To I. Moscheles, London.
Düsseldorf, February 7th, 1834.
My own poverty in novel passages for the piano struck me very much in the rondo brillant[10] which I wish to dedicate to you; these are what cause me to demur, and to torment myself, and I fear you will remark this. In other respects there is a good deal in it that I like, and some passages please me exceedingly; but how I am to set about composing a methodical tranquil piece (and I well remember you advised me strongly to do this last spring) I really cannot tell. All that I now have in my head for the piano, is about as tranquil as Cheapside,[11] and even when I control myself, and begin to extemporize very soberly, I gradually break loose again. On the other hand, the scena which I am now writing for the Philharmonic is, I fear, becoming much too tame; but it is needless to carp so much at myself, and I work hard: by saying this you will see that I am well, and in good spirits. Dear Madame Moscheles, when you, however, advise me to remain quite indifferent towards the public and towards critics, I must in turn ask, Am I not, in my profession, an anti-public-caring musician, and an anti-critical one into the bargain? What is Hecuba to me, or critics either? (I mean the press, or rather pressure;) and if an overture to Lord Eldon were to suggest itself to me, in the form of a reversed canon, or a double fugue with a cantus firmus, I should persist in writing it, though it would certainly not be popular,—far more, therefore, a “lovely Melusina,” who is, however, a very different object; only it would be fatal indeed were I to find that I could no longer succeed in having my works performed; but as you say there is no fear of this, then I say, long live the public and the critics! but I intend to live too, and to go to England next year if possible.
Your observations on Neukomm’s music find a complete response in my own heart. What does astonish me is, that a man of so much taste and cultivation should not, with such qualifications, write more elegant and refined music; for, without referring to the ideas or the basis of his works, they appear to me most carelessly composed, and even commonplace. He also employs brass instruments recklessly, which ought, through discretion even, to be sparingly used, to say nothing of artistic considerations. Among other things I am particularly pleased by the mode in which Handel, towards the close, rushes in with his kettle-drums and trumpets, as if he himself were belabouring them. There is no one who would not be struck by it, and it seems to me far better to imitate this, than to over-excite and stimulate the audience, who before the close have become quite accustomed to all this Cayenne pepper. I have just looked through Cherubini’s new opera,[12] and though I was quite enchanted with many parts of it, still I cannot but deeply lament that he so often adopts that new corrupt Parisian fashion, as if the instruments were nothing, and the effect everything,—flinging about three or four trombones, as if it were the audience who had skins of parchment instead of the drums: and then in his finales he winds up with hideous chords, and a tumult and crash most grievous to listen to. Compare with these, some of his earlier pieces, such as “Lodoiska” and “Medea,” etc. etc., where there is as much difference in brightness and genius, as between a living man and a scare-crow, so I am not surprised that the opera did not please. Those who like the original Cherubini, cannot fail to be provoked at the way in which he yields to the fashion of the day, and to the taste of the public; and those who do not like the original Cherubini, find far too much of his own style still left to satisfy them either, no matter what pains he may take to do so,—he always peeps forth again in the very first three notes. Then they call this rococo, perruque, etc. etc.