Düsseldorf, April 16th, 1835.
Sir,
I thank you cordially for your last letter, and for the friendly interest which you take in me, and in my coming to Leipzig. As I perceive by the Herr Stadtrath Porsche’s letter, as well as by that of the Superintendent of the concerts, that my going there does not interfere with any other person, one great difficulty is thus obviated. But another has now arisen, as the letter of the Superintendent contains different views with regard to the situation from yours. The direction of twenty concerts and extra concerts is named as among the duties, but a benefit concert (about which you wrote to me) is not mentioned. I have consequently said in my reply what I formerly wrote to you, that in order to induce me to consent to the exchange, I wish to see the same pecuniary advantages secured to me that I enjoy here. If a benefit concert, as you say, would bring from 200 to 300 dollars, this sum would certainly be a considerable increase to my salary; but I must say that I never made such a proposal, and indeed would not have accepted it, had it been made to me. It would be a different thing if the association chose to give an additional concert, and to devote a share of the profits towards the increase of my established salary. During my musical career, I have always resolved never to give a concert formyself (for my own benefit). You probably are aware that, personally, pecuniary considerations would be of less importance to me, were it not that my parents (and I think rightly) exact from me that I should follow my art as a profession, and gain my livelihood by means of it. I, however, reserved the power of declining certain things which, in reference to my favoured position in this respect, I will never do; for example, giving concerts or lessons. But I quite acknowledge the propriety of what my parents insist on so strongly, that in all other relations I shall gladly consider myself as a musician who lives by his profession. Thus, before giving up my present situation, I must ascertain that one equally advantageous is secured to me. I do not consider that what I require is at all presumptuous, as it has been offered to me here, and on this account I trust that a similar course may be pursued in Leipzig. An association was at that time formed here, who entrusted to me the duty of conducting the Vocal Association, concerts, etc., and made up my salary partly in common with the Vocal Association, and partly by the profits of the concerts. Whether anything of this kind be possible with you, or whether it could be equalized by an additional concert, or whether the execution of particular duties is to be imposed on me, I cannot of course pretend to decide. I only wish that, in one way or another, a definite position should be assured to me, like the one I enjoy here; and if your idea about the benefit concert couldbe modified and carried out, there would then be a good hope for me that the affair might turn out according to my wish.
If you can induce the directors to fulfil the wishes I have expressed, you will exceedingly oblige me, for you know how welcome a residence and active employment in your city would be to me. In any event, continue your friendly feelings towards me, and accept my thanks for them.
Düsseldorf, May 18th, 1835.
Sir,
I thank you much for the kind letter you have gratified me by addressing to me. The idea which you communicate in it is very flattering for me, and yet I confess that I feel a certain degree of dislike to do what you propose, and for a long time past I have entertained this feeling. It is now so very much the fashion for obscure or commonplace people to have their likeness given to the public, in order to become more known, and for young beginners to do so at first starting in life, that I have always had a dread of doing so too soon. I do not wish that my likeness should be taken, until I have accomplished something to render me more worthy, according to my idea, of such an honour. This,however, not being yet the case, I beg to defer such a compliment till I am more deserving of it; but receive my best thanks for the friendly good-nature with which you made me this offer.[22]—I am, etc.,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, October 6th, 1835.
For a week past I have been seeking for a leisure hour to answer, and to thank you for the charming letters I have received from you; but the London days, with their distractions, were not worse than the time has been since Fanny left this till now. At length, after the successful result of the first concert, I have at last a certain degree of rest.
The day after I accompanied the Hensels to Delitsch, Chopin came; he intended only to remain one day, so we spent this entirely together in music. I cannot deny, dear Fanny, that I have lately found that you by no means do him justice in your judgment of his talents; perhaps he was not in a humour for playing when you heard him, which may not unfrequently be the case with him. But his playing has enchanted me afresh, and I am persuaded that if you, and my Father also, had heard some of his better pieces, as he played them to me, youwould say the same. There is something thoroughly original in his pianoforte playing, and at the same time so masterly, that he may be called a most perfect virtuoso; and as every style of perfection is welcome and acceptable, that day was most agreeable to me, although so entirely different from the previous ones with you,—the Hensels.
