Milan, July 15th, 1831.
You reproach me with being two-and-twenty without having yet
acquired fame. To this I can only reply, had it been the will of
Providence that I should be renowned at the age of two-and-twenty,
I no doubt should have been so. I cannot help it, for I no more
write to gain a name, than to obtain a Kapellmeister's place. It
would be a good thing if I could secure both. But so long as I do
not actually starve, so long is it my duty to write only as I feel,
and according to what is in my heart, and to leave the results to
_Him_ who disposes of other and greater matters. Every day,
however, I am more sincerely anxious to write exactly as I feel,
and to have even less regard than ever to external views; and when
I have composed a piece just as it sprang from my heart, then I
have done my duty towards it; and whether it brings hereafter fame,
honour, decorations, or snuff-boxes, etc., is a matter of
indifference to me. If you mean, however, that I have neglected, or
delayed perfecting myself, or my compositions, then I beg you will
distinctly and clearly say in what respect and wherein I have done
so. This would be indeed a serious reproach.
You wish me to write operas, and think I am unwise not to have done
so long ago. I answer, place a right libretto in my hand, and in
two months the work shall be completed, for every day I feel more
eager to write an opera. I think that it may become something fresh
and spirited, if I begin it now; but I have got no words yet, and I
assuredly never will write music for any poetry that does not
inspire me with enthusiasm. If you know a man capable of writing
the libretto of an opera, for Heaven's sake tell me his name, that
is all I want. But till I have the words, you would not wish me to
be idle--even if it were possible for me to be so?
I have recently written a good deal of sacred music; that is quite
as much a necessity to me, as the impulse that often induces people
to study some particular book, the Bible, or others, as the only
reading they care for at the time. If it bears any resemblance to
Sebastian Bach, it is again no fault of mine, for I wrote it just
according to the mood I was in; and if the words inspired me with a
mood akin to that of old Bach, I shall value it all the more, for I
am sure you do not think that I would merely copy his form, without
the substance; if it were so, I should feel such disgust and such a
void, that I could never again finish a composition. Since then I
have written a grand piece of music which will probably impress the
public at large--the first "Walpurgis Night" of Goethe. I began it
simply because it pleased me, and inspired me with fervour, and
never thought that it was to be performed; but now that it lies
finished before me, I see that it is quite suitable for a great
_Concertstueck_, and you must sing the Bearded Pagan Priest at my
first subscription concert in Berlin. I wrote it expressly to suit
your voice; and as I have hitherto found that the pieces I have
composed with least reference to the public are precisely those
which gave them the greatest satisfaction, so no doubt it will be
on this occasion also. I only mention this to prove to you that I
do not neglect _the practical_. To be sure this is invariably an
after-thought, for who the deuce could write music, the most
unpractical thing in the world--the very reason why I love it so
dearly--and yet think all the time of the practical! It is just as
if a lover were to bring a declaration of love to his mistress in
rhyme and verse, and recite it to her.
I am now going to Munich, where they have offered me an opera, to
see if I can find a man there who is a poet, for I will only have a
man who has a certain portion of fire and genius. I do not expect a
giant, and if I fail in meeting with a poet there, I shall probably
make Immermann's acquaintance for this express purpose, and if he
is not the man either, I shall try for him in London. I always
fancy that the right man has not yet appeared; but what can I do to
find him out? He certainly does not live in the Reichmann Hotel,
nor next door; so where does he live? Pray write to me on this
subject; although I firmly believe that a kind Providence, who
sends us all things in due time when we stand in need of them, will
supply this also if necessary; still we must do our duty, and look
round us--and I do wish the libretto were found.
In the meantime I write as good music as I can, and hope to make
progress, and we already agreed, when discussing this affair in my
room, that, as I said before, I am not responsible for the rest.
But enough now of this dry tone. I really have become once more
almost morose and impatient, and yet I had so firmly resolved never
again to be so!
Lucerne, August 27th, 1831.
I quite feel that any opera I were to write now, would not be
nearly so good as any second one I might compose afterwards; and
that I must first enter on the new path I propose to myself, and
pursue it for some little time, in order to discover whither it
will lead, and how far it will go, whereas in instrumental music I
already begin to know exactly what I really intend. Having worked
so much in this sphere, I feel much more clear and tranquil with
regard to it--in short, it urges me onwards. Besides, I have been
made very humble lately, by a chance occurrence that still dwells
on my mind.
