musical notation
and so on to the end.
He has written the whole repetition of thethemaon a separate leaf, and struck out this passage, bringing it in again only three bars before the end. Is not this a happy alteration? The repetition of the seven bars is to me one of the most delightful passages in the whole symphony!
Give my kind remembrances to your family, and retain a kindly regard for your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Frankfort, March 25th, 1845.
Dear Sister,
I continue faithful to the new custom I have adopted, and answer your welcome letter on the spot; it is just come, and brings spring with it. For the first time to-day we have, out of doors, that kind of atmosphere in which ice and winter cold melt away, and all becomes mild, and warm, and enjoyable. If, however, you have no driving ice in Florence, you ought toenvy us, instead of the reverse, for it is a splendid spectacle to see the water bubbling under the bridge here, and springing and rushing along, and flinging about the great blocks and masses of ice, and saying, “Away with you! we have done with you for the present!” it also is celebrating its spring day, and showing that under its icy covering, it has preserved both strength and youth, and runs along twice as rapidly, and leaps twice as high, as in the sober days of other seasons. You should really see it for once! The whole bridge and the whole quay are black with people, all enjoying the fine sight gratis, with the sun shining on them gratis too. It is very pitiable in me, that instead of speaking of the poetry of spring, I only talk of the economy she brings in wood, light, and overshoes, and how much sweeter everything smells, and how many more good things there are to eat, and that the ladies have resumed their brightgay-coloured dresses, and that the steamboats are going down the Rhine, instead of diligences, etc. etc. From the above you will perceive, and Fanny also (for you must sendherall my letters to Rome), that, God be praised, there is nothing new with us, which means that we are all well and happy, and thinking of you. I came with S—— last night at one o’clock from a punch party, where I first played Beethoven’s sonata 106, in B flat, and then drank 212 glasses of punchfortissimo; we sang the duett from “Faust” in the Mainz Street, because there was such wonderful moonlight, and to-day I have rather a headache. Pray cut off this part before you send the letter to Rome; a younger sister may be entrusted with such a confidence, but an elder one, and in such a Papal atmosphere,—not for your life!
I have only seen X—— three times this winter; he is, unfortunately, very unsociable; I cannot get on with him even with the best will on my side, and I believe he is going on worse now than for many years past. Any one who at all enters into the religious squabbles of the moment, and does not steadily refuse to listen to them, one and all, will get so deeply involved, as to be ere long severed unawares from both friends and happiness, and instances of this begin to be manifest in Germany in all circles. In my inmost heart I feel uncertain as to which extreme is the most repugnant to me, and yet I cannot clearly decide between them.
In Düsseldorf they announced on the second day of the Musical Festival, Mozart’s “Requiem,” my “Walpurgis Nacht,” and finally Beethoven’s choral symphony. “O tempora! O mores!” If you ask what this letter contains, the answer is, that we are all well, and hope you are the same, and rejoice at the thoughts of our meeting again.—Your (in spring weather) very pleased
Felix.
Leipzig, March, 1845.
Dear Herr Naumann,
I have observed with much pleasure very important progress in the compositions which you have sent me, and essential improvement in your whole musical nature and efficiency. I consider these works in every particular preferable to your earlier ones, and consequently they cause me most extreme gratification. There is much in them to be unreservedly commended; almost all, when compared with your productions of past years, awaken in me a fresh hope that you will one day be able to produce something really vigorous and good, and that it only rests with yourself to fulfil this hope.
I have nothing special to say to you with regard to the works, and indeed, owing to the mass of affairs andoccupations which crowd on me here, I can now less than ever find time to write. But it is not necessary, for throughout I see traces of the good advice of your present instructor,[84]and feel increased respect for him in consequence of your progress. You are certainly, with him, in the best hands possible; attend assiduously therefore to his advice, and take advantage of his instructions, and of the time in which you can and must learn.
I should like to hear you play the capriccio in C, for if you can play it with steadiness and clearness, and keep correct time, you must have improved very much. I like this capriccio better than the one in E minor, and it seems to me more original. On the other hand, there is a great deal that pleases me in the sonata; particularly the beginning and end of the first movement, and thetempo di marcia, etc. etc. As I said before, you mustcontinueto work; I must also beg you to place the same reliance henceforth on me, that you so kindly express in your letter. And as you apply Goethe’s words to me, and call me amaster, I can only reply once more in Goethe’s words:—
“Learn soon to know wherein he fails;True Art, and not its type, revere.”
“Learn soon to know wherein he fails;True Art, and not its type, revere.”
“Learn soon to know wherein he fails;True Art, and not its type, revere.”
The advice in the first line is not difficult to follow, and the latter is not to be feared with you. TowardsWhitsunday, when I am to be at Aix, I intend to pass through Frankfort, and hope then to see and hear something new of yours.—Always yours sincerely,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, October 10th, 1845.
... I cannot tell you how often, indeed almost daily, I think of the last winter and spring which I passed so pleasantly with you in Frankfort. I could scarcely myself have believed that my stay there would have caused such a lasting and happy impression on my mind! So strong is it, that I have often pictured to myself, in all earnest, giving you a commission (according to your promise) to buy or to build for me a house with a garden, when I would return permanently to that glorious country with its gay easy life. But such happiness cannot be mine; some years must first elapse, and the work I have begun here must have produced solid results, and be a good deal further advanced (at least I must have tried to effect it), before I can think of such a thing.
But I have the same feeling as formerly, that I shall only remain in this place so long as I feel pleasure and interest in the outward occupations whichhereseem the most agreeable to me. As soon, however, as I have wonthe right to live solely for my inward work and composing, only occasionally conducting and playing in public just as it may suit me, then I shall assuredly return to the Rhine, and probably, according to my present idea, settle at Frankfort. The sooner I can do so, the more I shall be pleased. I never undertook external musical pursuits, such as conducting, etc., from inclination, but only from a sense of duty; so I hope, before many years are over, to apply myself to building a house.
