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DÜSSELDORF, Feb. 7, 1835.
DEAR MOSCHELES, AND DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--I sent you two such stupid
letters the other day by the courier that I really must try if I can’t
put together a more sensible one to-day. I do feel sometimes as if all
the world of Philistines had got the better of me, and I were a
Philistine myself; at such times I cannot write, as I amply proved the
other day.
To-day I composed a chorus for my Oratorio, and I am quite pleased with
it. So what better can I do in the evening than put my happy mood into
the shape of a letter to Chester Place, and send my best love to you
all? I heard too from Klingemann to-day, and that always makes me feel
holiday-like; and besides, it was so desperately foggy that I quite
fancied myself in England during my ride; and then for the last few
weeks the number of Philistines sitting on me has decreased; and
then--and then--spring is coming, and spring weather has come
already--so, after all, life is worth living. By the way, is there a
word in English for _Philister_? I don’t believe there is. Oh, land of
happiness!
True, they may re-elect Mr. Fleming to a seat in Parliament; they may
sing “Lord God of Israel” to my “Ave,” which is much as if they sang
“The Old English Gentleman” to Lutzow’s “Jagd;” but for all that they
are not really Philisters. This is the place for the genuine article.
If I had seen Mrs. Moscheles at that ball I went to last night, where
there were such quantities of tallow candles, and we had ham and
potatoes for supper, and the boards were sprinkled after the first
dance, not after the second (that would have been no use, the dust was
so thick that you could hardly see the people), and they danced down the
stove to the capital music of some worthy members of my band,--the whole
thing got up by the Commercial Club, commonly called “The
Parliament,”--and the ladies’ dresses--no, but these baffle
description--only, had I seen Mrs. Moscheles there, and she me, in my
best English cravat too, I should just have collapsed for very shame;
for on these occasions I positively cannot believe there is such a thing
in the whole place as a gentleman. Now, what I should like of all things
would be to go and enjoy myself at the fair; surely it could not be
ungenteeler, but undoubtedly jollier; only, you see my rank as
Musikdirector does not allow of my taking such liberties, a fact that
the Burgomaster himself has strongly impressed upon me. And then we have
the glorious rivalry between Düsseldorf and Elberfeld, which is twelve
miles off; Düsseldorf styling itself Athens, and dubbing Elberfeld Rio
de Janeiro or Augsburg. And then all the girls are plain; and that is
quite a misfortune, or at least a grievance. So I really associate only
with artists, and they are very good fellows. As for Immermann,[29] with
whom I used to be on friendly terms, he is completely immersed in
theatrical business, Uechtritz in æsthetics, and Grabbe in the
bottle,--three things I don’t much care for, least of all perhaps for
æsthetics.
The other day I was asked to edit a musical review. I should have liked
to call out the firm that made the request; for nothing seems to me more
unsatisfactory or distasteful than a concern of that kind, in which you
have to suit other people’s pleasure and take all the annoyance to
yourself. The other day I received from a local composer some songs with
guitar accompaniment, for my opinion. The first began thus:--
[Illustration: musical notation]
whereupon the voice comes in, and towards the end of the letter the man
asks me whether in my judgment Handel was really the great man he is
usually taken to be. Now, wouldn’t he do for the editor? What better
qualification for the post than that song and that question?
But, to be serious again, my dear Moscheles, when you write tell me all
you can about your new Overture to Joan of Arc, of which I have so far
only been able to hear in a general way. Have you written anything
besides the Overture, and if so, what? Are we not to have a third book
of Studies? I do not believe there is in all Germany a single pianist,
worthy or unworthy of the name, who does not know the first two books,
and play them,--Heaven only knows how, to be sure,--and by publishing a
third, you would really be conferring a boon on all musical people.
Remember now, I want chapter and verse about everything you have been
writing.
Among the new music you are constantly looking through, have you come
across anything good? I have not seen anything that I quite liked. A
book of Mazurkas by Chopin and a few new pieces of his are so mannered
that they are hard to stand. Heller, too, has written two books of Songs
that he had better have left unwritten. I so wish I could admire it all;
but it is really so little to my taste, that I cannot. A few things
there are, too, by some Berliners and Leipzigers, who would like to
begin where Beethoven left off. They can “clear their throats” as he
does, and “cough his cough,” and that is just all. To me it is like
riding across the fields after the rain; on horseback they can dash
along splendidly, even if they do get splashed, but when they try to
walk, they get stuck fast in the mud. I have heard “Gustave III.” by
Auber; in that kind of opera the music is fast becoming of secondary
importance,--a good thing too. Yesterday I read in a French paper that
Bellini is gazetted Knight of the Légion d’Honneur; Louise Vernet, whom
I once upon a time admired so much, marries Delaroche the artist; and
Urhan has written pianoforte pieces he calls “Lettres à Elle.” But I
dare say you know all that, as well as the good news that the “Œuvres
complètes de Moscheles” are about to appear at Schlesinger’s.
There, I am at the end of my paper just as I was going to begin in good
earnest; it is quite as well, for I have nothing new to say, but only
something old,--namely, my love to you all, and my longing to be with
you once more. Well, next May I shall probably give one of my awkward
knocks at your door. For the present, good-by; best love to Emily,
Serena, and Felix, who I am sure speaks French by this time, or at any
rate soon will. And now enough,--too much perhaps.
Ever yours,