if it be too much for you, let me know it, or do not read my letters.
May it please God that I shall soon receive good news of your returning
health! I think of it every day, and I wish it every day! In my
previous letter, I promised you some details of musical life here, so
far as I am acquainted with it. Unfortunately, there is very little that
is cheering to relate. Here, as everywhere else, it is principally the
committees which ought to be answerable for this; while, as these are
appointed, more or less, by the public, I cannot make the distinction
which seems so usual with the Berliners, who abuse and revile all
committees, both musical and others, and yet like to see them remain in
their old form. The whole tendency of the musicians, as well as of the
_dilettanti_, is too little directed to the practical; they play chiefly
that they may talk about it, before and afterwards, so the discussions
are better and wiser than in most other places in Germany, but the music
more defective. Unfortunately, there is very little to discuss with
regard to music and its deficiencies; the only thing to be done is to
feel, and to improve it; so I have not the least idea how it is ever to
become better. In the orchestra (excellent as some individual members of
it are), this is, alas! too perceptible. In operas and symphonies, I
have heard blunders, and false notes constantly played, which could only
proceed from the grossest carelessness. The people are Royal
functionaries, and cannot be brought to account, and if the conversation
turns on these faults afterwards, they strive to prove that there is no
such thing as time, or should be none,--what can I say? but _item_, it
goes badly. I have played my trio ten or twelve times here; on each
occasion the same mistakes were made in the time, and the same careless
blunders in the accompaniment, though they were the first artists here
who played with me. The blame of this state of things rests chiefly on
Spontini, who was for so long a period at their head, and who rather
oppressed, than sought to elevate and improve, the many excellent
musicians in this orchestra. My conviction is, that Spohr would be the
man to aid them, and to restore proper order; but just because he is so,
he will not be elected; too many talk about it, and wish to have
everything in ideal beauty; and this produces mediocrity. The
_dilettanti_ doings are even worse. Their chief organ and institution is
the Academy for Singing, and there each individual considers himself far
superior to the Director. But if they really did all know properly how
things should be, they would sing better together,--whoever
directed,--and the false notes, and errors in time, would
disappear,--but they by no means disappear. So here again, it is mostly
all talk. I lately heard Pasta in “Semiramide.” She sings now so
fearfully out of tune, especially in the middle notes, that it is quite
painful to listen to her; but, of course, the splendid remains of her
great talent, the traces of a first-class singer, are often
unmistakable. In any other city, this dreadful want of tune would have
been felt first of all, and, afterwards, the remembrance that she was a
great artist would have recurred; here every one said, beforehand, that
here was the Pasta, she was old, she could no longer sing in tune, so
this must be put out of the question. In other places, they would
perhaps have unjustly abased her; here they as unjustly praised her to
the skies, and after deliberate reflection, and entire consciousness of
the state of things, they continued to be delighted,--this is a bad kind
of delight!
How hypochondriacal this letter is become! I ought rather to write to
you in a gayer strain, to cheer you. Next time I shall try to find a
more rose-coloured aspect; forgive the dark-brown hues of to-day.[51]
With the most heartfelt and cordial wishes for your recovery, I am
always, your loving
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO FRANZ HAUSER,
(PRESENT DIRECTOR OF THE CONSERVATORIUM IN MUNICH.)
Berlin, October 12th, 1841.
... I do not know what you have been told about Berlin and its
prospects. If, however, you allude to the project of which all the
people and all the journals are speaking, that of establishing a Musical
Conservatorium here, then I regret to be obliged to say, that I know no
more about it than every one else seems to know. It is said the desire
for it exists, and perhaps a remote prospect, but far too remote for
anything to be told about it with the least certainty at present. Years
may pass away, nothing may ever come of it (which is not at all
improbable), and also it may soon be again discussed. During the last
three months which I passed here I came to this conclusion, on seeing
the proceedings more closely. I am so kindly received on every side,
that personally I can wish for nothing better, and have only cause for
gratitude. But though it is easy for a person here to do what he
chooses, it is proportionably difficult to aid the cause; and yet that
is, after all, the most important point, and should be the very first.
If I only knew how to make this better! In the meanwhile I write music,
and when asked a question I answer it.
