Düsseldorf, Feb. 7, 1835.
Dear Moscheles, and dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I sent you two such stupid letters the other day by the courier that I really must try if I can’t put together a more sensible one to-day. I do feel sometimes as if all the world of Philistines had got the better of me, and I were a Philistine myself; at such times I cannot write, as I amply proved the other day.
To-day I composed a chorus for my Oratorio, and I am quite pleased with it. So what better can I do in the evening than put my happy mood into the shape of a letter to Chester Place, and send my best love to you all? I heard too from Klingemann to-day, and that always makes me feel holiday-like; and besides, it was so desperately foggy that I quite fancied myself in England during my ride; and then for the last few weeks the number of Philistines sitting on me has decreased; and then—and then—spring is coming, and spring weather has come already—so, after all, life is worth living. By the way, is there a word in English for Philister? I don’t believe there is. Oh, land of happiness!
True, they may re-elect Mr. Fleming to a seat in Parliament; they may sing “Lord God of Israel” to my “Ave,” which is much as if they sang “The Old English Gentleman” to Lutzow’s “Jagd;” but for all that they are not really Philisters. This is the place for the genuine article.
If I had seen Mrs. Moscheles at that ball I went to last night, where there were such quantities of tallow candles, and we had ham and potatoes for supper, and the boards were sprinkled after the first dance, not after the second (that would have been no use, the dust was so thick that you could hardly see the people), and they danced down the stove to the capital music of some worthy members of my band,—the whole thing got up by the Commercial Club, commonly called “The Parliament,”—and the ladies’ dresses—no, but these baffle description—only, had I seen Mrs. Moscheles there, and she me, in my best English cravat too, I should just have collapsed for very shame; for on these occasions I positively cannot believe there is such a thing in the whole place as a gentleman. Now, what I should like of all things would be to go and enjoy myself at the fair; surely it could not be ungenteeler, but undoubtedly jollier; only, you see my rank as Musikdirector does not allow of my taking such liberties, a fact that the Burgomaster himself has strongly impressed upon me. And then we have the glorious rivalry between Düsseldorf and Elberfeld, which is twelve miles off; Düsseldorf styling itself Athens, and dubbing Elberfeld Rio de Janeiro or Augsburg. And then all the girls are plain; and that is quite a misfortune, or at least a grievance. So I really associate only with artists, and they are very good fellows. As for Immermann,[29] with whom I used to be on friendly terms, he is completely immersed in theatrical business, Uechtritz in æsthetics, and Grabbe in the bottle,—three things I don’t much care for, least of all perhaps for æsthetics.
The other day I was asked to edit a musical review. I should have liked to call out the firm that made the request; for nothing seems to me more unsatisfactory or distasteful than a concern of that kind, in which you have to suit other people’s pleasure and take all the annoyance to yourself. The other day I received from a local composer some songs with guitar accompaniment, for my opinion. The first began thus:—
whereupon the voice comes in, and towards the end of the letter the man asks me whether in my judgment Handel was really the great man he is usually taken to be. Now, wouldn’t he do for the editor? What better qualification for the post than that song and that question?
But, to be serious again, my dear Moscheles, when you write tell me all you can about your new Overture to Joan of Arc, of which I have so far only been able to hear in a general way. Have you written anything besides the Overture, and if so, what? Are we not to have a third book of Studies? I do not believe there is in all Germany a single pianist, worthy or unworthy of the name, who does not know the first two books, and play them,—Heaven only knows how, to be sure,—and by publishing a third, you would really be conferring a boon on all musical people. Remember now, I want chapter and verse about everything you have been writing.
Among the new music you are constantly looking through, have you come across anything good? I have not seen anything that I quite liked. A book of Mazurkas by Chopin and a few new pieces of his are so mannered that they are hard to stand. Heller, too, has written two books of Songs that he had better have left unwritten. I so wish I could admire it all; but it is really so little to my taste, that I cannot. A few things there are, too, by some Berliners and Leipzigers, who would like to begin where Beethoven left off. They can “clear their throats” as he does, and “cough his cough,” and that is just all. To me it is like riding across the fields after the rain; on horseback they can dash along splendidly, even if they do get splashed, but when they try to walk, they get stuck fast in the mud. I have heard “Gustave III.” by Auber; in that kind of opera the music is fast becoming of secondary importance,—a good thing too. Yesterday I read in a French paper that Bellini is gazetted Knight of the Légion d’Honneur; Louise Vernet, whom I once upon a time admired so much, marries Delaroche the artist; and Urhan has written pianoforte pieces he calls “Lettres à Elle.” But I dare say you know all that, as well as the good news that the “Œuvres complètes de Moscheles” are about to appear at Schlesinger’s.