I have always found it fascinating to learn more about the great classical composers of the past.  I like to know more about the differing worldviews behind each man's music - some were Christians (like Bach, Handel, Haydn, and Mendelssohn) , others - while probably not Christians - were profoundly influenced by a Christian worldview (Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Liszt and most other Romantic composers) - and others were anti-Christian (Debussy, Wagner, and many other late-Romantic, Impressionistic and Contemporary composers).  One of my favorite things, however, is to find books containing the letters of the composers.  It is one thing to read what someone who lived years after Beethoven's death has to say about him.  It is another thing to read what his pupil, Carl Czerny, had to say about him.  But it is yet another thing to read what he had to say about himself.

I am enthralled by how different all of the composers are - in writing style (and ability), and how their personalities come through in their letters.  These books can be difficult to find.  Until today, that is.  My piano teacher directed me to an incredible website called Archives.org, which contains over 200,000 out-of-print books available for free download.  Anyone owning old books with expired copyrights can scan them in and upload them to the archives, to make them available to others.  Many of these books are no longer available anywhere.  For instance, I was able to find the complete works of Stephen Charnock, as recommended by my piano teacher.  Charnock was a scholarly Puritan whose profound work on the Attributes of God is considered by many to be the definitive work on that subject.

But back to the original topic.  While I was in the archives, I decided to look for letters of the composers, and I found a wealth of them.  I have, of course, scarcely read any, but what I have seen so far is enthralling.  Their letters are, so much of the time, rather like their music.  Mozart's letters are sparkling, witty, full of jokes and impish snobbery, intellectual, and precise.  Beethoven's letters are half-and-half - some are full of pathos, drama, and intensity, while others are light-hearted and witty, recounting things like his experience with burning the soup he was cooking for his guests.  His moods, generally, seemed to be rather extreme.  Chopin's letters are pleasant, polite, generally cheerful, honest, disdainful of pathos and drama - refined and organized, like his music, but indicating some lack of confidence.  Liszt's letters are far from lacking in confidence, and are gushing, wordy, foppish, flattering, and politely humble (but it is only out of politeness, one senses), but very kind and large-hearted towards everyone, and quick to bestow compliments upon others.  Those are my impressions.  I wanted to share a few samples of the letters with you - I am sure you will find them interesting.  They make the composers seem like real people, instead of just those plastic busts that sit upon the piano and stare down with empty, expressionless faces.

I must say, my personal favorites are from Mozart, so for now I will copy and paste a few excerpts from his letters, and a couple of excerpts from Chopin.  That will make this post quite long enough for the present.  ;)

(Letter from Mozart to his sister, Nanerl, on January 26, 1770, when he was 14 years old)

"I REJOICE in my heart that you were so well amused at the sledging party you write to me about, and I wish you a thousand
opportunities of pleasure, so that you may pass your life merrily. But one thing vexes me, which is, that you allowed Herr
von Molk [an admirer of this pretty young girl of eighteen] to sigh and sentimentalize, and that you did not go with him in his 
sledge, that he might have upset you. What a lot of pocket-handkerchiefs he must have used that day to dry the tears he shed
for you! He no doubt, too, swallowed at least three ounces of cream of tartar to drive away the horrid evil humors in his body.
I know nothing new except that Herr Gellert, the Leipzig poet, [Footnote: Old Mozart prized Gellert's poems so highly, that on
one occasion he wrote to him expressing his admiration.] is dead, and has written no more poetry since his death."

(From another letter to his family in August of the same year)

I AM not only still alive, but in capital spirits. To-day I took
a fancy to ride a donkey, for such is the custom in Italy, so I
thought that I too must give it a trial. We have the honor to
associate with a certain Dominican who is considered a very pious
ascetic. I somehow don't quite think so, for he constantly takes
a cup of chocolate for breakfast, and immediately afterwards a
large glass of strong Spanish wine; and I have myself had the
privilege of dining with this holy man, when he drank a lot of
wine at dinner and a full glass of very strong wine afterwards,
two large slices of melons, some peaches and pears for dessert,
five cups of coffee, a whole plateful of nuts, and two dishes of
milk and lemons. This he may perhaps do out of bravado, but I
don't think so--at all events, it is far too much; and he eats a
great deal also at his afternoon collation.

(Letter from Mozart to his father, February 28 of 1778, when he was 21.  His father had believed some false reports about him, and Wolfgang was seeking reconciliation.)

My last letters must have shown you HOW THINGS ARE, and WHAT I
REALLY MEANT. I do entreat of you never to allow the thought to
cross your mind that I can ever forget you, for I cannot bear
such an idea. My chief aim is, and always will be, to endeavor
that we may meet soon and happily, but we must have patience. You
know even better than I do that things often take a perverse
turn, but they will one day go straight--only patience! Let us
place our trust in God, who will never forsake us. I shall not be
found wanting; how can you possibly doubt me? Surely it concerns
me also to work with all my strength, that I may have the
pleasure and the happiness (the sooner the better, too) of
embracing from my heart my dearest and kindest father. But, lo
and behold! nothing in this world is wholly free from interested
motives. If war should break out in Bavaria, I do hope you will
come and join me at once. I place faith in three friends--and
they are powerful and invincible ones--namely, God, and your head
and mine. Our heads are, indeed, very different, but each in its
own way is good, serviceable, and useful; and in time I hope mine
may by degrees equal yours in that class of knowledge in which
you at present surpass me. Farewell! Be merry and of good cheer!
Remember that you have a son who never intentionally failed in
his filial duty towards you, and who will strive to become daily
more worthy of so good a father.

