A request occurs to me which I long ago intended to have made to you. In Switzerland I saw my former guide, Michael, whom, on my previous mountain-expeditions, I always found to be an excellent, honest, obliging fellow, and on this occasion I met with him again, married to a charming pretty woman; he has children, and is no longer a guide, but established as landlord of the ‘Krone.’ During our first visit to Meiringen this summer, we lived at the Hôtel de Reichenbach, but the second time we were at the ‘Krone,’ and quite delighted with the cleanliness, and neatness, and the civil behaviour of all the people in the house. It is a most genuine Swiss village inn, taken in its best sense. Now Michael’s greatest wish is to be named among the inns at Meiringen, in the new edition of Murray’s ‘Switzerland,’ and I promised to endeavour to effect this for him.[60] Is it in your power to get this done? The first inn there is the ‘Wilde Mann,’ the second the ‘Reichenbach,’ and the third undoubtedly the ‘Krone;’ and if Murray recommends it as such, I am convinced it will do him credit. He might also mention that it is most beautifully situated, with a full view of the Engelhorn, and the glacier of the Rosenlaui. Michael said that the editor of the Handbook had been there, and very much fêté by the other landlords; his means did not admit of this, still he would give him a good round sum of money if he would only mention him. I was indignant, and said, “Without money, or not at all.” But I thought of many musical newspapers and composers, so I did not lecture him much on the subject, from the fear that he might one day hear something of the same sort from one of my colleagues, and take his revenge. There is now a general complaint, that the large town hotels have superseded the smaller comfortable genuine Swiss inns; this is one of the latter sort. Murray must really recommend it. Pray do what you can about this, and tell me if you succeed. Forgive my troubling you, the secretary to an embassy, with such things, but if you knew Michael you would like him, I know. I would fain draw a great deal now, and gladly devote myself to all manner of allotria, including composition; but I see lying before me an enormous thick packet of proofs of my A minor symphony, and the ‘Antigone,’ which must absorb all my leisure time; and then the frightful heap of letters!
My dearest friend, may these lines find you in good health, and in a happy frame of mind; may you think of me, as I shall of you, so long as life lasts; and may you also soon be able to tell me yourself that it is so, and again rejoice your true friends by your presence, for Cecile writes this letter from first to last along with me, and knows all I have said, and is, like myself, for ever and ever your friend.
F. M. B.
To his Mother.
Leipzig, November 28th, 1842.
Dearest Mother,
As pen and paper must again serve instead of our usual evening hour for tea, I begin by making a suggestion, which is, whether you would like me to write to you regularly every Saturday (perhaps only a few words, but of this hereafter); and that one of the family, as often as you cannot or will not write, should undertake to send me a punctual reply. In addition to the joy of knowing beforehand the day when I am to hear of you, it is in some degree indispensable to ensure my writing to you, for time must be found for a weekly letter; while, were this not the case, I should be ashamed to send you only a few lines, should it happen that I could not accomplish more. You can have no idea of the mass of affairs—musical, practical, and social—that have accumulated on the table in my study since my return here. The weekly concerts; the extra ones; the money the King has at length bestowed at my request on the Leipzigers, and for the judicious expenditure of which I only yesterday had to furnish the prospectus; the revisal of “Antigone” and of the A minor symphony, its score and parts; and a pile of letters. These are the principal points, which, however, branch off into a number of secondary ones. Besides, Raupach has already sent me the first chorus of “Athalia.” The “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “Œdipus” daily work more busily in my head; I am really anxious at last to make the “Walpurgis Nacht” into a symphony cantata, for which it was originally intended, but did not become so from want of courage on my part, and I must also complete my violoncello sonata.
Old Schröder’s concert took place three days ago, in which I played, and directed the overture to “Ruy Blas;” the old déclamatrice delighted us all exceedingly by the great power and spirit of her voice, and every gesture. In particular passages I thought she laid rather too much stress on the expression of the words, and gave too much preference to details over the voice; but as a whole her genius was highly remarkable. In her youth, had she the reputation of laying more stress on effect than was admissible? and what were her best parts in those days? Her daughter (looking younger, and wilder, and more of a madcap than ever) sang also, and sings this evening in Döhler’s concert; she will also probably sing in our subscription concert next Thursday; the days which she passes in any town, are not of the most quiet description for her acquaintances. We had besides, Tichatschek, Wagner, Döhler, Mühlenfels,—so there was a continual hurry and excitement last week.
Make them read aloud to you at the tea-table the passage from the last of Lessing’s ‘Antiquarian Letters,’ “Wenn ich Kunstrichter wäre,” etc. etc.,—and tell me whether any of you dispute the point, or whether you all agree with me, that it is the most exhaustive address which can be made to a critic, indeed to every critic. At this moment, when so many artists, old and young, good and bad, come here, this passage daily recurs to me.—Your
Felix.