Chapter II: Part 2

You are no doubt very angry with such a lazy _non-writing_ creature as myself? but pray remember that I am a town music director, and a beast of burden like that has much to do. Lately on my return home I found two chairs standing on my writing-table, the guard of the stove lying under the piano, and on my bed a comb and brush, and a pair of boots (Bendemann and Jordan had left these as visiting cards). This was, or rather is, the exact state of musical life in Düsseldorf, and before things become more orderly here, it will cost no little toil. So you must now more than ever excuse my indolence about letter-writing, and, indeed, write yourself oftener to stir me up, and heap coals of fire on my head. Your letter, to which I am now replying, was inimitable; a few more such, I beg. You say, by the bye, that you speak of “Melusina” just like X----. I only wish this was true, and then, instead of a meagre _Hofrath_, we should have a solid fellow;--but listen! I must fly into a passion. Oh! Fanny, you ask me _what_ legend you are to read? How many are there, pray? and how many do I know? and don’t you know the story of the “lovely Melusina?” and would it not be better for me to hide myself, and to creep into all sorts of instrumental music without any title, when my own sister (my wolf sister!) does not appreciate such a title? Or did you really never hear of this beautiful fish? But when I remember how you might grumble at me for waiting till _April_, to grumble at your letter of _February_, I plead guilty and apologize. I wrote this overture for an opera of Conradin Kreuzer’s, which I saw this time last year in the Königstadt Theatre. The overture (I mean Kreuzer’s) was encored, and I disliked it exceedingly, and the whole opera quite as much; but not Mlle. Hähnel, who was very fascinating, especially in one scene, where she appeared as a mermaid combing her hair; this inspired me with the wish to write an overture which the people might not _encore_, but which would cause them more solid pleasure; so I selected the portion of the subject that pleased me (exactly corresponding with the legend), and, in short, the overture came into the world, and this is its pedigree.

You intend, no doubt, to take me to task also on account of the four-part songs in my “Volks Lieder,” but I have a good deal of experience on this point. It seems to me the only mode in which _Volks Lieder_ ought to be written; because every pianoforte accompaniment instantly recalls a room and a music desk, and also because four voices can give a song of this kind in greater simplicity without an instrument; and if _that_ reason be too æsthetic, then accept _this_ one, that I was anxious to write something of the kind for Woringen, who sings these things enchantingly. Seriously, however, I find that the four-part songs do “suit the text (as a _Volks Lied_) and also my conception,” and so you see we differ very widely.

By the bye, I quite forgot to say that I wished to introduce a wood-demon into the “Passion.” It is a good idea. Don’t whisper it to any one, or to a certainty they will really attempt it next year; and Pölchau declares the Romans were familiar with them, under the name of _diabolus nemoris_. Only fancy, they have sent me my Academy patent in a formidable red case (carriage paid), and in it a very ancient statute of the “Academy for the fine arts and mechanical sciences,” along with a complimentary letter, hoping I would return to Berlin, where my “productions” were as highly prized as elsewhere. An excellent reason; had they only said “because, respected Sir, you can nowhere feel so happy as in the Leipziger Strasse, No. 3,” or even given any hint about parents and brother and sisters,--but not a word of this!

One of my Düsseldorf troubles is at this moment beginning; I mean my next-door neighbour, who has placed her piano against the wall just on the other side of mine, and to my sorrow practises two hours a day, making every day the same mistakes, and playing all Rossini’s airs in such a desperately slow, phlegmatic _tempo_, that I certainly must have played her some malicious trick, had it not occurred to me that she was probably at all hours more tormented by my piano than I by hers. Then I sometimes hear the teacher or the mother, (I can’t tell which,) strike the right note distinctly seventeen times in succession; and when she is playing at sight, and gradually out of the darkness developes some old barrel-organ tune, which could be recognized by a single note,--it is hard to bear. I know all her pieces by heart now, the moment she strikes the first chord.--Farewell, dear Sister, ever your

FELIX.

TO HIS MOTHER.

Düsseldorf, May 23rd, 1834.