(Letter from Mozart to his cousin, February 28, 1778.  The translators tried to preserve his love for rhyming and terrible punning.  Prepare to groan.)  ;)

You perhaps think or believe that I must be dead? Not at all! I
beg you will not think so, for how could I write so beautifully
if I were dead? Could such a thing be possible? I do not attempt
to make any excuses for my long silence, for you would not
believe me if I did. But truth is truth; I have had so much to do
that though I have had time to think of my cousin, I have had no
time to write to her, so I was obliged to let it alone. But at
last I have the honor to inquire how you are, and how you fare?
If we soon shall have a talk? If you write with a lump of chalk?
If I am sometimes in your mind? If to hang yourself you're
inclined? If you're angry with me, poor fool? If your wrath
begins to cool?--Oh! you are laughing! VICTORIA! I knew you could
not long resist me, and in your favor would enlist me. Yes! yes!
I know well how this is, though I'm in ten days off to Paris. If
you write to me from pity, do so soon from Augsburg city, so that
I may get your letter, which to me would be far better.

Now, before I conclude, which I must soon do because I am in
haste, (having just at this moment nothing to do,) and also have
no more room, as you see my paper is done, and I am very tired,
and my fingers tingling from writing so much, and lastly, even if
I had room, I don't know what I could say, except, indeed, a
story which I have a great mind to tell you. So listen! It is not
long since it happened, and in this very country too, where it
made a great sensation, for really it seemed almost incredible,
and, indeed, between ourselves, no one yet knows the result of
the affair. So, to be brief, about four miles from here--I can't
remember the name of the place, but it was either a village or a
hamlet, or something of that kind. Well, after all, it don't much
signify whether it was called Triebetrill or Burmsquick; there is
no doubt that it was some place or other. There a shepherd or
herdsman lived, who was pretty well advanced in years, but still
looked strong and robust; he was unmarried and well-to-do, and
lived happily. But before telling you the story, I must not
forget to say that this man had a most astounding voice when he
spoke; he terrified people when he spoke! Well! to make my tale
as short as possible, you must know that he had a dog called
Bellot, a very handsome large dog, white with black spots. Well!
this shepherd was going along with his sheep, for he had a flock
of eleven thousand under his care, and he had a staff in his
hand, with a pretty rose-colored topknot of ribbons, for he never
went out without his staff; such was his invariable custom. Now
to proceed; being tired, after having gone a couple of miles, he
sat down on a bank beside a river to rest. At last he fell
asleep, when he dreamt that he had lost all his sheep, and this
fear awoke him, but to his great joy he saw his flock close
beside him. At length he got up again and went on, but not for
long; indeed, half an hour could scarcely have elapsed, when he
came to a bridge which was very long, but with a parapet on both
sides to prevent any one falling into the river. Well; he looked
at his flock, and as he was obliged to cross the bridge, he began
to drive over his eleven thousand sheep. Now be so obliging as to
wait till the eleven thousand sheep are all safely across, and
then I will finish the story. I already told you that the result
is not yet known; I hope, however, that by the time I next write
to you, all the sheep will have crossed the bridge; but if not,
why should I care? So far as I am concerned, they might all have
stayed on this side. In the meantime you must accept the story so
far as it goes; what I really know to be true I have written, and
it is better to stop now than to tell you what is false, for in
that case you would probably have discredited the whole, whereas
now you will only disbelieve one half.

I must conclude, but don't think me rude; he who begins must
cease, or the world would have no peace...I
will or shall be, would, could, or should be--what?--A blockhead!
W. A. M. 

-----------------------------------------------

(Letter from Chopin to a friend, May 15, 1826, when he was 16 years old.)
"Dear Johnny,
Don't expect to find in this letter the usual name-day compliments: those sentiments, expressions, protestations, apostrophes, touches of pathos and other similar nonsense, humbug and rubbish. Such things are all very well for those who, lacking real attachment, rely on trivialities. But when you've been bound to each other by eleven years of friendship, have counted together 132 months, seen the beginning of468 weeks, 3,960 days, 95,040 hours, 5,702,400 minutes and breathed through 342,144,000 seconds together, you don't need to be reminded
of each other or to write complimentary letters, since you could never set it all down on paper. Coming down to facts (I begin by talking about facts, chiefly to get the following off my chest) : Your Highness has not written to me for months. Why? What for? Cur? Warum? Pourquoi? 1 am very much annoyed, and if there is no improvement there will be trouble between us.  I can't write so often, that's obvious; you know that I am working as hard as I can for my diploma, but the dog won't get his bone one often hears them say here that first-year students must keep their fingers off it."

