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and then came in its turn the flute, high up in the treble, with the choral in the same key, and so the sounds of the organ gradually died away, and I was obliged to stop, from the church being so dark.
In the meantime there was a terrible hurricane of wind and rain outside, and not a trace of the grand lofty rocky precipices; the most dreary weather! and then I read some dreary newspapers, and everything wore a grey hue. Tell me, Fanny, do you know Auber's "Parisienne?" I consider it the very worst thing he has ever produced, perhaps because the subject was really sublime, and for other reasons also. Auber alone could have been guilty of composing for a great nation, in the most violent state of excitement, a cold, insignificant piece, quite commonplace, and trivial. Therefrainrevolts me every time I think of it,—it is as if children were playing with a drum, and singing to it—only more objectionable. The words also are worthless; little antitheses and points are quite out of place here. Then the emptiness of the music! a march for acrobats, and at the end a mere miserable imitation of the "Marseillaise." Such music is not what this epoch demands. Woe to usifit be indeed what suits this epoch,—if a mere copy of the Marseillaise Hymn be all that is required. What in the latter is full of fire, and spirit, and impetus, is in the former ostentatious, cold, calculated, and artificial. The "Marseillaise" is as superior to the "Parisienne" as everything produced by genuine enthusiasm must be, to what is made for a purpose,even if it be with a view to promote enthusiasm; it will never reach the heart, because it does not come from the heart.
By the way, I never saw such a striking identity between a poet and a musician, as between Auber and Clauren. Auber faithfully renders note for note, what the other writes word for word—braggadocio, degrading sensuality, pedantry, epicurism, and parodies of foreign nationality. But why should Clauren be effaced from the literature of the day? Is it prejudicial to any one that he should remain where he is? and do you read what is really good with less interest? Any young poet must indeed be degenerate, if he does not cordially hate and despise such trash; but it is only too true that the people like him; so it is all very well, it is only the people's own loss. Write me your opinion of the "Parisienne." I sometimes sing it to myself for fun, as I go along; it makes a man walk like a chorister in a procession.
Wretched weather! it has rained all night, and all the morning too, and the cold as severe as in winter; deep snow is lying on the adjacent hills. There has been again a tremendous inundation in Appenzell, which has done the greatest damage, and destroyed all the roads. At the Lake of Zurich, there are numbers of pilgrimages, and processions, on account of the weather. I was obliged to drive here this morning, as all the footpaths were covered with mud and water. I shall remain till to-morrow,when the diligence passes through at an early hour, and I intend to go with it up the valley of the Rhine, as far as Altstetten.
To-morrow I shall probably have reached, or crossed, the boundaries of Switzerland, for my pleasure excursion is now over. Autumn is arrived, and I have no right to complain if I pass a few tiresome days, after so many enchanting ones, that I can never forget. On the contrary, I think I almost like it; there is always enough to be done, even in Sargans, (a wretched hole,) and in a regular deluge, like that of to-day—for happily an organ is always to be found in this country; they are certainly small, and the lower octave, both in the key-board and the pedal, imperfect, or as I call it, crippled; but still they are organs, and that is enough for me.
I have been playing all this morning, and really begun to practise, for it is a shame that I cannot play Sebastian Bach's principal works. I intend, if I can manage it, to practise for an hour every day in Munich, as after a couple of hours' work to-day, I certainly made considerable progress with my feet (nota bene, sitting). Ritz once told me that Schneider, in Dresden, played him the D major fugue, in the "wohl-temperirten Clavier," on the organ, supplying the bass with the pedal.
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This had hitherto appeared to me so fabulous, that I could never properly comprehend it. It recurred tome this morning when I was playing the organ, so I instantly attempted it, and I at least see that it is far from being impossible, and that I shall accomplish it. The subject went pretty well, so I practised passages from the D major fugue, for the organ, from the F major toccata, and the G minor fugue, all of which I knew by heart. If I find a tolerable organ in Munich, and not an imperfect one, I will certainly conquer these, and feel childish delight at the idea of playing such pieces on the organ. The F major toccata, with the modulation at the close, sounded as if the church were about to tumble down; what a giant that Cantor was!
Besides organ-playing, I have a good many sketches to finish, in my new drawing book, (one was entirely filled in Engelberg) and then I must eat like six hundred wrestlers. After dinner I practise the organ again, and thus a rainy day passes at Sargans. It seems prettily situated, with a castle on the hill, but I cannot go a step beyond the door.
Evening.—Yesterday at this time, I still projected a pedestrian tour, and wished at all events to go through the whole of the Appenzell. It was a strange feeling when I learned that all mountain excursions were probably at an end for this year: the heights are covered with deep snow, for just as it has rained here, in the valley, for thirty-six hours, it has snowed incessantly on the hills above. The flocks have been obliged to come down into the valley from the Alps, where they ought to have remainedfor a whole month yet, so that all idea of any footpaths is out of the question. Yesterday I was still on the hills, but now they will be inaccessible for six months to come. My pedestrian excursions are over; wondrously beautiful they were, and I shall never forget them.
