* * * * *
In the following lines Moscheles introduces the well-known writer and
musical critic. Henry F. Chorley:--
* * * * *
LONDON, Aug. 17, 1839.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--The bearer of these lines, Henry F. Chorley, is an
excellent and highly cultivated young man; he is on the staff of the
“Athenæum,” and has made himself a name as an author and as an
enthusiastic lover of music, not only appreciating what is good, but
discriminating between the good and the trivial. Above all, he has, for
a long time past, been welcome at my house as a true and genial friend.
He has an intimate acquaintance and full sympathy with you and your
work. In a very exhaustive article published in the “Quarterly Review,”
he has characteristically portrayed the most eminent pianists and
composers; the sketch he draws of you there, is worthy of his subject.
* * * * *
LEIPZIG, Nov. 30, 1839.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot understand why I so seldom write to you; for I
thoroughly enjoy it when I do, and only wonder why I did not settle down
to it before. What with the many visitors, and all kinds of
business,--requests and behests that would really come more
appropriately ten years hence than now, when I do not feel at all like
settling down to a life of business,--I lose my head, and just do
everything excepting that which gives me pleasure and which I ought to
do. Well, you must be indulgent. Your letters make me happy for days to
come, and I read them over and over again, and am grateful for your
never-failing friendship and kindness. And how wonderful it all seems
when I think of those days in Berlin when I first saw you, and you
stretched out the hand of kindly encouragement to me, whilst the _dii
minorum gentium_ and all manner of little imps were making most horrible
faces at me; and when I remember how, through all changes, you have
never varied in your friendship and forbearance, and are now just what
you were then, and how, after all, I am much the same as I was! To be
sure, since then we have both become _paterfamilias_. By this time your
daughter must be styled “Miss,” whereas mine only came into the world on
the 2d of October; and whilst your boy is already playing his scales,
mine is playing at nothing at all, not even at horse.
Your Paris letter gave me much pleasure, although what it describes is
anything but pleasant. What a curious state of things seems to prevail
there! To say the truth, I never felt very sympathetically disposed
towards it; and all I have lately heard, through you and others, does
not tend to improve my opinion. Vanity and outward show nowhere seem to
play so prominent a part; and the fact that people do not pose only for
stars, decorations, and stiff neckties, but for high art, and for souls
replete with enthusiasm, does not mend matters. When I read your
description of the _soirée_ at Kalkbrenner’s, I see and hear it all.
That anxiety to shine at the pianoforte, that greed for a poor little
round of applause, the shallowness that underlies it all and is as
pretentious as if such petty exhibitions were events of world-wide
importance! To read about it is more than enough for me. After all, I
prefer the German Philistine, with his nightcap and tobacco; although I
am not the one to stand up in his defence, especially since the events
in Hanover, which I followed with great interest, and which, I am sorry
to say, do not reflect much credit on the German fatherland. So, on the
whole, there is not much to be proud of on either side; and one cannot
help being doubly grateful for that Art which has a life of its own far
away from everything,--a solitude to which we can fly and be happy.
And now I want to know what you are writing. Chorley told me so much
about some new “Studies;” when shall I get to see and play them? And so
you are really going to dedicate your “Concerto Pastorale” to me? I
don’t know how to set about telling you what pleasure it gives me, and
how honored I feel to have my name associated with one of your works.
Let me confess to you that you have fulfilled a long-standing wish of
mine; for the C minor Capriccio appeared in Germany without my name, and
now I am doubly happy to be identified with so important a work of
yours. I will at once set to practising again, so as to do it more
justice. It is curious how often I look through heaps of new music
without feeling any inclination to practise, and then when I come across
a piece that is really good, one that I must play, and can play with
pleasure, I feel as if I had suddenly found a new set of fingers (some
training they require, to be sure).
I want to write a new Concerto, but so far it is swimming about in my
head in a shapeless condition. A new Oratorio, too, I have begun; but
how it’s to end, and what is to come in the middle, Heaven only knows.
My Trio I should so like to show you; it has grown quite dear to me, and
I am confident there are things in it you would be satisfied with. Could
I but bring you over here for a day or two, and play it to you, and have
your criticisms and your advice as to what I should alter and what I
might do better another time, then there would be a chance of my
learning something; but at a distance, and by letter, it isn’t half the
same thing. The publishers are pressing me to let them have it, and I
want to do so; I only wish I could just once play it to you before.
