179 To Wilhelm von Lenz in St. Petersburg
For pity’s sake, dear friend, don’t treat me like Moscheles; don’t think I am dead, although I have given you some little right to think so by my long silence. But there are so many “demi”-people, and demi-clever people (who are at least as dangerous to Art as the demi-monde is to morals, according to Alexandre Dumas), who say such utter stupidities about me in the papers and elsewhere, that I really should not like to die yet, if only not to disturb their beautiful business. You were even complaining of one single whistling blackbird [Merle; means also a whistling or hissing fellow.] pastorally perched on your book— what shall I say then of the croaking of that host of ravens and of obliques hiboux [Oblique owls; the term is repeated afterwards, and evidently refers to some joke, or else to some remark of Lenz’s.—Translator’s note.] that spreads like an “epidemic cordon” all the length of the scores of my Symphonic Poems?—Happily I am not made of such stuff as to let myself be easily disconcerted by their “concert,” and I shall continue steadfastly on my way to the end, without troubling about anything but to do what I have to do—which will be done, I can promise you. The rest of your “Beethoven,” of which you speak, has never reached me, and for six months past I have not had any news of B., who, I am afraid, finds that he is clashing with some rather difficult editorial circumstances, but from which I presume he will have the spirit to free himself satisfactorily. A propos of Beethoven, here is Oulibicheff, who has just hurled forth a volume which I might well compare with the dragons and other sacred monsters in papier-mache, with which the brave Chinese attempted to frighten the English at the time of the last war.—The English simply replied by bombs, which was the best mode of procedure. If I find time in the course of the summer, I shall answer Oulibicheff very respectfully in a brochure which may be a pretty big one. For the moment I am still pinned to my bed by a lot of boils which are flourishing on my legs, and which I consider as the doors of exodus for the illness which has been troubling me rather violently since the end of October.
Mr. Stassoff, having written to me about Mr. Seroff, I wrote him word quite lately that I should have real pleasure in making acquaintance with the arrangement for two pianos of Beethoven’s later Quartets, etc. As soon as he lets me have them I will examine them with all the attention that such a work merits, and will write him my opinion, such as it is, with sincerity. As to the question of the edition, that is not so easy to solve as you seem to think. I wrote to Mr. Stassoff that arrangements for two pianos, which are the only ones that give a suitable idea of certain works, have very little currency with the public, as it is very rare to find two instruments with most amateurs. In spite of this, if, as I am inclined to think, Mr. Seroff’s work answers to the eulogies you pronounce on it, I shall try to find him a publisher, and ask you only to get Mr. Seroff to let me know what sum he expects.
Why, dear friend, don’t you decide to make a trip to Germany, and to come and see me at Weymar? I asked you this three years ago, and I again assure you that such a journey would not be without use to you. It is in vain for you and Oulibicheff to enumerate the advantages and improvements of Russia in musical matters; people who know anything of the matter will beware of taking you literally. Art at Petersburg can only be an accessory and a superfluity for a long time to come, in spite of the very real distinction and, if you will, even the superiority of some persons who work at it with predilection, and who reside there. Proofs abound in support of this opinion, and could not be so soon changed.
Believe me, my dear Lenz, if you wish to get to know the heart of the musical question, come to Germany and come and see me.
Meanwhile don’t trouble yourself any more than I do about either “merles” or “obliques hiboux”; go on familiarizing yourself with the smiles and glances of your “chimera,” and believe me your most sincerely affectionate and devoted
F. Liszt
Weymar, March 24th, 1857