In the valley of Engelberg I found Schiller's "Wilhelm Tell," and
on reading it over again, I was anew enchanted and fascinated by
such a glorious work of art, and by all the passion, fire, and
fervour it displays. An expression of Goethe's suddenly recurred to
my mind. In the course of a long conversation about Schiller, he
said that Schiller had been able to _supply_ two great tragedies
every year, besides other poems. This business-like term _supply_,
struck me as the more remarkable on reading this fresh, vigorous
work; and such energy seemed to me so wonderfully grand, that I
felt as if in the course of my life I had never yet produced
anything of importance; all my works seem so isolated. I feel as if
I too must one day _supply_ something. Pray do not think this
presumptuous; but rather believe that I only say so because I know
what _ought_ to be, and what _is not_. Where I am to find the
opportunity, or even a glimpse of one, is hitherto to me quite a
mystery. If however it be my mission, I firmly believe that the
opportunity will be granted, and if I do not profit by it another
will; but in that case I cannot divine why I feel such an impulse
to press onwards. If you could succeed in not thinking about
singers, decorations, and situations, but feel solely absorbed in
representing men, nature, and life, I am convinced that you would
yourself write the best libretto of any one living; for a person
who is so familiar with the stage as you are, could not possibly
write anything undramatic, and I really do not know what you could
wish to change in your poetry. If there be an innate feeling for
nature and melody, the verses cannot fail to be musical, even
though they sound rather lame in the libretto; but so far as I am
concerned, you may write prose if you like, I will compose music
for it. But when one form is to be moulded into another, when the
verses are to be made musically, but not _felt_ musically, when
fine words are to replace outwardly what is utterly deficient in
fine feeling inwardly--there you are right--this is a dilemma from
which no man can extricate himself; for as surely as pure metre,
happy thoughts, and classical language do not suffice to make a
good poem, unless a certain flash of poetical inspiration pervades
the whole, so an opera can only become thoroughly musical, and
accordingly thoroughly dramatic, by a vivid feeling of life in all
the characters.
There is a passage on this subject in Beaumarchais, who is censured
because he makes his personages utter too few fine thoughts, and
has put too few poetical phrases into their mouths. He answers,
that this is not his fault. He must confess that during the whole
time he was writing the piece, he was engaged in the most lively
conversation with his _dramatis personae_: that while seated at his
writing table he was exclaming: "Figaro, prends garde, le Comte
sait tout!--Ah! Comtesse, quelle imprudence!--vite, sauve-toi,
petit page;" and then he wrote down their answers, whatever they
chanced to be,--nothing more. This strikes me as being both true
and charming.
The sketch of the opera introducing an Italian Carnival, and the
close in Switzerland, I already knew, but was not aware that it was
yours. Be so good however as to describe Switzerland with great
vigour, and immense spirit. If you are to depict an effeminate
Switzerland, with _jodeln_ and languishing, such as I saw here in
the theatre last night in the 'Swiss Family,' when the very
mountains and Alpine horns became sentimental, I shall lose all
patience, and criticize you severely in Spener's paper. I beg you
will make it full of animation, and write to me again on the
subject.
Isola Bella, July 24th, 1831.
You no doubt imagine that you inhale the fragrance of
orange-flowers, see blue sky, and a bright sun, and a clear lake,
when you merely read the date of this letter. Not at all! The
weather is atrocious, rain pouring down, and claps of thunder heard
at intervals;--the hills look frightfully bleak, as if the world
were enshrouded in clouds; the lake is grey, and the sky sombre. I
can smell no orange-flowers, and this island might quite as
appropriately be called "Isola Brutta!" and this has gone on for
three days! My unfortunate cloak! I am confessedly the "spirit of
negation" (I refer to my mother), and as it is at present the
fashion with every one not to consider the Borromean Islands "by
any means so beautiful," and somewhat formal; and as the weather
seems resolved to disgust me with this spot,--from a spirit of
opposition I maintain that it is perfectly lovely. The approach to
these islands, where you see crowded together green terraces with
quaint statues, and many old-fashioned decorations, along with
verdant foliage, and every species of southern vegetation, has a
peculiar charm for me, and yet something affecting and solemn too.
For what I last year saw in all the luxuriance and exuberance of
wild nature, and to which my eye had become so accustomed, I find
now cultivated by art, and about to pass away from me for ever.
There are citron-hedges and orange-bushes; and sharp-pointed aloes
shoot up from the walls--it is just as if, at the end of a piece,
the beginning were to be repeated; and this, as you know, I
particularly like.
