“In my Concerto, the movements are as follows: the Andantino con moto, 3-8 time, is descriptive of holiday-making and rural festivity. The whole village is rejoicing; all, from the farmer to the laborer, have donned their Sunday attire. Next comes an Allegretto in F major, 2-4 time. The rustic piper fills the air with joyous strains; the village beauty and her swain are rapt in dreams of coming bliss. After that, the Adagio. The church bells are calling the congregation to their devotions, and the bride and bridegroom to the fulfilment of their wishes. The ceremony is over, their destinies are linked, and they are greeted by the distant echoes of the Allegretto. It grows livelier as it bursts forth in D major, inviting to harmless merrymaking. Finally, a whirlwind of octaves sets lads and lasses skipping and dancing in boisterous glee. The newly married couple go through a dance of honor with due decorum, and the rural fête is brought to a happy close.”
Dec. 10, 1838.
A thousand thanks, my dear friend, for your kind letter and all the trouble you have taken about the piano,—in fact, for all the love and kindness you always show me. To you alone I am indebted for that instrument, or rather you and your wife, who put the matter before Erard with so much tact and diplomacy; and it is only now, since I enjoy the happiness of playing on an instrument so full and rich in tone, that I realize how hard I should have found it to accustom myself to any other. So you see, my dear friend, how much I am in your debt. It is just as usual. “Thank you,” is all I can say; but you know how much more I feel.
But now to the most important part of your letter,—that which refers to Weimar. Upon my word, it is not an easy matter to give you a proper answer to your questions. When I think of your life in London, your independent position at the head of the musical profession, and your never-ceasing activity in public, and then again of Weimar, with its petty Court, and its still pettier “Hofmarschall” and “Intendanz” that superintend nothing,—when I think of the littleness that pervades everything, it would be madness to advise you to go. When I remember, on the other hand, your telling me that you had never wished to remain all your life in England, but rather to return to your own country and devote yourself to your art and your friends (and I believe that in your place I should feel as you do); and when I take into account that in Germany one town is about as good as another,—all small but sociable,—that the appointment is one of the best of its kind, that to you it would be an acquisition to have an orchestra at your disposal, to us to have a man like you in Hummel’s place, and secure a musician of your standing for Germany,—then I cannot help being in favor of Weimar. As far as I know, social resources are very limited there. The Court circle is the best, not to say the only one; there you still meet with intelligence and culture,—a relic of former days,—but that, too, is on the decline, and whether your wife would like it seems to me very doubtful. On the other hand, the orchestra is said to be excellent, and the singers at the Opera good; the Grand Duchess is a stanch friend to anybody she once likes, and with that, fairly musical herself; not very much to do, but enough opportunity to do much good,—just what would suit you. It is very difficult to put it impartially. You see it would be glorious to have a musician like you amongst us, giving his best work to Germany; but it seems so selfish to press you. Yet not to press you is decidedly too unselfish. Would it not be best for you to come over and look into the whole matter yourself? In a week you would get a clear insight into everything,—town, society, and orchestra; could make your own conditions, or take theirs into consideration,—in a word, you could thoroughly sift the matter. Couldn’t you manage that? It would be a great gain if only for the present you did not send an absolute refusal. Do write to me soon about it, for it touches me very much.
Thanks for so kindly giving me the outlines of your new Concerto; but now I am ever so desirous to know the whole. Where is it going to be published? If not here, I hope you will send me over a copy soon. How I should like to play a manuscript of yours; that would be a real treat!
I have been rather lazy of late. From the measles I dropped straight into so much conducting that I could scarcely do anything else, save take an occasional rest. Still, I have composed a new Sonata for the piano and violoncello and three violin Quartets, which are shortly to appear. As soon as these four things are out I shall send them to you, and hope you will give me your candid opinion; but mind you criticise, and tell me what should have been otherwise, and what I ought to have done better. You are getting too indulgent and too kindly appreciative of my work. Enough for to-day; best love to wife and children. Ever remain the true friends that you are, and write soon to
Yours,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.