To Fanny Hensel, Berlin.
Leipzig, February 14th, 1841.
Salut et Fraternité!
Have you read the wrathful letter which the Emperor of China wrote to Lin, with a bright red pencil? Were this the fashion with us, I would write to you to-day with a grass-green pencil, or with a sky-blue one, or with whatever colour a pleasant pencil ought to assume, in gratitude for your admirable epistle on my birthday. My especial thanks also for the kind and friendly interest you have shown in the faithful Eckert; he is a sound, practical musician, and further than this, in my opinion (to which I sometimes adhere for twenty-four hours), no man should concern himself about another. Whether a person be anything extraordinary, unique, etc., is entirely a private matter. But in this world, every one ought to be honest and useful, and he who is not so, must and ought to be abused, from the Lord Chamberlain to the cobbler. Of all the young people whom I have had anything to do with here, he is the most good-natured, and by far the most inoffensive; and these are two precious qualities.
Don’t, I beg, write me anything more about your Sunday music, it is really a sin and a shame that I have not heard it; but though I feel so provoked at this, it is equally vexatious that you have heard none of our truly brilliant subscription concerts. I tell you we glitter brightly—in Bengal fire. The other day, in our last historical concert (Beethoven), Herr Schmidt was suddenly taken ill, and could not sing to his “Ferne Geliebte” in the “Liederkreis.” In the middle of the first part David said, “I see Madame Devrient.” She had arrived that morning by rail, and was to return next day. So during an interval, I went up to her, was vastly polite, and she agreed to sing “Adelaide;” on which an old piano was carried into the orchestra from the anteroom. This was greeted with much applause, for people suspected that Devrient was coming. So come she did, in a shabby travelling costume, and Leipzig bellowed and shouted without end. She took off her bonnet before the publicum, and pointed to her black pelisse, as if to apologize for it. I believe they are still applauding! She sang beautifully, and there was a grand flourish of trumpets in her honour, and the audience clapped their hands, till not a single bow of the shabby pelisse was any longer visible. The next time we are to have a medley of Molique, Kalliwoda, and Lipinski,—and thus, according to Franck’s witticism, we descend from Adam to Holtei.
As to the tempi in my Psalm, all I have to say is, that the passage of the Jordan must be kept very watery; it would have a good effect if the chorus were to reel to and fro, that people might think they saw the waves; here we have achieved this effect. If you do not know how to take the other tempi, ask G—— about them. He understands that capitally in my Psalms. With submission, allow me to suggest that the last movement be taken very slow indeed, as it is called “Sing to the Lord for ever and ever,” and ought therefore to last for a very long time! Forgive this dreadful joke. Adieu, dear Fanny.—Your
Felix.