I mean to work hard at music, and high time that I should. I played on the organ till twilight, and was trampling energetically on the pedal, when we suddenly became aware that the deep C sharp in the great diapason, went buzzing softly on without ceasing; all our pressing, and shaking, and thumping on the keys, was of no avail, so we were obliged to climb into the organ among the big pipes. The C sharp continued gently humming,—the fault lay in the bellows; the organist was in the greatest perplexity, because to-morrow is a fête day; at last I stuffed my handkerchief into the pipe, and there was no more buzzing, but no more C sharp either. I played this passage incessantly, all the same:—
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and it did very well.
I am now going to finish my sketch of the Glacier of the Rhone, and then the day will be at my own disposal; which means that I am going to sleep. I will write to you on the next page to-morrow evening wherever I am, for to-day I have no idea where I shall be. Good night! Eight is striking in F minor, and it is raining and blowing in F sharpminor or G sharp minor; in short, in every possible sharp key.
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Motto—"Vous pensez que je suis l'Abbé de St. Gall" (Citoyen).[23]I do feel so comfortable here, after braving such storms and tempests. During the four hours when I was crossing the mountains from Altstetten to this place, I was engaged in a regular battle with the elements; when I tell you that I never experienced anything like the storm, nor even imagined anything approaching to it, this does not say much; but the oldest people in the Canton declare the same: a large manufactory has been demolished, and several persons killed. To-morrow, in my last letter from Switzerland, I will tell you of my being again obliged to travel on foot, and arriving here, after crossing by Appenzell, which looked like Egypt after the seven plagues. The bell is now ringing for dinner, and I mean to feast like an abbot.
Opposite me lies Switzerland, with her dark blue mountains, pedestrian journeys, storms, and glorious heights and valleys. Here ends the greatest part of my journey, and my journal also.
At noon to-day, I crossed the wild grey Rhine ina ferry-boat, above Rheineck, and now here I am, already in Bavaria. I have of course entirely given up my projected excursion on foot, through the Bavarian mountains; for it would be folly to attempt anything of the kind this year. For the last four days it has rained more or less with incessant vehemence; it seemed as if Providence were wroth. I passed to-day through extensive orchards, which were not under water, but fairly submerged by mud and clay; everything looks deplorable and depressing; you must therefore forgive the doleful style of this last sheet. I never in any landscape saw a more dreary sight than the sward of the green hills, covered with deep snow; while below, the fruit-trees, with their ripe fruit, were standing reflected in the water. The scanty covering of muddy snow, which lay on the fir-woods and meadows, looked the personification of all that was dismal. A Sargans burgher told me that in 1811 this little town had been entirely burnt down, and recently with difficulty rebuilt; that they depend chiefly on the produce of their vineyards, which have been this year destroyed by hail-storms, and the Alps also were now no longer available; this gives rise to serious reflections, and to anxious thoughts with regard to this year.
It is singular enough that if I am obliged to go on foot in such weather, and fairly exposed to it, I am not in the least annoyed; on the contrary, I rather rejoice in setting it at defiance. When I arrived by the diligence yesterday at Altstetten, infreezing cold, like a day in December, I found that there was no carriage road to Tourgen, to which place I had unluckily sent on my cloak and knapsack on the last fine day. I was obliged to have them the same evening, for the cold was intense, so I did not hesitate long, but set off once more for the last time to cross the mountains, and arrived in the Canton of Appenzell.
The state of the woods, and hills, and meadows, and little bridges, baffles all description; being Sunday, and divine service going on, I failed in procuring a guide; not a living soul met me the whole way, for all the people had crept into their houses, so I toiled on quite alone towards Tourgen. To pass through a wood in such weather, and along such paths, inspires a wonderful sense of independence. Moreover I am now quite perfect in the Swissjodelnand crowing, so I shouted lustily, andjodelledseveral airs at the pitch of my voice, and arrived in Tourgen in capital spirits. The people in the inn there were rude and saucy, so I politely said, "You be hanged! I shall go on;" and taking out my map, I found that St. Gall was the nearest convenient place, and in fact the only practicable route. I could not succeed in persuading any one to go with me in such horrible weather, so I resolved to carry my own things, abusing all Swiss cordiality.
Shortly afterwards, however, came the reverse of the medal, which not unfrequently occurs. I went to the peasant who had brought my luggage here, and found him in his pretty newly-built wooden house,and I had thus an opportunity of seeing a veritable and genuine Swiss interior, just as we imagine it to be. He and his whole family were sitting round a table, the house clean and warm, and the stove burning. The old man rose and gave me his hand, and insisted on my taking a seat; he then sent through the whole place to try to get me a carriage, or a man to carry my things, but as no one would either drive or walk, he at last sent his own son with me. He only asked twoBatzenfor carrying my knapsack for two hours. A very pretty fair daughter was sitting at the table sewing, the mother reading a thick book, and the old man himself studying the newspapers; it was a charming picture.
When at last I set off, the weather seemed to say, "If you defy me I can defy you also," for the storm broke loose with redoubled violence, and an invisible hand appeared to seize my umbrella at intervals, shaking it and crumpling it together, and my fingers were so benumbed that I could scarcely hold it fast; the paths were so desperately slippery that my guide fell sprawling full length before me in the mud; but what cared we? Wejodelledand reviled the weather to our hearts' content, and at last we passed the Nunnery, which we greeted by a serenade, and soon after reached St. Gall.
