Munich, June 6th, 1830.
It is a long time since I have written to you, and I fear you may
have been anxious on my account. You must not be angry with me, for
it was really no fault of mine, and I have been not a little
annoyed about it. I expedited my journey as well as I could,
inquiring everywhere about diligences, and invariably receiving
false information. I travelled through one night on purpose to
enable me to write to you by this day's post, of which I was told
at Nuernberg; and when at last I arrive, I find that no post leaves
here to-day: it is enough to drive one wild, and I feel out of all
patience with Germany and her petty Principalities, her different
kinds of money, her diligences, which require an hour and a quarter
for a German mile, and her Thuringian forests, where there is
incessant rain and wind,--nay, even with her 'Fidelio' this very
evening, for, though dead beat, I must do my duty by going to see
it, when I would far rather go to bed. Pray do not be angry with
me, or scold me for my delay in writing; I do assure you that this
very night while I was travelling, I thought I saw peeping through
the clouds the shadow of your threatening finger; but I shall now
proceed to explain why I could not write sooner.
Some days after my last letter from Weimar, I wished, as I told
you, to set off for this place, and said so during dinner to
Goethe, who made no reply. After dinner however he withdrew with
Ottilie into the recess of a window, and said, "You must persuade
him to remain." She endeavoured to prevail on me to do so, and
walked up and down in the garden with me. I wished however to show
that I was a man of determination, so I remained steady to my
resolve. Then came the old gentleman himself, and said he saw no
use in my being in such a hurry; that he had still a great deal to
tell me, and I had still a great deal to play to him; and what I
had told him as to the object of my journey, was really all
nonsense,--Weimar was my present object,--and he could not see that
I was likely to find in _tables-d'hote_ elsewhere, what I could not
obtain here: I would see plenty of hotels in my travels. He talked
on in this style, which touched my heart, especially as Ottilie and
Ulrike added their persuasions, assuring me that the old gentleman
much more often insisted on people going away, than on their
remaining; and as no one can be so sure of enjoying a number of
happy days, that he can afford to throw away those that cannot fail
to be pleasant, and as they promised to go with me to Jena, I
resolved _not_ to be a man of determination, and agreed to stay.
Seldom in the course of my life have I so little regretted any
resolution as on this occasion, for the following day was by far
the most delightful that I ever passed in Goethe's house. After an
early drive, I found old Goethe very cheerful; he began to converse
on various subjects, passing from the 'Muette de Portici' to Walter
Scott, and thence to the beauties in Weimar; to the 'Students,'
and the 'Robbers,' and so on to Schiller; then he spoke on
uninterruptedly for more than an hour, with the utmost animation,
about Schiller's life and writings, and his position in Weimar. He
proceeded to speak of the late Grand-Duke, and of the year 1775,
which he designated as the intellectual spring of Germany,
declaring that no man living could describe it so well as he could;
indeed, it had been his intention to have devoted the second volume
of his life to this subject; but what with botany, and meteorology,
and other stuff of the same kind, for which no one cared a straw,
he had not yet been able to fulfil his purpose. He proceeded to
relate various anecdotes of the time when he was director of the
theatre, and when I wished to thank him, he said, "It is mere
chance, it all comes to light incidentally,--called forth by your
welcome presence." These words sounded marvellously pleasant to me;
in short, it was one of those conversations that a man can never
forget so long as he lives. Next day he made me a present of a
sheet of the manuscript of 'Faust,' and at the bottom of the page
he wrote, "To my dear young friend F. M. B., mighty, yet delicate
master of the piano--a friendly souvenir of happy May days in 1830.
J. W. von Goethe." He also gave me three letters of introduction to
take with me.
If that relentless 'Fidelio' did not begin at so early an hour. I
could tell you much more, but as it is, I have only time to detail
my farewell interview with the old gentleman. At the very beginning
of my visit to Weimar, I spoke of a print taken from Adrian von
Ostade, of a peasant family praying, which nine years ago made a
deep impression on me. When I went at an early hour to take leave
of Goethe, I found him seated beside a large portfolio, and he
said, "So you are actually going away? I must try to keep all right
till you return; but at all events we won't part now without some
pious feelings, so let us once more look at the praying family
together." He told me that I must sometimes write to him--(courage!
courage! I mean to do so from this very place), and then he
embraced me, and we drove off to Jena, where the Frommans received
me with much kindness, and where the same evening I took leave of
Ottilie and Ulrike, and came on here.
_Nine o'clock._--'Fidelio' is over; and while waiting for supper I
add a few words.
Schechner is very much gone off; the quality of her voice has
become husky; she repeatedly sang flat, yet there were moments when
her expression was so touching, that I wept in my own fashion; all
the others were bad, and there was also much to censure in the
performance. Still, there is great talent in the orchestra, and the
style in which they played the overture was very good. Certainly
our Germany is a strange land; producing great people, but not
appreciating them; possessing many fine singers and intellectual
artists, but none sufficiently modest and subordinate to render
their parts faithfully, and without false pretension. Marzeline
introduces all sorts of flourishes into her part; Jaquino is a
blockhead; the minister a simpleton: and when a German like
Beethoven writes an opera, then comes a German like Stuntz or
Poissl (or whoever it may have been) and strikes out the
ritournelle, and similar unnecessary passages; another German adds
a trombone part to his symphonies; a third declares that Beethoven
is overloaded: and thus is a great man sacrificed.
Farewell! be happy and merry; and may all my heartfelt wishes for
you be fulfilled.