A Composer’s Chagrin

Moscheles—the virtuoso, composer, and teacher—had a weakness many teachers share: he loved to talk. Lessons could drift from the student’s work into stories, memories, and name‑dropping from his long career. Entertaining? Absolutely. Efficient? Not always. And the students, truthfully, didn’t mind.

One morning, however, something was clearly wrong. His class included Sir Arthur Sullivan and the violinist Carl Feininger, and as each pupil entered they saw Moscheles—usually cheerful—sitting with a clouded face. “Um Gotteswillen, Herr Professor… are you ill?” they asked. He offered no explanation, only a sharp gesture toward the piano: sit down, stop chattering, and get to work.

Feininger, a favorite pupil, dared to press him. What had happened?

Moscheles finally sighed and said he would tell them. “I got up this morning. I dressed. I went to breakfast. There was no butter. I sent the maid to buy some…” And then, in genuine misery: “And what do you think she brought it in? The butter was wrapped in a page of my G‑minor concerto!”