your sake also, that you should remain at Berlin.[89] Jesting apart, I
would gladly repeat in writing, and at this new year’s time, all that I
said to you about it personally. The more I reflect on this plan _here_
(not in Berlin), the more I feel convinced that its execution would
grieve me, first, for your own sake, and secondly, for mine (which comes
to one and the same thing); for when I look repeatedly around here, and
thus try to discover what kind of weather there is in Germany (and you
know that it is often long, long before this can be perceived in
Berlin), I everywhere see the current setting in towards large cities,
but receding from the smaller ones. It might be said, then, a residence
in small towns will now become really agreeable; but they, too, will not
be content to remain in their state of quiet comfort, but strive to
become great cities: and this is why I could not see any one, far less
yourself, leave a large city at this moment to settle in a small one,
without the most extreme concern. There are a thousand wants, both
material and spiritual, which these smaller places are at this moment
seeking to supply (thus making these wants only more perceptible), a
thousand pleasant things in life and knowledge,--all linked for many
long years with yourself and with Rebecca’s early days,--which you value
less than they deserve, because you have always been accustomed to have
things in one fashion and in no other, and because you are uneasy about
the present, and dissatisfied with what is going on. But, in truth, you
will find the same uneasiness, and the same dissatisfaction, prevailing
everywhere through all Germany; at present, indeed, only in those whom
you meet, and not in yourself, the new-comer; but, alas! alas! in these
days such contamination spreads hourly in our Fatherland, where these
evils daily strike deeper root, and you will and must experience them
also, wherever you go, and not in any respect improve your condition in
this chief point. By your change of residence, you cannot effect any
cure in the prevailing malady, and I as little with my subscription
concerts; it can only be done by very different means, or by a very
sharp crisis; and, in any event, it would then be best not to be placed
in new, but in old familiar circumstances. A third thing may happen,
and, alas! not the most improbable; all may remain in its old form. In
that case also, however, it is best not to begin a new life, which holds
out no prospect of any improvement in itself. I do wish, then, that you
would remain in Berlin.
That you, by any kind of promise, however well meant, or positive, are
now in the hands of the people of Heidelberg, and _must_ say Yes, if
_they_ say Yes also, I _cannot_ believe. Such a connection as yours with
Berlin is not to be dissolved by a letter and a few words; and if these
people believe that by your answer they have acquired any right over
you, it is not to be denied that the others have at least an equal
right. Simply from an overweening sense of justice, and from too much
delicacy, a person often chooses that which costs him the greatest
sacrifice, and thus, I believe, you would at last rather choose
Heidelberg; but they will not be sensible of this: they only wish to
conclude a bargain, and you must do the same, and no more. In the
meanwhile they have the _præ_, because they wish to acquire something
new for themselves, and the people of Berlin only to keep what they
have, and the former is always more tempting and pleasant; but, as I
said before, it is a mere matter of business,--do not forget that; and
you know quite as well as I do that all the _Berliners_ are anxious to
keep you. Forgive my strange lecture, but remain.
I ask it for my sake also; for I have now, I may say, decided soon to go
for the winter to Berlin. Don’t let us play at the game of “change
sides.” I preferred a residence in a smaller town, under very favourable
circumstances; I always liked it, and am accustomed to no other, and yet
I feel compelled to leave it, to rejoin those with whom I enjoyed my
childhood and youth, and whose memories and friendships and experiences
are the same as my own. My plan is, that we should _form all together_
one pleasant united household, such as we have not seen for long, and
live happily together (independent of political life or _non-life_,
which has swallowed up _all_ else). For some time past everything seems
to contribute to this, and, as I said, _I_ shall not be found wanting,
for I consider it the greatest possible good fortune that could ever
befall me; so do not frustrate all this by one blow, but remain in
Berlin, and let us be together there. These are my reasons, badly
expressed, but better intended than expressed; and don’t take this
amiss.--Your
FELIX.
TO FRAU GEHEIMERÄTHIN STEFFENS, GEB. REICHARDT, BERLIN.
Leipzig, February, 1847.
Dear Madam,
When I meet any one who knew my Father, and who loved and esteemed him
as he deserved, I immediately look on such a one as a friend, and not as
a stranger, and a meeting of this kind always makes me glad and happy.