Before then, probably, either a true and solid nucleus will have been formed among the German Catholics in favour of enlightenment and other new German ideas, and free ground and soil won for these, or the whole movement will have vanished and been superseded by other catastrophes. If neither the one nor the other occurs, I fear we run the risk of losing our finest national features, solidity, constancy, and honourable perseverance, without gaining any compensation for them. A collection of French phrases and French levity would be too dearly bought at such a price. It is to be hoped that something better will ensue!
Leipzig, May 23rd, 1846.
Your kind letter and the book caused me great pleasure. I received the parcel some weeks since, but asI have very little time left for reading, and as a work like yours cannot be quickly perused by a layman, you will be able to understand the delay in expressing my thanks. I have learnt much from your book, for it is in fact the first summary of Church history that I ever read; but from this very circumstance you are mistaken in my position if you think I could attempt either verbally or in writing to maintain my own opinions on such a matter, when opposed to yours, and that I might see it in a different light as a musician, etc. The only point of view from which I can consider such questions is that of a learner, and I confess to you that the older I become, the more do I perceive the importance offirstlearning andthenforming an opinion; not the latter previous to the former, and not both simultaneously. In this I certainly differ much from very many of our leading men of the present day, both in music and theology. They declare that he alone can form a right judgment who has learned nothing, and indeed requires to learn nothing; and my rejoinder is, that there is no man living who does not require to learn. I think, therefore, that it is more than ever the duty of every one to be very industrious in his sphere, and to concentrate all his powers to accomplish the very best of which he is capable; and thus the recent Church movements are more unknown to me than you probably believe (perhaps more than you would approve), and I rejoice that the very reverse is thecase with you. I cannot, in fact, understand a theologian who at this moment does not come forward, or who feels no sympathy in these matters; but just as little, many of thosenon-theologians whom I often see, and who talk of reformation and of improvement, but who are equally incompetent to know or to comprehend either the present or the past, and who, in short, wish to introducedilettanteisminto the highest questions.
I believe it is this verydilettanteismwhich plays us many a trick, because it is of a twofold nature,—necessary, useful, and beneficial, when coupled with sincere interest and modest reserve, for then it furthers and promotes all things,—but culpable and contemptible when fed on vanity, and when obtrusive, arrogant, and self-sufficient. For instance, there are few artists for whom I feel so much respect, as for a genuinedilettanteof the first class, and for no single artist have I so little respect as for adilettanteof the second class. But where am I wandering to?...
Leipzig, May 23rd, 1846.
Dear Schubring,
Once more I must trouble you about “Elijah;” I hope it is for the last time, and I also hope that you will at some future day derive enjoyment from it; and how glad I should be were this to be the case! I havenow quite finished the first part, and six or eight numbers of the second are already written down. In various places, however, of the second part I require a choice of really fine Scriptural passages, and I do beg of you to send them to me! I set off to-night for the Rhine, so there is no hurry about them; but in three weeks I return here, and then I purpose forthwith to take up the work and complete it. So I earnestly beseech of you to send me by that time a rich harvest of fine Bible texts. You cannot believe how much you have helped me in the first part; this I will tell you more fully when we meet. On this very account I entreat you to assist me in improving the second part also. I have now been able to dispense with all historical recitative in the form, and introduced individual persons. Instead of the Lord, always an angel or a chorus of angels, and the first part and the largest half of the second are finely rounded off. The second part begins with the words of the queen, “So let the gods do to me, and more also,” etc. (1 Kings xix. 2); and the next words about which I feel secure are those in the scene in the wilderness (same chapter, fourth and following verses); but between these I want,first, something more particularly characteristic of the persecution of the prophet; for example, I should like to have a couple of chorusesagainsthim, to describe the people in their fickleness and their rising in opposition to him;secondly, a representation of the third verse of thesame passage; for instance, a duett with the boy, who might use the words of Ruth, “Where thou goest, I will go,” etc. But what is Elijah to say before and after this? and what could the chorus say? Can you furnish me with, first, a duett, and then a chorus in this sense? Then, till verse 15, all is in order; but there a passage is wanted for Elijah, something to this effect:—“Lord, as Thou willest, be it with me:” (this is not in the Bible, I believe?) I also wish thatafterthe manifestation of the Lord he should announce his entire submission, and after all this persecution declare himself to be entirely resigned, and eager to do his duty. I am in want too of some words for him to say at, or before, or even after his ascension, and also some for the chorus. The chorus sings the ascension historically with the words from 2 Kings ii. 11, but then there ought to be a couple of very solemn choruses. “God is gone up” will not do, for it was not the Lord, but Elijah who went up; however, something ofthatsort. I should like also to hear Elijah’s voice once more at the close.
(May Elisha sing soprano? or is this inadmissible, as in the same chapter he is described as a “bald head”? Joking apart, must he appear at the ascension as a prophet, or as a youth?)
Lastly, the passages which you have sent for the close of the whole (especially the trio between Peter, John, and James) are too historical and too far removed from the grouping of the (Old Testament) story; stillI could manage with the former, if, instead of the trio, I could make a chorus out of the words; it would be very quickly done, and this will probably be the case. I return you the pages that you may have every necessary information, but pray send them back to me. You will see that the bearing of the whole is quite decided; it is only the lyric passages (from which arias, duetts, etc., could be composed) which fail towards the end. So I beg you will get your large Concordance, open it, and bestow this time on me, and when I return three weeks hence at latest, let me find your answer. Continue your regard for your
Felix.