TO CONCERT-MEISTER FERDINAND DAVID, LEIPZIG.
Berlin, October 21st, 1841.
Dear David,
Thanks for your having at once read through ‘Antigone.’ I felt assured
beforehand that it would please you beyond measure when you did so; and
the very impression which reading it made on me, is in fact the cause of
the affair being accomplished. There was a great deal of talking about
it, but no one would begin; they wished to put it off till next autumn,
and so forth, but as the noble style of the piece fascinated me so much,
I got hold of old Tieck, and said “Now or never!” and he was amiable,
and said “Now!” and so I composed music for it to my heart’s content; we
have two rehearsals of it daily, and the choruses are executed with such
precision, that it is a real delight to listen to them. All in Berlin of
course think that we are very sly, and that I composed the choruses to
become a court favourite, or a court _musicus_, or a court fool; while
at the beginning I thought, on the contrary, that I would not mix myself
up with the affair; but the piece itself, with its extraordinary beauty
and grandeur, drove everything else out of my head, and only inspired me
with the wish to see it performed as soon as possible. The subject in
itself was glorious, and I worked at it with heartfelt pleasure. It
seems to me very remarkable that there is so much in art quite
unchangeable. The parts of all these choruses are to this day so
genuinely musical, and yet so different from each other, that no man
could wish anything finer for his composition. If it were not so
difficult here to come to any kind of judgment about a work! There are
only shameless flatterers, or equally shameless critics to be met with,
and there is nothing to be done with either, for both from the very
first deprive us of all pleasure. As yet I have had only to do with
admiration. After this performance the learned will, no doubt, come
forward and reveal to me how I should and must have composed, had I been
a Berliner.--Your
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO PROFESSOR DEHN, BERLIN.[52]
Berlin, October 28th, 1841.
Sir,
The kind and amiable feelings which your letter of yesterday testified
towards me, caused me great pleasure, and I beg to thank you very
sincerely and truly. Although I entirely agree with you that my choruses
to ‘Antigone’ will furnish an opportunity for a number of unfair and
malignant attacks, still I cannot meet these unpleasant probabilities by
the means which you are so good as to propose to me. I have always made
it an inviolable rule, never to write on any subject connected with
music, even in newspapers, nor either directly or indirectly to prompt
any article to be written on my own compositions; and although I am well
aware how often this must be both a temporary and sensible disadvantage,
still I cannot deviate from a resolution which I have strictly followed
out under all circumstances. I decline, therefore, accepting your
obliging offer; but I beg you will believe that my gratitude for the
friendly intentions you expressed remains the same; and in the hope of
soon finding an opportunity to repeat this assurance in person, I am,
etc.[53]
TO PROFESSOR KÖSTLIN, TÜBINGEN.
Berlin, December 15th, 1841.
... When I was lately in society, I was seated next a lady at supper who
spoke the South German dialect, and seemed at home in Stuttgart, so I
thought I would ask her if she knew anything of Tübingen, and inquired
about Professor Köstlin. She said she did not know him, but one of her
acquaintances had written to her that he had been recently betrothed.
This was the first happy news. She did not know the name of the bride,
but so far she remembered, that she was from Munich, and a fine musical
genius. I had instantly a presentiment. I vowed it must be Josephine
Lang. She thought it was another name; but she would look at the letter
when she went home. Next morning I got a note. “The bride of Herr
Köstlin is Josephine Lang after all, and he has been recently in Munich,
and then in Stuttgart with her,” etc. Had it not been for this last
piece of intelligence, I would have written to you instantly, to offer
you both my congratulations, and to express my most heartfelt joy. Now I
have got your welcome letter, and the details of the piece of good news
the South German lady told me; first, then, receive my thanks for it,
and then accept my fervent prayers for a blessing on your fortunate
union, my wishes for health for you and your bride (happiness and every
other good you already have), and my cordial, most cordial sympathy in
all connected with you both, now and for the future. Whatever concerns
you, concerns me also. If I were not the most miserable correspondent in
the world, I should have written to your bride six months ago, to thank
her for the two books of songs she published. I have done so in thought
twenty times at least. It is long since I have seen any new music so
genial, or which affected me so deeply, as these charming songs; their
appearance was equally unexpected and welcome, not only to me, but to
all those whose predilections are in accordance with my own, who
participate in my love of music, and feel in a similar manner with
myself. I sent my Sister a copy at the time from Leipzig, but when it
arrived she had already bought one, without our ever having corresponded
on the subject. The “poem” in F sharp major, is, I think, best of all,
and the “Lenau Meer,” in C major, and the “Frühlingskinder” in E, and
the “Goethe’schen geliebten Bäume” in D; I also think the
“Blumauer’sche” in F major 3/8 wonderfully lovely. Nothing more charming
could be devised than the happy way in which they prattle together, one
after the other telling their tale, and all so delicate and sportive,
and a little amorous too. In so many passages in both books, I thought I
heard Josephine Lang’s voice, though it is a long time now since I have
heard her sing; but there are many inflections peculiar to her, and
which she inherits from the grace of God, and when such a turn occurred
in the music, she made a little turn with her head; and in fact the
whole form, and voice, and manner, were once more placed before my eyes
by these songs. I intended to have written all this to her, and to have
thanked her a thousand times in my name, and in that of all my friends.