As you no doubt feel the same, I trust you will excuse the liberty I
take in addressing you. I wish to relate to you how touched and
delighted the friends of music in Leipzig were yesterday by the
composition of your father; we felt as if his spirit were still living
and working among us, and indeed it is so. In the concert of yesterday
(which, like the previous and both the ensuing ones, was dedicated to a
kind of historical succession of the great masters) there was an
opportunity of bringing before the public some of your father’s songs. A
symphony of Haydn’s was followed by the Reichardt song, “Dem Schnee, dem
Regen,” and his duett, “Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese stand;” and then the
same poem set to music by Mozart. You will perceive that your father’s
music was by no means in a very easy proximity, but I wish you could
have heard how he maintained his honourable position. The very first
song sounded charming and effective; but when the little duett was given
by two very fresh pure voices, in great simplicity and perfection, many
a lover of music could not suppress his tears, so charming and genial
was _that_ music, so genuine and touching. Such applause as we seldom
hear, and a _da capo_ of all three verses, followed as a matter of
course. This was not for a moment doubtful after the three first bars
had been sung, and I felt as if I could not only listen to the song
twice, but during the whole evening, and to nothing else. It was the
true genuine German song, such as no other nation has, but even ours
nothing better; perhaps grander, certainly more complicated, more
elaborate, and more artificial, but not on that account more
artistic--thus, not better. This must happily be the case for all time,
and it must cause you much joy, thus once more to meet your father’s
spirit in its still living influence; for many a young musician who
heard his music yesterday (if, indeed, he can feel such things at all)
will now know better what a song should be, than from all the books of
instruction, all the lectures, and all the examples of the present day;
“and thus is life won,” as Goethe says. Forgive me for writing nothing
in this letter, except that the Reichardt songs were so lovely, and the
Leipzig public so enchanted. The first you have long known, though the
second in itself may be a matter of indifference; but as I was seated at
the piano accompanying yesterday and feeling such delight, I said to
myself that I must write to you about it.
Begging you to recall me to the remembrance of your daughter, I am your
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.[90]
TO HIS NEPHEW, SEBASTIAN HENSEL.
Leipzig, February 22nd, 1847.
Dear Sebastian,
I thank you very much for the drawing, which, as your own composition,
pleases me extremely, especially the technical part, in which you have
made great progress. If, however, you intend to adopt painting as a
profession, you cannot too soon accustom yourself to study the _meaning_
of a work of art with more earnestness and zeal than its mere
_form_,--that is, in other words (as a painter is so fortunate as to be
able to select visible nature herself for his substance), to contemplate
and to study nature most lovingly, most closely, most innately and
inwardly, all your life long. Study very thoroughly how the outer form
and the inward formation of a tree, or a mountain, or a house always
_must_ look, and how it _can_ be made to look, if it is to be beautiful,
and then produce it with sepia or oils, or on a smoked plate; it will
always be of use, if only as a testimony of your love of substance. You
will not take amiss this little sermon from such a screech-owl as I
often am, and above all, do not forget the substance,--as for the form
(my lecture), the devil may fly away with it, it is of very little
value.
Tell your mother that I quite agree with her about the scherzo. Perhaps
she may one day compose a _scherzo serioso_; there may be such a
thing.--Your Uncle,
FELIX M. B.
TO GENERAL VON WEBERN, BERLIN.[91]
Frankfort, May 24th, 1847.
Your letter did me good, even in the depths of my sorrow, when I
received it; above all, your handwriting, and your sympathy, and every
single word of yours. I thank you for it all, my dear, kind, faithful
friend. It is indeed true that no one who ever knew my sister can ever
forget her through life; but what have not we, her brothers and sister,
lost! and I more especially, to whom she was every moment present in her
goodness and love; her sympathy being my first thought in every joy;
whom she ever so spoiled, and made so proud, by all the riches of her
sisterly love, which made me feel all was sure to go well, for she was
ever ready to take a full and loving share in all that concerned me. All
this, I believe we cannot yet estimate, just as I still instinctively
believe that the mournful intelligence will be suddenly recalled; and
then again I feel that it is true,--but never, never can I inure myself
to it! It is consolatory to think of such a beautiful, harmonious
nature, and that she has been spared all the infirmities of advanced age
and declining life; but it is hard for us to bear such a blow with
proper submission and fortitude.
