criticisms; for though I am not myself director, I am what is still
worse, a kind of Honorary Intendant (or whatever you choose to call it)
of the new theatre here _in spe_, and therefore my official zeal prompts
me take up the cause of the stage. But to speak seriously, I am by no
means of your opinion that the theatre is pernicious to three-fourths of
mankind, and I believe that those who are injured by it would find the
same detriment, or perhaps worse, elsewhere, without any theatre. For
there at least we do not find the vapid reality that exists in the
world; and, as a general rule, I do not consider anything wrong in
itself, because it _may_ possibly lead to bad results, but only when it
_must_ inevitably produce them; in a theatrical public, such as you
describe, there are only depraved people, and no healthy ones who visit
the theatre to see a piece as a work of art. I know that to myself it
always was either tiresome or elevating (more commonly the former, I
own), but _pernicious_ it never appeared to me; and to prohibit it on
that account ... but this would involve a wide sphere and a very serious
subject, and politics, tiresome as they are, must have their say in the
matter; and all this cannot be thoroughly discussed in so small a sheet
of paper as this: perhaps in conversation,--but scarcely even then.
I intended to have sent you some of my works, but prefer doing so from
Berlin; the “Meeresstille” I have entirely remodelled this winter, and
think it is now some thirty times better. I have also some new songs and
pieces for the piano. You say that the newspapers extol me; this is
always very gratifying, though I seldom read them, either the musical
ones or any others; only occasionally English papers, in which there are
some good articles; but my paper is becoming by degrees shorter and
shorter, so my letter is done. Farewell.--Your
FELIX M. B.
TO HIS MOTHER.
Düsseldorf, November 4th, 1834.
Dear Mother,
At last I have leisure to thank you for your kind letters; you know the
great delight your writing always causes me, and I would fain hope that
it does not fatigue you, for you write in as distinct and classical
characters at the end of the letter as at the beginning of the first
line, as you always do; therefore I do entreat you frequently to bestow
this pleasure on me; that I am truly grateful for it you will readily
believe.
You always take me at once back to my own home, and while I am reading
your letters I am there once more; I am in the garden rejoicing in the
summer; I visit the Exhibition, and dispute with you about Bendemann’s
small picture; I rally Gans on his satisfaction at being invited by
Metternich, and almost think I am again paying court to the pretty
Russians. To be thus transported home is most pleasant to me just at
this time, when, during the last few weeks, I have been fuming and
fretting in a rare fashion at Düsseldorf and its art doings, and Rhenish
_soaring impulses_, and new efforts! I had fallen into a terrible state
of confusion and excitement, and felt worse than during my busiest time
in London. When I sat down to my work in the morning, at every bar there
was a ringing at the bell; then came grumbling choristers to be snubbed,
stupid singers to be taught, seedy musicians to be engaged; and when
this had gone on the whole day, and I felt that all these things were
for the sole benefit and advantage of the Düsseldorf theatre, I was
provoked; at last, two days ago, I made a _salto mortale_, and beat a
retreat out of the whole affair, and once more feel myself a man. This
resignation was a very unpleasant piece of intelligence for our
theatrical autocrat, _alias_ stage mufti; he compressed his lips
viciously, as if he would fain eat me up; however, I made a short and
very eloquent speech to the Director, in which I spoke of my own
avocations as being of more consequence to me than the Düsseldorf
theatre, much as I, etc.: in short, they let me off, on condition that I
would occasionally conduct; this I promised, and this I will certainly
perform. I began a letter to Rebecca long ago, containing the details
of three weeks in the life of a Düsseldorf Intendant, which I have not
yet finished, and I upbraid myself for it.
I have just arrived at that point with “St. Paul” when I should be so
glad to play it over to some one, but I can find no eligible person. My
friends here are very enthusiastic with regard to it, but this does not
prove much in its favour. The _cantor_[14] is wanting, with her thick
eyebrows and her criticism. I have the second part now nearly all in my
head, up to the passage where they take Paul for Jupiter, and wish to
offer sacrifices to him, for which some five choruses must be found, but
as yet I have not the faintest conception what ... it is difficult. You
ask me, dear Mother, whether I have made any arrangements with
publishers in Leipzig; Breitkopf and Härtel lately informed me that they
would purchase every work I chose to publish, and also a future edition
of my collected works, (does not that sound very grand?) and mention
that they have been very much annoyed by an announcement of another
publisher. So you see possibly I may oblige these people! Besides this,
I have had six applications for my music from other publishers in
various places. This savours rather of _renommage_, but I know you like
to read of such things, and will forgive me for it.