It was so pleasant for me to be once more with a thorough musician, and not with those half virtuosos and half classics, who would gladly combineles honneurs de la vertu et les plaisirs du vice, but with one who has his perfect and well-defined phase; and however far asunder we may be in our different spheres, still I can get on famously with such a person; but not with those half-and-half people. Sunday evening was really very remarkable when Chopin made me play over my oratorio to him, while curious Leipzigers stole into the room to see him, and when between the first and second part he dashed into his new Études and a new concerto, to the amazement of the Leipzigers, and then I resumed my “St. Paul;” it was just as if a Cherokee and a Kaffir had met to converse. He has also such a lovely newnotturno, a considerable part of which I learnt by ear for the purpose of playing it for Paul’s amusement. So we got on most pleasantly together; and he promised faithfully to return in the course of the winter, when I intend to compose a new symphony, and to perform it in honour of him. We vowed these things in the presenceof three witnesses, and we shall see whether we both adhere to our word. My collection of Handel’s works arrived before Chopin’s departure, and were a source of quite childish delight to him; they really are so beautiful that I am charmed with them; thirty-two great folios, bound in thick green leather, in the regular nice English fashion, and on the back, in big gold letters, the title and contents of each volume; and in the first volume, besides, there are the following words, “To Director F. M. B., from the Committee of the Cologne Musical Festival, 1835.” The books were accompanied by a very civil letter, with the signatures of all the Committee, and on taking up one of the volumes at random it happened to be “Samson,” and just at the very beginning I found a grand aria for Samson which is quite unknown, because Herr von Mosel struck it out, and which yields in beauty to none of Handel’s; so you see what pleasure is in store for me in all the thirty-two volumes. You may imagine my delight. Before setting off on his journey Moscheles came to see me, and during the first half-hour he played over my second book of “songs without words” to my extreme pleasure. He is not the least changed, only somewhat older in appearance, but otherwise as fresh and in as good spirits as ever, and playing quite splendidly; another kind of perfect virtuoso and master combined. The rehearsals of the first subscription gradually drew near, and the day before yesterday my Leipzigmusic-directorship commenced. I cannot tell you how much I am satisfied with this beginning, and with the whole aspect of my position here. It is a quiet, regular, official business. That the Institute has been established for fifty-six years is very perceptible, and moreover, the people seem most friendly and well-disposed towards me and my music. The orchestra is very good, and thoroughly musical; and I think that six months hence it will be much improved, for the sympathy and attention with which these people receive my suggestions, and instantly adopt them, were really touching in both the rehearsals we have hitherto had; there was as great a difference as if another orchestra had been playing. There are still some deficiencies in the orchestra, but these will be supplied by degrees; and I look forward to a succession of pleasant evenings and good performances. I wish you had heard the introduction to my “Meeresstille” (for the concert began with that); there was such profound silence in the hall and in the orchestra, that the most delicate notes could be distinctly heard, and they played the adagio from first to last in the most masterly manner; the allegro not quite so well; for being accustomed to a slowertempo, they rather dragged; but at the end, where the slow time 4/4ffbegins, they went capitally; the violins attacking it with a degree of vehemence that quite startled me and delighted thepublicus. The following pieces, an air in E major of Weber, a violin concerto by Spohr, and the introductionto “Ali Baba” did not go so well; the one rehearsal was not sufficient, and they were often unsteady; but, on the other hand, Beethoven’s B flat symphony, which formed the second part, was splendidly given, so that the Leipzigers shouted with delight at the close of each movement. I never in any orchestra saw such zeal and excitement; they listened like—popinjays, Zelter would say.
After the concert I received, and offered in turn, a mass of congratulations: first the orchestra, then the Thomas School collegians (who are capital fellows, and go to college, and are dismissed so punctually that I have promised them an order); then came Moscheles, with a Court suite ofdilettanti, then two editors of musical papers, and so on. Moscheles’ concert is on Friday, and I am to play his piece for two pianos[23]with him, and he is to play my new pianoforte-concerto. My “Hebrides” have also contrived to creep into the concert. This afternoon Moscheles, Clara Wieck, and I, play Sebastian Bach’s triple concerto in D minor. How amiable Moscheles is towards myself, how cordially he is interested in my situation here, how it delights me that he is so satisfied with it, how he plays my rondo in E flat to my great admiration, and far better than I originally conceived it, and how we dine together every forenoon in his hotel, and every evening drink tea and have music in mine,—all this you can imagine for yourself,for you know him,—especially you, dear Father. These are pleasant days; and if I have not much leisure to work, I mean to make up for it hereafter, and shall derive as much benefit from it then as now.
My first concert caused me no perturbation, dear Mother, but to my shame I confess, that I never felt so embarrassed at the moment of appearing as on that occasion; I believe it arose from our long correspondence and treaty on the subject, and I had never before seen a concert of the kind. The locality and the lights confused me. Now farewell all. May you be well and happy, and pray write to me very often.—Your
Felix.
Leipzig, December 6th, 1835.
Dear Schubring,
You have no doubt heard of the heavy stroke that has fallen on my happy life and those dear to me.[24]It is the greatest misfortune that could have befallen me, and a trial that I must either strive to bear up against, or must utterly sink under. I say this to myself after the lapse of three weeks, without the acute anguish of the first days, but I now feel it even more deeply; a new life must now begin for me, or all must be at anend,—the old life is now severed. For our consolation and example, our Mother bears her loss with the most wonderful composure and firmness; she comforts herself with her children and grandchildren, and thus strives to hide the chasm that never can be filled up. My Brother and Sisters do what they can to fulfil their duties better than ever, the more difficult they have become. I was ten days in Berlin, that by my presence my Mother should at least be surrounded by her whole family; but I need scarcely tell you what these days were; you know it well, and no doubt you thought of me in that dark hour. God granted to my Father the prayer that he had often uttered; his end was as peaceful and quiet, and as sudden and unexpected as he desired. On Wednesday, the 18th, he was surrounded by all his family, went to bed late the same evening, complained a little early on Thursday, and at half-past eleven his life was ended. The physicians can give his malady no name. It seems that my grandfather Moses died in a similar manner,—so my uncle told us,—at the same age, without sickness, and in a calm and cheerful frame of mind. I do not know whether you are aware that more especially for some years past, my Father was so good to me, so thoroughly my friend, that I was devoted to him with my whole soul, and during my long absence I scarcely ever passed an hour without thinking of him; but as you knew him in his own home with us, in all his kindliness, you can well realize my state of mind. The onlything that now remains is to do one’s duty, and this I strive to accomplish with all my strength, for he would wish it to be so if he were still present, and I shall never cease to endeavour to gain his approval as I formerly did, though I can no longer enjoy it. When I delayed answering your letter, I little thought that I should have to answer it thus; let me thank you for it now, and for all your kindness. One passage for “St. Paul” was excellent, “der Du der rechte Vater bist.” I have a chorus in my head for it which I intend shortly to write down. I shall now work with double zeal at the completion of “St. Paul” for my Father urged me to it in the very last letter he wrote to me, and he looked forward very impatiently to the completion of my work. I feel as if I must exert all my energies to finish it, and make it as good as possible, and then think that he takes an interest in it. If any good passages occur to you, pray send them to me, for you know the intention of the whole. To-day, for the first time, I have begun once more to work at it, and intend now to do so daily. When it is concluded, what is to come next, God will direct. Farewell, dear Schubring, bear me in your thoughts.—Your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, December 9th, 1835.
