myself? but pray remember that I am a town music director, and a beast
of burden like that has much to do. Lately on my return home I found two
chairs standing on my writing-table, the guard of the stove lying under
the piano, and on my bed a comb and brush, and a pair of boots
(Bendemann and Jordan had left these as visiting cards). This was, or
rather is, the exact state of musical life in Düsseldorf, and before
things become more orderly here, it will cost no little toil. So you
must now more than ever excuse my indolence about letter-writing, and,
indeed, write yourself oftener to stir me up, and heap coals of fire on
my head. Your letter, to which I am now replying, was inimitable; a few
more such, I beg. You say, by the bye, that you speak of “Melusina” just
like X----. I only wish this was true, and then, instead of a meagre
_Hofrath_, we should have a solid fellow;--but listen! I must fly into a
passion. Oh! Fanny, you ask me _what_ legend you are to read? How many
are there, pray? and how many do I know? and don’t you know the story of
the “lovely Melusina?” and would it not be better for me to hide myself,
and to creep into all sorts of instrumental music without any title,
when my own sister (my wolf sister!) does not appreciate such a title?
Or did you really never hear of this beautiful fish? But when I remember
how you might grumble at me for waiting till _April_, to grumble at your
letter of _February_, I plead guilty and apologize. I wrote this
overture for an opera of Conradin Kreuzer’s, which I saw this time last
year in the Königstadt Theatre. The overture (I mean Kreuzer’s) was
encored, and I disliked it exceedingly, and the whole opera quite as
much; but not Mlle. Hähnel, who was very fascinating, especially in one
scene, where she appeared as a mermaid combing her hair; this inspired
me with the wish to write an overture which the people might not
_encore_, but which would cause them more solid pleasure; so I selected
the portion of the subject that pleased me (exactly corresponding with
the legend), and, in short, the overture came into the world, and this
is its pedigree.
You intend, no doubt, to take me to task also on account of the
four-part songs in my “Volks Lieder,” but I have a good deal of
experience on this point. It seems to me the only mode in which _Volks
Lieder_ ought to be written; because every pianoforte accompaniment
instantly recalls a room and a music desk, and also because four voices
can give a song of this kind in greater simplicity without an
instrument; and if _that_ reason be too æsthetic, then accept _this_
one, that I was anxious to write something of the kind for Woringen, who
sings these things enchantingly. Seriously, however, I find that the
four-part songs do “suit the text (as a _Volks Lied_) and also my
conception,” and so you see we differ very widely.
By the bye, I quite forgot to say that I wished to introduce a
wood-demon into the “Passion.” It is a good idea. Don’t whisper it to
any one, or to a certainty they will really attempt it next year; and
Pölchau declares the Romans were familiar with them, under the name of
_diabolus nemoris_. Only fancy, they have sent me my Academy patent in a
formidable red case (carriage paid), and in it a very ancient statute of
the “Academy for the fine arts and mechanical sciences,” along with a
complimentary letter, hoping I would return to Berlin, where my
“productions” were as highly prized as elsewhere. An excellent reason;
had they only said “because, respected Sir, you can nowhere feel so
happy as in the Leipziger Strasse, No. 3,” or even given any hint about
parents and brother and sisters,--but not a word of this!
One of my Düsseldorf troubles is at this moment beginning; I mean my
next-door neighbour, who has placed her piano against the wall just on
the other side of mine, and to my sorrow practises two hours a day,
making every day the same mistakes, and playing all Rossini’s airs in
such a desperately slow, phlegmatic _tempo_, that I certainly must have
played her some malicious trick, had it not occurred to me that she was
probably at all hours more tormented by my piano than I by hers. Then I
sometimes hear the teacher or the mother, (I can’t tell which,) strike
the right note distinctly seventeen times in succession; and when she is
playing at sight, and gradually out of the darkness developes some old
barrel-organ tune, which could be recognized by a single note,--it is
hard to bear. I know all her pieces by heart now, the moment she strikes
the first chord.--Farewell, dear Sister, ever your
FELIX.
TO HIS MOTHER.
