MENDELSSOHN’S LETTERS,
FROM 1833 TO 1847.
[Illustration: Drawing of Mendelssohn
“AND AFTER THE FIRE THERE CAME A STILL SMALL VOICE
AND IN THAT STILL SMALL VOICE ONWARDS CAME THE LORD.”
ELIJAH
[Illustration: Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy signature]
LETTERS
OF
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY,
FROM 1833 TO 1847.
EDITED BY
PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY,
OF BERLIN;
AND
DR. CARL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY,
OF HEIDELBERG:
WITH
A CATALOGUE OF ALL HIS MUSICAL COMPOSITIONS
COMPILED BY
DR. JULIUS RIETZ.
Translated
BY
LADY WALLACE.
LONDON:
LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, ROBERTS, & GREEN.
1863.
PRINTED BY
JOHN EDWARD TAYLOR, LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
PREFACE.
The Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland,
have amply fulfilled the purpose of their publication, by making him
_personally known_ to the world, and, above all, to his countrymen.
Those Letters, however, comprise only a portion of the period of
Mendelssohn’s youth; and it has now become possible, by the aid of his
own verbal delineations, to exhibit in a complete form that picture of
his life and character which was commenced in the former volume.
This has been distinctly kept in view in the selection of the following
letters. They commence directly after the termination of the former
volume, and extend to Mendelssohn’s death. They accompany him through
the most varied relations of his life and vocation, and thus lay claim,
at least partially, to another kind of interest from that of the period
of gay, though not insignificant enjoyment, depicted by him in the
letters written during his travels. For example, the negotiations on the
subject of his appointment at Berlin take up a large space; but this is
inevitable, so characteristic are they of the manner in which he
conceived and conducted such matters, while they reveal to us much that
lies outside his own personal character, and thus possess a more than
merely biographical value.
On the other hand, the minute details of the pure and elevated happiness
which Mendelssohn enjoyed in his most intimate domestic relations, are
expressly withheld, as being the peculiar treasure of his family, and a
few passages only have been selected for publication from these letters,
which however are sufficiently clear on the point. In conclusion, it
should be observed, that no letter addressed to any living person has
been published without express permission readily accorded.
A Catalogue of all Mendelssohn’s compositions, compiled by Herr
Kapellmeister Dr. Julius Rietz, is added as a supplement, which, by its
classification and arrangement, will no doubt prove an object of
interest both to musicians and amateurs of music.
_Berlin and Heidelberg,
June, 1863._
LETTERS.
TO PASTOR BAUER, BESZIG.
Berlin, March 4th, 1833.
Since I set to work again, I feel in such good spirits that I am anxious
to adhere to it as closely as possible, so it monopolizes every moment
that I do not spend with my own family. Such a period as this last
half-year having passed away makes me feel doubly grateful. It is like
the sensation of going out for the first time after an illness; and, in
fact, such a term of uncertainty, doubt, and suspense, really amounted
to a malady, and one of the worst kind too.[1] I am now however entirely
cured; so, when you think of me, do so as of a joyous musician, who is
doing many things, who is _resolved_ to do many more, and who would
_fain_ accomplish all that can be done.
For the life of me I cannot rightly understand the meaning of your
recent question and discussion, or what answer I am to give you.
Universality, and everything bordering on æsthetics, makes me forthwith
quite dumb and dejected. Am I to tell you how you ought to feel? You
strive to discriminate between an excess of sensibility and genuine
feeling, and say that a plant may bloom itself to death.
But no such thing exists as an excess of sensibility; and what is
designated as such is, in fact, rather a dearth of it. The soaring,
elevated emotions inspired by music, so welcome to listeners, are no
excess; for let him who can feel do so to the utmost of his power, and
even more if possible; and if he dies of it, it will not be in sin, for
nothing is certain but what is felt or believed, or whatever term you
may choose to employ; moreover, the bloom of a plant does not cause it
to perish save when forced, and forced to the uttermost; and, in that
case, a sickly blossom no more resembles a healthy one, than sickly
sentimentality resembles true feeling.
I am not acquainted with Herr W----, nor have I read his book; but it is
always to be deplored when any but genuine artists attempt to purify and
restore the public taste. On such a subject words are only pernicious;
deeds alone are efficient. For even if people do really feel this
antipathy towards the present, they cannot as yet give anything better
to replace it, and therefore they had best let it alone. Palestrina
effected a reformation during his life; he could not do so now any more
than Sebastian Bach or Luther. The men are yet to come who will
_advance_ on the straight road; and who will lead others onwards, or
back to the ancient and right path, which ought, in fact, to be termed
the onward path; but they will write no books on the subject.
TO PASTOR BAUER, BESZIG.
Berlin, April 6th, 1833.
My work, about which I had recently many doubts, is finished; and now,
when I look it over, I find that, quite contrary to my expectations, it
satisfies myself. I believe it has become a good composition; but be
that as it may, at all events I feel that it shows progress, and that is
the main point. So long as I feel this to be the case, I can enjoy life
and be happy; but the most bitter moments I ever endured, or ever could
have imagined, were during last autumn, when I had my misgivings on this
subject. Would that this mood of happy satisfaction could but be hoarded
and stored up! But the worst of it is, that I feel sure I shall have
forgotten it all when similar evil days recur, and I can devise no means
of guarding against this, nor do I believe that you can suggest any. As,
however, a whole mass of music is at this moment buzzing in my head, I
trust that it will not, please God, quickly pass away.