I received your kind letter here, on the very day when the christening in your family was to take place, on my return from Berlin, where I had gone in the hope of alleviating my Mother’s grief, immediately after the loss of my Father. So I received the intelligence of your happiness, on again crossing the threshold of my empty room, when I felt for the first time in my inmost being, what it is to suffer the most painful and bitter anguish. Indeed the wish which of all others every night recurred to my mind, was that I might not survive my loss, because I so entirely clung to my Father, or rather still cling to him, that I do not know how I can now pass my life, for not only have I to deplore the loss of a father (a sorrow which of all others from my childhood I always thought the most acute), but also that of my best and most perfect friend during the last few years, and my instructor in art and in life.
It seemed to me so strange, reading your letter, which breathed only joy and satisfaction, calling on me to rejoice with you on your future prospects, at the moment when I felt that my past was lost and gone for ever; but I thank you for wishing me, though so distant, to become your guest at the christening; and though my name may make a graver impression now than you probably thought, I trust that impression will only be a grave, andnot a painful one, to you and your wife; and when, in later years, you tell your child of those whom you invited to his baptism, do not omit my name from your guests, but say to him that one of them on that day recommenced his life afresh,—though in another sense, with new purposes and wishes, and with new prayers to God.
My Mother is well, and bears her sorrow with such composure and dignity that we can all only wonder and admire, and ascribe it to her love for her children, and her wish for their happiness. As for myself, when I tell you that I strive to do my duty and thus to win my Father’s approval now as I always formerly did, and devote to the completion of “St. Paul,” in which he took such pleasure, all the energies of my mind, to make it as good as I possibly can; when I say that I force myself to the performance of my duties here, not to pass quite unprofitably these first days of sorrow, when to be perfectly idle is most consonant to one’s feelings; that, lastly, the people here are most kind and sympathizing, and endeavour to make life as little painful to me as they can,—you know the aspect of my inner and outer life at this moment. Farewell.
Leipzig, January 24th, 1836.
My dear Ferdinand,
I now send you my promised report of the performance of your D minor overture, which took place last Thursday evening. It was well executed by the orchestra; we had studied it repeatedly and carefully, and a great many of the passages sounded so well as to exceed my expectations. The most beautiful of all was the first passage in A minor,piano, given by wind instruments, followed by the melody,—which had an admirable effect; and also at the beginning of the free fantasia, thefortein G minor, and then thepiano, (your favourite passage,) likewise the trombones and wind instruments,piano, at the end in D major. The Finale, too, exceeded my expectations in the orchestra. But, trusting to our good understanding, I could not resist striking out, after the first rehearsal, thestaccatodouble-basses in the melody in A major, and each time the passage recurred in F and D major, replacing them by sustained notes; you can’t think how confused the effect was, and therefore I hope you will not take this liberty amiss. I am convinced you would have done the same; it did not sound as you would have liked.
I have something else, too, on my conscience that I must tell you. The Overture neither excited myself nor the musicians during its performance as I could havewished; it left us rather cold. This would have been of little consequence, but it was remarkable that all the musicians to whom I spoke said the same. The first theme and all the beginning, the melodies in A minor and A major, particularly delighted them; and up to that point they had all felt enthusiastic, but then their sympathy gradually subsided; till, when the close came, they had quite forgotten the striking impression of the theme, and no longer felt any interest in the music. This seems to me important, for I think it is connected with the difference which we have so repeatedly discussed together, and the want of interest with which you at all times regard your art, being now at length become perceptible to others. I would not say this to you, were it not that I am perfectly convinced of this being a point which must be left to eachindividual, as neither nature nor talents, even of the highest order, can remedy it; a man’s own will alone can do so. Nothing is more repugnant to me than casting blame on the nature or genius of any one; it only renders him irritable and bewildered, and does no good. No man can add one inch to his stature: in such a case all striving and toiling is vain, therefore it is best to be silent. Providence is answerable for this defect in his nature. But if it be the case, as it is with this work of yours, that precisely those very themes, and all that requires talent or genius (call it as you will), is excellent and beautiful and touching, but the development not sogood,—then, I think, silence should not be observed; then, I think, blame can never be unwise, for this is the point where great progress can be made by the composer himself in his works; and as I believe that a man with fine capabilities has the absolute duty imposed on him of becoming something really superior, so I think that blame must be attributed to him, if he does not develope himself according to the means with which he is endowed. And I maintain that it is the same with a musical composition. Do not tell me that it is so, and therefore it must remain so. I know well that no musician can alter the thoughts and talents which Heaven has bestowed on him; but I also know that when Providence grants him superior ones, hemustalsodevelopethem properly. Do not declare, either, that we were all mistaken, and that the execution was as much in fault as the composition. I do not believe it. I do believe that your talents are such that you are inferior tonomusician, but I scarcely know one piece of yours that is systematically carried out. The two overtures are certainly your best pieces, but the more distinctly you express your thoughts, the more perceptible are the defects, and in my opinion you must rectify them.