In the steamboat was the first peasant girl I have seen here in
Swiss costume; the people speak a bad half-French Italian. This is
my last letter from Italy, but believe me the Italian lakes are not
the least interesting objects in this country; _anzi_,--I never saw
any more beautiful. People tried to persuade me that the gigantic
forms of the Swiss Alps that have haunted me from my childhood[17]
had been exaggerated by my imagination, and that after all a snowy
mountain was not in reality so grand as I thought. I almost dreaded
being undeceived, but at first sight of the foreground of the Alps
from the Lake of Como, veiled in clouds, with here and there a
surface of bright snow, sharp black points rearing their heads, and
sinking precipitously into the lake, the hills first scattered over
with trees and villages, and covered with moss, and then bleak and
desolate, and on every side deep ravines filled with snow,--I felt
just as I formerly did, and saw that I had exaggerated nothing.
[17] The whole family had been in Switzerland in the year 1821.
In the Alps all is more free, more sharply defined; more
uncivilized, if you will: yet I always feel there both healthier
and happier. I have just returned from the gardens of the Palace,
which I visited in the midst of the rain. I wished to imitate
Albano,[18] and sent for a barber to open a vein: he however
misunderstood my purpose, and shaved me instead,--a very pardonable
mistake. Gondolas are landing on every part of the island, for
to-day is the fete following the great festival of yesterday, in
honour of which the P. P. Borromeo sent for singers and musicians
from Milan, to sing and play to the islanders. The gardener asked
me if I knew what a wind instrument was. I said with a clear
conscience that I did; and he replied that I ought to try to
imagine the effect of thirty such instruments, and violins and
basses, all played at once; but indeed I could not possibly imagine
it, for it must be heard to be believed. The sounds (continued he)
seemed to come from Heaven, and all this was produced by
_philharmony_. What he meant by this term I know not; but the music
had evidently made more impression on him, than the best orchestra
often does on musical connoisseurs. At this moment some one has
just begun to play the organ in the church for Divine service, in
the following strain:--
[Music]
Full organ in the bass, Bourdon 16, and reed stops, have a very
fine effect. The fellow has come all the way from Milan, too,
expressly to make this disturbance in the church. I must go there
for a little, so farewell for a few moments. I intend to remain
here for the night, instead of crossing the lake again, for I am so
much pleased with this little island. I certainly cannot say that I
have slept soundly for the last two nights; one night owing to the
innumerable claps of thunder, the next owing to the innumerable
fleas; and, in all probability, I have to-night the prospect of
both combined. But as the following morning I shall be speaking
French, and have left Italy, and crossed the Simplon, I mean to
ramble about all this day and to-morrow in true Italian fashion.
[18] In the 'Titan' of Jean Paul.
I must now relate to you historically how I happened to come here.
At the very last moment of my stay in Milan, the Ertmanns came to
my room to bid me farewell, and we took leave of each other more
cordially than I have done of any one for many a long day. I
promised to send you many kind wishes from them, though they are
unacquainted with you, and I also agreed to write to them
occasionally. Another valued acquaintance I made there, is Herr
Mozart, who holds an office in Milan; but he is a musician, heart
and soul. He is said to bear the strongest resemblance to his
father, especially in disposition; for the very same phrases that
affect the feelings in his father's letters, from their candour and
simplicity, constantly recur in the conversation of the son, whom
no one can fail to love from the moment he is known. For instance,
I consider it a very charming trait in him, that he is as jealous
of the fame and name of his father, as if he were an incipient
young musician; and one evening, at the Ertmanns', when a great
many of Beethoven's works had been played, the Baroness asked me in
a whisper to play something of Mozart's, otherwise his son would be
quite mortified; so when I played the overture to "Don Juan," he
began to thaw, and begged me to play also the overture to the
"Flauto Magico" of his "_Vatter_," and seemed to feel truly filial
delight in hearing it: it is impossible not to like him.