Our journey was happily over, and yesterday I drove here, and at night met with a wonderful organ, on which I could play "Schmücke dich, O liebe Seele!" to my heart's content.
To-day I proceed to Memmingen, to-morrow toAugsburg; the day after, God willing, to Munich; and thus, I may now say, Ihave beenin Switzerland. Perhaps I have rather bored you by all the trivial occurrences I have detailed. These are gloomy times, but we need not be so; and when I sent you my journal, it was chiefly to show you that I thought of you whenever I was pleased and happy, and was with you in spirit. The shabby, dripping pedestrian bids you farewell, and a town gentleman, with visiting-cards, fine linen, and a black coat, will write to you next time. Farewell.
Felix.
Burgher Letter from Munich.
It is a delightful feeling to wake in the morning and to know that you are to score a grand allegro with all sorts of instruments, and various oboes and trumpets, while bright weather holds out the hope of a cheering long walk in the afternoon.
I have enjoyed these pleasures for a whole week past, so the favourable impression that Munich made on me during my first visit, is now very much enhanced. I scarcely know any place where I feel so comfortable and domesticated as here. It is indeed very delightful to be surrounded by cheerful faces, and your own to be so also, and to know every man you meet in the streets.
I am now preparing for my concert, so my hands are pretty full; my acquaintances every instantinterrupting me in my work, the lovely weather tempting me to go out, and the copyists, in turn, forcing me to stay at home; all this constitutes the most agreeable and exciting life. I was obliged to put off my concert, on account of the October festival, which begins next Sunday, and lasts all the week. Every evening there is to be a performance at the theatre, and a ball, so all idea of an orchestra or a concert-room is out of the question. On Monday evening, however, the 17th, at half-past six, think of me,—for then we dash off with thirty violins, and two sets of wind instruments.
The first part begins with the symphony in C minor, the second with the "Midsummer Night's Dream." The first part closes with my new concerto in G minor, and at the end of the second I have unwillingly agreed to extemporize. Believe me, I do so very reluctantly, but the people insist upon it. Bärmann has decided on playing again; Breiting, Mlle. Vial, Loehle, Bayer, and Pellegrini are the singers who are to execute a piece together. The locality is the large Odeon Hall, and the performance for the benefit of the poor in Munich. The magistrates invite the orchestra, and the burgomasters the singers. Every morning I am engaged in writing, correcting, and scoring till one o'clock, when I go to Scheidel's coffee-house in the Kaufinger Gasse, where I know each face by heart, and find the same people every day in the same position; two playing chess, three looking on, five reading the newspapers, six eating their dinner, and I am the seventh. Afterdinner Bärmann usually comes to fetch me, and we make arrangements about the concert, or after a walk we have cheese and beer, and then I return home and set to work again.
This time I have declined all invitations for the evening; but there are so many agreeable houses, to which I can go uninvited, that a light is seldom to be seen in my room on the parterre till after eight o'clock. You must know that I lodge on a level with the street, in a room which was once a shop, so that if I unbar the shutters of my glass door, one step brings me into the middle of the street, and any one passing along, can put his head in at the window, and say good morning. Next to me a Greek lodges, who is learning the piano, and he is truly odious; but to make up for that, my landlord's daughter, who wears a round silver cap and is very slender, looks all the prettier.
I have music in my rooms at four o'clock in the afternoon, three times every week: Bärmann, Breiting, Staudacher, young Poissl, and others, come regularly, and we have a musical picnic. In this way I become acquainted with operas, which, most unpardonably, I have not yet either heard or seen; such as Lodoiska, Faniska, Medea; also the Preciosa, Abu Hassan, etc. The theatre lends us the scores.
Last Wednesday we had capital fun; several wagers had been lost, and it was agreed that we should enjoy the fruits of them all together; and after various suggestions, we at last decided on having a musical soirée in my room, and to inviteall the dignitaries; so a list was made out of about thirty persons; several also came uninvited, who were presented to us by mutual friends. There was a sad want of space; at first we proposed placing several people on my bed, but it was surprising the number of patient sheep who managed to cram into my small room. The whole affair was most lively and successful. E—— was present, as dulcet as ever, languishing in all the glory of poetical enthusiasm, and grey stockings; in short, tiresome beyond all description.
First I played my old quartett in B minor; then Breiting sang "Adelaide;" Herr S—— played variations on the violin (doing himself no credit); Bärmann performed Beethoven's first quartett (in F major), which he had arranged for two clarionets, corno di bassetto, and bassoon; an air from "Euryanthe" followed, which was furiously encored, and as a finale I extemporized—tried hard to get off—but they made such a tremendous uproar thatnolensI was forced to comply, though I had nothing in my head, but wine-glasses, benches, cold roast meat, and ham.
The Cornelius ladies were next-door with my landlord and his family, to listen to me; the Schauroths were making a visit on the first story for the same purpose, and even in the hall, and in the street, people were standing; in addition to all this, the heat of the crowded room, the deafening noise, the gay audience; and when at last the time for eating and drinking arrived, the uproar was at itsheight; we fraternized glass in hand, and gave toasts; the more formal guests with their grave faces, sat in the midst of the jovial throng, apparently quite contented, and we did not separate till half-past one in the morning.
