So I am said to be a saint! If this is intended to convey what I
conceive to be the meaning of the word, and what your expressions lead
me to think you also understand by it, then I can only say that, alas! I
am not so, though every day of my life I strive with greater
earnestness, according to my ability, more and more to resemble this
character. I know indeed that I can never hope to be altogether a saint,
but if I ever approach to one, it will be well. If people, however,
understand by the word ‘saint’ a Pietist, one of those who lay their
hands on their laps, and expect that Providence will do their work for
them, and who, instead of striving in their vocation to press on towards
perfection, talk of a heavenly calling being incompatible with an
earthly one, and are incapable of loving with their whole hearts any
human being, or anything on earth,--then, God be praised! such a one I
am not, and hope never to become, so long as I live; and though I am
sincerely desirous to live piously, and really to be so, I hope this
does not necessarily entail the other character. It is singular that
people should select precisely _this_ time to say such a thing, when I
am in the enjoyment of so much happiness, both through my inner and
outer life, and my new domestic ties, as well as busy work, that I
really never know how sufficiently to show my thankfulness. And, as you
wish me to follow the path which leads to rest and peace, believe me, I
never expected to live in the rest and peace which have now fallen to my
lot. I offer you a thousand thanks for your good wishes, and beg you not
to be uneasy on either of these points.
It is pleasant to learn what you write to me of yourself and your works,
and that you also are persuaded that what people usually call honour and
fame are but doubtful advantages, while another species of honour, of a
more elevated and spiritual nature, is as essential as it is rare. The
truth of this is best seen in the case of those who possess all possible
worldly distinctions, without deriving from them one moment of real
pleasure, but only causing them the more greedily to crave after them;
and this fact was first made quite evident to me in Paris. I rejoice
that you are not one of those who speak in a contemptuous strain of
French painters, for I have always received great pleasure from the good
ones of the present day, and I cannot believe in the sincerity of those
persons who, at sight of one your pictures, fall into ecstasies, and yet
presume from the height of their throne to look down on one of Horace
Vernet’s. What I mean is, that if one beautiful object pleases the eye,
another cannot fail also to inspire sympathy; at least, so it is with
myself.
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING, DESSAU.
Leipzig, December 6th, 1838.
Dear Schubring,
Along with this you will receive the organ pieces and “Bonifacius” which
I also enclose. Thank you much for the latter, and for the manuscripts
you have from time to time sent me for “Elijah;” they are of the
greatest possible use to me, and though I may here and there make some
alterations, still the whole affair, by your aid, is now placed on a
much firmer footing. With regard to the dramatic element, there still
seems to be a diversity of opinion between us. In such a character as
that of Elijah, like every one in the Old Testament, except perhaps
Moses, it appears to me that the dramatic should predominate,--the
personages should be introduced as acting and speaking with fervour; not
however, for Heaven’s sake, to become mere musical pictures, but
inhabitants of a positive, practical world, such as we see in every
chapter of the Old Testament; and the contemplative and pathetic element
which you desire, must be entirely conveyed to our apprehension by the
words and the mood of the acting personages.
In your “Bonifacius,” for instance, this was a point to which I was by
no means reconciled; in my opinion he ought to have been treated
dramatically throughout, like a theatrical representation (in its best
sense) only without _visible_ action. The Scriptural allusions too
should, according to my idea, be more sparingly introduced, and placed
in his mouth alone. The contrast between this style of language (which
pervades the whole) and that at the coronation, is not sufficiently
equalized. Pepin, and all the pagans, and pagan priests, flit before me
like shadows or misty forms, whereas, to satisfy me, they must be solid,
robust men. Do not be displeased that I send you a bit of criticism
along with my thanks, for such is my insufferable custom. Besides a cold
and cough make me unusually rabid to day. I am now about to set to work
on the “Elijah,” and to plough away at the soil as I best can; if I do
not get on with it, you must come to my aid; and I hope as kindly as
ever, and preserve the same regard for your
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO A. SIMROCK, BONN.
Leipzig, March 4th, 1839.