... Yesterday week I drove with the two Woringens to Aix-la-Chapelle, as a ministerial order was issued, only five days before the festival, sanctioning the celebration of Whitsunday, and expressed in such a manner that it is probable the same permission may be given next year also. The diligence was eleven hours on the journey, and I was shamefully impatient, and downright cross when we arrived. We went straight to the rehearsal, and, seated in the pit, I heard a movement or two from “Deborah;” on which I said to Woringen, “I positively will write to Hiller from here, for the first time for two years, because he has performed his office so well.” For really his work was unpretending and harmonious, and subordinate to Handel, from whom he had cut out nothing, so I was rejoiced to see that others are of my opinion, and act accordingly. In the first tier was seated a man with a moustache, reading the score; and when, after the rehearsal, he went downstairs, and I was coming up, we met in the passage, and who should stumble right into my arms but Ferdinand Hiller, who almost hugged me to death for joy. He had come from Paris to hear the oratorio, and Chopin had left his scholars in the lurch, and come with him, and thus we met again. I had now my full share of delight in the Musical Festival, for we three lived together, and got a private box in the theatre (where the oratorio is performed), and of course next morning we betook ourselves to the piano, where I had the greatest enjoyment. They have both improved much in execution, and, as a pianist, Chopin is now one of the very first of all. He produces new effects, like Paganini on his violin, and accomplishes wonderful passages, such as no one could formerly have thought practicable. Hiller, too, is an admirable player--vigorous, and yet playful. Both, however, rather toil in the Parisian spasmodic and impassioned style, too often losing sight of time and sobriety and of true music; I, again, do so perhaps too little,--thus we all three mutually learn something and improve each other, while I feel rather like a school-master, and they a little like _mirliflors_ or _incroyables_. After the festival we travelled together to Düsseldorf, and passed a most agreeable day there, playing and discussing music; then I accompanied them yesterday to Cologne. Early this morning they went off to Coblenz _per_ steam,--I in the other direction,--and the pleasant episode was over.

TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING, DESSAU.

Düsseldorf, July 15th, 1834.

Dear Schubring,

It is now nearly a year since I ought to have written to you. I shall not attempt to ask your forgiveness at all, for I am too much to blame, or to excuse myself, for I could not hope to do so. How it occurred I cannot myself understand. Last autumn, when I first established myself here, I got your letter with the notices for “St. Paul;” they were the best contributions I had yet received, and that very same forenoon I began to ponder seriously on the matter, took up my Bible in the midst of all the disorder of my room, and was soon so absorbed in it, that I could scarcely force myself to attend to other works which I was absolutely obliged to finish. At that time I intended to have written to you instantly, to thank you cordially for all you had done; then it occurred to me it would be better to wait till I could tell you that the work was fairly begun, and when I really did commence in spring, so many anxieties about my composition ensued, that they unsettled me. To-day, however, I cannot rest satisfied with merely thinking of you, but must write and ask how you and yours are? for I know that since then you have had an increase to your family; it was scarcely fair in you not to write me a single word on the subject, nor even to send me a formal card, but to allow me to hear of the event by chance, through a third person; for, though I grant that I well deserved this, still a pastor like you should be the last to take revenge on any one, or to bear them a grudge. Now pray don’t do so with me, and let me hear something of you.

Your contributions for “St. Paul” were admirable, and I made use of them all without exception; it is singular, and good, that, in the course of composition, all the passages that from various reasons I formerly wished to transpose or to alter, I have replaced exactly as I find them in the Bible--it is always the best of all; more than half of the first part is ready, and I hope to finish it in autumn, and the whole in February. How are you now living in Dessau? I hope you will be able to say, “Just as we used to do.” No doubt you retain your enjoyment of life, and your cheerfulness, and still play the piano, and still love Sebastian Bach, and are still what you always were. I ought not to feel such anxiety on the subject, but we are surrounded here by disagreeable specimens of pastors, who embitter every pleasure, either of their own or of others; dry, prosaic pedants, who declare that a concert is a sin, a walk frivolous and pernicious, but a theatre the lake of brimstone itself, and the whole spring, with its leaves and blossoms and bright weather, a Slough of Despond. You have no doubt heard of the Elberfeld tenets; but when in contact with them, they are still worse, and most grievous to witness. The most deplorable thing is the arrogance with which such people look down on others, having no belief in any goodness but their own.

Our musical life here goes on slowly, but still it does go on. This summer we executed in church a Mass of Beethoven, one of Cherubini, and cantatas of Sebastian Bach, an “Ave Maria” from “Verleih’ uns Frieden,” and next month we are to give Handel’s “Te Deum” (Dettingen).