Strange that this should be the case at a time, in other respects so
imbued with deep fervour and earnestness, for I shall leave this place
feeling more solitary than when I came. I have found my nearest
relatives, my parents, my brother and sisters, alone unchanged; and this
is a source of happiness for which I certainly cannot be too grateful to
God; indeed, now that I am (what is called) independent, I have learned
to love and honour, and understand my parents better than ever; but then
I see many branching off to the right and to the left, whom I had hoped
would always go along with me; and yet I could not follow them on their
path, even if I wished to do so.
The longer I stay in Berlin, the more do I miss Rietz, and the more
deeply do I deplore his death. X---- declares that the fault lies very
much with myself, because I insist on having people exactly as I fancy
they ought to be, and that I have too much party spirit for or against a
person; but it is this very spirit, the want of which I feel so much
here. I hear plenty of opinions given, but where there is no fervour
there can be no sound judgment; and where it does exist, though it may
indeed not unfrequently lead to error, still it often tends towards
progress too, and then we need not take refuge in past times, or
anywhere else, but rather rejoice in the present, if only for bringing
with it in its course a spring or an Easter festival.
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING, DESSAU.
Coblenz, September 6th, 1833.
Dear Schubring,
Just as I was beginning to arrange the sheets of my oratorio,[2] and
meditating on the music that I intend to write for it this winter, I
received your letter enclosing your extracts, which appeared to me so
good that I transcribed the whole text so far as it has gone, and now
return it to you with the same request as at first, that you will kindly
send me your remarks and additions. You will perceive various
annotations on the margin as to the passages I wish to have from the
Bible or the Hymn Book. I am anxious also to have your opinion--1st. As
to the form of the whole, especially the narrative part, and whether you
think that the _general_ arrangement may be retained,--the blending of
the narrative and dramatic representation. I dare not adopt the Bach
form along with this personified recital, so this combination seems to
me the most natural, and not very difficult, except in such passages,
for example, as Ananias, owing to the length of the continuous
narration. 2nd. Whether you are of opinion that any of the principal
features in the history or the acts, and also in the character and
teaching of St. Paul, have been either omitted or falsified. 3rd. Where
the divisions of the first and second parts should be marked. 4th.
Whether you approve of my employing chorales? From this I have been
strongly dissuaded by various people, and yet I cannot decide on giving
it up entirely, for I think it must be in character with any oratorio
founded on the New Testament. If this be also your opinion, then you
must supply me with all the hymns and passages. You see I require a
great deal from you, but I wish first to enter fully into the spirit of
the words, and then the music shall follow: and I know the interest you
take in the work.
If you will do all this for me, write me a few lines immediately to
Berlin, for I am obliged to go there for three or four days with my
father, who went to England with me, and was dangerously ill there.
Thank God, he is now quite restored to health; but I was under such
dreadful apprehensions the whole time, that I shall leave nothing undone
on my part to see him once more safe at home. I must, however, return
forthwith and proceed to Düsseldorf, where you are probably aware that I
directed the Musical Festival, and subsequently decided on taking up my
abode there for two or three years, nominally in order to direct the
church music, and the Vocal Association, and probably also a new theatre
which is now being built there, but in reality for the purpose of
securing quiet and leisure for composition. The country and the people
suit me admirably, and in winter “St. Paul” is to be given. I brought
out my new symphony in England, and people liked it; and now the
“Hebrides” is about to be published, and also the symphony. This is all
very gratifying, but I hope the things of real value are yet to come. I
trust it may be so. It is not fair in me to have written you such a
half-dry and wholly serious letter, but such has been the character of
this recent period, and so I am become in some degree like it.
TO I. MOSCHELES, LONDON.
Berlin, 1833.
... Do you suppose that I have not gone to hear Madame B---- because she
is not handsome, and wears wide hanging sleeves? This is not the reason,
although there are undoubtedly some physiognomies which can never, under
any circumstances, become artistic; from which such icy cold emanates
that their very aspect freezes me at once. But why should I be forced to
listen for the thirtieth time to all sorts of variations by Herz? They
cause me less pleasure than rope-dancers or acrobats. In their case, we
have at least the barbarous excitement of fearing that they may break
their necks, and of seeing that nevertheless they escape doing so. But
those who perform feats of agility on the piano do not even endanger
their lives, but only our ears. In such I take no interest. I wish I
could escape the annoyance of being obliged to hear that the public
demands this style; I also form one of the public, and I demand the
exact reverse. Moreover, she played in the theatre between the acts, and
that I consider most obnoxious. First, up goes the curtain, and I see
before me India, with her pariahs and palm-trees and prickly plants, and
then come death and murder, so I must weep bitterly; then up goes the
curtain again, and I see Madame B---- with her piano, and a concert
ensues in every variety of minor key, and I must applaud with all my
might; then follows the farce of “Ein Stündchen vor dem Potsdamer Thor,”
and I am expected to laugh. No! This I cannot stand, and these are the
reasons why I do not deserve your censure. I stayed at home because I
like best to be in my own room, or with my own family, or in my own
garden, which is wonderfully beautiful this year. If you will not
believe me, come and judge for yourself. I cannot resist always
reverting to this.
