not with those half virtuosos and half classics, who would gladly
combine _les honneurs de la vertu et les plaisirs du vice_, but with one
who has his perfect and well-defined phase; and however far asunder we
may be in our different spheres, still I can get on famously with such a
person; but not with those half-and-half people. Sunday evening was
really very remarkable when Chopin made me play over my oratorio to him,
while curious Leipzigers stole into the room to see him, and when
between the first and second part he dashed into his new Études and a
new concerto, to the amazement of the Leipzigers, and then I resumed my
“St. Paul;” it was just as if a Cherokee and a Kaffir had met to
converse. He has also such a lovely new _notturno_, a considerable part
of which I learnt by ear for the purpose of playing it for Paul’s
amusement. So we got on most pleasantly together; and he promised
faithfully to return in the course of the winter, when I intend to
compose a new symphony, and to perform it in honour of him. We vowed
these things in the presence of three witnesses, and we shall see
whether we both adhere to our word. My collection of Handel’s works
arrived before Chopin’s departure, and were a source of quite childish
delight to him; they really are so beautiful that I am charmed with
them; thirty-two great folios, bound in thick green leather, in the
regular nice English fashion, and on the back, in big gold letters, the
title and contents of each volume; and in the first volume, besides,
there are the following words, “To Director F. M. B., from the Committee
of the Cologne Musical Festival, 1835.” The books were accompanied by a
very civil letter, with the signatures of all the Committee, and on
taking up one of the volumes at random it happened to be “Samson,” and
just at the very beginning I found a grand aria for Samson which is
quite unknown, because Herr von Mosel struck it out, and which yields in
beauty to none of Handel’s; so you see what pleasure is in store for me
in all the thirty-two volumes. You may imagine my delight. Before
setting off on his journey Moscheles came to see me, and during the
first half-hour he played over my second book of “songs without words”
to my extreme pleasure. He is not the least changed, only somewhat older
in appearance, but otherwise as fresh and in as good spirits as ever,
and playing quite splendidly; another kind of perfect virtuoso and
master combined. The rehearsals of the first subscription gradually drew
near, and the day before yesterday my Leipzig music-directorship
commenced. I cannot tell you how much I am satisfied with this
beginning, and with the whole aspect of my position here. It is a quiet,
regular, official business. That the Institute has been established for
fifty-six years is very perceptible, and moreover, the people seem most
friendly and well-disposed towards me and my music. The orchestra is
very good, and thoroughly musical; and I think that six months hence it
will be much improved, for the sympathy and attention with which these
people receive my suggestions, and instantly adopt them, were really
touching in both the rehearsals we have hitherto had; there was as great
a difference as if another orchestra had been playing. There are still
some deficiencies in the orchestra, but these will be supplied by
degrees; and I look forward to a succession of pleasant evenings and
good performances. I wish you had heard the introduction to my
“Meeresstille” (for the concert began with that); there was such
profound silence in the hall and in the orchestra, that the most
delicate notes could be distinctly heard, and they played the adagio
from first to last in the most masterly manner; the allegro not quite so
well; for being accustomed to a slower _tempo_, they rather dragged; but
at the end, where the slow time 4/4 _ff_ begins, they went capitally;
the violins attacking it with a degree of vehemence that quite startled
me and delighted the _publicus_. The following pieces, an air in E major
of Weber, a violin concerto by Spohr, and the introduction to “Ali
Baba” did not go so well; the one rehearsal was not sufficient, and they
were often unsteady; but, on the other hand, Beethoven’s B flat
symphony, which formed the second part, was splendidly given, so that
the Leipzigers shouted with delight at the close of each movement. I
never in any orchestra saw such zeal and excitement; they listened
like--popinjays, Zelter would say.
After the concert I received, and offered in turn, a mass of
congratulations: first the orchestra, then the Thomas School collegians
(who are capital fellows, and go to college, and are dismissed so
punctually that I have promised them an order); then came Moscheles,
with a Court suite of _dilettanti_, then two editors of musical papers,
and so on. Moscheles’ concert is on Friday, and I am to play his piece
for two pianos[23] with him, and he is to play my new pianoforte-concerto.
