I passed Sunday P.M. with Rakemann; he played all
the time, told me of you and Boston and his love for
it, asked me if I had heard more of the concerts you
mentioned. Timm on Monday played me the “Invitation
to the W.” very beautifully, beside some Mazurkas
of Chopin, also the “Egmont” overture
grandly. Saturday evening the second Philharmonic,
the “Jupiter Symphony,” and some Septuats,
etc. It was not a good concert. Castellan
sang for the last time. Not a note of Beethoven!
Yesterday afternoon and evening I passed with Josephine
Maman, who plays and sings finely. We had some
of Beethoven, the “Pathetique,” etc.,
and some songs of Schubert, which I had never heard.
A singular girl, but delightful to me. My musical
appetite has been well appeased; can it ever be satisfied?
To-night, Knoop, for whom I have left little space,
especially as I find my paper is torn.
Evening. Have just come from Knoop’s.
It was beautiful to see the worthy mate of such men
as Ole Bull and Vieuxtemps. From what you and
others had told me, I knew I should like him.
So calm and grand. Yet when I left the room a
mournful feeling came over me, that so he must leave
and be heard no more. Beethoven is not done when
he is dead, nor Raphael nor Shakespeare; but for him
whose glory is action, which leaves no trace but upon
the heart, what shall remain? The notes he may
transcribe for others, but the charm of the musical
artist lies not therein; it is a personal effluence;
how shall we measure it? I felt to-night that
he played not for an audience, but to the private
heart. He was singing to me his deep searching
thought, his star-lost aspiration. Indeed, he
is worthy to close the brilliant winter; a calm planet
fading from us, but with a mild, steady lustre that
condemns sorrow. How invisible, insensibly proceeds
his fame! My character must needs be strengthened
and mellowed by such men, and so my influence upon
others is moulded, till perhaps it meets him again.
Surrounded by these intimate relations, we cannot touch
one but all thrill. In such a subtle shrine is
the influence of genius fitly embalmed and there worshipped.
How grand an era in my life, when through a winter
I may justly use the word genius many times!
Good-night!
G.W.C.
I am 24! Will you write me the numbers of the
“Tempest” sonata, and some others that
I liked particularly? The op. 14, No. 2, I have
got, and Timm played it to me on Monday. How
inexorable is this space, that will not let me crowd
in that I am ever your friend,
G.W.C.
IX
N.Y., Sunday evening, Feb. 25, ’44.
Copyrights
Early Letters of George Wm. Curtis from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
