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LEIPZIG, March 14, 1841.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--What a delightful letter of yours that was I
received the day before yesterday, written beside the singing tea-urn,
and taking me straight to Chester Place! By rights, my thanks ought to
come in the shape of a song on one of these pages; but I cannot manage
it to-day, and you must take these unmusical, prosaic, dry thanks for
your musical, bright, poetical letter. For now, when our season is
drawing to a close, you know from experience how hard-driven a man
is,--and, to keep up the usual distinction, a musician into the bargain.
Since January we are having an uninterrupted succession of musical
doings, besides which the Leipzigers are so very sociable that at this
time one is scarcely ever allowed a quiet evening at home. Our own house
has become a lively centre too. Sophy Horsley has arrived, seems to feel
at home with us, and is already making friends with my wife; and now we
invite our friends, and they return the compliment. We speak German,
French, and English, all in one breath; and all the while the orchestra
is fiddling, trumpeting, and drumming every day, whilst one is expected
to sit an hour and a half at supper, and sing four-part songs to a
roast-beef accompaniment.
The only thing I regret in your charming letter is that you should have
countenanced the strange attempts at making comparisons between Spohr
and myself, or the petty cock-fights in which, for some inconceivable
reason and much to my regret, we have been pitted against each other in
England. I never had the slightest idea of such competition or rivalry.
You may laugh at me, or possibly be vexed, at my taking up such a silly
matter so seriously. But there is something serious at the bottom of it;
and this pretended antagonism, imagined and started by Heaven knows
whom, can in no way serve either of us, but must rather be detrimental
to both. Besides, never could I appear as the opponent of a master of
Spohr’s standing, whose greatness is so firmly established; for, even as
a boy, I had the greatest esteem for him in every respect, and, with my
riper years, this feeling has in no way been weakened.
And so the Philharmonic Society seems tumbling to pieces. Oh dear! oh
dear! how sad that is! It is true they have worried me a good deal of
late; still I have a sort of affection for the old familiar institution,
and hope they may yet conceive the brilliant idea of appointing
Moscheles as sole conductor; that would be the infallible remedy to save
them (see Chorley’s MS. receipts).
And how are your children? Does Emily keep up her playing? Does she
compose? And does Felix drop down all of a heap in his popular character
of the dead man? We are all right, thank goodness! My wife has been in
such good health all this time that I cannot be sufficiently thankful.
There is, however, much to manage and arrange with three little soprano
singers in the house, and that is why she returns your kind messages
through me. Sophy desires her very best love, and repeats it three
times, emphasizing alternately each of the three words; and I say,
should you ever feel inclined to write such another truly charming
letter by the side of the tea-urn, so enjoyable to your distant friends,
drawing them into your family circle, then think of
Yours,