My “Hebrides” have also contrived to creep into the concert. This
afternoon Moscheles, Clara Wieck, and I, play Sebastian Bach’s triple
concerto in D minor. How amiable Moscheles is towards myself, how
cordially he is interested in my situation here, how it delights me that
he is so satisfied with it, how he plays my rondo in E flat to my great
admiration, and far better than I originally conceived it, and how we
dine together every forenoon in his hotel, and every evening drink tea
and have music in mine,--all this you can imagine for yourself, for you
know him,--especially you, dear Father. These are pleasant days; and if
I have not much leisure to work, I mean to make up for it hereafter, and
shall derive as much benefit from it then as now.
My first concert caused me no perturbation, dear Mother, but to my shame
I confess, that I never felt so embarrassed at the moment of appearing
as on that occasion; I believe it arose from our long correspondence and
treaty on the subject, and I had never before seen a concert of the
kind. The locality and the lights confused me. Now farewell all. May you
be well and happy, and pray write to me very often.--Your
FELIX.
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING, DESSAU.
Leipzig, December 6th, 1835.
Dear Schubring,
You have no doubt heard of the heavy stroke that has fallen on my happy
life and those dear to me.[24] It is the greatest misfortune that could
have befallen me, and a trial that I must either strive to bear up
against, or must utterly sink under. I say this to myself after the
lapse of three weeks, without the acute anguish of the first days, but I
now feel it even more deeply; a new life must now begin for me, or all
must be at an end,--the old life is now severed. For our consolation
and example, our Mother bears her loss with the most wonderful composure
and firmness; she comforts herself with her children and grandchildren,
and thus strives to hide the chasm that never can be filled up. My
Brother and Sisters do what they can to fulfil their duties better than
ever, the more difficult they have become. I was ten days in Berlin,
that by my presence my Mother should at least be surrounded by her whole
family; but I need scarcely tell you what these days were; you know it
well, and no doubt you thought of me in that dark hour. God granted to
my Father the prayer that he had often uttered; his end was as peaceful
and quiet, and as sudden and unexpected as he desired. On Wednesday, the
18th, he was surrounded by all his family, went to bed late the same
evening, complained a little early on Thursday, and at half-past eleven
his life was ended. The physicians can give his malady no name. It seems
that my grandfather Moses died in a similar manner,--so my uncle told
us,--at the same age, without sickness, and in a calm and cheerful frame
of mind. I do not know whether you are aware that more especially for
some years past, my Father was so good to me, so thoroughly my friend,
that I was devoted to him with my whole soul, and during my long absence
I scarcely ever passed an hour without thinking of him; but as you knew
him in his own home with us, in all his kindliness, you can well realize
my state of mind. The only thing that now remains is to do one’s duty,
and this I strive to accomplish with all my strength, for he would wish
it to be so if he were still present, and I shall never cease to
endeavour to gain his approval as I formerly did, though I can no longer
enjoy it. When I delayed answering your letter, I little thought that I
should have to answer it thus; let me thank you for it now, and for all
your kindness. One passage for “St. Paul” was excellent, “der Du der
rechte Vater bist.” I have a chorus in my head for it which I intend
shortly to write down. I shall now work with double zeal at the
completion of “St. Paul” for my Father urged me to it in the very last
letter he wrote to me, and he looked forward very impatiently to the
completion of my work. I feel as if I must exert all my energies to
finish it, and make it as good as possible, and then think that he takes
an interest in it. If any good passages occur to you, pray send them to
me, for you know the intention of the whole. To-day, for the first time,
I have begun once more to work at it, and intend now to do so daily.
When it is concluded, what is to come next, God will direct. Farewell,
dear Schubring, bear me in your thoughts.--Your
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO PASTOR BAUER, BESZIG.
Leipzig, December 9th, 1835.
