I had a letter of introduction to a Dr Schilling, whose title made me shudder. I pictured an aged pedant in spectacles and red wig, armed with a snuff-box and astride his hobbies, fugue and counterpoint, caring for nothing but Bach and Marpurg and hating modern music in general and mine in particular.
So much for preconceived ideas.
Dr Schilling was young, wore no spectacles, had a handsome crop of black hair, smoked, took no snuff, never mentioned fugues or canons and showed no dislike for modern music—not even mine.
He spoke French about as badly as I did German and our intercourse was not precisely on the lines of Herder and Kant. I made out that I could either apply for the loan of the theatre, which would mean freedom from expense and ensure the presence of the King and Court or else could engage the Salle de la Redoute, where I should have everything to manage and which the King never entered.
I sought an interview with Baron von Topenheim, superintendent of the theatre, who most kindly assured me that he would speak to the King that evening:
“But,” he added, “I think I ought to tell you that the acoustic of the theatre is vile and that of the Salle de la Redoute is good.”
I was nonplussed and could only go and see if Lindpaintner would advise me what to do. I do not know how to express my feelings towards him, but at the end of ten minutes we might have been friends of ten years’ standing.
“First,” said he, “do not be deceived as to the musical importance of our town—we have neither money nor public. (I thought of Mainz and father Schott)! But since you are here we certainly cannot let you go without hearing some of your works, about which we are very curious. So you must take the Redoute and as far as players are concerned, if you will only give about eighty francs to their pension fund, they will think it an honour to rehearse and to perform under your baton. Come to-night and hear Freyschütz and I will introduce you and you will see that I am right.”
He was as good as his word and all my fears melted away. Here was a young, fiery, enthusiastic orchestra. I saw that from the way they played Weber.
They were intrepid readers, too, nothing upset, nothing disconcerted them, they never missed a single sign of expression either. I had chosen the Symphonie Fantastique and Francs-Juges and trembled for my syncopations, my four notes against three, my unusual rhythms; but they plunged straight in without a single mistake.