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.
Düsseldorf, October 26th, 1833.
My dear Sister,
The history of my life during the last few weeks is long and pleasant.
Sunday, Maximilian’s day, was my first Mass; the choir crammed with
singers, male and female, and the whole church decorated with green
branches and tapestry. The organist flourished away tremendously, up
and down. Haydn’s Mass was scandalously gay, but the whole thing was
very tolerable. Afterwards came a procession, playing my solemn march in
E flat; the bass performers repeating the first part, while those in the
treble went straight on; but this was of no consequence in the open air;
and when I encountered them later in the day, they had played the march
so often over that it went famously; and I consider it a high honour,
that these itinerant musicians have bespoken a new march from me for the
next fair.
Previous to that Sunday, however, there was rather a touching scene. I
must tell you that really no appropriate epithet exists for the music
which has been hitherto given here. The chaplain came and complained to
me of his dilemma; the Burgomaster had said that though his predecessor
was evangelical, and perfectly satisfied with the music, he intended
himself to form part of the procession, and insisted that the music
should be of a better class. A very crabbed old musician, in a
threadbare coat, was summoned, whose office it had hitherto been to beat
time. When he came, and they attacked him, he declared that he neither
could nor would have better music; if any improvement was required, some
one else must be employed; that he knew perfectly what vast pretensions
some people made now-a-days, everything was expected to sound so
beautiful; this had not been the case in his day, and he played just as
well now as formerly. I was really very reluctant to take the affair
out of his hands, though there could be no doubt that others would do
infinitely better; and I could not help thinking how I should myself
feel, were I to be summoned some fifty years hence to a town-hall, and
spoken to in this strain, and a young greenhorn snubbed me, and my coat
were seedy, and I had not the most remote idea why the music should be
better,--and I felt rather uncomfortable.
Unluckily, I could not find among all the music here even one tolerable
solemn Mass, and not a single one of the old Italian masters; nothing
but modern dross. I took a fancy to travel through my domains in search
of good music; so, after the Choral Association on Wednesday, I got into
a carriage and drove off to Elberfeld, where I hunted out Palestrina’s
“Improperia,” and the Misereres of Allegri and Bai, and also the score
and vocal parts of “Alexander’s Feast,” which I carried off forthwith,
and went on to Bonn. There I rummaged through the whole library alone,
for poor Breidenstein is so ill that it is scarcely expected he can
recover; but he gave me the key, and lent me whatever I chose. I found
some splendid things, and took away with me six Masses of Palestrina,
one of Lotti and one of Pergolesi, and Psalms by Leo and Lotti, etc.
etc. At last, in Cologne I succeeded in finding out the best old Italian
pieces which I as yet know, particularly two motetts of Orlando Lasso,
which are wonderfully fine, and even deeper and broader than the two
“Crucifixus” of Lotti. One of these, “Populus meus” we are to sing in
church next Friday.
The following day was Sunday, so the steamboat did not come, and knowing
that my presence was necessary in Düsseldorf, I hired a carriage and
drove here. People were crowding along the _chaussée_ from every
direction; a number of triumphal arches had been erected, and the houses
all adorned with lamps. I arrived with my huge packet, but not a single
person would look at it; nothing but “the Crown Prince,” “the Crown
Prince,” again and again. He arrived safely at the Jägerhof on Sunday
evening, passing under all the triumphal arches during the time of the
illuminations, and amidst the pealing of bells and firing of cannon,
with an escort of burgher guards, between lines of soldiers, and to the
sound of martial music. Next day he gave a dinner, to which he invited
me, and I amused myself famously, because I was very jovial at a small
table with Lessing, Hübner, and a few others. Besides, the Crown Prince
was as gracious as possible, and shook hands with me, saying that he was
really quite angry at my forsaking both him and Berlin for so long a
time; listened to what I had to say, called me forward from my corner as
“dear Mendelssohn,”--in short, you see I am thought infinitely more
precious when I am a little way from home.
I must now describe to you the fête that was given in his honour, and
for which I suggested the employment of some old transparencies, to be
connected by appropriate verses for “Israel in Egypt,” with _tableaux
vivants_. They took place in the great Hall of the Academy, where a
stage was erected. In front was the double chorus (about ninety voices
altogether), standing in two semicircles round my English piano; and in
the room seats for four hundred spectators. R----, in mediæval costume,
interpreted the whole affair, and contrived very cleverly, in iambics,
to combine the different objects, in spite of their disparity.
He exhibited three transparencies:--first, “Melancholy,” after Dürer, a
motett of Lotti’s being given by men’s voices in the far distance; then
the Raphael, with the Virgin appearing to him in a vision, to which the
“O Sanctissima” was sung (a well-known song, but which always makes
people cry); thirdly, St. Jerome in his tent, with a song of Weber’s,
“Hör’ uns, Wahrheit.” This was the first part. Now came the best of all.
