I have just come back from a rehearsal at the Conservatoire. We rehearsed steadily; twice yesterday, and to-day almost everything repeated, but now all goes swimmingly. If the audience to-morrow are only half as enchanted as the orchestra to-day, we shall do well; for they shouted loudly for the adagio da capo, and Habeneck made them a little speech, to point out to them that at the close there was a solo bar, which they must be so good as to wait for. You would be gratified to see all the little kindnesses and courtesies the latter shows me. At the end of each movement of the symphony, he asks me if there is anything I do not approve of, so I have been able for the first time, to introduce into the French orchestra some favourite nuances of my own.
After the rehearsal Baillot played my octett in his class, and if any man in the world can play it, he is the man. His performance was finer than I ever heard it, and so was that of Urhan, Norblin, and the others, who all attacked the piece with the most ardent energy and spirit.
Besides all this, I must finish the arrangement of the overture and the octett, and revise the quintett, as Simrock has bought it. I must write out "Lieder," and enjoy the author's delight of working up my B minor quartett, for it is to be brought out here by two different publishers, who have requested me to make some alterations before it is published. Finally, I have soirées every evening. To-night Bohrer's; to-morrow a fête, with all the violin gamins of the Conservatoire; next day, Rothschild; Tuesday, the Société des Beaux-Arts; Wednesday my octett at the Abbé Bardin's; Thursday my octett at Madame Kiéné's; Friday, a concert at Érard's; Sunday, a concert at Léo's; and lastly, on Monday—laugh if you choose—my octett is to be performed in a church, at a funeral Mass in commemoration of Beethoven. This is the strangest thing the world ever yet saw, but I could not refuse, and I in some degree enjoy the thoughts of being present, when Low Mass is read during the scherzo. I can scarcely imagine anything more absurd than a priest at the altar and my scherzo going on. It is like travelling incognito. Last of all Baillot gives a grand concert on the 7th of April, and so I have promised him to remain here till then, and to play a Concerto of Mozart's for him, and some other piece.
On the 8th I take my place in the diligence, and set off to London, but before doing so I shall have heard my symphony in the Conservatoire, and sold various pieces, and shall leave this, rejoicing in the friendly reception I have met with from the musicians here.—Farewell!
Felix.
Paris, March 31st, 1832.
Pray forgive my long silence, but I had nothing cheering to communicate, and am always very unwilling to write gloomy letters. Indeed, this being the case, I had better still have remained silent, for I am in anything but a gay mood. But now that we have the spectre here,[32] I mean to write to you regularly, that you may know that I am well, and pursuing my work.
The sad news of Goethe's loss makes me feel poor indeed! What a blow to the country! It is another of those mournful events connected with my stay here, which will always recur to my mind at the very name of Paris; and not all the kindness I have received, nor the tumult and excitement, nor the life and gaiety here, can ever efface this impression. May it please God to preserve me from still worse tidings, and grant us all a happy meeting; this is the chief thing!
Various circumstances have induced me to delay my departure from here for at least a fortnight,—that is, till the middle of April; and the idea of my concert has begun to revive in my mind; I mean to accomplish it too, if the cholera does not deter people from musical, or any other kind of réunions. We shall know this in the course of a week, and in any case I must remain here till then. I believe however that everything will go on in the usual regular course, and "Figaro" prove to be in the right, who wrote an article called "Enfoncé le choléra," in which he says that Paris is the grave of all reputations, for no one there ever admired anything; yawning at Paganini (he does not seem to please much this time), and not even looking round in the street at an Emperor or a Dey; so possibly this malady might also lose its formidable reputation there.