He gave me letters to some friends near the Lake of Como, which
procured me for once a glimpse of Italian provincial life, and I
amused myself famously there for a few days with the Doctor, the
Apothecary, the Judge, and other people of the locality. There were
very lively discussions on the subject of Sand, and many expressed
great admiration of him; this appeared strange to me, as the
occurrence is of such distant date that no one any longer argues on
the subject. They also spoke of Shakspeare's plays, which are now
being translated into Italian. The Doctor said that the tragedies
were good, but that there were some plays about witches that were
too stupid and childish: one, in particular, "Il Sonno d' una Notte
di Mezza State." In it the stale device occurred of a piece being
rehearsed in the play, and it was full of anachronisms and childish
ideas; on which they all chimed in that it was very silly and
advised me not to read it.[19] I remained meekly silent, and
attempted no defence! I bathed frequently in the Lake, and
sketched, and yesterday rowed on the Lake of Lugano, which frowned
sternly on us with its cascades and dark canopy of clouds; then
across the hills to Luvino, and to-day I came here by steam.
[19] The overture to the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was composed
by Mendelssohn as early as the year 1826.
_Evening._--I have this moment returned from the Isola Madre, and
most splendid it is; spacious, and full of terraces, citron-hedges,
and evergreen shrubs. The weather has at last become less
inclement; thus the large white house on the island, with its ruins
and terraces, looked very pretty. It is indeed a unique land, and I
only wish I could bring with me to Berlin a portion of the same
balmy air that I inhaled when in the boat to-day. You have nothing
like it, and I would rather you enjoyed it, than all the people who
imbibe it here. A fiercely moustachioed German was with me in the
boat, who examined all the beautiful scenery as if he were about to
purchase it and thought it too dear. Presently I heard a trait
quite in the style of Jean Paul. When we were walking on the
island, surrounded by verdure, an Italian, who was of the party,
observed that this was a spot well adapted for lovers to ramble in,
and to enjoy the charms of nature. "Ah! yes!" said I, in a
languishing tone. "It was on this account," continued he, "that I
separated from my wife ten years ago; I established her at Venice
in a small tobacconist's shop, and now I live as I please. You must
one day do the same."
The old boatman told us that he had rowed General Bonaparte on this
lake, and related various anecdotes of him and Murat. He said Murat
was a most extraordinary man; all the time that he was rowing him
on the lake, he never ceased singing to himself for a single
moment, and once when setting off on a journey he gave him his
spirit-flask, and said he would buy another for himself in Milan. I
cannot tell why these little traits, especially the singing, seemed
to realize the man in my mind more than many a book of history.
The "Walpurgis Nacht" is finished and revised, and the overture
will soon be equally far advanced. The only person who has heard it
as yet, is Mozart, and he was so delighted with it that the
well-known composition caused me fresh pleasure; he insisted on my
publishing it immediately. Pray forgive this letter, written in
true student phraseology. You no doubt perceive from its style that
I have not worn a neckcloth for a week past; but I wished you to
know how gay and happy I have been during the days spent among the
mountains, and with what pleasure I look forward to those that yet
await me.
Yours, FELIX.
A l'Union-prieure de Chamounix, end of July, 1831.
My dear Parents,
I cannot refrain from writing to you from time to time, to thank
you for my wondrously beautiful journey; and if I ever did so
before, I must do so again now, for more delightful days than those
on my journey hither, and during my stay here, I never experienced.
Fortunately you already know this valley, so there is no occasion
for me to describe it to you; indeed, how could I possibly have
done so? But this I may say, that nowhere has nature in all her
glory met my eyes in such brightness as here, both when I saw it
with you for the first time and now; and as every one who sees it,
ought to thank God for having given him faculties to comprehend,
and to appreciate such grandeur, so I must also thank you for
having supplied me with the means of enjoying such a pleasure.
I had been told that I exaggerated the forms of the mountains in my
imagination; but yesterday, at the hour of sunset, I was pacing up
and down in front of the house, and each time that I turned my back
on the mountains, I endeavoured vividly to represent to myself
these gigantic masses, and each time when I again faced them, they
far exceeded my previous conceptions. Like the morning that we
drove away from this when the sun was rising[20] (no doubt you
remember it) the hills have been clear and lovely ever since I
arrived. The snow pure, and sharply defined, and apparently near in
the dark blue atmosphere; the glaciers thundering unremittingly,
as the ice is melting; when clouds gather, they lie lightly on the
base of the mountains, the summits of which stand forth clear
above. Would that we could see them together! I have passed this
whole day here quietly, and entirely alone. I wished to sketch the
outlines of the mountains, so I went out and found an admirable
point of view, but when I opened my book, the paper seemed so very
small that I hesitated about attempting it. I have indeed succeeded
in giving the outlines what is called _correctly_,--but every
stroke looks so formal, when compared with the grace and freedom
which everywhere here pervade nature. And then the splendour of
colour! In short, this is the most brilliant point of my travels;
and the whole of my excursion on foot, so solitary, independent,
and enjoyable, is something new to me, and a hitherto unknown
pleasure.