Leipzig, June 26th, 1846.
My dear Friend,
The cause of this letter is a line in a recent communication from Mr. Moore, who writes, “Nearly the whole of the Philharmonic band are engaged;[85]a few only are left out who made themselves unpleasant when you were there.”[86]This is anything but pleasing to me, and as I think that you have the principal regulation ofsuch things, I address my remonstrance to you, and beg you to mention them to Mr. Moore.
Nothing is more hateful to me than the revival of old worn-out squabbles; it is quite bad enough that they should ever be in the world at all. Those of the Philharmonic I had quite forgotten, and theymust on no accounthave any influence on the engagements for the Birmingham Festival. If people are left out because they are incapable, that is no affair of mine, and I have nothing to say against it; but ifany oneis to be left out because “he made himself unpleasant” to me, I should consider it a piece of injustice, and beg that this may not be the case. There is certainly no cause to fear that those gentlemen will again be troublesome; at least, I feel none, and do not believe that any one can do so. So I beg you earnestly to let the affair proceed exactly as it would have done if I had no thoughts of coming to England; and if it be really desired to show meconsideration, the greatest favour that can be conferred on me would benotto take notice of any such personal considerations.
I know you will be so good as to bring this subject under the notice of Mr. Moore, and I hope I shall hear nothing further of these obsolete stories; that is, if my wishes are complied with, andno kind of vindictivenessexercised. Otherwise I shall protest against it ten times at least by letter.—Ever your
Felix.
Leipzig, July 11th, 1846.
Sir,
When I received your letter of May the 10th, I felt most anxious to convey to you a word of consolation, and the assurance of my heartfelt sympathy; but I could find no words for such a loss as yours, or adequately express what I wished to say.
Far more could I appreciate the extent of this loss when I had become acquainted with the musical compositions which you so kindly sent me, in the name of your deceased son. Every one who is in earnest with regard to Art, must indeed mourn with you, for in him a true genius has passed away, a genius that only required life and health to be developed, and to be a source of joy and pride to his family, and a benefit to Art. How very superior many of these works are to those we every day see, even by better musicians, and how there shines forth, in every part, a striving after progress, and the promise of a genuine vocation, along with the most perfect development! And all this was not to be! and everything in Art and in life remains so inscrutable? And thuswelament him, who only know a few compositions of this young artist; so how could suitable words of comfort be found for you, his father?
But I mustthankyou for having made me acquainted with those works, and for having written me those few lines; and I will waft my thanks after your son also,for having destined these works for me. May Heaven grant you consolation, and alleviate your grief, and one day permit you to rejoin your son, where it is to be hoped there is still music, but no more sorrow or partings.—Yours,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Birmingham, August 26th, 1846.
My dear Brother,
From the very first you took so kind an interest in my “Elijah,” and thus inspired me with so much energy and courage for its completion, that I must write to tell you of its first performance yesterday. No work of mine ever went so admirably the first time of execution, or was received with such enthusiasm, by both the musicians and the audience, as this oratorio. It was quite evident at the first rehearsal in London, that they liked it, and liked to sing and to play it; but I own I was far from anticipating that it would acquire such fresh vigour and impetus at the performance. Had you only been there! During the whole two hours and a half that it lasted, the large hall, with its two thousand people, and the large orchestra, were all so fully intent on the one object in question, that not the slightest sound was to be heard among the whole audience, so that I could sway at pleasure the enormous orchestra and choir,and also the organ accompaniments. How often I thought of you during the time! More especially, however, when the “sound of abundance of rain” came, and when they sang and played the final chorus withfurore, and when, after the close of the first part, we were obliged to repeat the whole movement. Not less than four choruses and four airs were encored, and not one single mistake occurred in the whole of the first part; there were some afterwards in the second part, but even these were but trifling. A young English tenor sang the last air with such wonderful sweetness, that I was obliged to collect all my energies not be affected, and to continue beating time steadily. As I said before, had you only been there! But to-morrow I set off on my journey home. We can no longer say, as Goethe did, that the horses’ heads are turned homewards, but I always have the same feeling on the first day of my journey home. I hope to see you in Berlin in October, when I shall bring my score with me, either to have it performed, or at all events to play it over to you, and Fanny, and Rebecca, but I think probably the former (or rather both). Farewell, my dear Brother; if this letter be dull, pray forgive it. I have been repeatedly interrupted, and in fact it should only contain that I thank you for having taken such part in my “Elijah,” and having assisted me with it.—Your
Felix.
After the first performance of the “Elijah” in London,Prince Albert wrote the following in the book of words which he used on that occasion, and sent it to Mendelssohn as a token of remembrance:—“To the noble artist who, though encompassed by the Baal-worship of false art, by his genius and study has succeeded, like another Elijah, in faithfully preserving the worship of true art; once more habituating the ear, amid the giddy whirl of empty, frivolous sound, to the pure tones of sympathetic feeling and legitimate harmony;—to the great master who, by the tranquil current of his thoughts, reveals to us the gentle whisperings, as well as the mighty strife of the elements,—to him is this written in grateful remembrance, by“Buckingham Palace.“Albert.”
After the first performance of the “Elijah” in London,Prince Albert wrote the following in the book of words which he used on that occasion, and sent it to Mendelssohn as a token of remembrance:—“To the noble artist who, though encompassed by the Baal-worship of false art, by his genius and study has succeeded, like another Elijah, in faithfully preserving the worship of true art; once more habituating the ear, amid the giddy whirl of empty, frivolous sound, to the pure tones of sympathetic feeling and legitimate harmony;—to the great master who, by the tranquil current of his thoughts, reveals to us the gentle whisperings, as well as the mighty strife of the elements,—to him is this written in grateful remembrance, by
“Buckingham Palace.