TO FANNY HENSEL, BERLIN.
Düsseldorf, November 14th, 1834.
My dear Fanny,
May every happiness attend you on this day, and in the year about to
commence, and may you love me as well as ever. I should like this year
also to have sent you some piece or other, underneath which I could have
written November 14th, but the “weeks of the life of an Intendant” have
swallowed up everything, and I am only slowly becoming myself again. A
few days ago I sketched the overture of “St. Paul,” and thought I should
at least contrive to get it finished, but it is still a long way behind.
If we could only be together now, in the evening, at all events; for
when candles are lighted I feel a much greater longing to be at home
than in the morning; and now here are candles, and the days from
November 11th and December 11th, up to Christmas and the New Year,[15]
are certainly not the best to be far from home, even if the evenings
were not so long. But we must be very busy, and next summer set off on
our travels again, and visit each other. My wish at this moment is, that
the time were come!
I wonder what you are doing this evening? Music and society? or the
Government newspaper read aloud? (in which, I am told, Hensel’s school
is much extolled, and considered in many respects preferable to ours
here!)
But, my birthday child! we are not likely to agree on this occasion in
our opinions about pictures; for one of the most repugnant to my
feelings that I ever saw was that of S----. When a work of art aspires
to represent factitious misery, like the famine in the wilderness, I
take no interest in it, if ever so well painted--which this is not. The
whole thing seems to me nothing but a variation on Lessing’s “Royal
Pair,” only this time with dead horses. The tone of art in it is very
commonplace, and even if decked out twenty times over with bright
colours, that does not make it better! I don’t at all approve, either,
of your taking the opportunity of hearing Lafont to speak of the
_revolution_ in the violin since Paganini, for I don’t admit that any
such thing exists in art, but only in people themselves; and I think
that very same style would have displeased you in Lafont, if you had
heard him _before_ Paganini’s appearance, so you must not, on the other
hand, do less justice to his good qualities _after_ hearing the other. I
was lately shown a couple of new French musical papers, where they
allude incessantly to a _révolution du goût_ and a musical transition,
which has been taking place for some years past, in which I am supposed
to play a fine part; this is the sort of thing I do detest. Then I think
that I must be industrious, and work hard, “above all, hate no man and
leave the future to God,”--finish the oratorio completely by March,
compose a new A minor symphony and a pianoforte concerto, and then set
off again on my travels and visit No. 3, Leipziger Strasse. My second
concert took place yesterday, and afterwards a fashionable _soirée_,
with no end of Excellencies and fine titles. The day after to-morrow I
am again to conduct “Oberon,” and shall drive on the orchestra full cry,
like an evil spirit. I have fallen into a very splenetic tone, by no
means in keeping with a birthday tone, but I now resume the latter, and
wish you all possible good fortune; and may 1835 prove a happy year to
you, and may you, and all at home, thoroughly enjoy the day.--Your
FELIX.
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.
DÜSSELDORF, NOVEMBER 23RD, 1834.
My dear, dear Rebecca,
Can I still expect you to read anything that I write? I have been
remiss, very remiss, in fact behaved shamefully, and I heartily wish it
were not so; but I can’t help it now! Would that I had an opportunity to
make up for it; but unluckily this is not the case; I can therefore only
say that I hope I am still in your good graces, and that I was very
foolish. I ought indeed to have said this to you long since, but I could
not, for I was resolved to write you a long confidential letter the
first day I could find leisure, and this is the very first leisure day.
Now that it is getting dark, and the shutters closed, and lights
brought in at five o’clock, I thought that I must write to you, and, as
it were, pull your door bell and ask if you are at home. Do look kindly
on me.
