and
interesting that I could have fancied myself there: I hear Neukomm
extemporizing, and see Miss Rylands in the box. (Your account and your
wife’s must be taken together.)
I quite agree with you in all you say about Neukomm’s music. Isn’t it
wonderful that a man of such taste and refinement should not be able to
transfer those qualities to his music? To say nothing of the fundamental
ideas of his compositions, the working out seems so careless and
commonplace. The Fantasia is probably an example of that kind of thing;
and had I come as the most favorably predisposed of listeners, the very
title would have scared me away. Then, again, that constant use of the
brass! As a matter of sheer calculation it should be sparingly employed,
let alone the question of Art! That’s where I admire Handel’s glorious
style; when he brings up his kettledrums and trumpets towards the end,
and thumps and batters about to his heart’s content, as if he meant to
knock you down--no mortal man can remain unmoved. I really believe it is
far better to imitate such work, than to overstrain the nerves of your
audience, who, after all, will at last get accustomed to Cayenne pepper.
There is Cherubini’s new Opera, “Ali Baba,” for instance, which I have
just been looking through. I was delighted with some parts, but in
others it grieved me to find him chiming in with that perverted new fad
of the Parisians, winding up pieces, in themselves calm and dignified,
with thunder-clap effects, scoring as if instruments were nothing and
effect everything, three or four trombones blasting away at you as if
the human ear could stand anything. Then the finales with their uncouth
harmonies, tearing and dashing about, enough to make an end of you. How
bright and sparkling, on the other hand, are some of the pieces in his
former manner; between Faniska and Lodoiska, for instance, and this
there really is as wide a difference as between a man and a
scarecrow,--no wonder the Opera was a failure. To an admirer of old
Cherubini’s it really is annoying that he should write such miserable
stuff, and not have the pluck to resist the so-called taste of the day
and of the public, (as if you and I were not part of the public, and
didn’t live in these times as well, and didn’t want music adapted to
_our_ digestive capacities!) As for those who are not admirers of old
Cherubini, they will not be satisfied anyhow, do what he may; for them
he is too much himself in “Ali Baba,” and after the first three notes
they spot their man and put him down as a “vieille perruque,” “rococo,”
etc.
You will fancy I am in an all-devouring mood to-day; not at all,--I
really don’t know what made me so pugnacious; on the contrary, I am in a
most happy, peaceful frame of mind. It is Christmas Day; a fragrant odor
of black gingerbread, with which I was regaled at the Schadows’ last
night, pervades the room; all around are presents from home,--a lounging
jacket, writing materials, confectionery, cup and saucer, etc. In the
midst of such splendors I have been happy and cheerful all day long, and
now in the evening that wicked pen of mine runs away with me.
Düsseldorf, too, is not half as bad as I described it just now, and you
would not be slow to appreciate it if you heard the members of our
Choral Society sing their Sebastian Bach, true knights as they are. We
are soon going to perform the “Seasons,” and during Lent the “Messiah;”
in the last concert we had Weber’s “Lyre and Sword,” the first part of
“Judas Maccabæus,” and the “Sinfonia Eroica.” I am held in tremendous
respect here; but do you know, I think my ink has turned sour just now
because my horse bolted with me this afternoon and ran like mad right
through our Corso and half the town, straight to the stables. I kept my
seat, but I was in such a rage; and weren’t the people just delighted to
see the “Herr Musikdirector” racing along! And then really there are not
enough pretty girls here; after all, one doesn’t want to be composing
fugues and chorales all day long; but, upon my soul, I am getting so
frumpy and old-fashioned that I dread the thought of putting on a
dress-coat, and how I am to get on if I go to England next spring and
have to wear shoes, I know not. Well, it will all come right again if I
am really sufficiently advanced with my work in the spring to cross; and
if so, you know with what feelings I look forward to No. 3 Chester
Place.
My Oratorio is making great progress. I am working at the second part,
and have just written a Chorus in F sharp minor (a lively chorus of
heathens) which I thoroughly relish myself and should so much like to
show you; in fact, I am ever so anxious to hear whether you are
satisfied with my new work. I have lately written some Fugues, Songs
without words and with words, and a few Studies, and should of all
things like to take a new Concerto for piano with me to London, but of
that I know nothing as yet. You once said it was time I should write a
quiet, sober piece for the pianoforte, after all those restless ones;
and that advice is always running in my head and stops me at the outset,
for as soon as I think of a pianoforte piece, away I career, and
scarcely am I off when I remember, “Moscheles said, etc.,” and there’s
an end to the piece. But never mind, I’ll get the better of it yet; and
if it turns out restless again, it will certainly not be for want of
good intentions.
But now good-by, my dear Moscheles. When you have a leisure hour give me
good news and much of it. Remain my friend, as I am yours,