Do not ask me how, for that you know best yourself. After all, it is only the affair of a walk, or a moment,—in short, of a thought. If you laugh at me for this long lecture, perhaps you may be quite right; but certainly not so if you are displeased, or bear me a grudge for it;though indeed it is very stupid in me even to suggest such a possibility. But how many musicians are there who would permit another to address them thus? And though you must see in every expression of mine how much I love and revere your genius, still I have told you that you are not absolute perfection, and this musicians usually take highly amiss. But you will not: you know my sincere interest in you too well.
Leipzig, January 30th, 1836.
Dear Fanny,
To-day at length I can reply to your charming letters, and lecture you severely for saying in your first letter that it was long since you had been able to please me by your music, and asking me how this was. I totally deny this to be the fact, and assure you that all you compose pleases me. If two or three things in succession did not satisfy me as entirely as others of yours, I think the ground lay no deeper than this, that you have written less than in former days, when one or two songs that did not exactly suit my taste were so rapidly composed, and replaced so quickly by others, that neither of us considered much why it was that they were less attractive; we only laughed together about them, and there was an end of it.
I may quote here “Die Schönheit nicht, O Mädchen,” and many others in the “prima manieraof our master” which we heartily abused. Then came beautiful songs in their turn, and so it is at present, only they cannot follow each other in such quick succession, because you must often now have other things to occupy your thoughts besides composing pretty songs, and that is a great blessing. But if you suppose that your more recent compositions seem to me inferior to your earlier ones, you are most entirely and totally mistaken, for I know no song of yours better than the English one in G minor, or the close of the “Liederkreis,” and many others of later date; besides, you are aware that formerly there were entirebooksof your composition that were less acceptable to me than others, because my nature always was to be a screech-owl, and to belong to the savage tribe of brothers. But you know well how much I loveallyour productions, and some are especially dear to my heart; so I trust that you will write to me forthwith that you have done me injustice, by considering me a man devoid of taste, and that you will never again do so.
And then, neither in this letter nor in your former one do you say one word about “St. Paul” or “Melusina,” as one colleague should write to another,—that is, remarks on fifths, rhythm, and motion of the parts, on conceptions, counterpoint,et cætera animalia. You ought to have done so, however, and should do so still, for you know the value I attach to this; and as “St.Paul” is shortly to be sent to the publisher, a few strictures from you would come just at the right moment. I write to you to-day solely in the hope of soon receiving an answer from you, for I am very weary and exhausted from yesterday’s concert, where, in addition to conducting three times, I was obliged to play Mozart’s D minor concerto. In the first movement I made acadenza, which succeeded famously, and caused a tremendous sensation among the Leipzigers. I must write down the end of it for you. You remember the theme, of course? Towards the close of the cadence, arpeggios come inpianissimoin D minor, thus—
Musical notation
Then again G minor arpeggios; then
Musical notation
ThenMusical notationarpeggios, and
Musical notation
Musical notation
etc., to the close in D minor. Our second violin player, an old musician, said to me afterwards, when he met me in the passage, that he had heard it played in the same Hall by Mozart himself, but since that day he had heard no one introduce such goodcadenzasas I did yesterday, which gave me very great pleasure.
Do you know Handel’s “Coronation Anthem”? It is most singular. The beginning is one of the finest which not only Handel, but any man, ever composed; and all the remainder, after the first short movement, horridly dry and commonplace. The performers could not master it, but are certainly far too busy to grieve much about that.
Many persons here consider “Melusina” to be my best overture; at all events, it is the most deeply felt; but as to the fabulous nonsense of the musical papers, about red coral and green sea monsters, and magic palaces, and deep seas, this is stupid stuff, and fills me with amazement. But now I take my leave of water for some time to come, and must see how things are going on elsewhere.[25]I received to-day a letter from Düsseldorf, with the news of the musical doings there, and a request to send “St. Paul” soon for the Musical Festival. I cannot deny that when I read the description of their concerts, and some concert bills which were enclosed, and realized the state of the musical world there, I had a most agreeable sensation at my change of position. They cannot well be compared; for while there they are engaged in perpetual quarrelling and strife and petty criticisms, here, on the contrary, duringthe course of this whole winter, my situation has not caused me to pass one disagreeable day, or to hear hardly one annoying expression, while I have enjoyed much pleasure and gratification. The whole orchestra, and there are some able men among them, strive to guess my wishes at a glance; they have made the most extraordinary progress in finish and refinement, and are so devoted to me, that I often feel quite affected by it.
Would that I were less sad and sorrowful; for sometimes I do not know what to do, and can only hope that the approaching spring and the warm weather may cheer me.
I trust you and yours may all continue well and happy, and sometimes think of me.—Your
Felix.
Leipzig, February 6th, 1836.
My dear Friend,
I had intended writing to you long ago, but have always delayed it till now, when I am compelled to do so by Klingemann’s announcement that your ‘Vedas’ is finished. I wish therefore to send you my congratulations at once; and though I understand very little ofit, and consequently can appreciate its merits as little, still I wish you joy of being able to give to the world a work so long cherished, and so interesting to you, and which cannot fail to bring you new fame and new delight. And when I feel how little I, who never learnt the language, can do justice to the vast circumference of such a work, I may indeed congratulate you on the fact, that no spurious connoisseurs ordilettantican grope their way into your most favourite thoughts, while you must feel the more secure and tranquil in your own vocation, because arrogant ignorance cannot presume to attack you behind your bulwarks of quaint letters and hieroglyphics. They must at least first be able to decipher them tolerably, before they can attempt to criticize; so you are better off in this respect than we are, against whom they always appeal to their own paltry conceptions.
