Chapter XII: Part 12

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 thus _we_ lament 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 must _thank_ you 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.

TO PAUL 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 with _furore_, 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.”

TO FRAU DOCTORIN FREGE, LEIPZIG.

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 it is 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 softest _pianos_, 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 to _me_, _nothing_ is 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, _and_ æsthetics, _and_ criticism, _and_ self-esteem, _and_ the 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 lounged quietly in, with their usual cool _nonchalance_. 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.

TO PAUL 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 particularly dislike often occupies my whole day,--but no more _Jérémiades_, 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 even _one_ of 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 striving to 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.

TO PROFESSOR EDWARD BENDEMANN.

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 think _both_ can and ought 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 be _afterwards_ introduced 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.

TO CARL KLINGEMANN, LONDON.

Leipzig, December 6th, 1846.

... Montaigne says, and so does Vult, that a man can have but _one_ friend; you will find this too in the ‘Flegeljahre.’ I also said this from my heart when I received your letter, my _one_ friend!

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 the next 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 my _one_ friend, 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 till _post 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.

TO HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW, PROFESSOR DIRICHLET, BERLIN,

Leipzig, January 4th, 1847.

Dear Dirichlet,

I write you these lines to say that I wish for my sake, 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 plan _here_ (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 accustomed to 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, and _must_ say Yes, if _they_ say Yes also, I _cannot_ believe. 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 answer they 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 the _præ_, 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 the _Berliners_ are 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 should _form all together_ one pleasant united household, such as we have not seen for long, and live happily together (independent of political life or _non-life_, which has swallowed up _all_ else). For some time past everything seems to contribute to this, and, as I said, _I_ shall 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.

TO FRAU GEHEIMERÄTHIN STEFFENS, GEB. REICHARDT, BERLIN.

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 kind of 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 was _that_ music, so genuine and touching. Such applause as we seldom hear, and a _da capo_ of 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 feel such 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]

TO HIS NEPHEW, SEBASTIAN HENSEL.

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 the _meaning_ of a work of art with more earnestness and zeal than its mere _form_,--that is, in other words (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 always _must_ look, and how it _can_ be 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 a _scherzo serioso_; there may be such a thing.--Your Uncle,

FELIX M. B.

TO GENERAL VON WEBERN, BERLIN.[91]

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 knew my 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.

TO HIS NEPHEW, SEBASTIAN HENSEL.

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 to _will_ (not to wish, but to _will_) 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 be _easy_, or altogether _impossible_; 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 lately _composed_ a 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.

TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.

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 his journey thence towards home. He enjoys with me the _old_ familiar 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.

TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

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 the plains 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.

TO REBECCA DIRICHLET.

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, which no 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 secure _on 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; _that_ would be my suggestion to him, but, otherwise, not to offer him the slightest approach to 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!

TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

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, _once_ had 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 the house. 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.

TO GENERAL VON WEBERN, BERLIN.

Interlachen, August 15, 1847.

My dear, kind Friend,

I send you a thousand thanks for your letter of the 14th of July, which had been much delayed, as I only received it here a short time ago. You have, no doubt, seen my Brother since then, and he has probably told you more minutely of my intention to visit Berlin this autumn. But I cannot delay sending you an immediate answer to your kind and friendly proposal about the three concerts, but, indeed, I would rather not at present agree to announce the three concerts (of which two were to be “Elijah”). “Elijah” has not yet been heard in Berlin, and it would not only appear presumptuous, but would really be so, if I proposed to the public to perform it twice in succession. In addition to this, my present mood makes me so decidedly disinclined for all publicity, that I have with difficulty, and chiefly through Paul’s sensible exhortations, resolved not to give up those performances to which I had already agreed. I intend, also, to fulfil my promise to Herr von Arnim about the Friedrich Stift,[94] and the 14th of October seems to me a very suitable day. If the sympathy in the work is so great that a repetition of it is expected and desired within a short period, you may imagine that this can only be a source of pleasure to me, and then I would gladly see the receipts of the second performance applied entirely according to your wish. If, in spite of this very unsatisfactory and undecided answer, you will be so kind as to assist in promoting the first performance in October, and inspiring those who have to do with it, as soon as possible, with some activity, you will do me a great service, and I shall again owe you many thanks. For I know, as you say, the difficulties consequent on the state of things there, which is very similar to the sand, and must be desperately ploughed up, before it brings forth any fruit.

Your letter to Cécile does not sound so cheerful as usual. We hope that this may have only been caused by some passing cloud, and that the sun of your gayer mood again shines as brightly as we are accustomed to see it with you. There are, to be sure, just now, very dense misty fogs, if not thunder-clouds in our Fatherland, and many a day that might be bright and clear becomes thus sultry and grey, and all objects dim and dull; yet no one can strive against this, or maintain that they see the bright colours and forms which genuine sunshine brings; and, indeed, vivid lightning and loud thunder out of the black cloud, are sometimes preferable to vague mists and foggy abysses. Every one suffers from them, but these mists do not yet absorb the light, and cannot fail to be dispersed at last. That no personal reason, no illness of your family or yourself, or any other serious cause may exist for your depression, is what we wish!