We began from the very beginning of “Israel in Egypt.” Of course you
know the first recitative, and how the chorus gradually swells in tone;
first the voices of the _alti_ are heard alone, then more voices join
in, till the loud passage comes with single chords, “They sighed,” etc.
(in G minor), when the curtain rose, and displayed the first tableau,
“The Children of Israel in bondage,” designed and arranged by Bendemann.
In the foreground was Moses, gazing dreamily into the distance in
sorrowful apathy; beside him an old man sinking to the ground under the
weight of a beam, while his son makes an effort to relieve him from it;
in the background some beautiful figures with uplifted arms, a few
weeping children in the foreground,--the whole scene closely crowded
together like a mass of fugitives. This remained visible till the close
of the first chorus; and when it ended in C minor, the curtain at the
same moment dropped over the bright picture. A finer effect I scarcely
ever saw.
The chorus then sang the plagues, hail, darkness, and the first-born,
without any tableau; but at the chorus, “He led them through like
sheep,” the curtain rose again, when Moses was seen in the foreground
with raised staff, and behind him, in gay tumult, the same figures who
in the first tableau were mourning, now all pressing onwards, laden with
gold and silver vessels; one young girl (also by Bendemann) was
especially lovely, who, with her pilgrim’s staff, seemed as if advancing
from the side scenes and about to cross the stage. Then came the
choruses again, without any tableau, “But the waters,” “He rebuked the
Red Sea,” “Thy right hand, O Lord,” and the recitative, “And Miriam, the
Prophetess,” at the close of which the solo soprano appeared. At the
same moment the last tableau was uncovered,--Miriam, with a silver
timbrel, sounding praises to the Lord, and other maidens with harps and
citherns, and in the background four men with trombones, pointing in
different directions. The soprano solo was sung behind the scene, as if
proceeding from the picture; and when the chorus came in _forte_, real
trombones, and trumpets, and kettledrums, were brought on the stage, and
burst in like a thunder-clap. Handel evidently intended this effect, for
after the commencement he makes them pause, till they come in again in C
major, when the other instruments recommence. And thus we concluded the
second part.
This last tableau was by Hübner, and pleased me exceedingly. The effect
of the whole was wonderfully fine. Much might possibly have been said
against it had it been a pretentious affair, but its character was
entirely social, and not public, and I think it would scarcely be
possible to devise a more charming fête. The next that followed was a
_tableau vivant_, designed and arranged by Schadow, “Lorenzo de’ Medici,
surrounded by the Geniuses of Poetry, Sculpture, and Painting, leading
to him Dante, Raphael, Michael Angelo, and Bramante,” with a
complimentary allusion to the Crown Prince, and a final chorus. The
second division consisted of the comic scenes from the “Midsummer
Night’s Dream,” represented by the painters here, but I did not care so
much for it, having been so absorbed by the previous one.
How would you translate in the same measure the following line:--
“So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause”?[3]
Ramler, with the genuine dignity of a translator, says, “Heil, Liebe,
dir! der Tonkunst Ehr’ und Dank” (All hail to thee, O Love! to Music
thanks and honour), which has no point, and is anything but a
translation; the first part of the Ode closes with these lines, so the
whole sense would be lost, for the pith of the sentence lies in the word
“_won_.” Give me some good hint about this, for on the 22nd of November
we come before the public with “Alexander’s Feast,” the overture to
“Egmont,” and Beethoven’s concerto in C minor. I am told that an
orchestra is to be constructed in Becker’s Hall, for two hundred
persons. All who can sing, or play, or pay, are sure to be there. Tell
me if I shall resume my Greek here.[4] I feel very much disposed to do
so, but fear it will not go on very swimmingly. Could I understand
Æschylus? tell me this honestly. Further, do you attend to my advice
about pianoforte playing and singing? If you want any songs, as
Christmas draws dear, you can get them from me if you wish it. Send for
the “Hebrides” arranged as a duett; it is, no doubt, published by this
time. I think, however, that the overture to “Melusina” will be the best
thing I have as yet done; as soon as it is finished I will send it to
you. Adieu.
FELIX.
TO HIS FATHER.
Bonn, December 28th, 1833.
Dear Father,
First of all, I must thank you for your kind, loving letter, and I
rejoice that even before receiving it, I had done what you desired.[5]
Strange to say, my official acceptance, I must tell you, was sent last
week to Schadow; the biography was enclosed, so I expect the patent next
week; but I must thank you once more for the very kind manner in which
you write to me on the subject, and I feel proud that you consider me
worthy of such a confidential tone.