The manuscripts which I ought to have sent you last year are not yet
finished; I wished to make them as perfect as I could; but for this both
leisure and good humour were requisite, and during the period of
constant concerts these too often failed. Now I hope shortly to complete
the pieces, and thus free myself from debt.
But they are not “songs without words,” for I have no intention of
writing any more of that sort, let the Hamburgers say what they will! If
there were too many such _animalculæ_ between heaven and earth, at last
no one would care about them; and there really is quite a mass of piano
music composed now in a similar style; another chord should be struck, I
say.--I am, with entire esteem, your obedient
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO HIS MOTHER.
Leipzig, March 18th, 1839.
You wish to know how the overture to “Ruy Blas” went off. Famously. Six
or eight weeks since an application was made to me in favour of a
representation to be given for the Theatrical Pension Fund (an excellent
benevolent institution here, for the benefit of which “Ruy Blas” was to
be given). I was requested to compose an overture for it, and the music
of the romance in the piece, for it was thought the receipts would be
better if my name appeared in the bills. I read the piece, which is
detestable, and more utterly beneath contempt than you could believe,
and said, that I had no leisure to write the overture, but I composed
the romance for them. The performance was to take place last Monday
week; on the previous Tuesday the people came to thank me politely for
the romance, and said it was such a pity I had not also written an
overture, but they were perfectly aware that time was indispensable for
such a work, and the ensuing year, if I would permit them, they would
give me longer previous notice. This put me on my mettle. I reflected on
the matter the same evening, and began my score. On Wednesday there was
a concert rehearsal, which occupied the whole forenoon. Thursday the
concert itself, yet the overture was in the hands of the copyist early
on Friday; played three times on Monday in the concert room, tried over
once in the theatre, and given in the evening as an introduction to the
odious play. Few of my works have caused me more amusing excitement. It
is to be repeated, by desire, at the next concert, but I mean to call
it, not the overture to “Ruy Blas,” but to the Theatrical Pension Fund.
TO FANNY HENSEL, BERLIN.
Frankfort, June 18th, 1839.
Dear Fanny,
Give me your best advice! The eccentric Capellmeister Guhr is become my
particular friend, and we are quite inseparable. Lately we were in a
pleasant cordial mood, and I was eagerly questioning him about his
extensive and rare collection of Bach’s works, among which are two
autographs, the choral preludes for the organ, and the “Passecaille,”
with a grand fugue at the end of it,--
[Illustration: musical notation]
when he suddenly said, “I’ll tell you what, you shall have one of these
autographs; I will make you a present of it, for you take as great
delight in them as I do; choose which you prefer,--the preludes or the
‘Passecaille.’” This was really no trifling gift, for I know that he
has been offered a considerable sum of money for these pieces, but he
refused to part with them, and I would myself have paid a good price for
them had they been for sale, and now he freely gives me one; but the
question is, which shall I take? I have by far the strongest inclination
for the preludes, because they begin with the “Altes Jahr,” because they
include other great favourites of mine, and because the “Passecaille”
and the fugue are already published. But you must also have a voice in
the matter, for you will feel no common interest in it. So send me your
vote, _Cantor_!
Is not Guhr a most singular being? and yet I can get on better with him
than with any other of the Frankfort musicians. He enjoys life, and
lives and lets live, but is sharp enough as a director, and beats common
time so distinctly that they cannot fail to play to it, as if they were
in arm-chairs; and my other colleagues here are so desperately
melancholy, and always talking of musical critiques, and recognition,
and flattering testimonials, and constantly thinking about themselves,
and constantly fishing for compliments (but these compliments must be
genuine; they even aspire to outpourings of the heart!). This is both
provoking and sad; and yet (behind people’s backs) they can play as mad
pranks as any one. Much as I like Frankfort for a summer visit, I do not
wish to be settled here as a musician, owing to all the above reasons,
and many others besides.