(Letter from Chopin to his friend Titus Woyoechowski, March 27 of 1830, when Chopin was 20.)
Well then, my first concert, although it was sold out and there was not a box or seat to be had three days beforehand, did not make on the general public the impression I thought it would. The first Allegro of my concerto, which relatively few could grasp, called forth applause, but it seems to me that people felt they had to show interest ("Ah, something new!") and pretend to be connoisseurs. The Adagio and Rondo produced the greatest effect and exclamations of sincere admiration could be heard. But the Pot-pourri on Polish Airs [published as Op. 13] did not in my opinion fully achieve its aim. They applauded because they felt they must show at the end that they had not been bored. Kurpinski discovered fresh beauties in my concerto that evening, but Wiman admitted again that he doesn't know what people see in my first Allegro. Ernemann was completely satisfied, but Eisner regretted that the tone of my piano was too woolly and prevented the runs in the bass from being heard. That evening everybody up in the gallery and those standing at the side of the orchestra were satisfied, but the audience in the stalls complained about my playing too quietly and I would like to have been at "Cinderella's" [a Warsaw cafe] to hear the arguments that must have raged about me...All the same, I am surprised that the Adagio made such a general impression: wherever I go they speak ofnothing else. You have of course had all the newspapers, or at least the main ones, and you can confirm that everyone was delighted. Mile de Moriolles sent me a laurel wreath and today somebody else sent me a poem. Orlowski has written mazurkas and waltzes on themes from my concerto, and Sennewald, Brzezina's partner, has asked for my portrait [to have it
engraved and sold], but I could not allow that it would be going too far: I have no desire to see myself used for wrapping up butter, which is what happened to LeleweFs portrait."

“Daddy,” whispered little brown Chester Bear one night, as he crawled into his bed in the bears’ snug little house.

“Yes, Chester,” said Daddy, as he tucked Chester tight under his warm red blanket that smelled like Mommy’s cedar chest and was soft as a goose feather.

“When will I be grown up?” asked Chester.

Daddy cleared his throat and it was a deep, growly “Hum!”  And he sat down on the bed and the mattress sank down, and Chester rolled into Daddy’s strong, furry side.

“When, Daddy?” he asked again.

“Well,” said Daddy.  “What do you think it means to be grown up?”

Chester wrinkled up his furry forehead and scratched his ear, because that’s what Daddy did when he was thinking.  “Well,” he said slowly, and he played with the buttons on Daddy’s PJs, “I think you are grown up when you don’t have to do school anymore, and you can stay up as late as you want.  And you can go out into the deep dark woods without someone holding your paw, and you don’t cry when you need a band-aid, and you like to eat brussels sprouts.  And you don’t have to get spankings when you’re bad.  And you don’t forget to cross your t’s when you write and say “thank you” when you go to a friend’s house, and you don’t spill your milk anymore.”  Chester looked up at Daddy with sad brown eyes. 

Daddy smiled.  “And why do you want to be grown-up?”

Chester scratched his nose and traced the stripes on Daddy’s PJs with his stubby little claw.  “Because I wish it didn’t take so long to learn how to read and to write.  And because I don’t like brussels sprouts, or peas, or cabbage, or peanut butter sandwiches.  And I always catch cold and you and Mommy never do.  I don’t get to go to the big games and concerts.  When I sing I sound all squeaky but you sound big and deep and strong.  And I do bad things, like lying, and grown-ups never lie about whether they finished their math, or whether they ate all of their lima beans.  And it’s hard to be the littlest, because today when me and Toby were supposed to take a bath, he locked me out of the bathroom and wouldn’t let anyone in, and I had to go around outside and climb in the window, and he had taken my favorite rubber ducky and wouldn’t let me have it.”  And Toby sighed a deep, sad sigh.

Daddy smiled.  “Chester Bear,” he said, “Growing-up does not happen all at once.  When you grow up, you will still have much to learn, even though you will not be in school.  You will have to learn harder things, like how to take care of a family on your own, and how to be brave when you want to be scared, and how to keep quiet when you want to say something angry.  You still need to go to bed at night because you will still get tired.  You may not cry when you scrape your knee, but sometimes things hurt inside, and your heart can feel like it needs a band-aid.  And I still do not like brussels sprouts or lima beans or cabbage or peanut butter sandwiches, and sometimes I spill my coffee.  And you may not get spanked anymore, but you will still do bad things and make mistakes and have to learn from them.  Yes, when you grow up you will get to do many things that you cannot do now, and you will be big and strong.  But that won’t be what makes you happy.  You are little, and wish you were big.  But many times grown-ups wish they were little.  The best way for you to begin to grow up, little bear, is to learn to be happy as you are.  When you are little, be glad, and when you are big, be glad.  You asked when you will be grown-up.  You will be grown-up when you learn to be happy in whatever place you are.”

“I will?” asked Chester Bear.

“Yes,” said Daddy.  “And you will be more grown-up than many grown-ups, if you are happy just being a little bear.”

And he kissed Chester on his little black nose, and Chester smiled up at him and drifted off to sleep.

--------------------
© TC 2007