I wish you could have heard it, Robert,
your Piano Quintet in E-Flat Major played
tonight in a home in the San Juan Mountains.
I know you heard it many times—heck,
played by Clara and by Mendelssohn—
but I think you would have loved it tonight,
the way the cello resonated through the old
wood floor and into the soles of my feet,
the way my husband smiled through
the whole scherzo, the way birdsong
filled the silences between each movement,
the way the whole evening was cradled
by the scent of evergreens and the low pink glow
of the sun. It was exuberant, Robert, the kind of ecstatic
beauty so desperately needed now when humans
turn against each other so quickly.
We need something “splendid, full of vigor
and freshness” just as much as you must have
back in 1842. I wish you could have seen it,
the way the audience rose to our feet,
thrilled by the music, the musicians, the night.
I wish you could have heard it, the applause,
the ovation. I wish you could read this letter
while you’re in the sanatorium, wondering
what it was all for. What do any of us know
of sanity? You wouldn’t believe what the world
is like now. But I know, Robert, one way to deal
with the ache of the world is with beauty, and friend,
it’s still happening, the craziness and
the drive to find hope in music. It’s still
happening, your music in rooms small and grand.
It’s still happening, the agony, the love.