Düsseldorf, May 23rd, 1834.
... Yesterday week I drove with the two Woringens to Aix-la-Chapelle, as
a ministerial order was issued, only five days before the festival,
sanctioning the celebration of Whitsunday, and expressed in such a
manner that it is probable the same permission may be given next year
also. The diligence was eleven hours on the journey, and I was
shamefully impatient, and downright cross when we arrived. We went
straight to the rehearsal, and, seated in the pit, I heard a movement or
two from “Deborah;” on which I said to Woringen, “I positively will
write to Hiller from here, for the first time for two years, because he
has performed his office so well.” For really his work was unpretending
and harmonious, and subordinate to Handel, from whom he had cut out
nothing, so I was rejoiced to see that others are of my opinion, and act
accordingly. In the first tier was seated a man with a moustache,
reading the score; and when, after the rehearsal, he went downstairs,
and I was coming up, we met in the passage, and who should stumble right
into my arms but Ferdinand Hiller, who almost hugged me to death for
joy. He had come from Paris to hear the oratorio, and Chopin had left
his scholars in the lurch, and come with him, and thus we met again. I
had now my full share of delight in the Musical Festival, for we three
lived together, and got a private box in the theatre (where the oratorio
is performed), and of course next morning we betook ourselves to the
piano, where I had the greatest enjoyment. They have both improved much
in execution, and, as a pianist, Chopin is now one of the very first of
all. He produces new effects, like Paganini on his violin, and
accomplishes wonderful passages, such as no one could formerly have
thought practicable. Hiller, too, is an admirable player--vigorous, and
yet playful. Both, however, rather toil in the Parisian spasmodic and
impassioned style, too often losing sight of time and sobriety and of
true music; I, again, do so perhaps too little,--thus we all three
mutually learn something and improve each other, while I feel rather
like a school-master, and they a little like _mirliflors_ or
_incroyables_. After the festival we travelled together to Düsseldorf,
and passed a most agreeable day there, playing and discussing music;
then I accompanied them yesterday to Cologne. Early this morning they
went off to Coblenz _per_ steam,--I in the other direction,--and the
pleasant episode was over.
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING, DESSAU.
Düsseldorf, July 15th, 1834.
Dear Schubring,
It is now nearly a year since I ought to have written to you. I shall
not attempt to ask your forgiveness at all, for I am too much to blame,
or to excuse myself, for I could not hope to do so. How it occurred I
cannot myself understand. Last autumn, when I first established myself
here, I got your letter with the notices for “St. Paul;” they were the
best contributions I had yet received, and that very same forenoon I
began to ponder seriously on the matter, took up my Bible in the midst
of all the disorder of my room, and was soon so absorbed in it, that I
could scarcely force myself to attend to other works which I was
absolutely obliged to finish. At that time I intended to have written to
you instantly, to thank you cordially for all you had done; then it
occurred to me it would be better to wait till I could tell you that the
work was fairly begun, and when I really did commence in spring, so many
anxieties about my composition ensued, that they unsettled me. To-day,
however, I cannot rest satisfied with merely thinking of you, but must
write and ask how you and yours are? for I know that since then you
have had an increase to your family; it was scarcely fair in you not to
write me a single word on the subject, nor even to send me a formal
card, but to allow me to hear of the event by chance, through a third
person; for, though I grant that I well deserved this, still a pastor
like you should be the last to take revenge on any one, or to bear them
a grudge. Now pray don’t do so with me, and let me hear something of
you.
Your contributions for “St. Paul” were admirable, and I made use of them
all without exception; it is singular, and good, that, in the course of
composition, all the passages that from various reasons I formerly
wished to transpose or to alter, I have replaced exactly as I find them
in the Bible--it is always the best of all; more than half of the first
part is ready, and I hope to finish it in autumn, and the whole in
February. How are you now living in Dessau? I hope you will be able to
say, “Just as we used to do.” No doubt you retain your enjoyment of
life, and your cheerfulness, and still play the piano, and still love
Sebastian Bach, and are still what you always were. I ought not to feel
such anxiety on the subject, but we are surrounded here by disagreeable
specimens of pastors, who embitter every pleasure, either of their own
or of others; dry, prosaic pedants, who declare that a concert is a sin,
a walk frivolous and pernicious, but a theatre the lake of brimstone
itself, and the whole spring, with its leaves and blossoms and bright
weather, a Slough of Despond. You have no doubt heard of the Elberfeld
tenets; but when in contact with them, they are still worse, and most
grievous to witness. The most deplorable thing is the arrogance with
which such people look down on others, having no belief in any goodness
but their own.