I feel like a person waking drowsily. I cannot succeed in realizing the present, and there is a constant alternation of my old habitual cheerfulness and the most heartfelt deep grief, so that I cannot attain to anything like steady composure of mind. In the meantime, however, I occupy myself as much as possible, and that is the only thing that does me good. My position here is of the most agreeable nature,—cordial people, a good orchestra, the most susceptible and grateful musical public; only just as much work to do as I like, and an opportunity of hearing my new compositionsat once. I have plenty of pleasant society besides, so that this would indeed seem to be all that was required to constitute happiness, were it not deeper seated!
Farewell, dear friend, and do not forget your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, February 18th, 1836.
Dear Mother,
I cannot write home without enclosing a few lines for you, and thanking you a thousand times for your dear letter, and begging you to write to me as often as you wish to make me very happy. I have scarcely thanked you, and Fanny, and Rebecca, for the beautiful presents you sent to me on the 3rd, and which made the day so pleasant to me. The leader of the orchestra, when I went to rehearsal on the morning of that day, addressed me in a complimentary speech, which was very gratifying, and when we sat down to dinner at S——’s, I found a silver cup, which four of my friends here had ordered for me, with an inscription and their names, under my napkin. All this was welcome and cheering. In the evening, when I had carefully put away your store of linen, and placed Rebecca’s travelling-case beside my map of Germany and the keys of my trunk, and hadread “Fiesko” in Fanny’s book, which I was formerly so pleased with, (but now less so,) then I felt considerably older, and thought of Aunt Lette, who wrote me a note on my twentieth birthday, which began, “My poor Felix! actually ten years hence no longer a boy!”
I am curious to learn whether Gusikow pleased you as much as he did me. He is quite a phenomenon; a famous fellow, inferior to no virtuoso in the world, both in execution and facility; he therefore delights me more with his instrument of wood and straw, than many with their pianofortes, just because it is such a thankless kind of instrument. A capital scene took place at his concert here. I went out to join him in the room where he was, in order to speak to him and compliment him. Schleinitz and David wished to come with me; a whole group of Polish Jews followed in our wake, anxious to hear our eulogiums; but when we came to the side room, they pressed forward so quickly, that David and Schleinitz were left in the rear, and the door shut right in their faces; then the Jews all stood quite still, waiting to hear the compliments Gusikow was about to receive. At first I could not speak for laughing, seeing the small room crammed full of these bearded fellows, and my two friends shut out. It is long since I so much enjoyed any concert as this, for the man is a true genius.
The direction of the St. Cecilia Association at Frankfort-on-the-Maine has been confidentially offered to me.I can with truth say that it caused me more pain than pleasure, because it is evident from this that Schelble’s return is considered out of the question. If it really be so, (which I shall take care to ascertain), I will on no account accept the offer. But if there were a possibility of improvement, and I could in any degree be of service to Schelble, by giving an impetus to his Institute next summer (for I hear that all the winter it has been almost dead), and if he could resume the duties himself next winter, I should feel real pleasure in doing this for him, even if all my travelling projects were to be overthrown. For once it would be doing a real service, both to a friend, and to the cause itself.
And now I must dress, for I am going to direct a concert. Merk is here; he gives a concert next Sunday, where I am to play with him again: it is the seventh time this winter, but I could not possibly refuse; for when I see my old companion again, the whole autumn of 1830 is brought before my eyes, and our music at Eskele’s, our playing billiards at the Kärnthner Thor, and driving to Baden in afiacre, etc. Besides, he is beyond all question the very first of all living violoncello players. Farewell, dear Mother.—Your
Felix.
Düsseldorf, June 1st, 1836.
Dear Mother,
I hope you have forgiven my long silence. There was so much to do, both before and during my journey here, that I was scarcely able to attend even to the duties of the passing hour; and what has gone on here since my arrival[26]you know better than if I had myself written, for I trust Paul and Fanny are now happily returned, and of course described everything verbally to you.
On Saturday, the 4th, I am to go to Frankfort, a week hence to direct, for the first time, the St. Cecilia Association. To be sure, my charming Swiss projects, and the sea-baths in Genoa have thus melted into air; but still, my being able to do a real service to Schelble and his undertaking, is of no small value in my eyes. There seemed to be an idea that the St. Cecilia Association would be dispersed, and Schelble appeared very much to dread the lukewarmness of the members during his absence. As they all hoped and believed that I could prevent this by my presence, I did not for a moment hesitate, though the Frankfort musicians will be desperately astonished, and will now see what can be done within eight weeks. Hiller, whom I like so much, is bychance to be in Frankfort the whole time, which will be a great advantage for me.
It gives me peculiar pleasure to be able to write to you that I am now fairly established in Germany, and shall not require to make a pilgrimage into foreign countries to secure my existence. This, indeed, has only been evident during the last year, and since my being placed at Leipzig; but now I have no longer any doubts on the subject, and think there is no want of modesty in rejoicing at the fact, and mentioning it to you.
The manner in which I was received on my journey, in Frankfort, and afterwards here, was all that a musician could desire; and although this may mean in reality little or nothing, still it is a token of friendship which is always gratifying; and I value all such tokens, because I am well aware that I have taken no steps to call them forth. I therefore almost rejoice when you call me “the reverse of a charlatan,” and when many things fall to my share unasked for, about which others give themselves a great deal of trouble; for I may then venture to believe that I deserve them. I wish only I could have written these words to my father, for he would have read them with satisfaction. But his dearest wish was progress; he always directed me to press forwards, and so I think I am doing his will when I continue to labour in this sense, and endeavour to make progress without any ulterior views beyond my own improvement. Farewell, dear Mother.—Your
Felix.
Cologne, July 5th, 1836.