Of course there is yet much to be wished for, but still we hear these works, and both the performance and the performers will be gradually improved by them. Hauser, in Leipzig, has arranged the score (from manuscript parts) of a cantata in E minor of Sebastian Bach, which is one of the finest things of his I know. When I can find an opportunity, I will send you a copy of it, but now my paper and my letter are done. Farewell, my dear friend, and write soon.--Your

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

TO I. FÜRST, BERLIN.

Düsseldorf, July 20th, 1834.

Dear Fürst,

I know only too well, that I have neither written to you, nor thanked you, since I received your passages for “St. Paul,”[13] but I assure you that every day, when I return to my work, I do feel sincerely grateful to you. I certainly, however, ought to have written, for if the work, which since the spring entirely absorbs and monopolizes me, turns out good, I shall have chiefly to thank your friendly aid for it, because I never otherwise could have procured the groundwork of the text. When I am composing, I usually look out the Scriptural passages myself, and thus you will find that much is simpler, shorter, and more compressed, than in your text; whereas at that time I could not get words enough, and was constantly longing for more. Since I have set to work, however, I feel very differently, and I can now make a selection. The first part will probably be finished next month, and the whole, I think, by January. Since last autumn, when I came here, I have written many other works which brought me into a happy vein, and I cannot wish for a more agreeable position than mine here, where I have both leisure in abundance, and a cheerful frame of mind, and so I succeed better than formerly.

This is, indeed, a pleasant, concentrated life, but still not so much so as you may perhaps imagine, for, unluckily, just as I came here, Immermann and Schadow, whose combined efforts first imparted life and animation to this place, had a violent quarrel; aggravated still further by religious, political grounds, and by wranglings, misunderstandings, and petulance. As I live in the same house with Schadow, and am engaged along with Immermann in regulating the new theatre, I do all I can to smooth over matters; but in vain, which is a great misfortune. When, however, this is rectified (and, in spite of everything, I do not despair of it), then all will be delightful, for the way in which we young people associate is really enjoyable. The painters are entirely devoid of the slightest arrogance or envy, and live together in true friendship, and among them are some of the most admirable persons, who are examples to the others, such as Hildebrand, and Bendemann, and between them the [Greek: daimonios]--the tall, quiet Lessing. All this is cheering, and if you could only hear in our church music the bass of the choir, it would do your heart good to see one capital fellow of a painter standing next another, and all shouting like demons. This very morning we had some very good music in the church, in which all took part; and when Immermann gives a new piece, they paint the decorations for it gratis, and when they have a feast, he composes a poem for them, which I set to music,--and all this is pleasant, and in good-fellowship.

But there is a fair to-day, which means that the whole of Düsseldorf are drinking wine,--not as if this were not the case every day, but they walk about besides; not as if they did not do this also every day, but they dance besides (in this frightful heat), and shout, and get tipsy; and wild beasts are exhibited, and puppet-shows, and cakes baked in the public streets. So now you know what a fair means. As a curious spectator, I must go there late in the evening, but, first, I intend to plunge into the Rhine with a lot of painters. Farewell, till we meet in Berlin, in September.--Ever yours,

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

TO HIS PARENTS.

Düsseldorf, August 4th, 1834.

My dear Parents,

For a week past, during which we have had heavy storms and a very sultry atmosphere, I felt so jaded that I was unable to do anything all day long; more especially I cannot compose, which vexes me exceedingly. I seem to care for nothing beyond eating and sleeping, and perhaps bathing and riding. My horse is a favourite with all my acquaintances, and deserves their respect from his good temper, but he is very shy; and when I was riding him lately during a storm, every flash made him start so violently, that I felt quite sorry for him. Lately we made an excursion on horseback to Saarn, for Madame T----’s birthday, which was celebrated by wreaths of flowers, fireworks, shooting, a large society, a ball, etc. etc. The route was as charming as ever, though different from what it was in spring; the apple-tree in the bowling-green, which was then in blossom, was now loaded with unripe green apples; and sometimes I was able to ride across the stubble fields, and to get into the thick shady wood by a side path. We met several _diligences_ at the very same places, and even the very same flocks of sheep, and there was the same noisy, merry life going on in the blacksmith’s forge; and a burgher in Rathingen was shaving himself just the same, thus reviving my old philosophy, which you, dear Father, always ignore.