“Albert.”
London, August 31st, 1846.
Dear Lady,
You have always shown such kind sympathy in my “Elijah,” that I may well consider it incumbent on me to write to you after its performance, and to give you a report on the subject. If this should weary you, you have only yourself to blame; for why did you allow me to come to you with the score under my arm, and play to you those parts that were half completed, and why did you sing so much of it for me at sight? Indeed, on this account you in turn should have considered it incumbent on you to go with me to Birmingham; for itis not fair to make people’s mouths water, and to disgust them with their condition, when you cannot remedy it for them; and really the state in which I found the soprano solo parts here was most truly miserable and forlorn.
There was, however, so much that was good to make up for this, that I shall bring back with me a very delightful impression of the whole; and I often thought what pleasure it would have caused you.
The rich, full sounds of the orchestra and the huge organ, combined with the powerful choruses who sang with honest enthusiasm, the wonderful resonance in the grand giant hall, an admirable English tenor singer; Staudigl, too, who took all possible pains, and whose talents and powers you already well know, and in addition a couple of excellent second soprano and contralto solo singers; all executing the music with peculiar spirit, and the utmost fire and sympathy, doing justice not only to the loudest passages, but also to the softestpianos, in a manner which I never before heard from such masses, and in addition, an impressionable, kindly, hushed and enthusiastic audience,—all this is indeed sufficient good fortune for a first performance. In fact, I never in my life heard a better, or I may say so good a one, and I almost doubt whether I shall ever again hear one equal to it, because there were so many favourable combinations on this occasion. Along, however, with so much light, as I before said, there were also shadows,and the worst was the soprano part. It was all so neat, so pretty, so elegant, so slovenly, so devoid both of soul and head, that the music acquired a kind of amiable expression, which even now almost drives me mad when I think of it. The voice of the contralto, too, was not powerful enough to fill the hall, or to make itself heard beside such masses, and such solo singers; but she sang exceedingly well and musically, and in that case the want of voice can be tolerated. At least tome,nothingis so repugnant in music as a certain cold, soulless coquetry, which is in itself so unmusical, and yet so often adopted as the basis of singing, and playing, and music of all kinds. It is singular that I find this to be the case much less even with Italians than with us Germans. It seems to me that our countrymen must either love music in all sincerity, or they display an odious, stupid, and affected coldness, while an Italian throat sings just as it comes, in a straightforward way, though perhaps for the sake of money,—but still not for the sake of money,andæsthetics,andcriticism,andself-esteem,andthe right school, and twenty-seven thousand other reasons, none of which really harmonize with their real nature. This struck me very forcibly at the Musical Festival. Moscheles was ill on the Monday, so I conducted the rehearsals for him.[87]Towards ten o’clock at night, when I was tired enough, the Italians loungedquietly in, with their usual coolnonchalance. But, from the very first moment that Grisi, Mario, and Lablache began to sing, I inwardly thanked God. They themselves know exactly what they intend, sing with purity and in time, and there is no mistaking where the first crotchet should come in. That I feel so little sympathy for their music is no fault of theirs. But this digression is out of place here. I wished to tell you about the Birmingham Musical Festival, and the Town Hall, and here I am abusing the musical execution of our countrymen. You will say, I have often enough, and too often, been obliged to listen to you on that subject already. So I prefer reserving all further description of the festival till I can relate it to you in your own room.
May I soon meet you in health and happiness, and find you unchanged in kindly feelings towards myself.—Your devoted
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, October 31st, 1846.
My dear Brother,
From my only being able to-day to wish you joy of yesterday, that is, in writing and by words, you will at once see that I have even more than my full share of affairs at this moment. What I wish most to do, I cannot accomplish all day long, and what I most particularlydislike often occupies my whole day,—but no moreJérémiades, and now for true heartfelt good wishes. A thousand good wishes, which may all be summed up in one,—health for you and yours, and all those you love; in this wish lies the continuance of your happiness, in this lies your enjoyment of it, in this lies all that is good, all that I can possibly desire for you, and no human being could possibly wish or desire anything better for any man? Were you very happy on the day? were all your family well? (this however is included in my previous question;) had you a cake decorated with lights? This is certainly an entirely novel question, but not absolutely indispensable to the happiness of life (like the last). Did you drink chocolate? were my sisters with you, or you with them at dinner or supper? did you think of us? May God bless you, my dear Brother, on that day, and on every day of your life!
It is shameful in me, not to have thanked you yet for the beautiful copy of Dahlmann, but it is still more shameful, that such ordinary—not extraordinary—but honest, able, true words, are so seldom to be met with in our Fatherland; and the cause of this is, that mediocrity, or what is still worse, vapid superficiality, is so prevalent in Germany, parading itself till we would fain drive out of sight; and this is also why I have been hitherto prevented from even thanking you. I never yet encountered such an accumulation of strangers, of inquiries and proposals, and almost all entirely worthless; many so modest—and many so immodest! Singers, players, a fine heap of compositions, and scarcely one that can be called even tolerably good, but at the same time overflowing with the longest words, full of patriotic ardour, full of—anything but striving after high aims, though laying claim to the highest of all; and then the impossibility of fulfilling evenoneof these demands with a good conscience, or recommending them to others. But why should I tell you all this? you, no doubt, know it by experience in your own department, for it pervades every department. All this however confirms me in my resolution, not to continue in this public official situation more than a few years; and just as it formerly was my duty to fill such an office to the best of my ability, it is now equally my duty to give it up. Everything here is gradually assuming a pleasant aspect. Moscheles has set to work very vigorously with the Conservatorium; the concerts also pursue their steady course now as ever; when all this is secure and certain, I daily meditate on the possibility of being able to pass the summer in some pretty country (somewhere near the Rhine), and the winter in Berlin, and this I hope to be able to do, without any public duties to perform in Berlin, and without all that has now irrevocably passed away there; I intend to live entirely with you in all happiness, and to write music.Ainsi soit-il.
