I thank you also, dear Father, now as ever, for having gone with me to England for my sake; and though my advice, which you followed for the first time, proved so unfortunate, and caused us all so much anxiety and uneasiness, you never once reproached me. Still I think, since you write that you are now perfectly well and in good spirits, the journey may have contributed to this. May these happy results be still further increased during the approaching year, and may it bring you all every blessing. Farewell.
Felix.
To His Family.
Düsseldorf, January 16th, 1834.
We are leading a merry life here just now, casting aside all care; every one is full of fun and jollity. I have just come from the rehearsal of “Egmont,” where, for the first time in my life, I tore up a score from rage at the stupidity of the musici, whom I feed with 6-8 time in due form, though they are more fit for babes’ milk; then they like to belabour each other in the orchestra. This I don’t choose they should do in my presence, so furious scenes sometimes occur. At the air, “Glücklich allein ist die Seele die liebt,” I fairly tore the music in two, on which they played with much more expression. The music delighted me so far, that I again heard something of Beethoven’s for the first time; but it had no particular charm for me, and only two pieces, the march in C major, and the movement in 6-8 time, where Klärchen is seeking Egmont, are quite after my own heart. To-morrow we are to have another rehearsal; in the evening the Prince gives a ball, which will last till four in the morning, from which I could excuse myself if I were not so very fond of dancing. I must now tell you about my excursion to Elberfeld. Sunday was the concert, so in the morning I drove there in a furious storm of thunder and rain. I found the whole musical world assembled in the inn, drinking champagne at twelve in the forenoon, instead of which I ordered chocolate for myself. A pianoforte solo of mine had been announced, after which I intended to have come away immediately, but hearing that there was to be a ball in the evening, I resolved not to set off till night, and as they had introduced music from “Oberon” in the second part, feeling myself in a vein for extemporizing, I instantly took up their last ritournelle, and continued playing the rest of the opera. There was no great merit in this, still it pleased the people wonderfully, and at the end I was greeted with plaudits loud enough to gratify any one. As the room was crowded, I promised to return in the course of the winter to play for the benefit of the poor. The Barmers sent me a deputation of three Barmer ladies to persuade me to go there on Monday; and as my travelling companion had both time and inclination for this, I played extempore on the Monday afternoon in the Barmer Musical Association, and then a quartett in Elberfeld, travelled through the night, and arrived at home at four on Tuesday morning, as my hour for receiving people is from eight to nine. The Barmer fantasia was well designed; I must describe it for Fanny.
A poem had been sent me anonymously, at the end of which I was advised to marry (of course this was said in good poetry, interwoven with laurel leaves and immortelles); and, wishing to respond to this compliment, I began with my “Bachelor’s Song” (though, unluckily, no one found out its meaning, but that was no matter), continuing to play it gaily for some time; I then brought in the violoncello with the theme, “Mir ist so wunderbar,” and so far it was very successful. I was anxious, however, before closing, to introduce some matrimonial felicity, but in this I utterly failed, which spoilt the conclusion. I wish, however, you had been present at the beginning, for I believe you would have been pleased. I think I already wrote to you that my fantasia in F sharp minor, Op. 28,[9] is about to be published. I have introduced a fine massive passage in octaves into my new E flat rondo; I am now going to work at my scena for the Philharmonic, to edit the three overtures, to compose another trio or a symphony, and then comes “St. Paul.” Addio.
Felix.
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.