The people in Düsseldorf are an excitable race! The “Don Juan” affair
amused me, although riotous enough, and Immermann had a sharp attack of
fever from sheer vexation.[6] As you, dear Mother, like to read
newspapers, you shall receive in my next letter all the printed articles
on the subject, which engrossed the attention of the whole town for
three long days. After the _grand scandale_ had fairly begun, and the
curtain three times dropped and drawn up again,--after the first duett
of the second act had been sung, entirely drowned by whistling,
shouting, and howling,--after a newspaper had been flung to the manager
on the stage, that he might read it aloud, who on this went off in a
violent huff, the curtain being dropped for the fourth time,--I was
about to lay down my _bâton_, though I would far rather have thrown it
at the heads of some of these fellows, when the uproar suddenly
subsided. The shouting voices were hoarse, and the well-conducted people
brightened up; in short, the second act was played in the midst of the
most profound silence, and much applause at the close. After it was
over, all the actors were called for, but not one came, and Immermann
and I consulted together in a shower of fiery rain and gunpowder
smoke--among the black demons--as to what was to be done. I declared
that until the company and I had received some apology, I would not
again conduct the opera; then came a deputation of several members of
the orchestra, who in turn said that if I did not conduct the opera,
they would not play; then the manager of the theatre began to lament, as
he had already disposed of all the tickets for the next performance.
Immermann snubbed everybody all round, and in this graceful manner we
retreated from the field.
Next day in every corner appeared, “Owing to obstacles that had arisen,”
etc. etc.; and all the people whom we met in the streets could talk of
nothing but this disturbance. The newspapers were filled with articles
on the subject; the instigator of the riot justified himself, and
declared that in spite of it all he had had great enjoyment, for which
he felt grateful to me and to the company, and gave his name; as he is a
Government secretary, the president summoned him, blew him up
tremendously, and sent him to the director, who also blew him up
tremendously. The soldiers who had taken part in the tumult were treated
in the same manner by their officers. The Association for the Promotion
of Music issued a manifesto, begging for a repetition of the opera, and
denouncing the disturbance. The Theatrical Committee intimated that if
the slightest interruption of the performance ever again occurred, they
would instantly dissolve. I procured also from the committee full powers
to put a stop to the opera in case of any unseemly noise. Last Monday it
was to be given again; in the morning it was universally reported that
the manager was to be hissed, on account of his recent testiness;
Immermann was seized with fever, and I do assure you that it was with
feelings the reverse of pleasant that I took my place in the orchestra
at the beginning, being resolved to stop the performance if there was
the slightest disorder. But the moment I advanced to my desk the
audience received me with loud applause, and called for a flourish of
trumpets in my honour, insisting on this being three times repeated,
amid a precious row; then all were as still as mice, while each actor
received his share of applause; in short, the public were now as polite
as they formerly were unruly. I wish you had seen the performance:
individual parts could not, I feel sure, have been better given,--the
quartett for instance, and the ghost in the finale at the end of the
opera, and almost the whole of “Leporello,” went splendidly, and caused
me the greatest pleasure. I am so glad to hear that the singers, who at
first, I am told, were prejudiced against me personally, as well as
against these classical performances, now say they would go to the death
for me, and are all impatience for the time when I am to give another
opera. I came over here for Christmas, by Cologne and the Rhine, where
ice is drifting along, and have passed a couple of quiet pleasant days
here.
And now to return to the much talked of correspondence between Goethe
and Zelter. One thing struck me on this subject: when in this work
Beethoven or any one else is abused, or my family unhandsomely treated,
and many subjects most tediously discussed, I remain quite cool and
calm; but when Reichardt is in question, and they both presume to
criticize him with great arrogance, I feel in such a rage that I don’t
know what to do, though I cannot myself explain why this should be so.
His “Morgengesang” must unluckily rest for this winter, the Musical
Association is not yet sufficiently full fledged for it, but the first
musical festival to which I go it shall be there. It is said they will
not be able to have it at Aix-la-Chapelle, and that it is to be given
at Cologne, and many of my acquaintances urge me strongly to pay my
court to one or the other, in which case I should be selected, but this
I never will do. If they should choose me without this, I shall be glad;
but if not, I shall save a month’s precious time (for it will take that
at least), and remain as I am. Having been obliged to give three
concerts this winter, besides the “Messiah” and the “Nozze di Figaro,” I
think I have had nearly enough of music for the present, and may now
enjoy a little breathing time. But how is it, Mother, that you ask
whether I _must_ conduct all the operas? Heaven forbid there should be
any _must_ in the case, for almost every week two operas are given, and
the performers consider themselves absolved by one rehearsal. I am only
one of the members of the Theatrical Association, chosen to be on the
select committee, who give six or eight classical performances every
year, and elect a council for their guidance, this council consisting of
Immermann and myself; we are therefore quite independent of the rest,
who consequently feel increased respect for us.
When the great Theatrical Association is fairly established, and the
theatre becomes a settled and civic institution, Immermann is resolved
to give up his situation in the Justiciary Court, and to engage himself
for five years as director of the theatre. Indeed, I hear that most of
the shareholders have only given their signatures on condition that _he_
should undertake the plays, and _I_ the operas; how this may be, lies
close hidden as yet in the womb of time, but in any event I will not
entirely withdraw from the affair. I have composed a song for
Immermann’s “Hofer,” or rather, I should say, arranged a Tyrolese
popular melody for it, and also a French march; but I like the thing,
and mean to send it to Fanny. We think of giving “Hofer” this winter,
and perhaps also “Das laute Geheimniss” and “Nathan,” or the “Braut von
Messina,” or both. You also advise me, Mother, to acquire the habit of
dictation; but in the meantime I can get through by the use of my own
pen, and intend only to have recourse to such a dignified proceeding in
the greatest possible emergency.[7] Thank you very much for the letter
you sent me from Lindblad.[8] It gave me great pleasure, and made me
like my concerto far better than I did before, for I know few people
whose judgment I respect more than his. I can as little explain this, or
give any reason for it, as for many another feeling, but it is so; and
when I have finished a thing, whether successful or a failure, he is the
first person, next to yourself, whose opinion I should be glad to hear.