Forgive me for not being able to say or write much, but I wished to
thank you.
My family are all well; the happy, unconcerned, cheerful faces of my
children alone have done me good in these days of sorrow. I have not as
yet been able to think of music; when I try to do so, all seems empty
and desolate within me. But when the children come in I feel less sad,
and I can look at them and listen to them for hours.
Thanks for your letter; may Heaven grant health to you, and preserve all
those you love.--Your
FELIX M. B.
TO HIS NEPHEW, SEBASTIAN HENSEL.
Baden-Baden, June 13th, 1847.
Dear Sebastian,
I must send you my good wishes on your birthday, the most mournful one
you have yet known. The retrospect of its celebration last year will
deeply grieve you, for then your mother was still by your side; may,
however, the anticipation of the future birthdays which you may yet be
spared to see, comfort and strengthen you! for your mother will stand by
your side in these also, as well as in everything that you do or fulfil.
May all you do be estimable and upright, and may your daily steps be
directed towards that path to which your mother’s eyes were turned for
you, and in which her example and her being went with you, and always
will go with you so long as you remain true to her,--in other words, I
trust, all your life long. Whatever branch of life, or knowledge, or
work you may devote yourself to, it is indispensable to _will_ (not to
wish, but to _will_) something good and solid; but this is sufficient.
In all employments and in all spheres there is now and always will be a
want of able honest workmen, and therefore it is not true when people
declare it now more difficult than formerly to achieve anything. On the
contrary, in a certain sense, it is and always will be _easy_, or
altogether _impossible_; a genuine, faithful heart, true love, and a
brave, determined will, are alone required for this, and you will not
assuredly fail in these, with such a bright and beloved example steadily
shining before you. And even if you follow this, and do all, all in your
power, still nothing is done, nothing is attained, without the
fulfilment of one fervent wish,--may God be with you!
This prayer comprises consolation and strength, and also cheerfulness in
days to come. I often long to be able to pass those days with you and
your aunt Rebecca. We expect your father ten or twelve days hence; I
wish you could come with him, and we might sketch from nature together.
I lately _composed_ a sketch of an old mountain castle in a forest, with
a distant view of a plain; another of a terrace, with an old lime-tree,
and an image of the Virgin under it; and a third, of a solitary mountain
lake between high hills, with reeds in the foreground. I mean to wash
them in with Indian ink. Are you inclined to try the same three
subjects, that we may compare our compositions? Do so, I beg, dear
Sebastian, and show them to me when we meet again,--soon, very soon, I
hope. May God bless you.--Ever your
FELIX M. B.
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.
Thun, July 7th, 1847.
Dear Sister,
In your letter of yesterday to Paul,[92] you said you wished I would
write to you again; I therefore do so to-day, but what to write I cannot
tell. You have often laughed at me and rallied me because my letters
assumed the tone around me or within me, and such is the case now, for
it is as impossible for me to write a consistent letter as to recover a
consistent frame of mind. I hope that as the days pass on they will
bring with them more fortitude, and so I let them pursue their course,
and in the society of Paul, and in this lovely country, they glide on
monotonously and rapidly. We are all well in health, and sometimes even
cheerful. But if I return within myself, which I am always inclined to
do, or when we are talking together, the ground-tint is no longer
there--not even a black one, far less one of a brighter hue.
A great chapter is now ended, and neither the title nor even the first
word of the next is yet written. But God will make it all right one day;
this suits the beginning and the end of all chapters.
We intend going to Interlachen in a few days, and towards the end of the
month Paul will have begun his journey thence towards home. He enjoys
with me the _old_ familiar mountain-summits, which look as hoary as five
or twenty-five years ago, and on which Time makes little impression! We
shall probably stay in Interlachen for another month, and establish
ourselves there; I will, and must, soon attempt once more to begin some
regular work, and should like to have made some progress in a
composition before my journey home. I hope to find you and yours in good
health in September. May we soon meet again, my dear, good Sister! and
do not forget your
FELIX M. B.
TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
Interlachen, July 19th, 1847.