Dear Schleinitz,
I have in vain sought a moment of leisure, after the Musical Festival, to send you my first greeting and letter since my journey. In Düsseldorf the bustle was great, and no end to all kinds of music,fêtes, and recreations, which never left me a quiet moment. I have been staying a day here to revive and to rest, with my old President,[27]and as evening is now approaching, about the time when you often used to peep into my room, I feel an impulse, if only for a moment, to shake hands and say good-evening.
You would certainly have been for some time well amused and delighted with the Musical Festival; and from your taking so friendly an interest in me and my “St. Paul,” I thought a hundred times at least during the rehearsals, what a pity it was that you were not there. You would assuredly have been delighted by the love and goodwill with which the whole affair was carried on, and the marvellous fire with which the chorus and orchestra burst forth, though there were individual passages, especially in the solos, which might have annoyed you. I think I see your face, could you have heard the St. Paul’s aria sung in an indifferent, mechanical manner, and I think I hear you breaking loose onthe Apostle of the Gentiles in a dressing-gown; but then I know also how charmed you would have been with the “Mache dich auf,” which went really splendidly. My feelings were singular; during the whole of the rehearsals and the performance I thought little enough about directing, but listened eagerly to the general effect, and whether it went right according to my idea, without thinking of anything else. When the people gave me a flourish of trumpets or applauded, it was very welcome for the moment, but then my Father came back to my mind, and I strove once more to recall my thoughts to my work. Thus, during the entire performance I was almost in the position of a listener, and tried to retain an impression of the whole. Many parts caused me much pleasure, others not so; but I learnt a lesson from it all, and hope to succeed better the next time I write an oratorio.
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Frankfort, July 14th, 1836.
Dear Mother and dear Rebecca,
I have just received your affectionate letters, and must answer them instantly, for indeed I had been eagerly expecting them for several days past, during which I have done nothing but lie on the sofa and read Eckermann’s ‘Conversations with Goethe,’ and long for letters fromhome which I could answer. I am as much delighted with Eckermann as you are, my dear Mother and Sister. I feel just as if I heard the old gentleman speaking again, for there are many things introduced into the work which are the very same words I have heard him use, and I know his tone and gestures by heart. I must say that Eckermann is not sufficiently independent. He is always rejoicing over “this important phrase, which pray mark well.” But it must be admitted that it was a difficult position for the old man, and we ought to be grateful to him for his faithful notices, and also for his delicacy,—a contrast to Riemer.
Here I am, seated in the well-known corner room with the beautiful view, in Schelble’s house, he and his wife being gone to visit his property in Swabia, and they do not return to Frankfort so long as I am here; but the accounts his wife has sent here are very consolatory, and inspire us all with much hope. There is no one living in this house but Schelble’s mother-in-law, and a maid-servant, on one side,—and myself, with two travelling-bags and a hat-box, on the other. At first I was unwilling to come here, owing to many remembrances, but now I am glad that I came. A very kind reception, an excellent grand pianoforte, plenty of music, entire rest, and undisturbed tranquillity, are all things which are nowhere to be found in an inn; and I might well be envied the view from my corner window. In this splendid summer weather I see all down the Maine,with its numerous boats, rafts, and ships, the gay shore opposite, and above all, my old favourite, the Wartthurm, facing the south, and on the other side the blue hills. I came here with plans for great industry, but for nearly a week I have done little else every forenoon, but admire the prospect and sun myself. I must go on in the same way for a couple of days still,—idleness is so pleasant, and agrees with me so well. My last days in Düsseldorf, and my first here, were crammed so full that I could only recover my balance by degrees. The very day of my arrival here, I had to direct the St. Cecilia Association; then came my numerous acquaintances, old and new, and the arrangements for the next few weeks. I was obliged to take a rest after all this, or at least I said so to myself, to palliate, and furnish a pretext for my love of idleness. The St. Cecilia Association went on well, and they were very friendly; I however made a speech that deserved to have been written down. We sang some things from “Samson,” and some from the B minor Mass of Bach. There was much worth remembering in the former. The Bach went almost faultlessly, though it is fully twice as difficult; and so I had a fresh opportunity of admiring how Schelble, by dint of his admirable tenacity, has succeeded in making his will obeyed. I shall not be able to do much for the association. Six weeks are not sufficient, and even under the most favourable circumstances, Schelble’s physician wishes him to rest the whole ofthe ensuing winter. How the matter will proceed then we know not. All the musicians here think too much about themselves, and too little about their work; but we shall see how this may be, and what we have now to do is to provide for the intervening time; and I rejoice to be able in this respect to oblige Schelble. I must say my life assumes a most agreeable form here. Never could I have thought, that through my overtures and songs, I could have become such a lion with the musical world. The “Melusina” and the “Hebrides” are as familiar to them as to us at home (I mean No. 3, Leipziger Strasse), and thedilettantidispute warmly about my intentions.
Then Hiller is here, at all times a delightful sight to me, and we have always much that is interesting to discuss together. To my mind, he is not sufficiently—what shall I call it?—one-sided. By nature he loves Bach and Beethoven beyond all others, and would therefore prefer adopting wholly the graver style of music; but then he is much delighted also with Rossini, Auber, Bellini, etc., and with this variety of tastes no man makes real progress. So this forms the subject of all our conversations as soon as we see each other, and it is most agreeable to me to be with him for some time, and, if possible, to lead him to my mode of thinking.... Early yesterday I went to see him, and whom should I find sitting there but Rossini, as large as life, in his best and most amiable mood. I really know few men who can be soamusing and witty as he, when he chooses; he kept us laughing incessantly the whole time. I promised that the St. Cecilia Association should sing for him the B minor Mass, and some other things of Sebastian Bach’s. It will be quite too charming to see Rossini obliged to admire Sebastian Bach; he thinks, however, “different countries, different customs,” and is resolved to howl with the wolves. He says he is enchanted with Germany, and when he once gets the list of wines at the Rhine Hotel in the evening, the waiter is obliged to show him his room, or he could never manage to find it. He relates the most laughable and amusing things about Paris and all the musicians there, as well as of himself and his compositions, and entertains the most profound respect for all the men of the present day,—so that you might really believe him, if you had no eyes to see his sarcastic face. Intellect, and animation, and wit, sparkle in all his features and in every word, and those who do not consider him a genius, ought to hear him expatiating in this way, and they would change their opinion.