Now this will come sadly in the background, for our cordial
congratulations must take place of everything else, and prevent any
other topic being alluded to. But when you tell her of these, tell her
at the same time what pleasure she caused us all.
For Heaven’s sake, urge her to continue composing. It is really your
duty towards us all, who continually long and look for good new music.
She once sent me a collection of the music of various composers, with
some of her own, saying that among so many master-works she hoped I
would view her attempts with indulgence, etc. Oh, Gemini! how petty many
of these _chefs-d’œuvre_ appear beside her fresh music! So, as I
said, instigate her strongly to new compositions.
If I have still a wish to form, it is that your blissful betrothal mood
may be continued in marriage; that is, may you be like me, who feel
every day of my life that I cannot be sufficiently thankful to God for
my happiness.
Do not punish me for my laziness as a correspondent. I really cannot
contrive to write a tolerably sensible letter to-day; still, you must
write to me from time to time. If it were by music I should not
complain, for _your_ music is speech, though probably you have other
things to think of.
And now farewell for to-day, and remember kindly your devoted
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
TO HIS MOTHER.
London, June 21st, 1842.
Dear Mother,
Your letter of yesterday was most charming, and gave us so much
pleasure,[54] that I must thank you for it in detail to-day; I could
scarcely do so as I wished for the previous one, containing quite a
kaleidoscope of events in Berlin, which through the glasses of your
description assumed constant novel and pleasing forms. If I could write
half as well, you should receive to-day the most charming letter, for we
are daily seeing the most beautiful and splendid objects; but I am
somewhat fatigued by the incessant bustle of this last week, and for two
days past I have been chiefly lying on the sofa reading ‘Wilhelm
Meister,’ and strolling through the fields with Klingemann in the
evening, to try to restore myself.
So if the tone of this letter is rather languid and weary, it
accurately paints my feelings. I have really been urged to do too much.
Lately, when playing the organ in Christ Church, Newgate Street, I
almost thought, for a few moments, I must have been suffocated, so great
was the crowd and pressure round my seat at the organ; and two days
afterwards I played in Exeter Hall before three thousand people, who
shouted hurrahs and waved their handkerchiefs, and stamped with their
feet till the hall resounded with the uproar; at the moment I felt no
bad effects from this, but next morning my head was confused and
stupefied. Add to this the pretty and most charming Queen Victoria, who
looks so youthful, and is so gently courteous and gracious, who speaks
such good German and who knows all my music so well; the four books of
songs without words and those with words, and the symphony, and the
“Hymn of Praise.” Yesterday evening I was sent for by the Queen, who was
almost alone with Prince Albert, and who seated herself near the piano
and made me play to her; first seven of the “songs without words,” then
the serenade, two impromptus on “Rule Britannia,” Lützow’s “Wilde Jagd,”
and “Gaudeamus igitur.” The latter was somewhat difficult, but
remonstrance was out of the question, and as they gave the themes, of
course it was my duty to play them. Then the splendid grand gallery in
Buckingham Palace where they drank tea, and where two boars by Paul
Potter are hanging, and a good many other pictures which pleased me
well. I must tell you that my A minor symphony has had great success
with the people here, who one and all receive us with a degree of
amiability and kindness which exceeds all I have ever yet seen in the
way of hospitality, though this sometimes makes me feel my head quite
bewildered and strange, and I am obliged to collect my thoughts in order
not to lose all self-possession.