My dear Brother,
Scarcely were you gone, when a storm arose, and the thunder and rain
were tremendous. Then we dined, and found an unfilled place at table.
Then I reflected for two hours on Schiller’s chorus in the ‘Bride of
Messina,’ “Say what are we now to do?” and then the children brought the
two enclosed letters for you, and said, “I wonder where our Uncle is
now!”
But it is no longer any use telling you such commonplace, indifferent
things, and yet life is made up chiefly of these. So adieu, till we meet
again on the plains or on the mountains. We shall be as happy there as
we were here.
It is still thundering, and this is the most dreary day we have had here
for many weeks--in every sense!--Your
FELIX.
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET.
Interlachen, July 20th, 1847.
Dear Sister,
When your dear letter arrived, I was writing music; I force myself now
to be very busy, in the hope that hereafter I may become so from
inclination, and that I shall take pleasure in it. This is “weather
expressly calculated for writing, but not for gipsying.” Since Paul left
us, the sky has been so dismal and rainy that I have only been able to
take one walk. Since the day before yesterday, it has been quite cold
besides, so we have a fire in-doors, and, out-of-doors, streaming rain.
But I cannot deny that I sometimes rather like such downright, pouring
wet days, which confine you effectually to the house. This time they
give me an opportunity of passing the whole day with my three elder
children; they write, and learn arithmetic and Latin with me,--paint
landscapes during their play-hours, or play draughts, and ask a thousand
wise questions, which no fool can answer (people generally say the
reverse of this, still it is so). The standing reply is, and always will
be, “You do not yet understand such things,” which still vibrates in my
ears from my own mother, and which I shall soon hear in turn from my
children, when they give their children the same answer; and thus it
goes on.
As for Sebastian’s profession, I think he is now at the age, and period,
when he is not likely to feel conviction or enthusiasm for anything that
cannot be laid hold of by the hand, or counted by numbers, or expressed
by words, and he must be kept from everything--as a life aim--which
might forestal such convictions. He knows that as well as I do, and I
have entire confidence in his not choosing any profession from which he
will hereafter turn aside, or which might eventually become indifferent
or wearisome to him. As soon, therefore, as I feel secure _on this
point_, it is quite the same to me, what he may choose in this wide
world, or how high or how humble his path may then be, if he only
pursues it cheerfully! And as all agree in allowing him to make his own
choice, and as he can now or never understand the serious aspect of
life, and as this earnest feeling is the affair of his own heart, in
which no one can assist him, or advise him, although it does affect each
of us deeply, I believe he will not be found wanting in this respect,
and will do well, what he settles to do; _that_ would be my suggestion
to him, but, otherwise, not to offer him the slightest approach to
advice. It is the old story of Hercules, choosing his path, which for
several thousand years has always been acted once, at least, in the life
of every man; and whether the young maidens be called Virtue or Vice,
and the young men Hercules or not, the sense remains the same.
In September, God willing, I intend to come to Berlin, and Paul has
probably told you how seriously I am occupied with the thought of
spending my life with you, my dear Sister and Brother, and residing with
you, renouncing all other considerations. I wish to live with you, and
never did I feel this more vividly than when the steamboat set off to
Thun with Paul and his family, and Hensel; and, strangely enough (either
for this reason, or in spite of it), it is almost impossible for me at
this time to be with strangers. There is no lack of visitors here, both
musical and others; scarcely a single day lately has passed without one,
or several; but they all seem to me so empty and indifferent, that I, no
doubt, must appear in the same light to them, so I heartily wish that we
may soon part, and remain apart; and in the midst of all the phrases,
and inquiries, and speechifying, one thought is always present with
me--the shortness of life; and, in fact, I hope we shall soon be
together, and long remain together. Farewell, dear Sister, till we
meet!
TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
Interlachen, August 3rd, 1847.
Dear Brother,
We are all well, and continue to live the same quiet life that you
enjoyed with us here. It was, indeed, most solitary the first days after
you left us, when each of us went about with dismal faces, as if we had
forgotten something, or were looking for something,--and it was so,
indeed! Since then, I have begun to write music very busily; the three
elder children work with me in the forenoon; in the afternoon, when the
weather permits, we all take a walk together; and I have also finished a
few rabid sketches in Indian ink. Herr Kohl came here yesterday, the
Irish and Russian traveller, and spent the evening with us; also, Mr.