I should have been glad to bring the “Elijah” with me, but I am still at work on two passages, which I am strivingto remodel, and they cause me great tribulation. In the meantime, I have been obliged to compose afresh the whole Liturgy for the King. He has desired that I should be repeatedly written to on the subject, and now at last it is finished. I am often too in no happy mood, for poor Johann[88]is very seriously ill, and causes us really very great anxiety. “May I be so bold as to ask who is to play the part of the servant?” says Goethe, and lately these words often recurred to me. May God soon restore the poor faithful fellow! Love me as ever, and may you be happy in the approaching year.—Your
Felix.
Leipzig, November 8th, 1846.
... Have I already thanked you for your excellent contributions, and advice about “Elijah”? All your notes on the margin are most acceptable, and are a fresh proof that you have not only a different, but a much deeper insight than almost any one else into a subject of this kind. You recommend that the “Sanctus” should be followed by the command of God to Elijah to resume his mission; such was indeed my original intention, and I think of replacing it, but I cannot dispense with an answer from Elijah; and I thinkbothcan andought to be there. I shall not however be able to bring in King Ahab again. The greatest difficulty in the whole undertaking, was after the manifestation of the Lord in the “still small voice,” to discover a conclusion for the whole, with sufficient breadth (and yet not long); and if Elijah were to beafterwardsintroduced again in person as a zealous and avenging prophet (in a dramatic aspect) it would in my opinion be difficult to represent, without great circumlocution, his significance for the new dispensation (which however must necessarily be alluded to), while I think it most important, that from the moment of the appearance of the Lord, all should go on in grand narrative to the close. But when you say that one of these passages should relate how he came down, and again came down in vain, you are quite right, and I will try to accomplish it, as I am at this moment revising the whole, and re-writing several passages before sending it to the engraver. It is singular that the passage which caused me the greatest trouble, is the very one that you would like to see omitted,—that of the widow. To me it seems, that by introducing some phrases (either by the chorus or otherwise), the part might become more significant and comprehensive, whereas you prefer its being a simple narrative. After all, you are possibly right, which would be unfortunate, for I believe that in the distribution of the whole, the passage in its present expansion could not possibly be spared. This is a point therefore which I shall weigh well.
Leipzig, December 6th, 1846.
... Montaigne says, and so does Vult, that a man can have butonefriend; you will find this too in the ‘Flegeljahre.’ I also said this from my heart when I received your letter, myonefriend!
How gladly would I have burst forth into joy and gratitude, at the news it contained, and have replied in a gay and happy spirit; but this was impossible, as at the time your letter arrived, we were in great anxiety about our servant Johann, who had been confined to bed for the last two mouths, with a species of dropsy, becoming daily worse, and when, about a fortnight since, the improvement took place that we had been so anxiously longing for during three weeks, his vital powers suddenly sank, and to our great sorrow he died. You know that I valued him very highly, and can well understand, that during the whole time when I saw him suffer so much, and become worse and worse, and then the momentary hope that ensued, followed by his sudden and inevitable death, must cause me to be in a very grave mood for long, long to come. His mother and sister did not arrive here till the day after his funeral. It distressed us also very much, not to be able to say one consolatory word to them! Among his things, which were all in the most exemplary order, we found a letter to me containing his last will; I must show you this thenext time we meet,—no man, no poet indeed, could have written anything more heartfelt, earnest and touching; then there was a great deal to do and to regulate, until all the trunks, with his clothes, etc., were sent off to his mother, and his brothers and sisters: and this was why I have been unable to write to you during the last few weeks. I relate all this to you in detail, because you are myonefriend, and because you sympathize in all that really affects and concerns me. Happily, I was able to work the whole time (though, indeed, not to compose). I got the parts of Bach’s B minor Mass from Dresden. (Do you remember it on Zelter’s Fridays?) It is chiefly in his own writing, and dedicated to the Elector of that day. (“To his Royal Highness the most noble the Elector of Saxony, the accompanying Mass is dedicated, with the most respectful devotion of the author, J. S. Bach.” This is inscribed on the title-page.) From it I have gradually corrected all the mistakes in my score, which were innumerable, and which I had frequently remarked, but never had a proper opportunity to rectify. This occupation, mechanical, though now and then interesting enough, was most welcome to me. For the last few days, however, I have again begun to work with all my might at my “Elijah,” and hope to amend the greatest part of what I thought deficient in the first performance. I have quite completed one of the most difficult parts (the widow), and you will certainly be pleased with the alterations,—I may well say, with the improvements.“Elijah” is become far more impressive and mysterious in this part, the want of which was what annoyed me. Unluckily I never find out this kind of thing tillpost festum, and till I have improved it. I hope, too, to hit on the true sense of other passages that we have discussed together, and shall seriously revise all that I did not deem satisfactory; so that I hope to see the whole completely finished within a few weeks, and then be able to begin something new. The parts that I have hitherto remodelled prove to me that I am right, not to rest till such a work is as good as I can make it, although in these matters very few people either remark or wish to hear about them, and yet they cost a very, very great deal of time; but, on the other hand, such passages make a very different impression when they are really made better, both in themselves, and with regard to all other portions,—you see I am still so very much pleased with the part of the widow, that I completed to-day,—so I think it will not do to rest satisfied with them just as they are. Conscience, too, has a word to say on this matter.
Leipzig, January 4th, 1847.
