I now send you my promised report of the performance of your D minor overture, which took place last Thursday evening. It was well executed by the orchestra; we had studied it repeatedly and carefully, and a great many of the passages sounded so well as to exceed my expectations. The most beautiful of all was the first passage in A minor, piano, given by wind instruments, followed by the melody,—which had an admirable effect; and also at the beginning of the free fantasia, the forte in G minor, and then the piano, (your favourite passage,) likewise the trombones and wind instruments, piano, at the end in D major. The Finale, too, exceeded my expectations in the orchestra. But, trusting to our good understanding, I could not resist striking out, after the first rehearsal, the staccato double-basses in the melody in A major, and each time the passage recurred in F and D major, replacing them by sustained notes; you can’t think how confused the effect was, and therefore I hope you will not take this liberty amiss. I am convinced you would have done the same; it did not sound as you would have liked.
I have something else, too, on my conscience that I must tell you. The Overture neither excited myself nor the musicians during its performance as I could have wished; it left us rather cold. This would have been of little consequence, but it was remarkable that all the musicians to whom I spoke said the same. The first theme and all the beginning, the melodies in A minor and A major, particularly delighted them; and up to that point they had all felt enthusiastic, but then their sympathy gradually subsided; till, when the close came, they had quite forgotten the striking impression of the theme, and no longer felt any interest in the music. This seems to me important, for I think it is connected with the difference which we have so repeatedly discussed together, and the want of interest with which you at all times regard your art, being now at length become perceptible to others. I would not say this to you, were it not that I am perfectly convinced of this being a point which must be left to each individual, as neither nature nor talents, even of the highest order, can remedy it; a man’s own will alone can do so. Nothing is more repugnant to me than casting blame on the nature or genius of any one; it only renders him irritable and bewildered, and does no good. No man can add one inch to his stature: in such a case all striving and toiling is vain, therefore it is best to be silent. Providence is answerable for this defect in his nature. But if it be the case, as it is with this work of yours, that precisely those very themes, and all that requires talent or genius (call it as you will), is excellent and beautiful and touching, but the development not so good,—then, I think, silence should not be observed; then, I think, blame can never be unwise, for this is the point where great progress can be made by the composer himself in his works; and as I believe that a man with fine capabilities has the absolute duty imposed on him of becoming something really superior, so I think that blame must be attributed to him, if he does not develope himself according to the means with which he is endowed. And I maintain that it is the same with a musical composition. Do not tell me that it is so, and therefore it must remain so. I know well that no musician can alter the thoughts and talents which Heaven has bestowed on him; but I also know that when Providence grants him superior ones, he must also develope them properly. Do not declare, either, that we were all mistaken, and that the execution was as much in fault as the composition. I do not believe it. I do believe that your talents are such that you are inferior to no musician, but I scarcely know one piece of yours that is systematically carried out. The two overtures are certainly your best pieces, but the more distinctly you express your thoughts, the more perceptible are the defects, and in my opinion you must rectify them.
Do not ask me how, for that you know best yourself. After all, it is only the affair of a walk, or a moment,—in short, of a thought. If you laugh at me for this long lecture, perhaps you may be quite right; but certainly not so if you are displeased, or bear me a grudge for it; though indeed it is very stupid in me even to suggest such a possibility. But how many musicians are there who would permit another to address them thus? And though you must see in every expression of mine how much I love and revere your genius, still I have told you that you are not absolute perfection, and this musicians usually take highly amiss. But you will not: you know my sincere interest in you too well.
To Fanny Hensel, Berlin.
Leipzig, January 30th, 1836.
Dear Fanny,
To-day at length I can reply to your charming letters, and lecture you severely for saying in your first letter that it was long since you had been able to please me by your music, and asking me how this was. I totally deny this to be the fact, and assure you that all you compose pleases me. If two or three things in succession did not satisfy me as entirely as others of yours, I think the ground lay no deeper than this, that you have written less than in former days, when one or two songs that did not exactly suit my taste were so rapidly composed, and replaced so quickly by others, that neither of us considered much why it was that they were less attractive; we only laughed together about them, and there was an end of it.
I may quote here “Die Schönheit nicht, O Mädchen,” and many others in the “prima maniera of our master” which we heartily abused. Then came beautiful songs in their turn, and so it is at present, only they cannot follow each other in such quick succession, because you must often now have other things to occupy your thoughts besides composing pretty songs, and that is a great blessing. But if you suppose that your more recent compositions seem to me inferior to your earlier ones, you are most entirely and totally mistaken, for I know no song of yours better than the English one in G minor, or the close of the “Liederkreis,” and many others of later date; besides, you are aware that formerly there were entire books of your composition that were less acceptable to me than others, because my nature always was to be a screech-owl, and to belong to the savage tribe of brothers. But you know well how much I love all your productions, and some are especially dear to my heart; so I trust that you will write to me forthwith that you have done me injustice, by considering me a man devoid of taste, and that you will never again do so.
And then, neither in this letter nor in your former one do you say one word about “St. Paul” or “Melusina,” as one colleague should write to another,—that is, remarks on fifths, rhythm, and motion of the parts, on conceptions, counterpoint, et cætera animalia. You ought to have done so, however, and should do so still, for you know the value I attach to this; and as “St. Paul” is shortly to be sent to the publisher, a few strictures from you would come just at the right moment. I write to you to-day solely in the hope of soon receiving an answer from you, for I am very weary and exhausted from yesterday’s concert, where, in addition to conducting three times, I was obliged to play Mozart’s D minor concerto. In the first movement I made a cadenza, which succeeded famously, and caused a tremendous sensation among the Leipzigers. I must write down the end of it for you. You remember the theme, of course? Towards the close of the cadence, arpeggios come in pianissimo in D minor, thus—