Grote,[93] whom I always am very glad to see and to listen to; but I now
feel so tranquil in this quiet retirement, and so little tranquil with a
number of people, that I do all I can to avoid what is called society,
and as yet I have succeeded in this. Why were you not with me in
Boningen? you would indeed have been pleased! and in Wilderschwyl, and
Unspunnen besides? This alone would be a sufficient reason for your
returning here as soon as you can. We have not, however, _once_ had fine
weather since the day of your departure, and often very bad; there has
been no further question, since then, of sitting under the walnut-trees,
and many days we were unable to leave the house. Still we always took
advantage of the hours that were fair for all kinds of expeditions; and
wherever you turn your steps here, it is always splendid. If the weather
becomes more settled, I mean to go over the Susten, and to the summit of
the Sidelhorn, which can be done from here in a few days. But to carry
this resolution into effect seems by no means easy; it is so lovely
here, and we so much enjoy our regular, quiet life. It has enabled me
once more to become often quite cheerful; but when people come, and talk
at random about commonplace matters, and of God and the world, my mood
becomes again so unutterably mournful, that I do not know how to endure
it. You are obliged to surmount such feelings, to the utmost extent; and
I think of this every day. It must be hard on you, and I shrink from the
idea of it myself. But it must be so, and it is right, so with the help
of God, it can be done. All send heartfelt greetings; and ever continue
to love your
FELIX.
TO GENERAL VON WEBERN, BERLIN.
Interlachen, August 15, 1847.
My dear, kind Friend,
I send you a thousand thanks for your letter of the 14th of July, which
had been much delayed, as I only received it here a short time ago. You
have, no doubt, seen my Brother since then, and he has probably told
you more minutely of my intention to visit Berlin this autumn. But I
cannot delay sending you an immediate answer to your kind and friendly
proposal about the three concerts, but, indeed, I would rather not at
present agree to announce the three concerts (of which two were to be
“Elijah”). “Elijah” has not yet been heard in Berlin, and it would not
only appear presumptuous, but would really be so, if I proposed to the
public to perform it twice in succession. In addition to this, my
present mood makes me so decidedly disinclined for all publicity, that I
have with difficulty, and chiefly through Paul’s sensible exhortations,
resolved not to give up those performances to which I had already
agreed. I intend, also, to fulfil my promise to Herr von Arnim about the
Friedrich Stift,[94] and the 14th of October seems to me a very suitable
day. If the sympathy in the work is so great that a repetition of it is
expected and desired within a short period, you may imagine that this
can only be a source of pleasure to me, and then I would gladly see the
receipts of the second performance applied entirely according to your
wish. If, in spite of this very unsatisfactory and undecided answer, you
will be so kind as to assist in promoting the first performance in
October, and inspiring those who have to do with it, as soon as
possible, with some activity, you will do me a great service, and I
shall again owe you many thanks. For I know, as you say, the
difficulties consequent on the state of things there, which is very
similar to the sand, and must be desperately ploughed up, before it
brings forth any fruit.
Your letter to Cécile does not sound so cheerful as usual. We hope that
this may have only been caused by some passing cloud, and that the sun
of your gayer mood again shines as brightly as we are accustomed to see
it with you. There are, to be sure, just now, very dense misty fogs, if
not thunder-clouds in our Fatherland, and many a day that might be
bright and clear becomes thus sultry and grey, and all objects dim and
dull; yet no one can strive against this, or maintain that they see the
bright colours and forms which genuine sunshine brings; and, indeed,
vivid lightning and loud thunder out of the black cloud, are sometimes
preferable to vague mists and foggy abysses. Every one suffers from
them, but these mists do not yet absorb the light, and cannot fail to be
dispersed at last. That no personal reason, no illness of your family or
yourself, or any other serious cause may exist for your depression, is
what we wish!
My wife and children are well, God be praised! We walk a great deal, the
children do their lessons, Cécile paints Alpine roses, and I write
music, so the days pass monotonously and quickly. Preserve your regard
for me as I ever shall for you, for ever and ever.--Your friend,
FELIX M. B.
TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
Leipzig, October, 25th 1847.
Dearest Brother,