I received your kind letter here, on the very day when the christening
in your family was to take place, on my return from Berlin, where I had
gone in the hope of alleviating my Mother’s grief, immediately after the
loss of my Father. So I received the intelligence of your happiness, on
again crossing the threshold of my empty room, when I felt for the first
time in my inmost being, what it is to suffer the most painful and
bitter anguish. Indeed the wish which of all others every night recurred
to my mind, was that I might not survive my loss, because I so entirely
clung to my Father, or rather still cling to him, that I do not know how
I can now pass my life, for not only have I to deplore the loss of a
father (a sorrow which of all others from my childhood I always thought
the most acute), but also that of my best and most perfect friend during
the last few years, and my instructor in art and in life.
It seemed to me so strange, reading your letter, which breathed only joy
and satisfaction, calling on me to rejoice with you on your future
prospects, at the moment when I felt that my past was lost and gone for
ever; but I thank you for wishing me, though so distant, to become your
guest at the christening; and though my name may make a graver
impression now than you probably thought, I trust that impression will
only be a grave, and not a painful one, to you and your wife; and when,
in later years, you tell your child of those whom you invited to his
baptism, do not omit my name from your guests, but say to him that one
of them on that day recommenced his life afresh,--though in another
sense, with new purposes and wishes, and with new prayers to God.
My Mother is well, and bears her sorrow with such composure and dignity
that we can all only wonder and admire, and ascribe it to her love for
her children, and her wish for their happiness. As for myself, when I
tell you that I strive to do my duty and thus to win my Father’s
approval now as I always formerly did, and devote to the completion of
“St. Paul,” in which he took such pleasure, all the energies of my mind,
to make it as good as I possibly can; when I say that I force myself to
the performance of my duties here, not to pass quite unprofitably these
first days of sorrow, when to be perfectly idle is most consonant to
one’s feelings; that, lastly, the people here are most kind and
sympathizing, and endeavour to make life as little painful to me as they
can,--you know the aspect of my inner and outer life at this moment.
Farewell.
TO FERDINAND HILLER.
Leipzig, January 24th, 1836.
My dear Ferdinand,
I now send you my promised report of the performance of your D minor
overture, which took place last Thursday evening. It was well executed
by the orchestra; we had studied it repeatedly and carefully, and a
great many of the passages sounded so well as to exceed my expectations.
The most beautiful of all was the first passage in A minor, _piano_,
given by wind instruments, followed by the melody,--which had an
admirable effect; and also at the beginning of the free fantasia, the
_forte_ in G minor, and then the _piano_, (your favourite passage,)
likewise the trombones and wind instruments, _piano_, at the end in D
major. The Finale, too, exceeded my expectations in the orchestra. But,
trusting to our good understanding, I could not resist striking out,
after the first rehearsal, the _staccato_ double-basses in the melody in
A major, and each time the passage recurred in F and D major, replacing
them by sustained notes; you can’t think how confused the effect was,
and therefore I hope you will not take this liberty amiss. I am
convinced you would have done the same; it did not sound as you would
have liked.
I have something else, too, on my conscience that I must tell you. The
Overture neither excited myself nor the musicians during its performance
as I could have wished; it left us rather cold. This would have been of
little consequence, but it was remarkable that all the musicians to whom
I spoke said the same. The first theme and all the beginning, the
melodies in A minor and A major, particularly delighted them; and up to
that point they had all felt enthusiastic, but then their sympathy
gradually subsided; till, when the close came, they had quite forgotten
the striking impression of the theme, and no longer felt any interest in
the music. This seems to me important, for I think it is connected with
the difference which we have so repeatedly discussed together, and the
want of interest with which you at all times regard your art, being now
at length become perceptible to others. I would not say this to you,
were it not that I am perfectly convinced of this being a point which
must be left to each _individual_, as neither nature nor talents, even
of the highest order, can remedy it; a man’s own will alone can do so.
Nothing is more repugnant to me than casting blame on the nature or
genius of any one; it only renders him irritable and bewildered, and
does no good. No man can add one inch to his stature: in such a case all
striving and toiling is vain, therefore it is best to be silent.