Our musical life here goes on slowly, but still it does go on. This
summer we executed in church a Mass of Beethoven, one of Cherubini, and
cantatas of Sebastian Bach, an “Ave Maria” from “Verleih’ uns Frieden,”
and next month we are to give Handel’s “Te Deum” (Dettingen).
Of course there is yet much to be wished for, but still we hear these
works, and both the performance and the performers will be gradually
improved by them. Hauser, in Leipzig, has arranged the score (from
manuscript parts) of a cantata in E minor of Sebastian Bach, which is
one of the finest things of his I know. When I can find an opportunity,
I will send you a copy of it, but now my paper and my letter are done.
Farewell, my dear friend, and write soon.--Your
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO I. FÜRST, BERLIN.
Düsseldorf, July 20th, 1834.
Dear Fürst,
I know only too well, that I have neither written to you, nor thanked
you, since I received your passages for “St. Paul,”[13] but I assure you
that every day, when I return to my work, I do feel sincerely grateful
to you. I certainly, however, ought to have written, for if the work,
which since the spring entirely absorbs and monopolizes me, turns out
good, I shall have chiefly to thank your friendly aid for it, because I
never otherwise could have procured the groundwork of the text. When I
am composing, I usually look out the Scriptural passages myself, and
thus you will find that much is simpler, shorter, and more compressed,
than in your text; whereas at that time I could not get words enough,
and was constantly longing for more. Since I have set to work, however,
I feel very differently, and I can now make a selection. The first part
will probably be finished next month, and the whole, I think, by
January. Since last autumn, when I came here, I have written many other
works which brought me into a happy vein, and I cannot wish for a more
agreeable position than mine here, where I have both leisure in
abundance, and a cheerful frame of mind, and so I succeed better than
formerly.
This is, indeed, a pleasant, concentrated life, but still not so much so
as you may perhaps imagine, for, unluckily, just as I came here,
Immermann and Schadow, whose combined efforts first imparted life and
animation to this place, had a violent quarrel; aggravated still
further by religious, political grounds, and by wranglings,
misunderstandings, and petulance. As I live in the same house with
Schadow, and am engaged along with Immermann in regulating the new
theatre, I do all I can to smooth over matters; but in vain, which is a
great misfortune. When, however, this is rectified (and, in spite of
everything, I do not despair of it), then all will be delightful, for
the way in which we young people associate is really enjoyable. The
painters are entirely devoid of the slightest arrogance or envy, and
live together in true friendship, and among them are some of the most
admirable persons, who are examples to the others, such as Hildebrand,
and Bendemann, and between them the [Greek: daimonios]--the tall, quiet
Lessing. All this is cheering, and if you could only hear in our church
music the bass of the choir, it would do your heart good to see one
capital fellow of a painter standing next another, and all shouting like
demons. This very morning we had some very good music in the church, in
which all took part; and when Immermann gives a new piece, they paint
the decorations for it gratis, and when they have a feast, he composes a
poem for them, which I set to music,--and all this is pleasant, and in
good-fellowship.
But there is a fair to-day, which means that the whole of Düsseldorf are
drinking wine,--not as if this were not the case every day, but they
walk about besides; not as if they did not do this also every day, but
they dance besides (in this frightful heat), and shout, and get tipsy;
and wild beasts are exhibited, and puppet-shows, and cakes baked in the
public streets. So now you know what a fair means. As a curious
spectator, I must go there late in the evening, but, first, I intend to
plunge into the Rhine with a lot of painters. Farewell, till we meet in
Berlin, in September.--Ever yours,
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO HIS PARENTS.