The next day I rode on to Werden, a charming retired spot, where I wished to inquire about an organ; the whole party drove with me there; cherry tarts were handed to me on horseback out of the carriages. We dined in the open air at Werden; I played fantasias and Sebastian Bachs on the organ to my heart’s content; then I bathed in the Ruhr, so cool in the evening breeze that it was quite a luxury, and rode quietly back to Saarn. The bathing in the Ruhr was peculiarly agreeable; first of all, a spot close to the water with high grass, in which large hewn stones were lying, as if placed there by some Sultan to shade him and his clothes; then close to the shore the water comes up to your chin, and the green hills opposite were brightly lighted up by the evening sun; and the little stream flowing very quietly along, and so cool and shady. I felt myself in Germany indeed when, as I was swimming across, a man on the opposite bank suddenly stood still, and began a regular conversation with me while I lay in the water puffing,--whether I could touch the ground where I was? and if swimming was very difficult? Then, too, I felt myself, alas! quite in Germany when the wife of the organist, to whom I paid a visit, offered me a glass of _schnapps_, and regretted so much that her husband was absent just at this time, for he had so many enemies, who all maintained that he could not play the organ, and he might have played to me, and then by my judgment (like Solomon) I could have put to shame all these talkers. Wrangling and discord are to be found everywhere. A handsome new organ has just been put up at considerable expense in a large roomy choir, and there is no way to reach it but by narrow dark steps, without windows, like those in a poultry-yard, and where you may break your neck in seventeen different places; and on my asking why this was, the clergyman said it had been left so purposely, in order to prevent any one who chose, running up from the church to see the organ. Yet, with all their cunning, they forget both locks and keys: such traits are always painful to me.

The evening before this Saarn excursion (a week since) I had a very great pleasure. I had received the proof-sheets of my rondo in E flat, from Leipzig, and as I was unwilling to have it published without at least trying it over once with the orchestra, I invited all our musicians here to come to the music hall, and played it over with them. As I could not offer them any payment for this, which they would have taken highly amiss, I gave them a _souper_ of roast veal and bread-and-butter, and let them get as tipsy as they could desire. This was not, however, the great pleasure I alluded to, but my overture to “Melusina,” which was played there for the first time, and pleased me extremely. In many pieces I know from the very beginning that they will sound well, and be characteristic, and so it was with this one as soon as the clarionet started off into the first bar. It was badly played, and yet I derived more pleasure from it than from many a finished performance, and came home at night with a gladness of heart that I have not known for a long time. We played it over three times, and the third time, immediately after the last soft chord, the trumpets broke in with a flourish in my honour, which had a most laughable effect. It was very pleasant too when we were all seated at dinner, and one of the company commenced a long oration, with an introduction and all sorts of things, but, beginning to flounder, he wound up by giving my health, on which the trumpet and trombone players jumped up like maniacs, and ran off for their instruments to give me another grand flourish; then I made a vigorous speech, worthy of Sir Robert Peel, in which I strongly enforced unity, and Christian love, and steady time, and with a toast to the progress of music at Düsseldorf I closed my oration. Then they sang four-part songs, and, among others, one that I gave to Woringen last year at the Musical Festival, called “Musikanten-prügelei,” the transcriber (one of the players and singers present) having copied it for his own benefit at the time, and coolly produced it on this occasion, which, indeed, I could not myself help laughing at. Then they all vowed that this was the most delightful evening of their whole lives; then they began to wrangle again a little, as a proof of the strong effect my Peel speech had made on them; then the sober ones of the party, _videlicet_, fat Schirmer and I, pacified them once more, and towards midnight we separated; they having enjoyed the wine, and I still more “the lovely Melusina,” and next morning at six o’clock I was on horseback on my way to Saarn. A couple of charming days they were!

Dear Mother, I saw the Queen of Bavaria, but not in state. I was seated in a boat, and just going to jump into the Rhine with two friends, when her Majesty arrived in her steamboat. As none of us possessed any swimming attire, so were not in a very fit state to appear at Court, we sprang just _a tempo_ into the water as she came nearer, and thence saw all the ceremonies, and how Graf S---- presented the clergy and the Generals, and how the _senatus populusque Düsseldorfiensis_ stood on shore and made music. I had no opportunity of seeing the Queen again; but now I must really conclude having gossiped at a great rate. Farewell, my dear parents!