That a piece so rapidly sketched as this pianoforte concerto, should
cause pleasure to so genuine a musician, enhances mine, and so I thank
you much for the letter. But it is high time to close this letter and
this year, to which I am indebted for many blessings and much happiness,
and which has been another bright year for me.
I thank you also, dear Father, now as ever, for having gone with me to
England for my sake; and though my advice, which you followed for the
first time, proved so unfortunate, and caused us all so much anxiety and
uneasiness, you never once reproached me. Still I think, since you write
that you are now perfectly well and in good spirits, the journey may
have contributed to this. May these happy results be still further
increased during the approaching year, and may it bring you all every
blessing. Farewell.
FELIX.
TO HIS FAMILY.
Düsseldorf, January 16th, 1834.
We are leading a merry life here just now, casting aside all care; every
one is full of fun and jollity. I have just come from the rehearsal of
“Egmont,” where, for the first time in my life, I tore up a score from
rage at the stupidity of the _musici_, whom I feed with 6-8 time in due
form, though they are more fit for babes’ milk; then they like to
belabour each other in the orchestra. This I don’t choose they should do
in my presence, so furious scenes sometimes occur. At the air,
“Glücklich allein ist die Seele die liebt,” I fairly tore the music in
two, on which they played with much more expression. The music delighted
me so far, that I again heard something of Beethoven’s for the first
time; but it had no particular charm for me, and only two pieces, the
march in C major, and the movement in 6-8 time, where Klärchen is
seeking Egmont, are quite after my own heart. To-morrow we are to have
another rehearsal; in the evening the Prince gives a ball, which will
last till four in the morning, from which I could excuse myself if I
were not so very fond of dancing. I must now tell you about my excursion
to Elberfeld. Sunday was the concert, so in the morning I drove there in
a furious storm of thunder and rain. I found the whole musical world
assembled in the inn, drinking champagne at twelve in the forenoon,
instead of which I ordered chocolate for myself. A pianoforte solo of
mine had been announced, after which I intended to have come away
immediately, but hearing that there was to be a ball in the evening, I
resolved not to set off till night, and as they had introduced music
from “Oberon” in the second part, feeling myself in a vein for
extemporizing, I instantly took up their last _ritournelle_, and
continued playing the rest of the opera. There was no great merit in
this, still it pleased the people wonderfully, and at the end I was
greeted with plaudits loud enough to gratify any one. As the room was
crowded, I promised to return in the course of the winter to play for
the benefit of the poor. The Barmers sent me a deputation of three
Barmer ladies to persuade me to go there on Monday; and as my travelling
companion had both time and inclination for this, I played extempore on
the Monday afternoon in the Barmer Musical Association, and then a
quartett in Elberfeld, travelled through the night, and arrived at home
at four on Tuesday morning, as my hour for receiving people is from
eight to nine. The Barmer fantasia was well designed; I must describe it
for Fanny.
A poem had been sent me anonymously, at the end of which I was advised
to marry (of course this was said in good poetry, interwoven with laurel
leaves and _immortelles_); and, wishing to respond to this compliment, I
began with my “Bachelor’s Song” (though, unluckily, no one found out its
meaning, but that was no matter), continuing to play it gaily for some
time; I then brought in the violoncello with the theme, “Mir ist so
wunderbar,” and so far it was very successful. I was anxious, however,
before closing, to introduce some matrimonial felicity, but in this I
utterly failed, which spoilt the conclusion. I wish, however, you had
been present at the beginning, for I believe you would have been
pleased. I think I already wrote to you that my fantasia in F sharp
minor, Op. 28,[9] is about to be published. I have introduced a fine
massive passage in octaves into my new E flat rondo; I am now going to
work at my _scena_ for the Philharmonic, to edit the three overtures, to
compose another trio or a symphony, and then comes “St. Paul.” Addio.
FELIX.
TO I. MOSCHELES, LONDON.
Düsseldorf, February 7th, 1834.