My wife and children are well, God be praised! We walk a great deal, the children do their lessons, Cécile paints Alpine roses, and I write music, so the days pass monotonously and quickly. Preserve your regard for me as I ever shall for you, for ever and ever.--Your friend,

FELIX M. B.

TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

Leipzig, October, 25th 1847.

Dearest Brother,

I thank you a thousand times for your letter to-day, and for the hint you give about coming here, which I seize with the utmost eagerness of heart. I really did not know till to-day what to say about my plans. God be praised, I am now daily getting better, and my strength returning more and more; but to travel this day week to Vienna (and that is the latest period which will admit of my arriving in time for a rehearsal of their Musical Festival) is an idea which cannot possibly be thought of.[95] It is certainly very unlucky that they should have made so many preparations, and that my going there should be a second time put off. There is no doubt, however, that my improvement in health is day by day greater and more sure, so I have written to ask if I may delay coming for a week; but, as I said, I place little faith in the practicability of the whole thing, and it seems to me I must remain here. In no case can I attempt to travel before eight days from this time; and as to the state of my expedition to Berlin, has not Herr von Arnim reported it to you in regular detail? If I cannot go to Vienna, the same reasons which prevent my going there, must cause me to stay here for a fortnight or three weeks, and to put off the performance in Berlin till the end of November at the latest; and even if I do go to Vienna, this must of course still be the case.

After, however, these interrupted performances, which must now be carried through, that I positively undertake no new ones is quite settled. If it were not necessary to keep one’s promise! but this must be done, and now the only question is whether I shall see you again on Saturday? Say Yes to this; I believe you would do me more good than all my bitter medicine. Write me a couple of lines soon again, and be sure you agree to come. My love to you all! and continue your love for your

FELIX.

* * * * *

On the 30th of October his brother was summoned to Leipzig, in consequence of Mendelssohn being seized by another attack of illness. He died on the 4th of November.

* * * * *

CATALOGUE OF ALL THE MUSICAL COMPOSITIONS OF FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

I. THE PUBLISHED WORKS, IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.

II. THE UNPUBLISHED WORKS, CLASSIFIED UNDER DIFFERENT HEADS.

COLLECTED PRINCIPALLY FROM THE AUTHOR’S ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS,

AND ACCOMPANIED BY A PREFACE,

BY JULIUS RIETZ.

PREFACE.

In the first section of this Catalogue a few compositions are omitted, because the autograph notes, by which Mendelssohn was in the habit of recording the date and place of composition of his pieces, are wanting; the precise date at which these works were composed cannot therefore be given. They are as follows:--

Op. 6. Sonata for Pianoforte.
7. Seven characteristic pieces for Pianoforte.
8. Twelve Songs.
9. Twelve Songs (with the exception of No. 3).
10. Symphony No. 1.
14. Rondo Capriccioso for Pianoforte.

These may all be placed between 1824 and 1828; the symphony, probably the earliest of all, about 1824; it was not published, however, till much later, and was then marked as Opus 11, that number happening to be vacant. In marking his works with Opus figures, both at that time and especially later, Mendelssohn invariably referred to the date, not of their composition, but of their publication; years not unfrequently intervening between the two. This fact is strikingly exemplified in the “Walpurgis Nacht,” which, though composed in 1830, was not published till 1843, when indeed it was much over-elaborated. In his books of songs and other minor works, he was in the habit of selecting those which answered his purpose, out of a large number composed in _different years_. Thus, for example, the six songs in the first book of songs for men’s voices (op. 50), were composed between 1837 and 1840. Dates are also wanting for

Op. 15. Fantasia for Pianoforte.
19. Six Songs, (with the exception of No. 6) undoubtedly written
between 1830 and 1834.
44. String Quartett, No. 1.
66. Trio No. 2, for Pianoforte, Violin, and Violoncello.
72. Six Juvenile pieces.
13. Variations for Pianoforte.

All belonging to the last period, subsequent to 1840.

Besides these, the originals of many single songs, with and without words, are so dispersed, that with the most anxious desire to render the Catalogue complete, and notwithstanding all the efforts of the Editor, they have not yet been discovered. Still, even in its incomplete and imperfect condition, the Catalogue will be interesting to the friends and admirers of this immortal composer. It cannot fail also to be of great value to Mendelssohn’s future biographer, for the striking picture it furnishes of his development, of which the Thematic Catalogue of Breitkopf and Härtel can give no idea, since in its compilation it was not possible to observe the chronological succession of the works.