How things have been going on with me for some time past it would not be
easy to say, all has been so detestable. But you really must listen to a
little grumbling from me, that you may never take it into your head to
become director of a theatre, nor to permit any one belonging to you to
accept the office of an intendant. Immediately on my return here[16] the
Intendant breezes were wafted towards me. In the statute it is set
forth:--The _intendancy_ is to consist of an intendant and a music
director. The Intendant proposed that I should be the musical intendant,
and he the theatrical intendant. Then the question arose, which was to
take precedence of the other; so here was forthwith a fine piece of
work. I wished to do nothing but conduct and direct the musical studies,
but this was not enough for Immermann. We exchanged desperately uncivil
letters, in which I was obliged to be very circumspect in my style, in
order to leave no point unanswered, and to maintain my independent
ground and basis; but I think I did credit to Herr Heyse.[17] We came to
an agreement after this, but quarrelled again immediately, for he
required me to go to Aix, to hear and to engage a singer there, and this
I did not choose to do. Then I was desired to engage an orchestra,--that
is, prepare two contracts for each member, and previously fight to the
death about a dollar more or less of their monthly salary; then they
went away, then they came back and signed all the same, then they all
objected to sit at the second music desk, then came the aunt of a very
wretched performer, whom I could not engage, and the wife and two little
children of another miserable musician, to intercede with the Director;
then I allowed three fellows to play on trial, and they played so
utterly beneath contempt that I really could not agree to take any of
them; then they looked very humble, and went quietly away, very
miserable, having lost their daily bread; then came the wife again, and
wept. Out of thirty persons there was only one who said at once, “I am
satisfied,” and signed his contract; all the others bargained and
haggled for an hour at least, before I could make them understand that I
had a _prix fixe_. The whole day I was reminded of my father’s proverb,
“Asking and bidding make the sale;” but they were four of the most
disagreeable days I ever passed. On the fourth, Klingemann arrived in
the morning, saw the state of things, and was horrified. In the meantime
Rietz studied the “Templar,” morning and evening; the choruses got
drunk, and I was forced to speak with authority; then they rebelled
against the manager, and I was obliged to shout at them like the Boots
at an inn; then Madame Beutler became hoarse, and I was very anxious on
her account (a new sort of anxiety for me, and a most odious one); then
I conducted Cherubini’s “Requiem” in the church, and this was followed
by the first concert. In short, I made up my mind to abdicate my
Intendant throne three weeks after the reopening of the theatre. The
affair goes on quite as well as we could expect in Düsseldorf: Rietz’s
playing is admirable,--he is studious, accurate, and artistic, so that
he is praised and liked by every one. The operas we have hitherto given
are, the “Templar” twice, “Oberon” twice, which I conducted, “Fra
Diavolo,” and yesterday the “Freischütz.” We are about to perform the
“Entführung,” the “Flauto Magico,” the “Ochsenmenuett,” the “Dorf
Barbier,” and the “Wasserträger.” The operas are well attended, but not
the plays, so that the shareholders are sometimes rather uneasy; five of
the company up to this time have actually run away, two of them being
members of the orchestra.
The Committee gave a supper to the company, which was very dull, and
cost each member of the Council (including myself) eleven dollars; but
pray refrain from all tokens of sympathy, in case of causing my tears to
flow afresh. But since I have withdrawn from this sphere, I feel as if I
were a fish thrown back into the water; my forenoons are once more at my
own disposal, and in the evenings I can sit at home and read. The
oratorio daily causes me more satisfaction, and I have also composed
some new songs; the Vocal Association gets on well, and we intend
shortly to give the “Seasons,” with a full orchestra. I mean soon to
publish six preludes and fugues, two of which you have already seen;
this is the sort of life I like to lead, but not that of an intendant.
How vexatious it is, that at the close of such well-spent days we cannot
all assemble together to enjoy each other’s society![18]
I enclose my translation of “Alexander’s Feast;” you must read it aloud
to the family in the evening, and in various passages where the rhymes
are rugged or deficient, if you will let me have your amendments I shall
be grateful. One stipulation, however, I must make, that Ramler, or
rather, I should say, the English text, should not be sacrificed.