My own poverty in novel passages for the piano struck me very much in
the _rondo brillant_[10] which I wish to dedicate to you; these are what
cause me to demur, and to torment myself, and I fear you will remark
this. In other respects there is a good deal in it that I like, and some
passages please me exceedingly; but how I am to set about composing a
methodical _tranquil_ piece (and I well remember you advised me strongly
to do this last spring) I really cannot tell. All that I now have in my
head for the piano, is about as _tranquil_ as Cheapside,[11] and even
when I control myself, and begin to extemporize very soberly, I
gradually break loose again. On the other hand, the _scena_ which I am
now writing for the Philharmonic is, I fear, becoming much too tame; but
it is needless to carp so much at myself, and I work hard: by saying
this you will see that I am well, and in good spirits. Dear Madame
Moscheles, when you, however, advise me to remain quite indifferent
towards the public and towards critics, I must in turn ask, Am I not, in
my profession, an _anti-public-caring_ musician, and an _anti-critical_
one into the bargain? What is Hecuba to me, or critics either? (I mean
the press, or rather pressure;) and if an overture to Lord Eldon were to
suggest itself to me, in the form of a reversed canon, or a double fugue
with a _cantus firmus_, I should persist in writing it, though it would
certainly not be popular,--far more, therefore, a “lovely Melusina,” who
is, however, a very different object; only it would be fatal indeed were
I to find that I could no longer succeed in having my works performed;
but as you say there is no fear of this, then I say, long live the
public and the critics! but I intend to live too, and to go to England
next year if possible.
Your observations on Neukomm’s music find a complete response in my own
heart. What does astonish me is, that a man of so much taste and
cultivation should not, with such qualifications, write more elegant and
refined music; for, without referring to the ideas or the basis of his
works, they appear to me most carelessly composed, and even commonplace.
He also employs brass instruments recklessly, which ought, through
discretion even, to be sparingly used, to say nothing of artistic
considerations. Among other things I am particularly pleased by the mode
in which Handel, towards the close, rushes in with his kettle-drums and
trumpets, as if he himself were belabouring them. There is no one who
would not be struck by it, and it seems to me far better to _imitate_
this, than to over-excite and stimulate the audience, who before the
close have become quite accustomed to all this Cayenne pepper. I have
just looked through Cherubini’s new opera,[12] and though I was quite
enchanted with many parts of it, still I cannot but deeply lament that
he so often adopts that new corrupt Parisian fashion, as if the
instruments were nothing, and the effect everything,--flinging about
three or four trombones, as if it were the audience who had skins of
parchment instead of the drums: and then in his finales he winds up with
hideous chords, and a tumult and crash most grievous to listen to.
Compare with these, some of his earlier pieces, such as “Lodoiska” and
“Medea,” etc. etc., where there is as much difference in brightness and
genius, as between a living man and a scare-crow, so I am not surprised
that the opera did not please. Those who like the original Cherubini,
cannot fail to be provoked at the way in which he yields to the fashion
of the day, and to the taste of the public; and those who do not like
the original Cherubini, find far too much of his own style still left to
satisfy them either, no matter what pains he may take to do so,--he
always peeps forth again in the very first three notes. Then they call
this _rococo_, _perruque_, etc. etc.
TO HIS FATHER.
Düsseldorf, March 28th, 1834.
Dear Father,
A thousand thanks for your kind letter on my Mother’s birthday. I
received it in the midst of a general rehearsal of the “Wasserträger,”
otherwise I should have answered it, and thanked you for it, the same
day. Pray do often write to me. Above all, I feel grateful to you for
your admonitions as to industry, and my own work. Believe me, I intend
to profit by your advice; still I do assure you that I have not an atom
of that philosophy which would counsel me to give way to indolence, or
even in any degree to palliate it. During the last few weeks, it is
true, I have been incessantly engaged in active business, but
exclusively of a nature to teach me much that was important, and
calculated to improve me in my profession; and thus I never lost sight
of my work.
My having composed _beforehand_ the pieces bespoken by the Philharmonic
and the English publishers, was owing not only to having received the
commission, but also to my own inward impulse, because it is really very
long since I have written or worked at anything steadily, for which a
certain mood is indispensable. But all this tends to the same point, so
I certainly do not believe that these recreations will dispose me to
become either more careless or more indolent; and, as I said before,
they really are not mere amusements, but positive work, and pleasant
work often too. A good performance in the Düsseldorf theatre does not
find its way into the world at large,--indeed, scarcely perhaps beyond
the _Düssels_ themselves; but if I succeed in thoroughly delighting and
exciting both my own feelings and those of all in the house in favour of
good music, that is worth something too!
The week before the “Wasserträger” was given was most fatiguing; every
day two great rehearsals, often from nine to ten hours each on an
average, besides the preparations for the church music this week, so
that I was obliged to undertake the regulation of everything--the
acting, the scenery, and the dialogue, or it would all have gone wrong.
