Give Almira a great deal of love from me. I shall
sing a song to her solitude and patiently await the
response. I have begun to read “Wilhelm
Meister” in German. I read about three or
four hours a day, then an hour or two in Latin, and
the rest to poetical reading—Beaumont and
Fletcher, Ford, Massinger, Shakespeare, and the Bible,
at present. In Worcester I found Montaigne, whom
I devoured. What cheerful good sense! I have
begun also to learn two or three of B.’s waltzes
from note. “La Dobur” I have almost
accomplished. Possibly I shall thus pick up some
note knowledge, though I do not build any castles.
Good-night. Could I but send myself in my letter!
Your friend,
G.W.C.
Tuesday morning. I concluded to retain my letter
for Charles, who leaves to-day. Charles and Isaac
and Burrill and I all went to Max Bohrer’s concert
last evening. The hall was full, 1000 or 1500
people present. I was glad to go, for he introduced
me to the Instrument, but no more. He has great
skill, and has fully mastered it. That is what
persevering talent can always do. Bohrer loved
his instrument because he could display himself by
its aid, not because it was through his genius a minister
and revealer of the art to himself and others.
His conceit is sublime. It was entire and unique.
His posture and air were ridiculously Olympian.
Mrs. Sutton is very fat and has a thin voice.
There are some good tones in it, but she undertakes
the most difficult music. Antignini sings pleasantly
but with great effort. All his songs were his
own composition, and all Max Bohrer’s his.
In fact, it was not a musical festival so much as a
gymnasium for musical instruments, both mechanical
and human. Timm and Scharfenberg both played
admirably. I saw Fred’k Rakemann in the
crowd; could not conveniently speak to him, and am
going, as soon as I can find out where he lives, to
see him. His face was so sad that I wanted to
go to him and say some tenderer word than I should
have said had I spoken. Yet after all he doesn’t
need tender words, but a calm, grateful demeanor towards
him.
I wish that I could tell all the glories of my trip
to New York. I went from Worcester over the Western
R.R. to Albany and down the river. Some other
day shall be consecrated to their fit celebration when
the recollection may be pleasant and soothing among
cares that disturb. Now I expect Charles every
moment to go with me to see Cranch.
Ask Charles for all news about our “externe.”
Remember me most tenderly to my many friends at Brook
Farm.
G.W.C.
NEW YORK, November 20, ’43.