_Apropos_, since then I have once more mounted Pegasus, and translated
Lord Byron’s poem, the first strophe of which, by Theremin, is
incomprehensible, and the second false. I find, however, that my lines
halt a little; perhaps, some evening, you may discover something better.
Schlafloser Augensonne, heller Stern!
Der du mit thränenvollem Schein, unendlich fern,
Das Dunkel nicht erhellst, nur besser zeigst,
O wie du ganz des Glücks Erinn’rung gleichst!
So funkelt längst vergangner Freuden Licht,
Es scheint, doch wärmt sein matter Schimmer nicht,
Der wache Gram erspäht die Nachtgestalt,
Hell, aber fern, klar--aber ach! wie kalt!
The poem is very sentimental, and I think I should have set it to music
repeatedly in G sharp minor or B major, (but, at all events, with no end
of sharps,) had it not occurred to me that the music of Löwe pleases
you and Fanny; so this prevents my doing so, and there is an end of it,
and of my letter also. Adieu, love me as ever.--Your
FELIX.
TO CARL KLINGEMANN, LONDON.
Düsseldorf, December 16th, 1834.
... So now in these lines you have read my whole life and occupations
since I came here; for that I am well and happy, and often think of you,
is included in them, and that I am also diligent and working hard at
many things, is the natural result. I really believe that Jean Paul,
whom I am at this moment reading with intense delight, has also some
influence in the matter, for he invariably infects me for at least half
a year with his strange peculiarities. I have been reading ‘Fixlein’
again; but my greatest pleasure in doing so, is the remembrance of the
time when I first became acquainted with it, by your reading it aloud to
me beside my sick-bed, when it did me so much good. I also began
‘Siebenkäs’ again, for the first time for some years, and have read from
the close of the prologue to the end of the first part, and am quite
enchanted with this noble work. The prologue itself is a masterpiece
such as no one else could write, and so it is with the whole book, the
friends, and the school-inspector, and Lenette. It revives my love for
my country, and makes me feel proud of being a German, although in
these days they all abuse each other. Yet such people do sometimes rise
to the surface, and I do believe that no country can boast of such a
sterling fellow as this.
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.
Düsseldorf, December 23rd, 1834.
Dear Rebecca,
Why should we not, like established correspondents, exchange repeated
letters on any particular subject about which we differ? I on my part
will represent a methodical correspondent, and must absolutely resume
the question of _révolution_. This is chiefly for Fanny’s benefit, but
are not you identical? Can you not therefore discuss the subject
together, and answer me together, if you choose? And have I not pondered
and brooded much over this theme since I got your letter, which now
prompts me to write? You must, however, answer me in due form, till not
one jot or tittle more remains to be said in favour of _révolution_.
Observe, I think that there is a vast distinction between reformation or
reforming, and revolution, etc. Reformation is that which I desire to
see in all things, in life and in art, in politics and in street
pavement, and Heaven knows in what else besides. Reformation is entirely
negative against abuses, and only removes what obstructs the path; but a
revolution, by means of which all that was formerly good (and really
good) is no longer to continue, is to me the most intolerable of all
things, and is, in fact, only a fashion. Therefore, I would not for a
moment listen to Fanny, when she said that Lafont’s playing could
inspire no further interest since the _revolution_ effected by Paganini;
for if his playing ever had the power to interest me, it would still do
so, even if in the meantime I had heard the Angel Gabriel on the violin.
It is just this, however, that those Frenchmen I alluded to can form no
conception of; that what is good, however old, remains always new, even
although the present must differ from the past, because it emanates from
other and dissimilar men. _Inwardly_ they are only ordinary men like the
former, and have only _outwardly_ learned that something new must come,
so they strive to accomplish this, and if they are even moderately
applauded or flattered, they instantly declare that they have effected a
_révolution du goût_. This is why I behave so badly when they do me the
honour (as you call it) to rank me among the leaders of this movement,
when I well know that, for thorough self-cultivation, the whole of a
man’s life is required (and often does not suffice); and also because no
Frenchman, and no newspaper, knows or ever can know what the future is
to give or to bring; and, in order to guide the movements of others, we
must first be in motion ourselves, while such reflections cause us to
look back on the past, not forward. Progress is made by work alone, and
not by talking, which those people do not believe.