Dear Dirichlet,
I write you these lines to say that I wish for mysake, I might say for your sake also, that you should remain at Berlin.[89]Jesting apart, I would gladly repeat in writing, and at this new year’s time, all that I said to you about it personally. The more I reflect on this planhere(not in Berlin), the more I feel convinced that its execution would grieve me, first, for your own sake, and secondly, for mine (which comes to one and the same thing); for when I look repeatedly around here, and thus try to discover what kind of weather there is in Germany (and you know that it is often long, long before this can be perceived in Berlin), I everywhere see the current setting in towards large cities, but receding from the smaller ones. It might be said, then, a residence in small towns will now become really agreeable; but they, too, will not be content to remain in their state of quiet comfort, but strive to become great cities: and this is why I could not see any one, far less yourself, leave a large city at this moment to settle in a small one, without the most extreme concern. There are a thousand wants, both material and spiritual, which these smaller places are at this moment seeking to supply (thus making these wants only more perceptible), a thousand pleasant things in life and knowledge,—all linked for many long years with yourself and with Rebecca’s early days,—which you value less than they deserve, because you have always been accustomedto have things in one fashion and in no other, and because you are uneasy about the present, and dissatisfied with what is going on. But, in truth, you will find the same uneasiness, and the same dissatisfaction, prevailing everywhere through all Germany; at present, indeed, only in those whom you meet, and not in yourself, the new-comer; but, alas! alas! in these days such contamination spreads hourly in our Fatherland, where these evils daily strike deeper root, and you will and must experience them also, wherever you go, and not in any respect improve your condition in this chief point. By your change of residence, you cannot effect any cure in the prevailing malady, and I as little with my subscription concerts; it can only be done by very different means, or by a very sharp crisis; and, in any event, it would then be best not to be placed in new, but in old familiar circumstances. A third thing may happen, and, alas! not the most improbable; all may remain in its old form. In that case also, however, it is best not to begin a new life, which holds out no prospect of any improvement in itself. I do wish, then, that you would remain in Berlin.
That you, by any kind of promise, however well meant, or positive, are now in the hands of the people of Heidelberg, andmustsay Yes, iftheysay Yes also, Icannotbelieve. Such a connection as yours with Berlin is not to be dissolved by a letter and a few words; and if these people believe that by your answerthey have acquired any right over you, it is not to be denied that the others have at least an equal right. Simply from an overweening sense of justice, and from too much delicacy, a person often chooses that which costs him the greatest sacrifice, and thus, I believe, you would at last rather choose Heidelberg; but they will not be sensible of this: they only wish to conclude a bargain, and you must do the same, and no more. In the meanwhile they have thepræ, because they wish to acquire something new for themselves, and the people of Berlin only to keep what they have, and the former is always more tempting and pleasant; but, as I said before, it is a mere matter of business,—do not forget that; and you know quite as well as I do that all theBerlinersare anxious to keep you. Forgive my strange lecture, but remain.
I ask it for my sake also; for I have now, I may say, decided soon to go for the winter to Berlin. Don’t let us play at the game of “change sides.” I preferred a residence in a smaller town, under very favourable circumstances; I always liked it, and am accustomed to no other, and yet I feel compelled to leave it, to rejoin those with whom I enjoyed my childhood and youth, and whose memories and friendships and experiences are the same as my own. My plan is, that we shouldform all togetherone pleasant united household, such as we have not seen for long, and live happily together (independent of political life ornon-life, whichhas swallowed upallelse). For some time past everything seems to contribute to this, and, as I said,Ishall not be found wanting, for I consider it the greatest possible good fortune that could ever befall me; so do not frustrate all this by one blow, but remain in Berlin, and let us be together there. These are my reasons, badly expressed, but better intended than expressed; and don’t take this amiss.—Your
Felix.
Leipzig, February, 1847.
Dear Madam,
When I meet any one who knew my Father, and who loved and esteemed him as he deserved, I immediately look on such a one as a friend, and not as a stranger, and a meeting of this kind always makes me glad and happy. As you no doubt feel the same, I trust you will excuse the liberty I take in addressing you. I wish to relate to you how touched and delighted the friends of music in Leipzig were yesterday by the composition of your father; we felt as if his spirit were still living and working among us, and indeed it is so. In the concert of yesterday (which, like the previous and both the ensuing ones, was dedicated to a kindof historical succession of the great masters) there was an opportunity of bringing before the public some of your father’s songs. A symphony of Haydn’s was followed by the Reichardt song, “Dem Schnee, dem Regen,” and his duett, “Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese stand;” and then the same poem set to music by Mozart. You will perceive that your father’s music was by no means in a very easy proximity, but I wish you could have heard how he maintained his honourable position. The very first song sounded charming and effective; but when the little duett was given by two very fresh pure voices, in great simplicity and perfection, many a lover of music could not suppress his tears, so charming and genial wasthatmusic, so genuine and touching. Such applause as we seldom hear, and ada capoof all three verses, followed as a matter of course. This was not for a moment doubtful after the three first bars had been sung, and I felt as if I could not only listen to the song twice, but during the whole evening, and to nothing else. It was the true genuine German song, such as no other nation has, but even ours nothing better; perhaps grander, certainly more complicated, more elaborate, and more artificial, but not on that account more artistic—thus, not better. This must happily be the case for all time, and it must cause you much joy, thus once more to meet your father’s spirit in its still living influence; for many a young musician who heard his music yesterday (if, indeed, he can feelsuch things at all) will now know better what a song should be, than from all the books of instruction, all the lectures, and all the examples of the present day; “and thus is life won,” as Goethe says. Forgive me for writing nothing in this letter, except that the Reichardt songs were so lovely, and the Leipzig public so enchanted. The first you have long known, though the second in itself may be a matter of indifference; but as I was seated at the piano accompanying yesterday and feeling such delight, I said to myself that I must write to you about it.