[20] In the year 1821.
I must however relate how I came here, otherwise my letter at last
will contain nothing but exclamations. As I previously wrote to
you, I had the most odious weather on the Lago Maggiore, and the
Islands. It continued so incessantly stormy, cold, and wet, that
the same evening I took my place in the diligence in rather a sulky
humour, and we drove on towards the Simplon. Scarcely had we been
journeying for half an hour, when the moon came out, the clouds
dispersed, and next morning the weather was most bright and
beautiful. I felt almost ashamed of this undeserved good fortune,
and I could now thoroughly enjoy the glorious scenery; the road
winding first through high green valleys, then through rocky
ravines and meadows, and at last past glaciers and snowy mountains.
I had with me a little French book on the subject of the Simplon
road, which both pleased and affected me; for the subject was
Napoleon's correspondence with the _Directoire_ about the projected
work, and the first report of the General who crossed the mountain.
With what spirit and vigour these letters are written! and yet a
little swagger too, but with such a glow of enthusiasm that it
quite touched me, as I was driven along this capital level road by
an Austrian postilion. I compared the fire and poetry displayed in
every description contained in these letters (I mean those of the
subaltern General) with the eloquence of the present day, which
leaves you so terribly cold and is so odiously prosaic in all its
philanthropic views, and so lame--where there is plenty of
_fanfaronnade_, but no genuine youth--and I could not but feel that
a great epoch has passed away for ever. I was unable to divest
myself of the idea that Napoleon never saw this work--one of
his favourite conceptions--for he never crossed the Simplon
when the road was finished, and was thus deprived of this great
gratification. High up, in the Simplon village, all is bleak, and I
actually shivered from cold for the first time during the last year
and a half. A neat civil Frenchwoman keeps the inn on the summit,
and it would not be easy to describe the sensation of satisfaction
caused by its thrifty cleanliness, which is nowhere to be found in
Italy.
We then descended into the Valais, as far as Brieg, where I stayed
all night, overjoyed to find myself once more among honest, natural
people, who could speak German, and who plundered me into the
bargain in the most infamous manner. The following day I drove
through the Valais--an enchanting journey: the road all along, like
those you have seen in Switzerland, ran between two lofty ranges of
mountains, their snowy peaks starting up at intervals, and through
avenues of green, leafy walnut-trees, standing in front of pretty
brown houses,--below, the wild grey Rhone,--past Lenk, and every
quarter of an hour a village with a little church. From Martigny I
travelled for the first time in my life literally on foot, and as I
found the guides too dear I went on quite alone, and started with
my cloak and knapsack on my shoulders. About a couple of hours
later I met a stout peasant lad, who became my guide, and also
carried my knapsack; and so we went on past Forclas to Trient, a
little dairy village, where I breakfasted on milk and honey, and
thence to the Col de Balme.
The whole valley of Chamouni, and Mont Blanc, with all its
precipitous glaciers, lay before me bathed in sunshine. A party of
gentlemen and ladies (one of the latter very pretty and young) came
from the opposite side on mules, with a number of guides; scarcely
had we all assembled under one roof, when subtle vapours began to
rise, shrouding first the mountain and then the valley, and at
last thickly covering every object, so that soon nothing was to be
seen. The ladies were afraid of going out into the fog, just as if
they were not already in the midst of it; at last they set off, and
from the window I watched the singular spectacle of the caravan
leaving the house, all laughing, and talking loudly in French and
English and _patois_. The voices presently became indistinct; then
the figures likewise; and last of all I saw the pretty girl in her
wide Scotch cloak; then only glimpses of grey shadows at intervals,
and they all disappeared. A few minutes later I ran down the
opposite side of the mountain with my guide; we soon emerged once
more into sunshine, and entered the green valley of Chamouni with
its glaciers; and at length arrived here at the Union. I have just
returned from a ramble to Montanvert, the Mer de Glace, and to the
source of the Arveiron. You know this splendid scenery, and so you
will forgive me, if, instead of going to Geneva to-morrow, I first
make the tour of Mont Blanc, that I may become acquainted with this
personage from the southern side also, which is I hear the most
striking. Farewell, dear parents! May we have a happy meeting!--Yours,