TO CARL IMMERMANN IN DUeSSELDORF.
Paris, January 11th, 1832.
You permitted me to give you occasional tidings of myself, and
since I came here, I have daily intended to do so; the excitement
here is however so great, that till to-day I have never been able
to write. When I contrast this constant whirl and commotion, and
the thousand distractions among a foreign people, with your house
in the garden, and your warm winter room, your wish to exchange
with me and to come here in my place, often recurs to me, and I
almost wish I had taken you at your word. You must indeed in that
case have remained all the same in your winter room, so that I
might come out to you through the snow, take my usual place in the
corner, and listen to the "Schwanritter;" for there is more life in
it than in all the tumult here.
In a word, I rejoice at the prospect of my return to Germany;
everything there is indeed on a small scale, and homely, if you
will, but _men_ live there; men who know what art really is, who
do not admire, nor praise, in fact who do not _criticize_, but
_create_. You do not admit this, but it is only because you are
yourself among the number.
I beg you will not however think that I am like one of those German
youths with long hair, lounging about listlessly, and pronouncing
the French superficial, and Paris frivolous. I only say all this
because I now thoroughly enjoy and admire Paris, and am becoming
better acquainted with it, and especially as I am writing to you in
Duesseldorf. I have, on the contrary, cast myself headlong into the
vortex, and do nothing the whole day but see new objects, the
Chambers of Peers and Deputies, pictures and theatres, dio- neo-
cosmo- and panoramas, constant parties, etc. Moreover, the
musicians here are as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, all
hating each other; so each must be individually visited, and wary
diplomacy is advisable, for they are all gossips, and what one says
to another, the whole corps know next morning.
The days have thus flown past hitherto as if only half as long as
they were in reality, and as yet I have not been able to compose a
single bar; in a few days, however, this exotic life will cease. My
head is now dizzy from all I have seen and wondered at; but I then
intend to collect my thoughts, and set to work, when I shall feel
once more happy and domesticated.
My chief pleasure is going to the little theatres in the evening,
because there French life and the French people are truly mirrored;
the "Gymnase Dramatique" is my particular favourite, where nothing
is given but small _vaudevilles_. The extreme bitterness and deep
animosity which pervade all these little comedies, are most
remarkable, and although partially cloaked by the prettiest
phrases, and the most lively acting, become only the more
conspicuous. Politics everywhere play the chief part, which might
have sufficed to make me dislike these theatres, for we have enough
of them _elsewhere_; but the politics of the "Gymnase" are of a
light and ironical description,--referring to the occurrences of
the day, and to the newspapers, in order to excite laughter and
applause, and at last you can't help laughing and applauding with
the rest. Politics and sensuality are the two grand points of
interest, round which everything circles; and in the many pieces I
have seen, an attack on the Ministry, and a scene of seduction,
were never absent.
The whole style of the _vaudeville_, introducing certain
conventional music at the end of the scene in every piece, when the
actors partly sing and partly declaim some couplets with a witty
point, is thoroughly French; we could never learn this, nor in fact
wish to do so, for this mode of connecting the wit of the day with
an established _refrain_, does not exist in our conversation, nor
in our ideas. I cannot imagine anything more striking and
effective, nor yet more prosaic.
A great sensation has been recently caused here, by a new piece at
the Gymnase, "Le Luthier de Lisbonne," which forms the delight of
the public. A stranger is announced in the play-bills; scarcely
does he appear when all the audience begin to laugh and to applaud,
and you learn that the actor is a close imitation of Don Miguel, in
gestures, manner, and costume; he proceeds to announce that he is a
king, and the fortune of the piece is made. The more stupid,
uncivilized, and uncouth, the Unknown appears, the greater is the
enjoyment of the public, who allow none of his gestures or speeches
to pass unobserved. He takes refuge from a riot in the house of
this instrument maker, who is the most devoted of all royalists,
but unluckily the husband of a very pretty woman. One of Don
Miguel's favourites has forced her to grant him a rendezvous for
the ensuing night, and he begs the king--who arrives at this
moment--to give him his aid, by causing the husband to be beheaded.