Providence is answerable for this defect in his nature. But if it be the
case, as it is with this work of yours, that precisely those very
themes, and all that requires talent or genius (call it as you will), is
excellent and beautiful and touching, but the development not so
good,--then, I think, silence should not be observed; then, I think,
blame can never be unwise, for this is the point where great progress
can be made by the composer himself in his works; and as I believe that
a man with fine capabilities has the absolute duty imposed on him of
becoming something really superior, so I think that blame must be
attributed to him, if he does not develope himself according to the
means with which he is endowed. And I maintain that it is the same with
a musical composition. Do not tell me that it is so, and therefore it
must remain so. I know well that no musician can alter the thoughts and
talents which Heaven has bestowed on him; but I also know that when
Providence grants him superior ones, he _must_ also _develope_ them
properly. Do not declare, either, that we were all mistaken, and that
the execution was as much in fault as the composition. I do not believe
it. I do believe that your talents are such that you are inferior to
_no_ musician, but I scarcely know one piece of yours that is
systematically carried out. The two overtures are certainly your best
pieces, but the more distinctly you express your thoughts, the more
perceptible are the defects, and in my opinion you must rectify them.
Do not ask me how, for that you know best yourself. After all, it is
only the affair of a walk, or a moment,--in short, of a thought. If you
laugh at me for this long lecture, perhaps you may be quite right; but
certainly not so if you are displeased, or bear me a grudge for it;
though indeed it is very stupid in me even to suggest such a
possibility. But how many musicians are there who would permit another
to address them thus? And though you must see in every expression of
mine how much I love and revere your genius, still I have told you that
you are not absolute perfection, and this musicians usually take highly
amiss. But you will not: you know my sincere interest in you too well.
TO FANNY HENSEL, BERLIN.
Leipzig, January 30th, 1836.
Dear Fanny,
To-day at length I can reply to your charming letters, and lecture you
severely for saying in your first letter that it was long since you had
been able to please me by your music, and asking me how this was. I
totally deny this to be the fact, and assure you that all you compose
pleases me. If two or three things in succession did not satisfy me as
entirely as others of yours, I think the ground lay no deeper than this,
that you have written less than in former days, when one or two songs
that did not exactly suit my taste were so rapidly composed, and
replaced so quickly by others, that neither of us considered much why it
was that they were less attractive; we only laughed together about them,
and there was an end of it.
I may quote here “Die Schönheit nicht, O Mädchen,” and many others in
the “_prima maniera_ of our master” which we heartily abused. Then came
beautiful songs in their turn, and so it is at present, only they cannot
follow each other in such quick succession, because you must often now
have other things to occupy your thoughts besides composing pretty
songs, and that is a great blessing. But if you suppose that your more
recent compositions seem to me inferior to your earlier ones, you are
most entirely and totally mistaken, for I know no song of yours better
than the English one in G minor, or the close of the “Liederkreis,” and
many others of later date; besides, you are aware that formerly there
were entire _books_ of your composition that were less acceptable to me
than others, because my nature always was to be a screech-owl, and to
belong to the savage tribe of brothers. But you know well how much I
love _all_ your productions, and some are especially dear to my heart;
so I trust that you will write to me forthwith that you have done me
injustice, by considering me a man devoid of taste, and that you will
never again do so.
And then, neither in this letter nor in your former one do you say one
word about “St. Paul” or “Melusina,” as one colleague should write to
another,--that is, remarks on fifths, rhythm, and motion of the parts,
on conceptions, counterpoint, _et cætera animalia_. You ought to have
done so, however, and should do so still, for you know the value I
attach to this; and as “St. Paul” is shortly to be sent to the
publisher, a few strictures from you would come just at the right
moment. I write to you to-day solely in the hope of soon receiving an
answer from you, for I am very weary and exhausted from yesterday’s
concert, where, in addition to conducting three times, I was obliged to
play Mozart’s D minor concerto. In the first movement I made a
_cadenza_, which succeeded famously, and caused a tremendous sensation
among the Leipzigers. I must write down the end of it for you. You
remember the theme, of course? Towards the close of the cadence,
arpeggios come in _pianissimo_ in D minor, thus--
[Illustration: Musical notation]
Then again G minor arpeggios; then
[Illustration: Musical notation]
Then [Illustration: Musical notation] arpeggios, and
[Illustration: Musical notation]
[Illustration: Musical notation]
etc., to the close in D minor. Our second violin player, an old
musician, said to me afterwards, when he met me in the passage, that he
had heard it played in the same Hall by Mozart himself, but since that
day he had heard no one introduce such good _cadenzas_ as I did
yesterday, which gave me very great pleasure.