_June 22nd._--To-day, however, I can continue my letter in a more
cheerful spirit; I have slept away my weary mood, and feel again quite
fresh and well. Yesterday evening I played my concerto in D minor, and
directed my “Hebrides” in the Philharmonic, where I was received like an
old friend, and where they played with a degree of enthusiasm which
caused me more pleasure than I can describe. The people make such a fuss
with me this time that I feel really quite abashed; I believe they
clapped their hands and stamped for at least ten minutes after the
concerto, and insisted on the “Hebrides” being repeated. The directors
are to give a dinner at Greenwich next week, and we are to sail down the
Thames _in corpore_ and to make speeches. They talk of bringing out
‘Antigone’ at Covent Garden as soon as they can procure a tolerable
translation. Lately I went to a concert in Exeter Hall where I had
nothing whatever to do, and was sauntering in quite coolly with
Klingemann,--in the middle of the first part, and an audience of about
three thousand present,--when just as I came in at the door, such a
clamour, and clapping, and shouting, and standing up ensued, that I had
no idea at first that I was concerned in it; but I discovered it was so.
On reaching my place, I found Sir Robert Peel and Lord Wharncliffe close
to me, who continued to applaud with the rest till I made my bow and
thanked them. I was immensely proud of my popularity in Peel’s presence.
When I left the concert they gave me another hurrah.
Oh! how splendidly Mrs. Butler, at Chorley’s, lately read aloud
Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra;’ we have always been on the most
friendly terms since our acquaintance twelve years ago, when she was
Miss Fanny Kemble; and she gave this reading in honour of me, and quite
too beautiful it was; and Lady Morgan was there, and Winterhalter, and
Mrs. Jameson, and Duprez, who afterwards sang a French Romance of a
starving old beggar, and another of a young man losing his reason, with
the _refrain_, “Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne me rendra fou!”
“Sweet!” said the ladies; and Benedict, and Moscheles, and the
Grotes--who can enumerate them all! This evening at seven o’clock we
dine with Bunsen, and as we do not know what to do with our evening
afterwards, we shall probably drive to Charles Kemble’s about eleven
o’clock and be among his early guests; the late ones will not arrive
till after midnight. We have too such invariably bright and beautiful
weather. One day lately we saw first in the morning the Tower, then the
Katharine Docks, then the Tunnel, and ate fish at Blackwall, had
luncheon at Greenwich, and home by Peckham; we travelled on foot, in a
carriage, on a railway, in a boat, and in a steamboat. The day after
to-morrow we intend to go to Manchester for a couple of days, and next
week be on our way back to Frankfort. I have given up the musical
festival at the Hague, though they pressed me very hard to go there for
my “Hymn of Praise.” I wish to have nothing to do with music during the
next few weeks.
I have still a vast deal to say to Fanny about the Bridgewater
Collection, where pictures and sketches by Hensel are hanging up, and
Sutherland House, and Grosvenor House, etc. etc.; and to Rebecca, about
the meeting of scientific men at Manchester, to which I was invited, but
unfortunately I could not go to greet Whewell. Jacoby and Enke were also
there; I alone was absent.
But I must conclude. May we soon have a happy meeting, dearest Mother,
and dearest Brother and Sisters.--Your
FELIX.
TO CARL ECKERT, PARIS.
Berlin, January 26th, 1842.
Dear Eckert,
I have been long in your debt for an answer to your kind letter; pray
forgive this. I have been living such a stirring, excited life this
year, that I am more than ever unable to carry on any correspondence. I
need not tell you the great pleasure I felt in hearing from you, and
always shall feel every time that I do so. You know how entirely you won
my regard during the years when you resided in Leipzig, and how highly I
both honour and estimate your talents and your character. It is really
difficult to say which, in the present day, should be considered most
important; without talent nothing can be done, but without character
just as little. We see instances of this day after day, in people of the
finest capacities, who once excited great expectations, and yet
accomplish nothing. May Heaven bestow on you a continuous development of
both, in the same measure that within the last few years you have made
progress; or rather, _bestow all this on yourself_, for Heaven can do no
more than endow you with the germs and capabilities for this end, with
which it has already so richly endowed you: the rest becomes the affair,
and the responsibility, of each individual. Such a preaching tone must
sound very strange to you, living in joyous Paris; but it is a part of
the world and of life, that every wild animal has its own special skin
and roar, so I continue to roar in my old tones.
