Dear Fanny,
Give me your best advice! The eccentric Capellmeister Guhr is become my particular friend, and we are quite inseparable. Lately we were in a pleasant cordial mood, and I was eagerly questioning him about his extensive and rare collection of Bach’s works, among which are two autographs, the choral preludes for the organ, and the “Passecaille,” with a grand fugue at the end of it,—
when he suddenly said, “I’ll tell you what, you shall have one of these autographs; I will make you a present of it, for you take as great delight in them as I do; choose which you prefer,—the preludes or the ‘Passecaille.’” This was really no trifling gift, for I know that he has been offered a considerable sum of money for these pieces, but he refused to part with them, and I would myself have paid a good price for them had they been for sale, and now he freely gives me one; but the question is, which shall I take? I have by far the strongest inclination for the preludes, because they begin with the “Altes Jahr,” because they include other great favourites of mine, and because the “Passecaille” and the fugue are already published. But you must also have a voice in the matter, for you will feel no common interest in it. So send me your vote, Cantor!
Is not Guhr a most singular being? and yet I can get on better with him than with any other of the Frankfort musicians. He enjoys life, and lives and lets live, but is sharp enough as a director, and beats common time so distinctly that they cannot fail to play to it, as if they were in arm-chairs; and my other colleagues here are so desperately melancholy, and always talking of musical critiques, and recognition, and flattering testimonials, and constantly thinking about themselves, and constantly fishing for compliments (but these compliments must be genuine; they even aspire to outpourings of the heart!). This is both provoking and sad; and yet (behind people’s backs) they can play as mad pranks as any one. Much as I like Frankfort for a summer visit, I do not wish to be settled here as a musician, owing to all the above reasons, and many others besides.
At the concert of the St. Cecilia Association, where I had an opportunity of fairly estimating their musical organization, I felt quite melancholy at the difference between our sense of music in Leipzig and what was given here; for though it goes on very fairly, and sometimes sounds well, still, as a rule, it seems as if they were playing from sheer weariness, or from compulsion, and vastly little of that zeal and love are apparent in the orchestra which so often prevail among us. In fact, when I compare the whole elements of the orchestra here with ours at Leipzig, I feel just as I did when I returned from Düsseldorf, and thought myself in Paradise. The St. Cecilia Association, too, has deteriorated, which is not the fault of one person or another, but of all combined, for the soil here is far from being favourable to music, though all the better for apples and cherries and wine, and other good things. I wish you could see the Sachsenhäusen hill at this moment, with all its ripe cherries and blooming vines! Moreover, there are many delightful people here, and some among them genuinely musical. For painting much is done, and it seems to be making real progress. This is a very different life from what it was three or four years ago when I was here, and found everything disorganized by discord and strife.
A tolerably good, though not very extensive exhibition of paintings is just closed, which contained some admirable, and many very pretty things. This change of tune and subject brings us back to Hensel. When does he go to England? when does he return? does he take any pictures with him? and what may they be? are you going to Italy? do I know anything of anything? I am writing a trio (the first part is finished), a sonata for the violin (ditto), a symphony (not ditto), and a letter to you (which is now quite finished). But when will you write to me?—Your
Felix.
To Carl Klingemann, London.
Hochheim, near Coblenz, August 1st, 1839.