The 17th.
I could not finish this letter, because during the last few days the incessant music I told you of, has been so overwhelming, that I really scarcely knew which way to turn. A mere catalogue therefore of all I have done, and have still to do, must suffice for to-day, and at the same time plead my excuse.
I have just come back from a rehearsal at the Conservatoire. We rehearsed steadily; twice yesterday, and to-day almost everything repeated, but now all goes swimmingly. If the audience to-morrow are only half as enchanted as the orchestra to-day, we shall do well; for they shouted loudly for the adagio da capo, and Habeneck made them a little speech, to point out to them that at the close there was a solo bar, which they must be so good as to wait for. You would be gratified to see all the little kindnesses and courtesies the latter shows me. At the end of each movement of the symphony, he asks me if there is anything I do not approve of, so I have been able for the first time, to introduce into the French orchestra some favourite nuances of my own.
After the rehearsal Baillot played my octett in his class, and if any man in the world can play it, he is the man. His performance was finer than I ever heard it, and so was that of Urhan, Norblin, and the others, who all attacked the piece with the most ardent energy and spirit.
Besides all this, I must finish the arrangement of the overture and the octett, and revise the quintett, as Simrock has bought it. I must write out "Lieder," and enjoy the author's delight of working up my B minor quartett, for it is to be brought out here by two different publishers, who have requested me to make some alterations before it is published. Finally, I have soirées every evening. To-night Bohrer's; to-morrow a fête, with all the violin gamins of the Conservatoire; next day, Rothschild; Tuesday, the Société des Beaux-Arts; Wednesday my octett at the Abbé Bardin's; Thursday my octett at Madame Kiéné's; Friday, a concert at Érard's; Sunday, a concert at Léo's; and lastly, on Monday—laugh if you choose—my octett is to be performed in a church, at a funeral Mass in commemoration of Beethoven. This is the strangest thing the world ever yet saw, but I could not refuse, and I in some degree enjoy the thoughts of being present, when Low Mass is read during the scherzo. I can scarcely imagine anything more absurd than a priest at the altar and my scherzo going on. It is like travelling incognito. Last of all Baillot gives a grand concert on the 7th of April, and so I have promised him to remain here till then, and to play a Concerto of Mozart's for him, and some other piece.
On the 8th I take my place in the diligence, and set off to London, but before doing so I shall have heard my symphony in the Conservatoire, and sold various pieces, and shall leave this, rejoicing in the friendly reception I have met with from the musicians here.—Farewell!
Felix.