As for the Opera for Chappell, I am sorry to say it is as much in the
clouds as ever: the old trouble about the libretto! What is the use of
beginning so important a work, with the absolute conviction that I could
not make anything decent of it? Chorley, who has promised me his
assistance, is a truly good fellow, for whose acquaintance I owe you
many thanks; one seldom meets a man so highly cultivated, and at the
same time so simple and natural. Remember me very kindly to him. I mean
to write to him, and should have done so already if I did not feel the
awkwardness of using that language which he writes so delightfully, and
which I somewhat ill-treat. He seems to have been much pleased with our
concerts; and in fact we might really do something grand if there were
just a little more money to spend. That blessed money pulls us up at
every step, and we don’t get on half as well as we should like to. On
the one hand stand the Philistines who believe that Leipzig is Paris,
and everything perfection, and that if our musicians were not starved it
would no longer be Leipzig; on the other hand stand the musicians,--or
rather they _run_ as soon as they see a chance, and I even back them up
with letters to help them out of their misery. A pretty business it
would have been if you had kept our David! I should once for all have
stuck in the mud, and should never have got on to decent orchestra legs
again. His violin alone is worth ten good ones; and with that he is such
a musician! Besides, really now, he leads quite an agreeable life here,
and is petted and beloved by the public. No, him we positively cannot
spare. Miss Meerti, who sends her kind regards, has won golden opinions
here. She has a sympathetic and beautiful voice, and is a nice, amiable
girl besides; she is quite a favorite with us, and is now going to
Dresden, where she is invited to sing at Court.
I will make this letter a double one, and will enclose an old German
ballad, in order to keep up the practice of sending a song to your wife.
Excuse the postage.
Acting on your advice, I sent the “Study” to Schlesinger, though I
cannot bear the fellow. He and Fétis make a pair, from whom may the gods
preserve those they love! But then, to be sure, your name
counterbalances a thousand or so of their calibre; and whatever you do,
or wherever you go, there I follow with pleasure. I did not answer
Schlesinger’s letter of last summer, because he had been rather too
aggravating, and I wanted to leave him in peace, so that he might leave
me in peace. However, thanks to your letter, I am now more mildly
disposed; and after all, one publisher is as good as another. But I must
say I do not think I shall ever get on well with this one. I declined to
give anything to Pott in furtherance of his scheme; nor would you have
done so, had you known all their doings and dealings in Germany with
regard to monuments. They speculate on the names of great men in order
to make themselves great names; they do a deal of trumpeting in the
papers, and treat us to ever so much bad music with the real trumpets.
If they will honor Handel in Halle, Mozart in Frankfurt and Salzburg,
and Beethoven in Bonn, by founding good orchestras and performing their
works properly and intelligently, I am their man. But I don’t care for
their stones and blocks as long as their orchestras are only
stumbling-blocks; nor for their Conservatorios in which there is nothing
worth conserving. My present hobby is the improvement of our poor
orchestra. After no end of letter-writing, soliciting, and importuning,
I have succeeded in getting their salaries raised by five hundred
thalers; and before I leave them I mean to get them double that amount.
If that is granted, I won’t mind their setting a monument to Sebastian
Bach in front of the Saint Thomas school; but first, mind you, the
grant. You see I am a regular small-beer Leipziger. But really you would
be touched if you could see and hear for yourself how my good fellows
put heart and soul into their work, and strive to do their best.
I am very glad you improved your acquaintance and friendship with
Chopin. He is certainly the most gifted of them all, and his playing has
real charm. They say Liszt is coming here, and I should be very glad;
for notwithstanding his unpalatable contributions to the papers, I am
fully impressed both by his playing and by his striking personality.
Berlioz’s programme, that you send me, is a very silly production. I
wish I could see any pluck or originality in it, but to me it seems
simply vapid and insipid. Has not Onslow written anything new? And old
Cherubini? There is a man for you! I have got his “Abencerrages,” and am
again and again enjoying his sparkling fire, his clever and unexpected
transitions, and the neatness and grace with which he writes. I am truly
grateful to the fine old gentleman. It is all so free, so bold and
bright.
Now I must end, my dear, dear friend. I have been jumbling everything
together, and chatting
[Illustration: musical notation
20. “Des Hirten Winterlied.” In Letter of Nov. 18, 1840, to Mrs.
Moscheles. (See page 217.)]
away as if I were sitting next to you by the piano. Would it were so!
But for that I may have to wait some time; so, meanwhile, write to me
and let me know what you are doing and what composing; and above all,
tell me that you are my friend, as I am yours,