At the concert of the St. Cecilia Association, where I had an
opportunity of fairly estimating their musical organization, I felt
quite melancholy at the difference between our sense of music in Leipzig
and what was given here; for though it goes on very fairly, and
sometimes sounds well, still, as a rule, it seems as if they were
playing from sheer weariness, or from compulsion, and vastly little of
that zeal and love are apparent in the orchestra which so often prevail
among us. In fact, when I compare the whole elements of the orchestra
here with ours at Leipzig, I feel just as I did when I returned from
Düsseldorf, and thought myself in Paradise. The St. Cecilia Association,
too, has deteriorated, which is not the fault of one person or another,
but of all combined, for the soil here is far from being favourable to
music, though all the better for apples and cherries and wine, and other
good things. I wish you could see the Sachsenhäusen hill at this moment,
with all its ripe cherries and blooming vines! Moreover, there are many
delightful people here, and some among them genuinely musical. For
painting much is done, and it seems to be making real progress. This is
a very different life from what it was three or four years ago when I
was here, and found everything disorganized by discord and strife.
A tolerably good, though not very extensive exhibition of paintings is
just closed, which contained some admirable, and many very pretty
things. This change of tune and subject brings us back to Hensel. When
does he go to England? when does he return? does he take any pictures
with him? and what may they be? are you going to Italy? do I know
anything of anything? I am writing a trio (the first part is finished),
a sonata for the violin (ditto), a symphony (not ditto), and a letter to
you (which is now quite finished). But when will you write to me?--Your
FELIX.
TO CARL KLINGEMANN, LONDON.
Hochheim, near Coblenz, August 1st, 1839.
My dearest Friend,
I earnestly hope that you may fulfil your intention of visiting us late
in the autumn. The time seems to me endless till you become acquainted
with my wife; besides, it is indeed very long since you and I have
conversed in the unreserved confidence of home. When I was in England,
two years ago, my wife kept a small diary, which she began after our
marriage, and every day during my stay in England she left a blank space
in its pages, that I might write the record of my days opposite to hers.
For some time past I have accustomed myself to do this, and entered
every detail minutely into the little green book (you ought to know it,
for you gave it to me in 1832),--the date of Rosen’s death, that of my
visit to Birmingham, etc. Now I have arrived exactly at the
anniversary, and my diary clearly shows me how much I was then out of
sorts, and very different from what I ought to have been. The constant
publicity, the grand scale of things on every side, in fact, everything
around me attracted me less than formerly, and made me feel bewildered
and irritable. May we therefore soon meet in Germany! You certainly
would not enjoy yourself less here after England, and I do delight in
this beautiful country. The summer months I recently passed in Frankfort
have thoroughly refreshed me; in the morning I worked, then bathed or
sketched; in the afternoon I played the organ or the piano, and
afterwards rambled in the forest, then into society, or home, where I
always found the most charming of all society: this was the mode in
which my life was agreeably spent, and you must add to all this the
glorious summer days which followed each other in uninterrupted
succession.
We have now been here nearly a fortnight, and three or four days hence
we intend to go up the Rhine, back to Frankfort, and return to Leipzig
about the middle of the month. Your wish to have X---- in London (though
very natural, I admit), is one in which we do not at all agree, and yet
my reasons are by no means egotistical,--quite the reverse. I am
convinced that it would not be for his benefit, were he to assume a
position in the world which would oblige him to take an interest in so
many things, not only foreign to art, but actually adverse to it. A
certain number of guineas might accrue to him, but no real gain, either
for his happiness or his progress in art. Formerly I used positively to
hate all speculators in art, but now I feel chiefly compassion for them,
because I see so few who are at rest; it is a never-ending strife for
money and fame, and the most superior talents, as well as inferior ones,
join in it. Highly as I esteem X----, I am by no means sure that he
would not make shipwreck on this rock, and even if he did not lose the
brightest part of his genius, he would certainly have to deplore the
best part of his life and happiness; and after all, for what? The
reformation and improvement of individual cities, even were they as
important as London, is in fact either impossible or indifferent; but if
a man only strives thoroughly to perfect his own being, and to purify
himself by degrees from all dross, in acting thus he is working for all
cities alike; and if he does so even in a village, his labours are
certain to make their way into the world, and there to exercise their
due influence. I would rather, therefore, that X---- remained in Germany
wherever music is most appreciated; but you must not ask me where that
is,--whether at Frankfort or Vienna? but it lies in the air no doubt;
therefore I shall always advise his not leaving Germany.
