To his Mother.
Düsseldorf, May 23rd, 1834.
... Yesterday week I drove with the two Woringens to Aix-la-Chapelle, as a ministerial order was issued, only five days before the festival, sanctioning the celebration of Whitsunday, and expressed in such a manner that it is probable the same permission may be given next year also. The diligence was eleven hours on the journey, and I was shamefully impatient, and downright cross when we arrived. We went straight to the rehearsal, and, seated in the pit, I heard a movement or two from “Deborah;” on which I said to Woringen, “I positively will write to Hiller from here, for the first time for two years, because he has performed his office so well.” For really his work was unpretending and harmonious, and subordinate to Handel, from whom he had cut out nothing, so I was rejoiced to see that others are of my opinion, and act accordingly. In the first tier was seated a man with a moustache, reading the score; and when, after the rehearsal, he went downstairs, and I was coming up, we met in the passage, and who should stumble right into my arms but Ferdinand Hiller, who almost hugged me to death for joy. He had come from Paris to hear the oratorio, and Chopin had left his scholars in the lurch, and come with him, and thus we met again. I had now my full share of delight in the Musical Festival, for we three lived together, and got a private box in the theatre (where the oratorio is performed), and of course next morning we betook ourselves to the piano, where I had the greatest enjoyment. They have both improved much in execution, and, as a pianist, Chopin is now one of the very first of all. He produces new effects, like Paganini on his violin, and accomplishes wonderful passages, such as no one could formerly have thought practicable. Hiller, too, is an admirable player—vigorous, and yet playful. Both, however, rather toil in the Parisian spasmodic and impassioned style, too often losing sight of time and sobriety and of true music; I, again, do so perhaps too little,—thus we all three mutually learn something and improve each other, while I feel rather like a school-master, and they a little like mirliflors or incroyables. After the festival we travelled together to Düsseldorf, and passed a most agreeable day there, playing and discussing music; then I accompanied them yesterday to Cologne. Early this morning they went off to Coblenz per steam,—I in the other direction,—and the pleasant episode was over.
To Pastor Julius Schubring, Dessau.
Düsseldorf, July 15th, 1834.
Dear Schubring,
It is now nearly a year since I ought to have written to you. I shall not attempt to ask your forgiveness at all, for I am too much to blame, or to excuse myself, for I could not hope to do so. How it occurred I cannot myself understand. Last autumn, when I first established myself here, I got your letter with the notices for “St. Paul;” they were the best contributions I had yet received, and that very same forenoon I began to ponder seriously on the matter, took up my Bible in the midst of all the disorder of my room, and was soon so absorbed in it, that I could scarcely force myself to attend to other works which I was absolutely obliged to finish. At that time I intended to have written to you instantly, to thank you cordially for all you had done; then it occurred to me it would be better to wait till I could tell you that the work was fairly begun, and when I really did commence in spring, so many anxieties about my composition ensued, that they unsettled me. To-day, however, I cannot rest satisfied with merely thinking of you, but must write and ask how you and yours are? for I know that since then you have had an increase to your family; it was scarcely fair in you not to write me a single word on the subject, nor even to send me a formal card, but to allow me to hear of the event by chance, through a third person; for, though I grant that I well deserved this, still a pastor like you should be the last to take revenge on any one, or to bear them a grudge. Now pray don’t do so with me, and let me hear something of you.
Your contributions for “St. Paul” were admirable, and I made use of them all without exception; it is singular, and good, that, in the course of composition, all the passages that from various reasons I formerly wished to transpose or to alter, I have replaced exactly as I find them in the Bible—it is always the best of all; more than half of the first part is ready, and I hope to finish it in autumn, and the whole in February. How are you now living in Dessau? I hope you will be able to say, “Just as we used to do.” No doubt you retain your enjoyment of life, and your cheerfulness, and still play the piano, and still love Sebastian Bach, and are still what you always were. I ought not to feel such anxiety on the subject, but we are surrounded here by disagreeable specimens of pastors, who embitter every pleasure, either of their own or of others; dry, prosaic pedants, who declare that a concert is a sin, a walk frivolous and pernicious, but a theatre the lake of brimstone itself, and the whole spring, with its leaves and blossoms and bright weather, a Slough of Despond. You have no doubt heard of the Elberfeld tenets; but when in contact with them, they are still worse, and most grievous to witness. The most deplorable thing is the arrogance with which such people look down on others, having no belief in any goodness but their own.
Our musical life here goes on slowly, but still it does go on. This summer we executed in church a Mass of Beethoven, one of Cherubini, and cantatas of Sebastian Bach, an “Ave Maria” from “Verleih’ uns Frieden,” and next month we are to give Handel’s “Te Deum” (Dettingen).
Of course there is yet much to be wished for, but still we hear these works, and both the performance and the performers will be gradually improved by them. Hauser, in Leipzig, has arranged the score (from manuscript parts) of a cantata in E minor of Sebastian Bach, which is one of the finest things of his I know. When I can find an opportunity, I will send you a copy of it, but now my paper and my letter are done. Farewell, my dear friend, and write soon.—Your