On Friday, therefore, I came to my desk feeling rather weary; we had
been obliged to have a complete general rehearsal in the forenoon, and
my right arm was quite stiff. The audience, too, who had neither seen
nor heard of the “Wasserträger” for the last fifteen or twenty years,
were under the impression that it was some old forgotten opera, which
the committee wished to revive, and all those on the stage felt very
nervous. This, however, gave exactly the right tone to the first act;
such tremor, excitement, and emotion pervaded the whole, that at the
second piece of music, the Düsseldorf opposition kindled into
enthusiasm, and applauded and shouted and wept by turns. A better
Wasserträger than Günther I never saw; he was most touching and natural,
and yet with a shade of homeliness, too, so that the _noblesse_ might
not appear too factitious. He was immensely applauded, and twice called
forward; this rather spoiled him for the second performance, when he
overacted his part, and was too confident; but I wish you could have
seen him the first time! It is long since I have had such a delightful
evening in the theatre, for I took part in the performance like one of
the spectators, and laughed, and applauded, and shouted “bravo!” yet
conducting with spirit all the time; the choruses in the second act
sounded as exact as if fired from a pistol. The stage was crowded
between the acts, every one pleased, and congratulating the singers. The
orchestra played with precision, except some plaguy fellows who, in
spite of all my threats and warnings, could not be prevailed on to take
their eyes off the stage during the performance, and to look at their
notes. On Sunday it was given again, and did not go half so well, but I
had my full share of enjoyment the first time, though the house, on this
second occasion, was far more crowded, and the effect the same. I write
you all these details, dear Father, for I know that you are interested
in this opera, and in our provincial doings. We really have as much
music, and as good music, as could be expected during my first winter
here. To-morrow evening (Good Friday) we are to sing in church the “Last
Seven Words” of Palestrina, which I found in Cologne, and a composition
of Lasso, and on Sunday we give Cherubini’s Mass in C major.
The Government order prohibiting the celebration of the Musical
Festival on Whitsunday, is a bad business; the news came yesterday, and
has inflicted such a blow on the festival that here we have no idea how
it can be arranged, for on no other day can we reckon on so much support
from strangers. The first meeting of the Theatrical Association took
place recently; the matter has been very sensibly begun, and may turn
out well; but I keep out of the way, because in spite of the pleasure
that the opera, for instance, lately caused me, I can feel no sympathy
for actual theatrical life, or the squabbles of the actors and the
incessant striving after effect; it also estranges me too much from my
own chief purpose in Düsseldorf, which is to work for myself. I am the
chief superintendent of the musical performances, the arrangements of
the orchestra, and the engagement of the singers, and about every month
I have an opera to conduct (but even this is to depend on my own
convenience); of course I still have my three months’ vacation: in
short, I wish to be entirely independent of the theatre, and only to be
considered a friend, but with no official duties; on this account I have
given up all claim to any salary, which is to be transferred to a second
conductor, on whom the chief trouble will devolve. A circumstance that
occurred yesterday will amuse you. During the Carnival there was a
pretty girl here who played the piano, the daughter of a manufacturer
near Aix-la-Chapelle, and whose relations, though strangers to me, asked
me to allow her to play to me occasionally, to benefit by my
advice,--in fact, to give her a few lessons. This I accordingly did, and
read her some severe lectures on all her Herz music and so forth, and on
the day of her departure she left this with a quantity of
newly-purchased Mozart and Beethoven; so yesterday arrived a large
parcel for me, with a very polite letter of thanks from her father,
saying he had sent me a piece of cloth from his manufactory, as an
acknowledgment. I could scarcely believe this at first, but the parcel
really contained enough of the finest black cloth to make an entire
suit. This savours of the middle ages; the painters are mad with envy at
my good luck.
Last week I had a great pleasure, for Seydelmann, from Stuttgart, was
here, and enchanted us all. I have not felt such unalloyed delight since
I saw Wolff; so artistic, so elevated: such acting proves what a noble
thing a play may be. I saw him first in the “Essighändler” and “Koch
Vatel.” People compare him to Iffland; but I never in my life heard so
thrilling a voice, or such pure harmonious German. I then saw him as
Cromwell, in Raupach’s “Royalisten;” it was the first piece I had seen
of Raupach’s, and I am not the least anxious to see a second, for I
thought it quite odious; incongruous, tiresome, and full of theatrical
phrases, so that even Seydelmann could not give it dignity in spite of
his stern and gloomy countenance and costume; but then came “Nathan,”
which went off admirably, and Seydelmann, as Nathan, could not be
excelled. I thought of you, and wished you were here a hundred times at
least; when he told the story of the rings, it was just as if you saw a
broad tranquil stream gliding past, so rapid and flowing, and yet so
smooth and unruffled; the words of the discreet judge were most
exciting. It is indeed a splendid piece! It is good to know that there
is such clearness in the world. It however offends many, and when we
were next day on the Grafenberg we had war to the knife, because Schadow
was so irritable on the subject, and a gentleman from Berlin declared,
that “viewed in a dramatic aspect....” I did not argue the point at all,
for where there is such a total difference of opinion on any subject,
and about first principles, there is nothing to be done.
I must now ask your advice on a particular subject; I have long wished
to ride here, and when Lessing lately bought a horse, he advised me
strongly to do the same. I think the regular exercise would do me
good,--this is in favour of the scheme; but against it, there is the
possibility of its becoming an inconvenient and even tyrannical custom,
as I should think it my duty to ride, if possible, every day; then I
also wished to ask you whether you don’t think it rather too _genteel_
for me, at my years, to have a horse of my own? In short, I am
undecided, and beg now, as I have often done before, to hear your
opinion, by which mine will be regulated. Farewell, dear Father.--Your
FELIX.
TO FANNY HENSEL, BERLIN.
Düsseldorf, April 7th, 1834.
Dear Fanny,