I have just returned from the post, but once more there is no letter for me! I received one on Wednesday from Madame Jarocka, with a postscript from dear Papa, which though very short was very precious to me. It told me, at least, that you were all well. As to Marcel and Johann, I beg that they will not write to me at all, if they are so stingy, that in spite of my request they can only send a word or two. I am so angry that I feel as if I could send back their letters without opening them. Of course they will make the old excuse of want of time! I am the only one who has time to write so fully every week. But how quickly this precious time passes. It is already the end of May, and I am still in Vienna, and probably shall be through June, for Kumelski[3] has been ill and must lay by again.
I can see already that this letter will be a very wearisome one, but you have no reason to fear that this is a sign of indisposition. On the contrary, I am quite well and amusing myself capitally. To-day I was playing from early in the morning till two in the afternoon, when I went out to dine and met the worthy Kandler, who kindly offered to give me letters to Cherubini and Paër.
I shall visit my invalid in the evening and go to the theatre, where there is to be a concert at which the violinist Herz is to perform. He is an Israelite, and made his _débût_ at Fräulein Henriette Sonntagʼs concert in Warsaw, when he was almost hissed off the stage. The pianist, Döhler, is also to play some of Czernyʼs compositions, and in conclusion Herz will give his own variations on Polish airs. Poor Polish motives, you little think how they will over-lard you with “Majufes” (Jewish melodies), giving you the title of “Polish music” to attract the public.
[Sidenote: POLISH MUSIC AND ITS IMITATIONS.]
If you are honest enough to distinguish between real Polish music and these imitations of it, and to assign a higher position to the former, you are thought crazy, more especially as Czerny, who is the oracle of Vienna, has not, as yet, in the manufacture of his musical tit-bits, included any variations on a Polish theme.
Yesterday afternoon I went with Thalberg to the Evangelical church, where Hesse, a young organist from Breslau, was to perform before the most select of Viennese audiences. The _élite_ of the musical world were present: Stadler, Kiesewetter, Mosel, Seyfried, and Gyrowitz. Hesse has talent, and understands the management of the organ; he left an album with me, but I donʼt feel as if I had originality enough to write anything in it.