The following evening formed a striking contrast. I was summoned to play before the Queen, and the Court; there all was proper and polite, and polished, and every time you moved your elbow, you pushed against an Excellency; the most smooth and complimentary phrases circulated in the room, and I, theroturier, stood in the midst of them, with my citizen heart, and my aching head! I managed however to get on pretty well, and at the end, I was commanded to extemporize on Royal themes, which I did, and was mightily commended; what pleased me most was, that when I had finished my extempore playing, the Queen said to me, that it was strange the power I possessed of carrying away my audience, for that during such music, no one could think of anything else; on which I begged to apologize for carrying away Her Majesty, etc.
This, you see, is the mode in which I pass my time in Munich. I forgot, however, to say, that every day at twelve o'clock, I give little Mademoiselle L—— an hour's instruction in double counterpoint, and four-part composition, etc., which makes me realize more than ever the stupidity and confusion of most masters and books on this subject; for nothing can be more clear than the whole thing when properly explained.
She is one of the sweetest creatures I ever saw, Imagine a small, delicate-looking, pale girl, with noble but not pretty features, so singular and interesting, that it is difficult to turn your eyes from her; while all her gestures and every word are full of genius. She has the gift of composing songs, and singing them in a way I never heard before, causing me the most unalloyed musical delight I ever experienced. When she is seated at the piano, and begins one of the songs, the sounds are quite unique; the music floats strangely to and fro, and every note expresses the most profound and refined feeling. When she sings the first note in her tender tones, every one present subsides into a quiet and thoughtful mood, and each, in his own way, is deeply affected.
If you could but hear her voice! so innocent, so unconsciously lovely, emanating from her inmost soul, and yet so tranquil! Last year the genius was all there; she had written no song that did not contain some bright flash of talent, and then M—— and I sounded forth her praises to the musical world; still no one seemed to place much faith in us; but since that time, she has made the most remarkable progress. Those who are not affected by her present singing, can have no feeling at all; but unluckily it is now the fashion to beg the young girl to sing her songs, and then the lights are removed from the piano, in order that the society may enjoy the plaintive strains.
This forms an unpleasant contrast, and repeatedlywhen I was to have played something after her, I was quite unable, and declined doing so. It is probable that she may one day be spoiled by all this praise, because she has no one to comprehend or to guide her; and, strangely enough, she is as yet entirely devoid of all musical cultivation; she knows very little, and can scarcely distinguish good music from bad; in fact, except her own pieces, she thinks all else that she hears wonderfully fine. If she were at length to become satisfied as it were with herself, it would be all over with her. I have, for my part, done what I could, and implored her parents and herself in the most urgent manner, to avoid society, and not to allow such divine genius to be wasted. Heaven grant that I may be successful! I may, perhaps, dear sisters, soon send you some of her songs that she has copied out for me, in token of her gratitude for my teaching her what she already knows from nature; and because I have really led her to good and solid music.
I also play on the organ every day for an hour, but unfortunately I cannot practise properly, as the pedal is short of five upper notes, so that I cannot play any of Sebastian Bach's passages on it; but the stops are wonderfully beautiful, by the aid of which you can vary chorals; so I dwell with delight on the celestial, liquid tone of the instrument. Moreover, Fanny, I have here discovered the particular stops which ought to be used in Sebastian Bach's "Schmücke dich, O liebe Seele." They seem actually made for this melody, and sound so touching,that a tremor invariably seizes me, when I begin to play it. For the flowing parts I have a flute stop of eight feet, and also a very soft one of four feet, which continually floats above the Choral. You have heard this effect in Berlin; but there is a keyboard for the Choral with nothing but reed stops, so I employ a mellow oboe and a soft clarion (four feet) and a viola; these give the Choral in subdued and touching tones, like distant human voices, singing from the depths of the heart.
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, by the time you will have received this letter, I shall be on the "Theresien Wiese," with eighty thousand other people; so think of me there, and farewell.
Felix.
Dear Father,
Pray forgive me for not having written to you for so long. The last few days previous to my concert, were passed in such bustle and confusion, that I really had not a moment's leisure; besides I preferred writing to you after my concert was over, that I might tell you all about it, hence the long interval between this and my former letter.
I write to you in particular to-day, because it is so long since I have had a single line from you; I do beg you will soon write to me, if only to say that you are well, and to send me your kind wishes. You know this always makes me glad and happy;therefore excuse my addressing this letter, with all the little details of my concert, to you. My mother, and sisters, were desirous to hear them, but I was anxious to say how eagerly I hope for a few lines from you. Pray let me have them. It is a long time since you wrote to me!
My concert took place yesterday, and was much more brilliant and successful than I expected. The affair went off well, and with much spirit. The orchestra played admirably, and the receipts for the benefit of the poor will be large. A few days after my former letter, I attended a general rehearsal, where the whole band were assembled, and in addition to the official invitation the orchestra had received, I was obliged to invite them verbally in a polite speech, in the theatre. This, to me, was the most trying part of the whole concert; still I did not object to it, for I really wished to know the sensations of a man who gives a concert, and this ceremony forms part of it. I stationed myself therefore at the prompter's box, and addressed the performers very courteously, who took off their hats, and when my speech was finished, there was a general murmur of assent. On the following day there were upwards of seventy signatures to the circular. Immediately afterwards, I had the pleasure of finding that the chorus singers had sent one of their leaders to me, to ask if I had not composed some chorus that I should like to be sung, in which case, they would all be happy to sing itgratis. Although I had decided not to give morethan three pieces of my composition, still the offer was very gratifying, and the hearty sympathy especially delighted me, for even the regimental musicians whom I had to engage for the English horns and trumpets, positively refused to accept a single kreuzer, and we had above eighty performers in the orchestra.