But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t suppose that I wish to disown either
reformation or progress, for I _hope_ one day myself to effect a reform
in music; and this, as you may see, is because I am simply a musician,
and I wish to be nothing more. Now answer me, I beg, and preach to me
again.
To-day I have completed and transcribed an entire chorus for “St. Paul.”
I may as well at once reply here to a letter I received this morning,
dictated by my father to Fanny, and to which my mother added a
postscript. First of all, I thank you for writing, and then, dear
Father, I would entreat of you not to withhold from me your advice, as
you say, for it is always clear gain to me; and if I cannot rectify the
old faults, I can at least avoid committing new ones. The non-appearance
of St. Paul at the stoning of Stephen is certainly a blemish, and I
could easily alter the passage in itself; but I could find absolutely no
mode of introducing him at that time, and no words for him to utter in
accordance with the Scriptural narrative; therefore it seemed to me more
expedient to follow the Bible account, and to make Stephen appear alone.
I think, however, that your other censure is obviated by the music; for
the recitative of Stephen, though the words are long, will not occupy
more than two or three minutes, or--_including_ all the choruses--till
his death, about a quarter of an hour; whereas subsequently, at and
after the conversion, the music becomes more and more diffuse, though
the words are fewer.
TO PASTOR BAUER, BESZIG.
Düsseldorf, January 12th, 1835.
[_About a proposal as to some words for sacred music._]
... What I do not understand is the purport--musical, dramatic, or
oratorical, or whatever you choose to call it--that you have in view.
What you mention on the subject--the time before John, and then John
himself, till the appearance of Christ--is to my mind equally conveyed
in the word ‘Advent,’ or the birth of Christ. You are aware, however,
that the music must represent one particular moment, or a succession of
moments; and how you intend this to be done you do not say. Actual
church music,--that is, music during the Evangelical Church service,
which could be introduced properly while the service was being
celebrated,--seems to me impossible; and this, not merely because I
cannot at all see into _which_ part of the public worship this music can
be introduced, but because I cannot discover that _any_ such part
exists. Perhaps you have something to say which may enlighten me on the
subject.... But even without any reference to the Prussian Liturgy,
which at once cuts off everything of the kind, and will neither remain
as it is nor go further, I do not see how it is to be managed that music
in our Church should form an integral part of public worship, and not
become a mere concert, conducive more or less to piety. This was the
case with Bach’s “Passion;” it was sung in church as an independent
piece of music, for edification. As for actual church music, or, if you
like to call it so, music for public worship, I know none but the old
Italian compositions for the Papal Chapel, where, however, the music is
a mere accompaniment, subordinate to the sacred functions, co-operating
with the wax candles and the incense, etc. If it be this style of church
music that you really mean, then, as I said, I cannot discover the
connecting link which would render it possible to employ it. For an
oratorio, one principal subject must be adopted, or the progressive
history of particular persons, otherwise the object would not be
sufficiently defined; for if all is to be only contemplative with
reference to the coming of Christ, then this theme has already been more
grandly and beautifully treated in Handel’s “Messiah,” where he begins
with Isaiah, and, taking the Birth as a central point, closes with the
Resurrection.
When you however say “our poor Church,” I must tell you what is very
strange; I have found, to my astonishment, that the Catholics, who have
had music in their churches for several centuries, and sing a musical
Mass every Sunday if possible, in their principal churches, do not to
this day possess one which can be considered even tolerably good, or in
fact which is not actually distasteful and operatic. This is the case
from Pergolese and Durante, who introduce the most laughable little
trills into their “Gloria,” down to the opera finales of the present
day. Were I a Catholic, I would set to work at a Mass this very evening;
and whatever it might turn out, it would at all events be the only Mass
written with a constant remembrance of its sacred purpose. But for the
present I don’t mean to do this; perhaps at some future day, when I am
older.
TO HERR CONRAD SCHLEINITZ, LEIPZIG.
Düsseldorf, January 26th, 1835.
Sir,