Don Miguel replies, "Tres volontiers," and while the Luthier
recognizes him, and falls at his feet, beside himself from joy, Don
Miguel signs his death-warrant, but also that of his favourite,
whom he means to replace with the pretty woman. At each enormity
that he commits, we laugh and applaud, and are immensely delighted
with this stupid stage Don Miguel. So ends the first act. In the
second, it is supposed to be midnight; the pretty wife alone and
agitated. Don Miguel jumps in at the window, and does all in his
power to gain her favour, making her dance and sing to him, but she
cannot endure him, and falls at his feet, imploring him to spare
her; on which he seizes her, and drags her repeatedly round the
stage, and if she did not make a snatch at a knife, and then a
sudden knocking ensue, she might have been in a bad plight; at the
close, the worthy Luthier rescues the king from the hands of the
French soldiery, who are just arrived, and of whose valour, and
love of liberty, he has a great horror. So the piece ends happily.
A little comedy followed, where the wife betrays her husband, and
has a lover; and another, where the man is faithless to his wife,
and is maintained by his mistress; this is succeeded by a satire on
the new constructions in the Tuileries, and on the Ministry, and so
it goes on.
I cannot say how it may be at the French Opera, for it is bankrupt,
so there has been no acting there since I came. In the Academie
Royale, however, Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" is played every
night with great success; the house is always crowded, and the
music has given general satisfaction. There is an expenditure of
all possible means of producing stage effect, that I never saw
equalled on any stage. All who can sing, dance, or act in Paris,
sing, dance, and act on this occasion.
The _sujet_ is romantic; that is, the devil appears in the
piece--(this is quite sufficient romance and imagination for the
Parisians). It is however very bad; and were it not for two
brilliant scenes of seduction it would produce no effect whatever.
The devil is a poor devil, and appears in armour, for the purpose
of leading astray his son Robert, a Norman knight, who loves a
Sicilian princess. He succeeds in inducing him to stake his money
and all his personal property (that is, his sword) at dice, and
then makes him commit sacrilege, giving him a magic branch, which
enables him to penetrate into the Princess's apartment, and renders
him irresistible. The son does all this with apparent willingness;
but when at the end he is to assign himself to his father, who
declares that he loves him, and cannot live without him, the devil,
or rather the poet Scribe, introduces a peasant girl, who has in
her possession the will of Robert's deceased mother, and reads him
the document, which makes him doubt the story he has been told; so
the devil is obliged to sink down through a trap-door at midnight,
with his purpose unfulfilled, on which Robert marries the Princess,
and the peasant girl, it seems, is intended to represent the
principle of good. The devil is called Bertram.
I cannot imagine how any music could be composed on such a cold,
formal _extravaganza_ as this, and so the opera does not satisfy
me. It is throughout frigid and heartless; and where this is the
case it produces no effect on me. The people extol the music, but
where warmth and truth are wanting, I have no test to apply.
Michael Beer set off to-day for Havre. It seems he intends to
compose poetry there; and I now remember that when I met you one
day at Schadow's, and maintained that he was no poet, your
rejoinder was, "That is a matter of taste." I seldom see Heine,
because he is entirely absorbed in liberal ideas and in politics.
He has recently published sixty "Fruehlings Lieder." Very few of
them seem to me either genuine or truthful, but these few are
indeed inimitable. Have you read them? They appeared in the second
volume of the "Reisebilder." Boerne intends to publish some new
volumes of letters: he and I are full of enthusiasm for Malibran
and Taglioni; all these gentlemen are abusing and reviling Germany
and all that is German, and yet they cannot speak even tolerable
French; I think this rather provoking.
Pray excuse my having sent you so much gossip, and for writing to
you on such a disreputable margin of paper; but it is long since we
met; and as for a time I could see you every day, it has become
quite a necessity to write to you; so you must not take it amiss.
You once promised to send me a few lines in reply: I don't know
whether I may venture to remind you of this, but I should really be
glad to hear how you pass your time, and what novelty a certain
cupboard in the corner contains; how you get on with "Merlin," and
my "Schwanritter," the sound of which still vibrates in my ears
like sweet music; and also whether you sometimes think of me, and
of next May, and "The Tempest." It is certainly expecting a good
deal to ask you for an early reply to my letter, but I fear that
you had enough of the first, and would rather not receive a second;
therefore I take courage, and beg for an answer to this one. But I
need not have asked this, for you usually guess my wishes before I
can utter them; and if you are as kindly disposed towards me now
as you were then, you will fulfil this desire of mine as you did
all the others.--Yours,