Then came all the tiresome minor arrangements about advertisements, tickets, preliminary rehearsals, etc., and in addition to all this, it was the week of the October festival. In Munich the days and hours always glide past so very rapidly, that when they are gone, it really seems as if they had never been, and this is more peculiarly the case during this October festival. Every afternoon about three o'clock you repair to the spacious, green "Theresien Wiese," which is swarming with people, and it is impossible to get away till the evening, for every one finds acquaintances without end, and something to talk about, or to look at; a fat ox, target-shooting, a race, or pretty girls in gold and silver caps, etc. Any affair you are engaged in, can be concluded there, for the whole town is congregated on the meadow, and not till the mists begin to rise, does the crowd disperse, and return towards the "Frauen Thürme." The people are in constant motion, running about in all directions, while the snowy mountains in the distance look clear and tranquil, each day giving promise of a bright morrow, and fulfilling that promise; and, what after all is the chief thing, none but careless happy faces to be seen, with theoccasional exception perhaps of a few Deputies, drinking coffee in the open air, and discussing the lamentable condition of the people,—while the people themselves are standing round them looking as happy as possible. On the first day the King distributes the prizes himself, taking off his hat to each winner of a prize, and giving his hand to the peasants, or laying hold of their arms and shaking them; now I think this all very proper, as here externally at least society appears more blended, but whether it sinks deep into the heart, we can discuss together at some future time. I adhere to my first opinion; at all events it is so far well, that the absurd restraints of etiquette should not be too strictly observed outwardly, and so it is always something gained.
My first rehearsal took place early on Saturday. We had about thirty-two violins, six double-basses, and double sets of wind instruments, etc.: but, Heaven knows why, the rehearsal went badly; I was forced to rehearse my symphony in C minor alone for two hours. My concerto did not go at all satisfactorily. We had only time to play over the "Midsummer Night's Dream" once, and even then so hurriedly, that I wished to withdraw it from the bills; but Bärmann would not hear of this, and assured me that they would do it better next time. I therefore was forced to wait in considerable anxiety for the next rehearsal: in the meantime there was happily a great ball on Sunday evening, which was very enjoyable, so I recovered my spirits, and arrivednext morning at the general rehearsal in high good humour, and with perfect confidence. I started off at once with the overture; we played it over again and again, till at last it went well, and we did the same with my concerto, so that the whole rehearsal was quite satisfactory.
On my way to the concert at night, when I heard the rattling of the carriages, I began to feel real pleasure in the whole affair. The Court arrived at half-past six. I took up my little Englishbâton, and conducted my symphony. The orchestra played magnificently, and with a degree of fire and enthusiasm that I never heard equalled under my direction; they all crashed in at theforte, and thescherzowas most light and delicate; it seemed to please the audience exceedingly, and the King was always the first to applaud. Then my fat friend, Breiting, sang the air in A flat major from "Euryanthe," and the public shouted "Da capo!" and were in good humour, and showed good taste. Breiting was delighted, so he sang with spirit, and quite beautifully. Then came my concerto; I was received with long and loud applause; the orchestra accompanied me well, and the composition had also its merits, and gave much satisfaction to the audience; they wished to recall me, in order to give me another round of applause, according to the prevailing fashion here, but I was modest, and would not appear. Between the parts the King got hold of me, and praised me highly, asking all sorts of questions, and whether I was related to the Bartholdyin Rome, to whose house he was in the habit of going, because it was the cradle of modern art, etc.[24]
The second part commenced with the "Midsummer Night's Dream," which went admirably, and excited a great sensation; then Bärmann played, and after that we had the finale in A major from Lodoiska. I however did not hear either of these, as I was resting and cooling in the anteroom. When I appeared to extemporize, I was again enthusiastically received. The King had given me the theme of "Non più andrai," on which I was toimproviser. My former opinion is now fully confirmed, that it is an absurdity to extemporize in public. I have seldom felt so like a fool as when I took my place at the piano, to present to the public the fruits of my inspiration; but the audience were quite contented, and there was no end of their applause. They called me forward again, and the Queen said all that was courteous; but I was annoyed, for I was far from being satisfied with myself, and I am resolved never again to extemporize in public,—it is both an abuse and an absurdity.
So this is an account of my concert of the 17th, which is now among the things of the past. There were eleven hundred people present, so the poor may well be satisfied: but enough of all this. Farewell! May every happiness attend you all!
Felix.