Planché’s work gets on very slowly, and possibly I may have a new
oratorio ready before his text is completed. The number of friends that
“St. Paul” has gained me is really quite remarkable. I could never have
anticipated it. It was performed twice at Vienna in the spring, and they
want to have a festival there in November, with one thousand performers
(“St. Paul” is to be given), which I shall probably go to conduct. This
has surprised me the more, because no other work of mine has ever made
its way into Vienna. I must be in Brunswick for the Musical Festival the
end of this month, in order to conduct “St. Paul;” and it is always a
source of twofold pleasure to me when I have no personal acquaintances
in a place, which will be the case there.
My new pieces are a trio, completed for piano, violin, and violoncello,
in D minor; a book of four-part songs, to be sung in the open air; some
songs for one voice, organ fugues, half a Psalm, etc. I mean to continue
the four-part songs, and have thought a good deal about the capabilities
of this style; and it does seem the most natural of all music when four
people are rambling together in the woods, or sailing in a boat, and
have the melody all ready with them and within them. In quartetts for
male voices alone, both for musical and other reasons, there is
something prosaic in the four male voices, which has always been
perceptible; whereas in those I allude to, the combination of male and
female voices will sound more poetical, and this will, I hope, also be
perceptible.
Do send me a song or two, to sing in autumn, or better still, in
summer, or in spring, or on the water, on the grass, or on a bridge, or
in the woods, or in the garden; to the stork, or to a kind Providence,
or to the people of the cities and plains, or for a dance, or a wedding,
or as a _souvenir_. It might be a popular romance!
I should like much to hear your sentiments about the events in your
Fatherland;[35] they interest me more than you perhaps imagine. Be sure
you come to us the end of autumn! Cecilia says your room is ready, and
sends you her remembrances.--I am always yours.
FELIX M. B.
TO HIS MOTHER.
Frankfort, July 3rd, 1839.
Dear Mother,
We are leading the most agreeable, happy life imaginable here. I am
therefore resolved not to go away till obliged to do so, and to give
myself up entirely for the present to a sense of comfort and pleasure.
The most delightful thing I ever saw in society was a _fête_ in the
forest here: I really must tell you all about it, because it was unique
of its kind. Within a quarter of an hour’s drive from the road, deep in
the forest where lofty spreading beech-trees stand in solitary grandeur,
forming an impenetrable canopy above, and where all around nothing; was
to be seen but green foliage glistening through innumerable trunks of
trees,--this was the locality. We made our way through the thick
underwood, by a narrow footpath, to the spot, where on arriving, a
number of white figures were visible in the distance, under a group of
trees, encircled with massive garlands of flowers, which formed the
concert-room. How lovely the voices sounded, and how brilliantly the
soprano tones vibrated in the air; what charm and melting sweetness
pervaded every strain! All was so still and retired, and yet so bright!
I had formed no conception of such an effect. The choir consisted of
about twenty good voices; during the previous rehearsal in a room, there
had been some deficiencies, and want of steadiness. Towards evening,
however, when they stood under the trees, and uplifting their voices
gave my first song, “Ihr Vöglein in den Zweigen schwank,” it was so
enchanting in the silence of the woods, that it almost brought tears to
my eyes. It sounded like genuine poetry. The scene too was so beautiful;
all the pretty female figures in white, and Herr B---- standing in the
centre, beating time in his shirt sleeves, and the audience seated on
camp stools, or hampers, or lying on the moss. They sang through the
whole book, and then three new songs which I had composed for the
occasion. The third (“Lerchengesang”) was rather exultingly shouted than
sung, and repeated three times, while in the interim strawberries,
cherries, and oranges were served on the most delicate china, and
quantities of ice and wine and raspberry syrup carried round. People
were emerging in every direction out of the thicket, attracted from a
distance by the sound of the music, and they stretched themselves on the
ground and listened.