I was lately with S—— also, but it was miserable to hear him grumbling and abusing everybody; at last he vowed that all men were nothing but a tiresome pack; I answered that I considered this very modest on his part, as I concluded he did not look upon himself as an angel or a demigod, when, quite contrary to my expectations, we instantly became the best of friends, andhe ended by declaring, that after all, the world pleased him very well. This is not surprising, as he was sitting in his garden in the country, with a beautiful landscape and a lovely view; and in a region like this, in such weather and under such a sky, very little fault can be found with the world. The scenery round Frankfort pleases me this time beyond everything,—such fruitfulness, richness of verdure, gardens and fields, and the beautiful blue hills as a background! and then a forest beyond; to ramble there in the evenings under the splendid beech-trees, among the innumerable herbs and flowers and blackberries and strawberries, makes the heart swell with gratitude.
Yesterday afternoon I visited André at Offenbach; he sends you his kind regards, and is the same fiery, eager person he ever was. His reception of me was however more cordial and more gratifying than that of all the other musicians; he really does somewhat resemble my father. Is it not singular that several persons here have lately said to me, that I am like what André was in his younger days, and you may remember thathewas formerly often mistaken formy father. He scanned me closely from head to foot, and said I had now my third face since he had first known me; the second he had not at all approved of, but now he liked me much better. The conversation then turned on counterpoint and Vogler, and he attacked him in spite of Zelter, and dragged forth a couple of folios asproof on his side. I could not prevail on myself to go to the Rothschilds, in spite of their very flattering invitation. I am not in the vein or humour at present for balls or any other festivities, and “Like should draw to like.” At the same time, these people really cause me much pleasure, and their splendour and luxury, and the universal respect with which the citizens here are forced to regard them all (though they would gladly assault them if they dared) is a real source of exultation, for it is all owing entirely to their own industry, good fortune, and abilities. The 15th has actually dawned; this is a regular chattering, gossiping letter.—Your
Felix.
Frankfort, July 2nd, 1836.
... Such is my mood now the whole day; I can neither compose nor write letters, nor play the piano; the utmost I can do is to sketch a little,[28]but I must thank you for your kind expressions about “St. Paul;” such words from you are the best and dearest that I can ever hear, and what you and Fanny say on the subject the public say also ... no other exists for me. I only wish you would write to me a few times more about it, and very minutely as to my other music. Thewhole time that I have been here I have worked at “St. Paul,” because I wish to publish it in as complete a form as possible; and moreover, I am quite convinced that the beginning of the first, and the end of the second part, are now nearly three times as good as they were, and such was my duty; for in many points, especially as to subordinate matters in so large a work, I only succeed by degrees in realizing my thoughts and expressing them clearly; in the principal movements and melodies I can no longer indeed make any alteration, because they occur at once to my mind just as they are; but I am not sufficiently advanced to say this ofeverypart. I have now, however, been working for rather more than two years at one oratorio; this is certainly a very long time, and I rejoice at the approach of the moment when I shall correct the proofs, and be done with it, and begin something else.
I must tell you of the real delight with which I have read here the first books of Goethe’s ‘Wahrheit und Dichtung.’ I had never taken up the book since my boyhood, because I did not like it then; but I cannot express how much it now pleases me, and how much additional pleasure I take in it, from knowing all the localities. One of its pages makes me forget all themisèresin literature and art of the present day.
Leipzig, January 8th, 1837.
... Last Wednesday there was afêteat the Keils’, where it rained Christmas gifts and poems; among others I got one, celebrating my betrothal in a romantic vein “at Frankfort-on-the-Zeil,” and which was much admired. As they began to sing songs at table, and I was looking rather dismal, Schleinitz suddenly called out to me that I ought to compose music for my romance on the spot, that they might have something new to sing, and the young ladies bringing me a pencil and music-paper, the request amused me very much, and I composed the song under shelter of my napkin; while the rest were eating cakes, I wrote out the four parts, and before the pine-apples were finished, the singers got their A note, and sang it to such perfection and socon amorethat it caused universal delight and animated the whole society.
Leipzig, January 10th, 1837.
... You once extolled my position here because I had made friends of all the German composers: quite the reverse; I am in bad odour with them all this winter. Six new symphonies are lying before me; whatthey may be God knows, (I would rather not know,)—not one of them pleases me, and no one is to blame for this but myself, who allow no other composer to come before the public,—I mean in the way of symphonies. Good heavens! should not these “Capellmeisters” be ashamed of themselves and search their own breasts? But that detestable artistic pedantry, which they all possess, and that baneful spark divine of which they so often read,—these ruin everything. I sent my six preludes and fugues to the printer’s to-day; I fear they will not be much played, still I should like you to look over them once in a way, and to say if any of them pleased you, or the reverse. Next month three organ fugues are to be published,—me voilà perruque! Heaven grant that some spirited pianoforte piece may occur to me, to efface this unpleasant impression.