Dear Father,
Receive my hearty thanks for your letter of the 7th. Though I do not quite apprehend your meaning on some points, and also may differ from you, still I have no doubt that this will come all right when we talk things over together, especially if you permit me, as you have always hitherto done, to express my opinion in a straight-forward manner. I allude chiefly to your suggestion, that I should procure a libretto for an opera from some French poet, and then have it translated, and compose the music for the Munich stage.[25]
Above all, I must tell you how sincerely I regret that you have only now made known to me your views on this subject. I went to Düsseldorf, as you know, expressly to consult with Immermann on the point. I found him ready, and willing; he accepted the proposal, promising to send me the poem by the end of May at the latest, so I do not myself see how it is possible for me now to draw back; indeed I do not wish it, as I place entire confidence in him. I do not in the least understand what you allude to in your last letter, about Immermann, and his incapacity to write an opera. Although I by no means agree with you in this opinion, still it would have been my duty to have settled nothing withoutyour express sanction, and I could have arranged the affair by letter from here, I believed however that I was acting quite to your satisfaction when I made him my offer. In addition to this, some new poems that he read to me, convinced me more than ever that he was a true poet, and supposing that I had an equal choice in merit, I would always decide rather in favour of a German than a French libretto; and lastly, he has fixed on a subject which has been long in my thoughts, and which, if I am not mistaken, my mother wished to see made into an opera,—I mean Shakspeare's "Tempest". I was therefore particularly pleased with this, so I shall doubly regret if you do not approve of what I have done. In any event, however, I entreat that you will neither be displeased with me, nor distrustful with regard to the work, nor cease to take any interest in it.
From what I know of Immermann, I feel assured I may expect a first-rate libretto. What I alluded to about his solitary life, merely referred to his inward feelings and perceptions; for in other respects he is well acquainted with what is passing in the world. He knows what people like, and what to give them; but above all he is a genuine artist, which is the chief thing; but I am sure I need not say that I will not compose music for any words I do not consider really good, or which do not inspire me, and for this purpose it is essential that I should have your approval. I intend to reflect deeply on the poem before I begin the music. The dramatic interest or (in the best sense) the theatrical portion,I shall of course immediately communicate to you, and in short look on the affair in the serious light it deserves. The first step however is taken, and I cannot tell you how deeply I should regret your not being pleased.
There is however one thing which consoles me, and it is that if I were to rely on my own judgment, I would again act precisely as I have now done, though I have had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with a great deal of French poetry, and seeing it in the most favourable light. Pray pardon me for saying exactly what I think. To compose for the translation of a French libretto, seems to me for various reasons impracticable, and I have an idea that you are in favour of it more on account of thesuccesswhich it is likely to enjoy than for its ownintrinsic merit. Moreover I well remember how much you disliked the subject of the "Muette de Portici," aMuettetoo who had gone astray, and of "Wilhelm Tell," which the author seems almost purposely to have rendered tedious.
The success however these enjoy all over Germany does not assuredly depend on the work itself being either good or dramatic, for "Tell" is neither, but on their coming from Paris, and having pleased there. Certainly there isonesure road to fame in Germany,—that by Paris and London; still it is not the only one; this is proved not only by all Weber's works, but also by those of Spohr, whose "Faust" is here considered classical music, and which is to be given at the great Opera-house inLondon next season. Besides, I could not possibly take that course, as my great opera has been bespoken for Munich, and I have accepted the commission. I am resolved therefore to make the attempt in Germany, and to remain and work there so long as I can continue to do so, and yet maintain myself, for this I consider my first duty. If I find that I cannot do this, then I must leave it for London or Paris, where it is easier to get on. I see indeed where I should be better remunerated and more honoured, and live more gaily, and at my ease, than in Germany, where a man must press forward, and toil, and take no rest,—still, if I can succeed there, I prefer the latter.
None of the new libretti here, would in my opinion be attended with any success whatever, if brought out for the first time on a German stage. One of the distinctive characteristics of them all, is precisely of a nature that I should resolutely oppose, although the taste of the present day may demand it, and I quite admit that it may in general be more prudent to go with the current than to struggle against it. I allude to that of immorality. In "Robert le Diable" the nuns come one after the other to allure the hero of the piece, till at last the abbess succeeds in doing so: the same hero is conveyed by magic into the apartment of her whom he loves, and casts her from him in an attitude which the public here applauds, and probably all Germany will do the same; she then implores his mercy in a grand aria. In another opera a young girl divestsherself of her garments, and sings a song to the effect that next day at this time she will be married; all this produces effect, but I have no music for such things. I consider it ignoble, so if the present epoch exacts this style, and considers it indispensable, then I will write oratorios.
Another strong reason why it would prove impracticable is that no French poet would undertake to furnish me with a poem. Indeed, it is no easy matter to procure one from them for this stage, for all the best authors are overwhelmed with commissions. At the same time I think it quite possible that I might succeed in getting one; still it never would occur to any of them to write a libretto for aGermantheatre. In the first place it would be much more feasible to give the opera here, and infinitely more rational too; in the second place, they would decline writing for any other stage than the French; in fact they could not realize any other. Above all it would be impossible to procure for them a sum equivalent to what they receive here from the theatres, and what they draw as their share from thepart d'auteur.
I know you will forgive me for having told you my opinion without reserve. You always allowed me to do so in conversation, so I hope you will not put a wrong construction on what I have written, and I beg you will amend my views by communicating your own.—Your
Felix.