Hofrath Förster sent me yesterday your “Lieder ohne Worte,” and your
overture, so I have occupied myself with little else than with you and
your compositions, and heartily rejoice in both; in the former from the
memory of the past, and in the latter from the pleasure of the present.
Both yesterday and to-day I have looked through, and played through,
your charming “Lieder” with the greatest delight; they all please me,
and are thoroughly genial, earnest music. More, more, a thousand times
more, in this and every other style! The overture in F sharp major, too,
caused me great pleasure, and suits me almost throughout; a few passages
only seem to me rather too amplified: we must not write, however, but
speak on this subject when we meet again, although the only really
important thing I have to say with regard to your music, I have already
said in this letter,--more, more! You have reached a standard, that may
in every relation well be called a mastership, which all musicians or
friends to music must highly esteem, and beyond which nothing actually
extrinsic (whether it be called erudition or recognition, facility and
knowledge, or honour and fame) is any longer worth striving for; but
this is, in my opinion, just the time when true work really first
begins. The question is then solely what is felt and experienced within
a man’s own breast, and uttered from the depths of his heart, be it
grave or gay, bitter or sweet,--character and life are displayed here;
and in order to prevent existence being dissipated and wasted when
brilliant and happy--or depressed and destroyed when the reverse--there
is but one safeguard--to work, and to go on working. So, for your sake,
I have only _one_ wish, that you may bring to light what exists within
you, in your nature and feelings, which none save yourself can know or
possess. In your works, go deeper into your inmost being, and let them
bear a distinct stamp; let criticism and intellect rule as much as you
please in all outward questions and forms, but in all inner and original
thought, the heart alone, and genuine feeling. So work daily, hourly,
and unremittingly,--_there_ you never can attain entire mastery or
perfection; no man ever yet did, and therefore it is the highest
vocation of life.
I was three weeks in Leipzig not long since, where I was well amused,
and both heard and assisted in much good music. One morning I went to
the Klengels; it was on the Wednesday of the fast-week, at eleven
o’clock in the forenoon; the old gentleman was sitting in his
dressing-gown at the piano. As during the whole week there had been no
rehearsal of any concert, he had made Nanné sing a little. The
conversation turned on Julius’s “Lieder.” “If we only had an alto!” said
they. I offered to sing _falsetto_; the music was brought, and good red
wine beside. We sat round the table, and sang all his songs, which
delighted me exceedingly, and some of yours also. I had a great deal to
do that morning, but I stayed on till half-past one o’clock, and could
not resolve to come away. See if you can find such mornings in Paris!
“And you in Berlin,” you will reply.
Now, farewell; continue your regard for me, and ever believe me your
friend,
FELIX.
TO HIS MOTHER.
Interlachen, August 18th, 1842.
My dearest Mother,
Do you still remember our staying, twenty years ago, in a pretty small
inn here, shaded by large walnut-trees (I sketched some of them), and
our lovely young landlady? When I was here ten years ago, she refused to
give me a room, I looked so shabby from my pedestrian journey; I believe
that was the only single vexation I at that time experienced, during the
whole course of my tour. Now we are living here again as substantial
people. The Jungfrau, with her silver horns, stands out against the sky,
with the same delicate, elegant, and pointed outlines, and looks as
fresh as ever. The landlady, however, is grown old, and had it not been
for her manner, I should never have recognized her to be the same
person. I have again sketched the walnut-trees, much better than I did
at that time, but far worse than they deserve; the post in Untersee
brings us letters from the same house as it did then, and many new
houses are built; and the Aar gurgles, and glides along as rapid, and
smooth, and green as ever,--_time is, time was, time is past_. I have,
in fact, nothing more to write about, except that we are all well, and
think of you daily and hourly.[55]