Frankfort-a.-M., May 29th, 1837.
This is but a sorry time for musicians. Look at the St. Cecilia Association,—experienced singers, good respectable people, obliging chiefs,—nothing requisite but a little pianoforte playing, and a little goodwill towards music, and a little knowledge; neither genius, nor energy, nor politics, nor anything else very particular. I should have thought that fifty people at least would have offered themselves, so that we might have had achoice; but scarcely two have come forward whom it is possible to appoint, and not one who is capable of carrying on the association in the right, true, and noble spirit in which it was commenced,—that is, in plain German, not one who can perceive that Handel and Bach, and such people, are superior to what they themselves can do or say. Neukomm, in whom I would have placed most confidence in this respect, was in treaty for the situation, and had decidedly accepted it, and now all of a sudden he as decidedly declines it. So there will be no one to undertake the affair but Ries, who will probably do so, but unfortunately he is deficient in that necessary respect for the great works of art, which is, and always will be to me, the chief consideration. It is grievous to think of all the trouble and hard work which it cost Schelble to lay a good foundation, and now the end is that it will be finally broken up. People here are highly satisfied with Hiller’s mode of directing, although they were so troublesome to him at first; but two months hence he goes to Italy, being resolved not to stay here, and who knows that this may not be the very reason why they all now regret him so much! This is an odious thing in the world.
It has just occurred to me that if you wish to sing anything during the next few months, send for “Theodora,” by Handel, and look it over; at all events it will please you, as there are some splendid choruses and airs in it, and perhaps you might manage to have ittranslated into German (which, indeed, ought to be very much better done, for the text is perfectly absurd), and perform it in your own house, with a small choir. Unluckily, it is not adapted for a performance on a large scale, but some parts of it, the final chorus for instance, are as fine as anything you ever heard of Handel’s.
Frankfort, June 2nd, 1837.
... You write to me about Fanny’s new compositions, and say that I ought to persuade her to publish them. Your praise is, however, quite unnecessary to make me heartily rejoice in them, or think them charming and admirable; for I know by whom they are written. I hope, too, I need not say that if she does resolve to publish anything, I will do all in my power to obtain every facility for her, and to relieve her, so far as I can, from all trouble which can possibly be spared her. But topersuadeher to publish anything I cannot, because this is contrary to my views and to my convictions. We have often formerly discussed the subject, and I still remain exactly of the same opinion. I consider the publication of a work as a serious matter (at least it ought to be so), for I maintain that no one should publish, unless they are resolved to appear as an author for the rest of their life. For this purpose, however, asuccessionof works is indispensable, one after another. Nothing but annoyance is to be looked for from publishing, where one or two works alone are in question; or it becomes what is called a “manuscript for private circulation,” which I also dislike; and from my knowledge of Fanny I should say she has neither inclination nor vocation for authorship. She is too much all that a woman ought to be for this. She regulates her house, and neither thinks of the public nor of the musical world, nor even of music at all, until her first duties are fulfilled. Publishing would only disturb her in these, and I cannot say that I approve of it. I will not, therefore, persuade her to this step,—forgive me for saying so. If she resolves to publish, either from her own impulse or to please Hensel, I am, as I said before, quite ready to assist her so far as I can; but to encourage her in what I do not consider right, is what I cannot do.
Bingen, July 13th, 1837.
Dear Mother,
We have been here for the last eight days, having suddenly left Frankfort; and as it is nearly decided that we are to reside here for some weeks, I now write to thank you for your affectionate letters.
I feel rather provoked, that Fanny should say thenew pianoforte school outgrows her,—this is far from being the case; she could cut down all these petty fellows with ease. They can execute a few variations andtours de forcecleverly enough, but all this facility, and coquetting with facility, no longer succeeds in dazzling even the public. There must be soul, in order to carry others along with you; thus, though I might perhaps prefer listening to D—— for an hour than to Fanny for an hour, still at the end of a week I am so tired of him that I can no longer listen to him, whereas then I first begin to enjoy hearing the other style of playing, and that is the right style. All this is notmorethan Kalkbrenner could do in his day, and it will pass away even during our day, if there be nothing better than mere execution; but this Fanny also has, so she has no cause to fear any one of them all.
The view from these windows is of itself well worth a journey here, for our hotel is situated close to the Rhine, opposite Niederwald,—the Mäusethurm to the left, and to the right Johannisberg. To-day I have at last succeeded in borrowing a piano and a Bible; both were very difficult to hunt out, first because the people at Bingen are not musical, and secondly because they are Catholics, and therefore ignore both a piano and Luther’s translation; however, I have at length procured both, and so I begin to feel very comfortable here. I must now be very busy, for as yet I have not written out a single note of my concerto, and yesterday I heard fromBirmingham that the Musical Festival is all arranged, and they are in hopes that Queen Victoria will be present. That would be capital!
Old Schadow and W. Schadow were here lately, along with their families, and we stumbled upon each other quite unexpectedly in the entrance hall; I wish you could have heard the description the old man gave of Fanny’s accompaniment on the piano; he was full ofenthousiasme, and most excited on the subject; a sketch also of theséancesof the musical section of the Academy where he is obliged to preside, was not bad by way of contrast; except Spontini, no one either speaks or shows any signs of life in it, for which there are good reasons.
It is indeed very sad to see the way in which the latter contrives to irritate all Berlin against him, destroying and ruining everything, and yet causing himself only vexation, and anxiety and worry: like an ill-assorted marriage, where both parties are in the wrong when they come to blows.
Ask Fanny, dear Mother, what she says to my intention of playing Bach’s organ prelude in E flat major in Birmingham—