Do you know Handel’s “Coronation Anthem”? It is most singular. The
beginning is one of the finest which not only Handel, but any man, ever
composed; and all the remainder, after the first short movement,
horridly dry and commonplace. The performers could not master it, but
are certainly far too busy to grieve much about that.
Many persons here consider “Melusina” to be my best overture; at all
events, it is the most deeply felt; but as to the fabulous nonsense of
the musical papers, about red coral and green sea monsters, and magic
palaces, and deep seas, this is stupid stuff, and fills me with
amazement. But now I take my leave of water for some time to come, and
must see how things are going on elsewhere.[25] I received to-day a
letter from Düsseldorf, with the news of the musical doings there, and a
request to send “St. Paul” soon for the Musical Festival. I cannot deny
that when I read the description of their concerts, and some concert
bills which were enclosed, and realized the state of the musical world
there, I had a most agreeable sensation at my change of position. They
cannot well be compared; for while there they are engaged in perpetual
quarrelling and strife and petty criticisms, here, on the contrary,
during the course of this whole winter, my situation has not caused me
to pass one disagreeable day, or to hear hardly one annoying expression,
while I have enjoyed much pleasure and gratification. The whole
orchestra, and there are some able men among them, strive to guess my
wishes at a glance; they have made the most extraordinary progress in
finish and refinement, and are so devoted to me, that I often feel quite
affected by it.
Would that I were less sad and sorrowful; for sometimes I do not know
what to do, and can only hope that the approaching spring and the warm
weather may cheer me.
I trust you and yours may all continue well and happy, and sometimes
think of me.--Your
FELIX.
TO DR. FREDERICK ROSEN, LONDON,
(PROFESSOR OF ORIENTAL LANGUAGES.)
Leipzig, February 6th, 1836.
My dear Friend,
I had intended writing to you long ago, but have always delayed it till
now, when I am compelled to do so by Klingemann’s announcement that your
‘Vedas’ is finished. I wish therefore to send you my congratulations at
once; and though I understand very little of it, and consequently can
appreciate its merits as little, still I wish you joy of being able to
give to the world a work so long cherished, and so interesting to you,
and which cannot fail to bring you new fame and new delight. And when I
feel how little I, who never learnt the language, can do justice to the
vast circumference of such a work, I may indeed congratulate you on the
fact, that no spurious connoisseurs or _dilettanti_ can grope their way
into your most favourite thoughts, while you must feel the more secure
and tranquil in your own vocation, because arrogant ignorance cannot
presume to attack you behind your bulwarks of quaint letters and
hieroglyphics. They must at least first be able to decipher them
tolerably, before they can attempt to criticize; so you are better off
in this respect than we are, against whom they always appeal to their
own paltry conceptions.
I feel like a person waking drowsily. I cannot succeed in realizing the
present, and there is a constant alternation of my old habitual
cheerfulness and the most heartfelt deep grief, so that I cannot attain
to anything like steady composure of mind. In the meantime, however, I
occupy myself as much as possible, and that is the only thing that does
me good. My position here is of the most agreeable nature,--cordial
people, a good orchestra, the most susceptible and grateful musical
public; only just as much work to do as I like, and an opportunity of
hearing my new compositions at once. I have plenty of pleasant society
besides, so that this would indeed seem to be all that was required to
constitute happiness, were it not deeper seated!
Farewell, dear friend, and do not forget your
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO HIS MOTHER.
Leipzig, February 18th, 1836.
Dear Mother,