Düsseldorf, August 4th, 1834.
My dear Parents,
For a week past, during which we have had heavy storms and a very sultry
atmosphere, I felt so jaded that I was unable to do anything all day
long; more especially I cannot compose, which vexes me exceedingly. I
seem to care for nothing beyond eating and sleeping, and perhaps bathing
and riding. My horse is a favourite with all my acquaintances, and
deserves their respect from his good temper, but he is very shy; and
when I was riding him lately during a storm, every flash made him start
so violently, that I felt quite sorry for him. Lately we made an
excursion on horseback to Saarn, for Madame T----’s birthday, which was
celebrated by wreaths of flowers, fireworks, shooting, a large society,
a ball, etc. etc. The route was as charming as ever, though different
from what it was in spring; the apple-tree in the bowling-green, which
was then in blossom, was now loaded with unripe green apples; and
sometimes I was able to ride across the stubble fields, and to get into
the thick shady wood by a side path. We met several _diligences_ at the
very same places, and even the very same flocks of sheep, and there was
the same noisy, merry life going on in the blacksmith’s forge; and a
burgher in Rathingen was shaving himself just the same, thus reviving my
old philosophy, which you, dear Father, always ignore.
The next day I rode on to Werden, a charming retired spot, where I
wished to inquire about an organ; the whole party drove with me there;
cherry tarts were handed to me on horseback out of the carriages. We
dined in the open air at Werden; I played fantasias and Sebastian Bachs
on the organ to my heart’s content; then I bathed in the Ruhr, so cool
in the evening breeze that it was quite a luxury, and rode quietly back
to Saarn. The bathing in the Ruhr was peculiarly agreeable; first of
all, a spot close to the water with high grass, in which large hewn
stones were lying, as if placed there by some Sultan to shade him and
his clothes; then close to the shore the water comes up to your chin,
and the green hills opposite were brightly lighted up by the evening
sun; and the little stream flowing very quietly along, and so cool and
shady. I felt myself in Germany indeed when, as I was swimming across,
a man on the opposite bank suddenly stood still, and began a regular
conversation with me while I lay in the water puffing,--whether I could
touch the ground where I was? and if swimming was very difficult? Then,
too, I felt myself, alas! quite in Germany when the wife of the
organist, to whom I paid a visit, offered me a glass of _schnapps_, and
regretted so much that her husband was absent just at this time, for he
had so many enemies, who all maintained that he could not play the
organ, and he might have played to me, and then by my judgment (like
Solomon) I could have put to shame all these talkers. Wrangling and
discord are to be found everywhere. A handsome new organ has just been
put up at considerable expense in a large roomy choir, and there is no
way to reach it but by narrow dark steps, without windows, like those in
a poultry-yard, and where you may break your neck in seventeen different
places; and on my asking why this was, the clergyman said it had been
left so purposely, in order to prevent any one who chose, running up
from the church to see the organ. Yet, with all their cunning, they
forget both locks and keys: such traits are always painful to me.
The evening before this Saarn excursion (a week since) I had a very
great pleasure. I had received the proof-sheets of my rondo in E flat,
from Leipzig, and as I was unwilling to have it published without at
least trying it over once with the orchestra, I invited all our
musicians here to come to the music hall, and played it over with them.