FELIX M. B.

TO PASTOR SCHUBRING, DESSAU.

Düsseldorf, August 6th, 1834.

How could you for one moment imagine that I was annoyed by your showing the text to Schneider? Why should I take umbrage at that? I hope you do not consider me one of those who, when once they have an idea in their heads, guard it as jealously as a miser does his gold, and allow no man to approach till they produce it themselves. There is certainly nothing actually wrong in this, and yet such jealous solicitude is most odious in my eyes; and even if it were to occur, that some one should plagiarize my design, still I should feel the same; for one of the two must be best, which is all fair, or neither are good, and then it is of no consequence. Moreover, I feel very melancholy to-day, and indeed for some days past have been lying here, completely knocked up and unable to write a line, whether from feverishness or the sultriness of the weather, or from what I know not. The first part of “St. Paul” is now nearly completed, and I stand before it ruminating like a cow who is afraid to go through a new door, and I never seem to finish it; indeed, the overture is still wanting, and a heavy bit of work it will be. Immediately after the Lord’s words to St. Paul on his conversion I have introduced a great chorus, “Arise and go into the city” (Acts of the Apostles, ix. 6), and this I, as yet, consider the best moment of the first part.

I don’t know what to say as to your opinion of X----. I think you are rather hard on him, and yet there is a good deal of truth in what you assert too, and quite in accordance with what I find in his compositions. But my belief is, that you do him great injustice in pronouncing him to be a flatterer, as he never _intends_ to flatter, but always fully believes in the truth and propriety of what he is saying; but when such an excitable temperament is not mitigated by some definite, energetic, and creative powers, or when it can bring forth nothing but a momentary assimilation to some foreign element, then it is indeed unfortunate; and I almost begin to fear that this is his case, for his compositions I exceedingly disapprove of. For a long time past I have reluctantly come to this conclusion, and it pained me as much to admit the truth of it to myself, as to you now.

I grieve also to hear what you write to me of the ---- family, for I know no feeling more distressing than that of having enemies, and yet it seems impossible to be avoided; at all events, I can say, to my great joy, that even now, when I am brought into contact (and disagreeable contact too) with so many different people, no one can say that there is one single person with whom I am not on friendly terms, if they will at all permit me to be so; and I don’t doubt that it is the same in your case.

Your remarks about the theatre are quite as unlucky as Breitschneider’s criticisms; for though I am not myself director, I am what is still worse, a kind of Honorary Intendant (or whatever you choose to call it) of the new theatre here _in spe_, and therefore my official zeal prompts me take up the cause of the stage. But to speak seriously, I am by no means of your opinion that the theatre is pernicious to three-fourths of mankind, and I believe that those who are injured by it would find the same detriment, or perhaps worse, elsewhere, without any theatre. For there at least we do not find the vapid reality that exists in the world; and, as a general rule, I do not consider anything wrong in itself, because it _may_ possibly lead to bad results, but only when it _must_ inevitably produce them; in a theatrical public, such as you describe, there are only depraved people, and no healthy ones who visit the theatre to see a piece as a work of art. I know that to myself it always was either tiresome or elevating (more commonly the former, I own), but _pernicious_ it never appeared to me; and to prohibit it on that account ... but this would involve a wide sphere and a very serious subject, and politics, tiresome as they are, must have their say in the matter; and all this cannot be thoroughly discussed in so small a sheet of paper as this: perhaps in conversation,--but scarcely even then.

I intended to have sent you some of my works, but prefer doing so from Berlin; the “Meeresstille” I have entirely remodelled this winter, and think it is now some thirty times better. I have also some new songs and pieces for the piano. You say that the newspapers extol me; this is always very gratifying, though I seldom read them, either the musical ones or any others; only occasionally English papers, in which there are some good articles; but my paper is becoming by degrees shorter and shorter, so my letter is done. Farewell.--Your

FELIX M. B.

TO HIS MOTHER.

Düsseldorf, November 4th, 1834.