Begging you to recall me to the remembrance of your daughter, I am your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.[90]
Leipzig, February 22nd, 1847.
Dear Sebastian,
I thank you very much for the drawing, which, as your own composition, pleases me extremely, especially the technical part, in which you have made great progress. If, however, you intend to adopt painting as a profession, you cannot too soon accustom yourself to study themeaningof a work of art with more earnestness and zeal than its mereform,—that is, in otherwords (as a painter is so fortunate as to be able to select visible nature herself for his substance), to contemplate and to study nature most lovingly, most closely, most innately and inwardly, all your life long. Study very thoroughly how the outer form and the inward formation of a tree, or a mountain, or a house alwaysmustlook, and how itcanbe made to look, if it is to be beautiful, and then produce it with sepia or oils, or on a smoked plate; it will always be of use, if only as a testimony of your love of substance. You will not take amiss this little sermon from such a screech-owl as I often am, and above all, do not forget the substance,—as for the form (my lecture), the devil may fly away with it, it is of very little value.
Tell your mother that I quite agree with her about the scherzo. Perhaps she may one day compose ascherzo serioso; there may be such a thing.—Your Uncle,
Felix M. B.
Frankfort, May 24th, 1847.
Your letter did me good, even in the depths of my sorrow, when I received it; above all, your handwriting, and your sympathy, and every single word of yours. I thank you for it all, my dear, kind, faithful friend. It is indeed true that no one who ever knewmy sister can ever forget her through life; but what have not we, her brothers and sister, lost! and I more especially, to whom she was every moment present in her goodness and love; her sympathy being my first thought in every joy; whom she ever so spoiled, and made so proud, by all the riches of her sisterly love, which made me feel all was sure to go well, for she was ever ready to take a full and loving share in all that concerned me. All this, I believe we cannot yet estimate, just as I still instinctively believe that the mournful intelligence will be suddenly recalled; and then again I feel that it is true,—but never, never can I inure myself to it! It is consolatory to think of such a beautiful, harmonious nature, and that she has been spared all the infirmities of advanced age and declining life; but it is hard for us to bear such a blow with proper submission and fortitude.
Forgive me for not being able to say or write much, but I wished to thank you.
My family are all well; the happy, unconcerned, cheerful faces of my children alone have done me good in these days of sorrow. I have not as yet been able to think of music; when I try to do so, all seems empty and desolate within me. But when the children come in I feel less sad, and I can look at them and listen to them for hours.
Thanks for your letter; may Heaven grant health to you, and preserve all those you love.—Your
Felix M. B.
Baden-Baden, June 13th, 1847.
Dear Sebastian,
I must send you my good wishes on your birthday, the most mournful one you have yet known. The retrospect of its celebration last year will deeply grieve you, for then your mother was still by your side; may, however, the anticipation of the future birthdays which you may yet be spared to see, comfort and strengthen you! for your mother will stand by your side in these also, as well as in everything that you do or fulfil. May all you do be estimable and upright, and may your daily steps be directed towards that path to which your mother’s eyes were turned for you, and in which her example and her being went with you, and always will go with you so long as you remain true to her,—in other words, I trust, all your life long. Whatever branch of life, or knowledge, or work you may devote yourself to, it is indispensable towill(not to wish, but towill) something good and solid; but this is sufficient. In all employments and in all spheres there is now and always will be a want of able honest workmen, and therefore it is not true when people declare it now more difficult than formerly to achieve anything. On the contrary, in a certain sense, it is and always will beeasy, or altogetherimpossible; a genuine, faithful heart, true love,and a brave, determined will, are alone required for this, and you will not assuredly fail in these, with such a bright and beloved example steadily shining before you. And even if you follow this, and do all, all in your power, still nothing is done, nothing is attained, without the fulfilment of one fervent wish,—may God be with you!
This prayer comprises consolation and strength, and also cheerfulness in days to come. I often long to be able to pass those days with you and your aunt Rebecca. We expect your father ten or twelve days hence; I wish you could come with him, and we might sketch from nature together. I latelycomposeda sketch of an old mountain castle in a forest, with a distant view of a plain; another of a terrace, with an old lime-tree, and an image of the Virgin under it; and a third, of a solitary mountain lake between high hills, with reeds in the foreground. I mean to wash them in with Indian ink. Are you inclined to try the same three subjects, that we may compare our compositions? Do so, I beg, dear Sebastian, and show them to me when we meet again,—soon, very soon, I hope. May God bless you.—Ever your
Felix M. B.
Thun, July 7th, 1847.
Dear Sister,
In your letter of yesterday to Paul,[92]you said you wished I would write to you again; I therefore do so to-day, but what to write I cannot tell. You have often laughed at me and rallied me because my letters assumed the tone around me or within me, and such is the case now, for it is as impossible for me to write a consistent letter as to recover a consistent frame of mind. I hope that as the days pass on they will bring with them more fortitude, and so I let them pursue their course, and in the society of Paul, and in this lovely country, they glide on monotonously and rapidly. We are all well in health, and sometimes even cheerful. But if I return within myself, which I am always inclined to do, or when we are talking together, the ground-tint is no longer there—not even a black one, far less one of a brighter hue.
A great chapter is now ended, and neither the title nor even the first word of the next is yet written. But God will make it all right one day; this suits the beginning and the end of all chapters.
We intend going to Interlachen in a few days, and towards the end of the month Paul will have begun hisjourney thence towards home. He enjoys with me theoldfamiliar mountain-summits, which look as hoary as five or twenty-five years ago, and on which Time makes little impression! We shall probably stay in Interlachen for another month, and establish ourselves there; I will, and must, soon attempt once more to begin some regular work, and should like to have made some progress in a composition before my journey home. I hope to find you and yours in good health in September. May we soon meet again, my dear, good Sister! and do not forget your
Felix M. B.