As I could not offer them any payment for this, which they would have
taken highly amiss, I gave them a _souper_ of roast veal and
bread-and-butter, and let them get as tipsy as they could desire. This
was not, however, the great pleasure I alluded to, but my overture to
“Melusina,” which was played there for the first time, and pleased me
extremely. In many pieces I know from the very beginning that they will
sound well, and be characteristic, and so it was with this one as soon
as the clarionet started off into the first bar. It was badly played,
and yet I derived more pleasure from it than from many a finished
performance, and came home at night with a gladness of heart that I have
not known for a long time. We played it over three times, and the third
time, immediately after the last soft chord, the trumpets broke in with
a flourish in my honour, which had a most laughable effect. It was very
pleasant too when we were all seated at dinner, and one of the company
commenced a long oration, with an introduction and all sorts of things,
but, beginning to flounder, he wound up by giving my health, on which
the trumpet and trombone players jumped up like maniacs, and ran off for
their instruments to give me another grand flourish; then I made a
vigorous speech, worthy of Sir Robert Peel, in which I strongly enforced
unity, and Christian love, and steady time, and with a toast to the
progress of music at Düsseldorf I closed my oration. Then they sang
four-part songs, and, among others, one that I gave to Woringen last
year at the Musical Festival, called “Musikanten-prügelei,” the
transcriber (one of the players and singers present) having copied it
for his own benefit at the time, and coolly produced it on this
occasion, which, indeed, I could not myself help laughing at. Then they
all vowed that this was the most delightful evening of their whole
lives; then they began to wrangle again a little, as a proof of the
strong effect my Peel speech had made on them; then the sober ones of
the party, _videlicet_, fat Schirmer and I, pacified them once more, and
towards midnight we separated; they having enjoyed the wine, and I still
more “the lovely Melusina,” and next morning at six o’clock I was on
horseback on my way to Saarn. A couple of charming days they were!
Dear Mother, I saw the Queen of Bavaria, but not in state. I was seated
in a boat, and just going to jump into the Rhine with two friends, when
her Majesty arrived in her steamboat. As none of us possessed any
swimming attire, so were not in a very fit state to appear at Court, we
sprang just _a tempo_ into the water as she came nearer, and thence saw
all the ceremonies, and how Graf S---- presented the clergy and the
Generals, and how the _senatus populusque Düsseldorfiensis_ stood on
shore and made music. I had no opportunity of seeing the Queen again;
but now I must really conclude having gossiped at a great rate.
Farewell, my dear parents!
FELIX M. B.
TO PASTOR SCHUBRING, DESSAU.
Düsseldorf, August 6th, 1834.
How could you for one moment imagine that I was annoyed by your showing
the text to Schneider? Why should I take umbrage at that? I hope you do
not consider me one of those who, when once they have an idea in their
heads, guard it as jealously as a miser does his gold, and allow no man
to approach till they produce it themselves. There is certainly nothing
actually wrong in this, and yet such jealous solicitude is most odious
in my eyes; and even if it were to occur, that some one should
plagiarize my design, still I should feel the same; for one of the two
must be best, which is all fair, or neither are good, and then it is of
no consequence. Moreover, I feel very melancholy to-day, and indeed for
some days past have been lying here, completely knocked up and unable to
write a line, whether from feverishness or the sultriness of the
weather, or from what I know not. The first part of “St. Paul” is now
nearly completed, and I stand before it ruminating like a cow who is
afraid to go through a new door, and I never seem to finish it; indeed,
the overture is still wanting, and a heavy bit of work it will be.
Immediately after the Lord’s words to St. Paul on his conversion I have
introduced a great chorus, “Arise and go into the city” (Acts of the
Apostles, ix. 6), and this I, as yet, consider the best moment of the
first part.
I don’t know what to say as to your opinion of X----. I think you are
rather hard on him, and yet there is a good deal of truth in what you
assert too, and quite in accordance with what I find in his
compositions. But my belief is, that you do him great injustice in
pronouncing him to be a flatterer, as he never _intends_ to flatter, but
always fully believes in the truth and propriety of what he is saying;
but when such an excitable temperament is not mitigated by some
definite, energetic, and creative powers, or when it can bring forth
nothing but a momentary assimilation to some foreign element, then it is
indeed unfortunate; and I almost begin to fear that this is his case,
for his compositions I exceedingly disapprove of. For a long time past I
have reluctantly come to this conclusion, and it pained me as much to
admit the truth of it to myself, as to you now.
I grieve also to hear what you write to me of the ---- family, for I
know no feeling more distressing than that of having enemies, and yet it
seems impossible to be avoided; at all events, I can say, to my great
joy, that even now, when I am brought into contact (and disagreeable
contact too) with so many different people, no one can say that there is
one single person with whom I am not on friendly terms, if they will at
all permit me to be so; and I don’t doubt that it is the same in your
case.