Dear Mother,

At last I have leisure to thank you for your kind letters; you know the great delight your writing always causes me, and I would fain hope that it does not fatigue you, for you write in as distinct and classical characters at the end of the letter as at the beginning of the first line, as you always do; therefore I do entreat you frequently to bestow this pleasure on me; that I am truly grateful for it you will readily believe.

You always take me at once back to my own home, and while I am reading your letters I am there once more; I am in the garden rejoicing in the summer; I visit the Exhibition, and dispute with you about Bendemann’s small picture; I rally Gans on his satisfaction at being invited by Metternich, and almost think I am again paying court to the pretty Russians. To be thus transported home is most pleasant to me just at this time, when, during the last few weeks, I have been fuming and fretting in a rare fashion at Düsseldorf and its art doings, and Rhenish _soaring impulses_, and new efforts! I had fallen into a terrible state of confusion and excitement, and felt worse than during my busiest time in London. When I sat down to my work in the morning, at every bar there was a ringing at the bell; then came grumbling choristers to be snubbed, stupid singers to be taught, seedy musicians to be engaged; and when this had gone on the whole day, and I felt that all these things were for the sole benefit and advantage of the Düsseldorf theatre, I was provoked; at last, two days ago, I made a _salto mortale_, and beat a retreat out of the whole affair, and once more feel myself a man. This resignation was a very unpleasant piece of intelligence for our theatrical autocrat, _alias_ stage mufti; he compressed his lips viciously, as if he would fain eat me up; however, I made a short and very eloquent speech to the Director, in which I spoke of my own avocations as being of more consequence to me than the Düsseldorf theatre, much as I, etc.: in short, they let me off, on condition that I would occasionally conduct; this I promised, and this I will certainly perform. I began a letter to Rebecca long ago, containing the details of three weeks in the life of a Düsseldorf Intendant, which I have not yet finished, and I upbraid myself for it.

I have just arrived at that point with “St. Paul” when I should be so glad to play it over to some one, but I can find no eligible person. My friends here are very enthusiastic with regard to it, but this does not prove much in its favour. The _cantor_[14] is wanting, with her thick eyebrows and her criticism. I have the second part now nearly all in my head, up to the passage where they take Paul for Jupiter, and wish to offer sacrifices to him, for which some five choruses must be found, but as yet I have not the faintest conception what ... it is difficult. You ask me, dear Mother, whether I have made any arrangements with publishers in Leipzig; Breitkopf and Härtel lately informed me that they would purchase every work I chose to publish, and also a future edition of my collected works, (does not that sound very grand?) and mention that they have been very much annoyed by an announcement of another publisher. So you see possibly I may oblige these people! Besides this, I have had six applications for my music from other publishers in various places. This savours rather of _renommage_, but I know you like to read of such things, and will forgive me for it.

TO FANNY HENSEL, BERLIN.

Düsseldorf, November 14th, 1834.

My dear Fanny,

May every happiness attend you on this day, and in the year about to commence, and may you love me as well as ever. I should like this year also to have sent you some piece or other, underneath which I could have written November 14th, but the “weeks of the life of an Intendant” have swallowed up everything, and I am only slowly becoming myself again. A few days ago I sketched the overture of “St. Paul,” and thought I should at least contrive to get it finished, but it is still a long way behind. If we could only be together now, in the evening, at all events; for when candles are lighted I feel a much greater longing to be at home than in the morning; and now here are candles, and the days from November 11th and December 11th, up to Christmas and the New Year,[15] are certainly not the best to be far from home, even if the evenings were not so long. But we must be very busy, and next summer set off on our travels again, and visit each other. My wish at this moment is, that the time were come!

I wonder what you are doing this evening? Music and society? or the Government newspaper read aloud? (in which, I am told, Hensel’s school is much extolled, and considered in many respects preferable to ours here!)

