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BERLIN, Aug. 13, 1835.
MY DEAR MOSCHELES,--I do not know how to thank you for your kind letter;
it gave me the greatest pleasure, and I should certainly have answered
it sooner; only, I really had neither mood nor leisure to write. You
know my mother was taken very ill in Düsseldorf, and recovered but
slowly, and she could only undertake the journey here with the greatest
caution, I accompanying her. My anxiety, both before the journey and on
the road, was so great that I could not collect my thoughts for
anything, and I did not feel relieved till both parents once more
settled down comfortably at home to their old habits. Now, thank God,
all traces of past fatigues are fast disappearing, and they are so well,
or rather so much better than before, that I breathe freely again.
Anyhow, I should have written to you shortly, but to London; for I had
no idea you were going to Hamburg so soon, and the news of your arrival
quite took me by surprise; but now I should like to know all about your
past and future movements. That you should think of going to St.
Petersburg, I more or less expected, confident as I am that you would be
worshipped there and overwhelmed with kindness. But how long do you mean
to stay? When to start? To be sure, you return to England. And then I
want to hear something of the past; for, capital as your lines about
Aloys Schmidt and Benedict are, there must be something too to say about
new publications by others; and above all I want full particulars of
your own compositions, what pieces you are planning, and how your
concert went off. Do write about it all when you have a leisure hour;
you know what pleasure it gives me. Your last letter I showed my
parents, and they fully appreciated your kind words. My father will add
a few lines to these.
Your description of Aloys Schmidt’s tallow-candle _soirée_ and the
conversation on sevenths was so graphic that I really could smell the
tallow, hear the quartet, taste the green tea, feel the oppressive
dulness,--in fact, it is as if all my senses had had their share in the
proceedings. What you say of Liszt’s harmonies is depressing. I had seen
the thing at Düsseldorf, and put it aside with indifference because it
simply seemed very stupid to me; but if that sort of stuff is noticed,
and even admired, it is really provoking. But is that the case? I cannot
believe that impartial people can take pleasure in discords or be in any
way interested in them: whether a few reporters puff the piece or not,
matters little; their articles will leave no more traces than the
composition. What annoys me is that there is so little to throw into the
other side of the balance; for what our Reissiger & Co. compose, though
different, is just as shallow, and what Heller and Berlioz write is not
music either, and even old Cherubini’s “Ali Baba” is dreadfully poor and
borders on Auber. That is very sad.
But what is the use of grumbling about bad music? As if it could ever
take the lead, even if all the world were to sing it; as if there were
no good music left! All such things, however, make me feel the
obligation of working hard and of exerting myself to put into shape to
the best of my abilities that which I fancy to be music. I do feel
sometimes as if I should never succeed; and to-day I am quite
dissatisfied with my work, and should just like to write my Oratorio
over again from beginning to end. But I am quite decided to bring it out
at Frankfurt next winter, and at the Düsseldorf Musical Festival at
Whitsuntide; so I must finish it now. Besides, I think I have worked too
long at it; at least, I am quite impatient to get to other things, so it
is evidently high time to end. I have got to recopy the whole score, and
make a good many alterations and additions,--rather a heavy piece of
work that often tires me. In the course of the winter I am going to
write a Symphony in A minor, and get my “Walpurgisnacht” ready for
publication.
And what about the next book of “Studies”? I am quite longing for it,
and so are all pianoforte-players. I wish you would let us have it soon.
Don’t you mean to do so? And how about the Sonata for four hands?
You know that I am going to spend next winter in Leipzig to conduct the
Abonnement Concerts. I have only engaged myself from Michaelmas to
Easter. I’m a little afraid of it, and can’t fancy a residence there
agreeable. My plans for next spring, after the Musical Festival, rather
point towards the South than towards England. So I must trust to chance
for bringing us together, and that is perhaps better than all planning
for the future. Good-by.
Yours ever,