Dear Rebecca,
I went yesterday to the Chambre des Députés, and I must now tell you about it; but what do you care about the Chambre des Députés? It is a political song, and you would rather hear whether I have composed any love songs, or bridal songs, or wedding songs; but it is a sad pity, that no songs but political ones are composed here. I believe I never in my life passed three such unmusical weeks as these. I feel as if I never could again think of composing; this all arises from the "juste milieu;" but it is still worse to be with musicians, for they do notwrangleabout politics, butlamentover them. One has lost his place, another his title, a third his money, and they say this all proceeds from the "Milieu."
Yesterday I saw the "Milieu," in a light grey coat, and with a noble air, in the first place on the Ministerial bench. He was sharply attacked by M. Mauguin, who has a very long nose. Of course you don't care for all this; but what of that? I must have a chat with you. In Italy I was lazy, in Switzerland a wild student, in Munich a consumer of cheese and beer, and so in Paris I must talk politics. I intended to have composed various symphonies, and to have written some songs for certain ladies in Frankfort, Düsseldorf, and Berlin; but as yet not a chance of it. Paris obtrudes herself, and as above all things I must now see Paris, so I am busily engaged in seeing it, and am dumb.
Moreover I am freezing with cold—another drawback. I cannot contrive to make my room warm, and I am not to get another and warmer apartment, till New Year's Day. In a dark little hole on the ground floor, overlooking a small damp garden, where my feet are like ice, how can I possibly write music? It is bitterly cold, and an Italian like myself is peculiarly susceptible. At this moment a man outside my window is singing a political song to a guitar.
I live a reckless life—out morning, noon, and night: to-day at Baillot's; to-morrow I go to some friends of the Bigots; the next day, Valentin; Monday, Fould; Tuesday, Hiller; Wednesday, Gérard; and the previous week it was just the same. In the forenoon I rush off to the Louvre, and gaze at the Raphaels, and my favourite Titian; a person might well wish for a dozen more eyes to look at such a picture.
Yesterday I was in the Chamber of Peers, who were engaged in pronouncing judgment on their own hereditary rights, and I saw M. Pasquier's wig. The day before I paid two musical visits, to the grumbling Cherubini, and the kind Herz. There is a large sign-board before the house: "Manufacture de Pianos, par Henri Herz, Marchand de Modes et de Nouveautés." I thought this formed one, not observing that it was a notice of two different firms, so I went in below, and found myself surrounded by gauze, and lace, and trimmings: so, rather abashed, I asked where the pianos were. A number of Herz'sfair scholars with industrious faces, were waiting upstairs. I sat down by the fire and read your interesting account of our dear father's birthday, and so forth. Herz presently arrived, and gave audience to his pupils. We were very loving, recalled old times, and besprinkled each other mutually with great praise. On his pianos is inscribed: "Médaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." This was very imposing.
From thence I went to Erard's, where I tried over his instruments, and remarked written on them in large letters: "Médaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." My respect seemed to diminish. When I went home I opened my own instrument by Pleyel, and to be sure there also I saw in large letters: "Médaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." The matter is like the title of "Hofrath," but it is characteristic. It is alleged that the chambers are about to discuss the following proposition: "Tous les Français du sexe masculin ont dès leur naissance le droit de porter l'ordre de la Légion d'Honneur," and the permission to appear without the order, can only be obtained by special services. You really scarcely see a man in the street without a bit of coloured ribbon, so it is no longer a distinction.
Apropos, shall I be lithographed full length? Answer what you will, I don't intend to do it. One afternoon in Berlin, when I was standingunter den Lindenbefore Schenk's shop looking at H——'s and W——'s lithographs, I made a solemn vow to myself, unheard by man, that I would never allowmyself to be hung up till I became a great man. The temptation in Munich was strong; there they wished to drape me with a Carbonaro cloak, a stormy sky in the background, and my fac-simile underneath, but I happily got off by adhering to my principles. Here again I am rather tempted, for the likenesses are very striking, but I keep my vow; and if, after all, I never do become a great man, though posterity will be deprived of a portrait, it will have an absurdity the less.
It is now the 24th, and we had a very pleasant evening at Baillot's yesterday. He plays beautifully, and had collected a very musical society of attentive ladies and enthusiastic gentlemen, and I have seldom been so well amused in any circle, or enjoyed such honours. It was the greatest possible delight to me to hear my quartett in E flat major (dedicated to B. P.) performed in Paris by Baillot's quartett, and they executed it with fire and spirit. They commenced with a quintett by Bocherini, an old-fashionedperruque, but a very amiable old gentleman underneath it. The company then asked for a sonata of Bach's; we selected the one in A major; old familiar tones dawned once more on me, of the time when Baillot played it with Madame Bigot.[26]We urged each other on, the affair became animated, and so thoroughly amused both us and our audience, that we immediately commenced the one in E major, and next time we mean to introduce the four others.
Then my turn came to play a solo. I was in the vein to extemporize successfully, and felt that I did so. The guests being now in a graver mood, I took three themes from the previous sonatas, and worked them up to my heart's content; it seemed to give immense pleasure to those present, for they shouted and applauded like mad. Then Baillot gave my quartett; his manner towards me has something very kind, and I was doubly pleased, as he is rather cold at first and seldom makes advances to any one. He appears a good deal depressed by the loss of his situation. I saw a number of old well-known faces, and they asked after you all, and recalled many anecdotes of that former period.