As it grew dark, great lanterns and torches were set up in the middle of
the choir, and they sang songs by Schelble and Hiller, and Schnyder, and
Weber. Presently a large table, profusely decorated with flowers and
brilliantly lighted, was brought forward, on which was an excellent
supper with all sorts of good dishes and wines; and it was most quiet
withal, and lonely in the wood, the nearest house being at the distance
of at least an hour, and the gigantic trunks of the trees looking every
moment more dark and stern, and the people under their branches more
noisy and jovial. After supper they began again with the first song, and
sang through the whole six, and then the three new ones, and the
“Lerchengesang” once more three times over. At length it was time to go;
in the thicket we met the waggon in which all the china and plate was to
be taken back to the town; it could not stir from the spot, nor could we
either, but we contrived to get on at last, and arrived about midnight
at our homes in Frankfort. The donors of the _fête_ were detained in the
forest till two o’clock, packing up everything, and lost their way along
with the large waggon, finding themselves unexpectedly at Isenburg; so
they did not get home till long afterwards. There were three families
who had the merit of this idea, and whom we have to thank for this
memorable _fête_. Two of these we were not at all acquainted with, and
the third only slightly. I know now how songs ought to sound in the open
air, and hope shortly to compose a gay book of them.
It must be tiresome enough for you to read descriptions of _fêtes_ long
past, and indeed such descriptions are of no great interest even to
those who were present, but far more trying to those who were not; and
yet I cannot resist telling you also of an entertainment given by Herr
E----, which took place last week, because I know you rejoice in any
marks of honour bestowed on me, and this was indeed a very great one. We
were invited, along with many whom we knew and some whom we did not
know, chiefly members of the St. Cecilia Association. First, we had some
music, and played and sang; then, the door of a dark room was thrown
open, and from an opposite direction resounded my overture to the
“Midsummer Night’s Dream.” While it was being played a curtain drew up,
and displayed a most charming tableau, Titania sleeping in a flower;
hovering over her was Cobweb spreading out the curtain, Peaseblossom
fanning her, Moth, and the others,--all represented by lovely young
girls; and a whole succession of tableaux followed, accompanied by my
music. The second was a German girl of the olden time in her chamber,
while her lover, in rain and snow, was singing under her window,
“Leucht’t heller als die Sonne,” which seemed to please her uncommonly.
This was succeeded by an “Ave” for eight voices, with the Angel, bearing
a lily in his hand, appearing to the kneeling Mary. Then came a
beautiful Zuleika, in a Persian apartment, who, without changing her
attitude, sang my song in E minor very sweetly and prettily. This was
followed by a masterpiece--Spanish peasants’ nuptials,--three handsome
couples of lovers dancing, admirably costumed and placed, and behind
them a pathetic Don Quixote, when the little chorus in C, “Nun zündet
an” was appropriately sung. Next came a youth with a small neckcloth and
a large shirt-collar, in a vineyard with a sketch-book, and he sang “Ist
es wahr?” and most charmingly he sang it. Seventhly (for I am now
falling into the catalogue style), a chapel, with a handsome Gothic
(mock) organ, at which was seated a nun, with two others standing by
her, who sang from the printed music “Beati omnes,” the choir responding
behind the scenes. Eighthly, two girls at a well, singing by heart, in
the most enchanting manner, my duett, “Ich wollt’, meine Liebe” having
contrived, under some pretext, to get the music transcribed. Ninthly,
St. Paul on the ground, his escort in alarm, and a chorus of women
singing behind the scenes. Tenth and last, before the curtain was drawn
up, “As the hart panteth after the water-brooks” was sung, while I was
wondering how they would manage to represent the panting of the hart,
and who was to attempt it. But now comes something more especially for
you, Mother. They had dressed S----, who is thought to resemble me, to
personate myself; and there he was, sitting in an inspired attitude,
writing music, and chewing away at his handkerchief,[36] and by his side
a lovely St. Cecilia with a wreath. Now, Mother, I hope you will no
longer call me the “reverse of a charlatan;” for my describing all this
myself, without the ink turning red for shame, is really a strong
measure!