Interlachen, July 19th, 1847.
My dear Brother,
Scarcely were you gone, when a storm arose, and the thunder and rain were tremendous. Then we dined, and found an unfilled place at table. Then I reflected for two hours on Schiller’s chorus in the ‘Bride of Messina,’ “Say what are we now to do?” and then the children brought the two enclosed letters for you, and said, “I wonder where our Uncle is now!”
But it is no longer any use telling you such commonplace, indifferent things, and yet life is made up chiefly of these. So adieu, till we meet again on theplains or on the mountains. We shall be as happy there as we were here.
It is still thundering, and this is the most dreary day we have had here for many weeks—in every sense!—Your
Felix.
Interlachen, July 20th, 1847.
Dear Sister,
When your dear letter arrived, I was writing music; I force myself now to be very busy, in the hope that hereafter I may become so from inclination, and that I shall take pleasure in it. This is “weather expressly calculated for writing, but not for gipsying.” Since Paul left us, the sky has been so dismal and rainy that I have only been able to take one walk. Since the day before yesterday, it has been quite cold besides, so we have a fire in-doors, and, out-of-doors, streaming rain. But I cannot deny that I sometimes rather like such downright, pouring wet days, which confine you effectually to the house. This time they give me an opportunity of passing the whole day with my three elder children; they write, and learn arithmetic and Latin with me,—paint landscapes during their play-hours, or play draughts, and ask a thousand wise questions, whichno fool can answer (people generally say the reverse of this, still it is so). The standing reply is, and always will be, “You do not yet understand such things,” which still vibrates in my ears from my own mother, and which I shall soon hear in turn from my children, when they give their children the same answer; and thus it goes on.
As for Sebastian’s profession, I think he is now at the age, and period, when he is not likely to feel conviction or enthusiasm for anything that cannot be laid hold of by the hand, or counted by numbers, or expressed by words, and he must be kept from everything—as a life aim—which might forestal such convictions. He knows that as well as I do, and I have entire confidence in his not choosing any profession from which he will hereafter turn aside, or which might eventually become indifferent or wearisome to him. As soon, therefore, as I feel secureon this point, it is quite the same to me, what he may choose in this wide world, or how high or how humble his path may then be, if he only pursues it cheerfully! And as all agree in allowing him to make his own choice, and as he can now or never understand the serious aspect of life, and as this earnest feeling is the affair of his own heart, in which no one can assist him, or advise him, although it does affect each of us deeply, I believe he will not be found wanting in this respect, and will do well, what he settles to do;thatwould be my suggestion to him, but, otherwise, not to offer him the slightest approachto advice. It is the old story of Hercules, choosing his path, which for several thousand years has always been acted once, at least, in the life of every man; and whether the young maidens be called Virtue or Vice, and the young men Hercules or not, the sense remains the same.
In September, God willing, I intend to come to Berlin, and Paul has probably told you how seriously I am occupied with the thought of spending my life with you, my dear Sister and Brother, and residing with you, renouncing all other considerations. I wish to live with you, and never did I feel this more vividly than when the steamboat set off to Thun with Paul and his family, and Hensel; and, strangely enough (either for this reason, or in spite of it), it is almost impossible for me at this time to be with strangers. There is no lack of visitors here, both musical and others; scarcely a single day lately has passed without one, or several; but they all seem to me so empty and indifferent, that I, no doubt, must appear in the same light to them, so I heartily wish that we may soon part, and remain apart; and in the midst of all the phrases, and inquiries, and speechifying, one thought is always present with me—the shortness of life; and, in fact, I hope we shall soon be together, and long remain together. Farewell, dear Sister, till we meet!
Interlachen, August 3rd, 1847.
Dear Brother,
We are all well, and continue to live the same quiet life that you enjoyed with us here. It was, indeed, most solitary the first days after you left us, when each of us went about with dismal faces, as if we had forgotten something, or were looking for something,—and it was so, indeed! Since then, I have begun to write music very busily; the three elder children work with me in the forenoon; in the afternoon, when the weather permits, we all take a walk together; and I have also finished a few rabid sketches in Indian ink. Herr Kohl came here yesterday, the Irish and Russian traveller, and spent the evening with us; also, Mr. Grote,[93]whom I always am very glad to see and to listen to; but I now feel so tranquil in this quiet retirement, and so little tranquil with a number of people, that I do all I can to avoid what is called society, and as yet I have succeeded in this. Why were you not with me in Boningen? you would indeed have been pleased! and in Wilderschwyl, and Unspunnen besides? This alone would be a sufficient reason for your returning here as soon as you can. We have not, however,oncehad fine weather since the day of your departure, and often very bad; there has been no further question, since then, of sitting under the walnut-trees, and many days we were unable to leave thehouse. Still we always took advantage of the hours that were fair for all kinds of expeditions; and wherever you turn your steps here, it is always splendid. If the weather becomes more settled, I mean to go over the Susten, and to the summit of the Sidelhorn, which can be done from here in a few days. But to carry this resolution into effect seems by no means easy; it is so lovely here, and we so much enjoy our regular, quiet life. It has enabled me once more to become often quite cheerful; but when people come, and talk at random about commonplace matters, and of God and the world, my mood becomes again so unutterably mournful, that I do not know how to endure it. You are obliged to surmount such feelings, to the utmost extent; and I think of this every day. It must be hard on you, and I shrink from the idea of it myself. But it must be so, and it is right, so with the help of God, it can be done. All send heartfelt greetings; and ever continue to love your
Felix.