When I was passing through Louvain two years ago with my "Liederspiel" in my head, and my injured knee,[27]I seized the brass handle of a pump to prevent myself from falling; and when I returned this year in the same miserable diligence, driven by a postilion exactly similar, with a big queue, the "Liederspiel," my knee, and Italy, were all things of the past; and yet the handle of the pump was still hanging there, as clean and brightly rubbed up as ever, having survived 1830, and all the revolutionary storms, and remaining quite unchanged. This is sentimental; my father must not read it, for it is the old story of the past and the present, which we discussed so eagerly one fine evening, and which recurs to me among the crowd here at every step.I thought of it at the Madeleine, and when I went to aunt J——'s, and at the Hôtel des Princes, and at the gallery, which my father showed me fifteen years ago, and when I saw the coloured signs, which at that time impressed me exceedingly, and are now grown brown and shabby.
Moreover this is Christmas Eve; but I feel little interest in it, or in New Year's Night either. Please God, another year may wear a very different aspect, and I will not then go to the theatre on Christmas Eve, as I am about to do to-night, to hear Lablache and Rossini for the first time. How little I care about it! I should much preferPolichinellesand apples to-day, and I think it very doubtful whether the orchestra will play as pretty a symphony as my "Kinder-Sinfonie."[28]I must be satisfied with it however. I am now modulating into the minor key, a fault with which the "École Allemande" are often reproached, and as I profess not to belong to the latter, the French say I amcosmopolite. Heaven defend me from being anything of the kind!
And now good-bye; a thousand compliments from Bertin de Vaux, Girod de l'Ain, Dupont de l'Eure, Tracy, Sacy, Passy and other kind friends. I had intended to have told you in this letter how Salverte attacked the Ministers, and how during this time a littleémeutetook place on the Pont Neuf; how I sat in the Chambers along with Franck, in the midst of St. Simoniens; how witty Dupin was; but nomore at present. May you all be well and happy this evening, and thinking of me!
Felix.
Dear Madam Fanny,
For three months past I have been thinking of writing you a musical letter, but my procrastination has its revenge, for though I have been a fortnight here, I don't know whether I shall still be able to do so. I have appeared in every possible mood here; in that of an inquiring, admiring traveller; a coxcomb; a Frenchman, and yesterday actually as a Peer of France; but not yet as a musician. Indeed there is little likelihood of the latter, for the aspect of music here is miserable enough.
The concerts in the Conservatoire, which were my great object, probably will not take place at all, because the Commission of the Ministry wished to give a Commission to the Commission of the society, to deprive a Commission of Professors of their share of the profits; on which the Commission of the Conservatoire replied to the Commission of the Ministry, that they might go and be hanged (suspended), and then they would not consent to it. The newspapers make some very severe comments on this, but you need not read them, as these papers are prohibited in Berlin; but you don't lose much by this. The Opéra Comique is bankrupt, and so it has hadrelâchesince I came; at the Grand Opéra, they only give little operas, which amuse me, though they neither provoke nor excite me. "Armida" was the last great opera, but they gave it in three acts, and this was two years ago. Choron's "Institut" is closed, the "Chapelle Royale" is gone out like a light; not a single Mass is to be heard on Sundays in all Paris, unless accompanied by serpents. Malibran is to appear here next week for the last time. So much the better, say you: retire within yourself, and write music for "Ach Gott vom Himmel," or a symphony, or the new violin quartett which you mentioned in your letter to me of the 28th, or any other serious composition; but this is even more impossible, for what is going on here is most deeply interesting, and entices you out, suggesting matter for thought and memory and absorbing every moment of time. Accordingly I was yesterday in the Chambre des Pairs, and counted along with them the votes, destined to abolish a very ancient privilege; immediately afterwards I hurried off to the Théâtre Français, where Mars was to appear for the first time for a year past; (she is fascinating beyond conception; a voice that we shall never hear equalled, causing you to weep, and yet to feel pleasure in doing so). To-day I must see Taglioni again, who along with Mars constitutes two Graces (if I find a third in my travels, I mean to marry her), and afterwards I mean to go to Gérard's classicalsalon. I lately went to hear Lablache and Rubini, after hearing Odillon Barrot quarrel with the Ministry.Having seen the pictures in the Louvre in the morning, I went to Baillot's; so what chance is there of living in retirement? The outer world is too tempting.
There are moments, however, when my thoughts turn inwards—such as on that memorable evening, when Lablache sang so beautifully, or on Christmas-day, when there were no bells and no festivities, or when Paul's letter came from London, inviting me to visit him next spring; the said spring to be passed in England. Then I feel that all that now interests me is merely superficial: that I am neither a politician, nor a dancer, nor an actor, nor abel esprit, but amusician—so I take courage, and am now writing a professional letter to my dear sister.
My conscience smote me, especially when I read about your new music that you so carefully conducted on my father's birthday, and I reproached myself for not having said a single word to you about your previous composition; but I cannot let you off that, my colleague! What the deuce made you think of setting your G horns so high? Did you ever hear a G horn take the high G without a squeak? I only put this to yourself! and at the end of this introduction, when wind instruments come in, does not the following note