But, my birthday child! we are not likely to agree on this occasion in our opinions about pictures; for one of the most repugnant to my feelings that I ever saw was that of S----. When a work of art aspires to represent factitious misery, like the famine in the wilderness, I take no interest in it, if ever so well painted--which this is not. The whole thing seems to me nothing but a variation on Lessing’s “Royal Pair,” only this time with dead horses. The tone of art in it is very commonplace, and even if decked out twenty times over with bright colours, that does not make it better! I don’t at all approve, either, of your taking the opportunity of hearing Lafont to speak of the _revolution_ in the violin since Paganini, for I don’t admit that any such thing exists in art, but only in people themselves; and I think that very same style would have displeased you in Lafont, if you had heard him _before_ Paganini’s appearance, so you must not, on the other hand, do less justice to his good qualities _after_ hearing the other. I was lately shown a couple of new French musical papers, where they allude incessantly to a _révolution du goût_ and a musical transition, which has been taking place for some years past, in which I am supposed to play a fine part; this is the sort of thing I do detest. Then I think that I must be industrious, and work hard, “above all, hate no man and leave the future to God,”--finish the oratorio completely by March, compose a new A minor symphony and a pianoforte concerto, and then set off again on my travels and visit No. 3, Leipziger Strasse. My second concert took place yesterday, and afterwards a fashionable _soirée_, with no end of Excellencies and fine titles. The day after to-morrow I am again to conduct “Oberon,” and shall drive on the orchestra full cry, like an evil spirit. I have fallen into a very splenetic tone, by no means in keeping with a birthday tone, but I now resume the latter, and wish you all possible good fortune; and may 1835 prove a happy year to you, and may you, and all at home, thoroughly enjoy the day.--Your

FELIX.

TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.

DÜSSELDORF, NOVEMBER 23RD, 1834.

My dear, dear Rebecca,

Can I still expect you to read anything that I write? I have been remiss, very remiss, in fact behaved shamefully, and I heartily wish it were not so; but I can’t help it now! Would that I had an opportunity to make up for it; but unluckily this is not the case; I can therefore only say that I hope I am still in your good graces, and that I was very foolish. I ought indeed to have said this to you long since, but I could not, for I was resolved to write you a long confidential letter the first day I could find leisure, and this is the very first leisure day. Now that it is getting dark, and the shutters closed, and lights brought in at five o’clock, I thought that I must write to you, and, as it were, pull your door bell and ask if you are at home. Do look kindly on me.

How things have been going on with me for some time past it would not be easy to say, all has been so detestable. But you really must listen to a little grumbling from me, that you may never take it into your head to become director of a theatre, nor to permit any one belonging to you to accept the office of an intendant. Immediately on my return here[16] the Intendant breezes were wafted towards me. In the statute it is set forth:--The _intendancy_ is to consist of an intendant and a music director. The Intendant proposed that I should be the musical intendant, and he the theatrical intendant. Then the question arose, which was to take precedence of the other; so here was forthwith a fine piece of work. I wished to do nothing but conduct and direct the musical studies, but this was not enough for Immermann. We exchanged desperately uncivil letters, in which I was obliged to be very circumspect in my style, in order to leave no point unanswered, and to maintain my independent ground and basis; but I think I did credit to Herr Heyse.[17] We came to an agreement after this, but quarrelled again immediately, for he required me to go to Aix, to hear and to engage a singer there, and this I did not choose to do. Then I was desired to engage an orchestra,--that is, prepare two contracts for each member, and previously fight to the death about a dollar more or less of their monthly salary; then they went away, then they came back and signed all the same, then they all objected to sit at the second music desk, then came the aunt of a very wretched performer, whom I could not engage, and the wife and two little children of another miserable musician, to intercede with the Director; then I allowed three fellows to play on trial, and they played so utterly beneath contempt that I really could not agree to take any of them; then they looked very humble, and went quietly away, very miserable, having lost their daily bread; then came the wife again, and wept. Out of thirty persons there was only one who said at once, “I am satisfied,” and signed his contract; all the others bargained and haggled for an hour at least, before I could make them understand that I had a _prix fixe_. The whole day I was reminded of my father’s proverb, “Asking and bidding make the sale;” but they were four of the most disagreeable days I ever passed. On the fourth, Klingemann arrived in the morning, saw the state of things, and was horrified. In the meantime Rietz studied the “Templar,” morning and evening; the choruses got drunk, and I was forced to speak with authority; then they rebelled against the manager, and I was obliged to shout at them like the Boots at an inn; then Madame Beutler became hoarse, and I was very anxious on her account (a new sort of anxiety for me, and a most odious one); then I conducted Cherubini’s “Requiem” in the church, and this was followed by the first concert. In short, I made up my mind to abdicate my Intendant throne three weeks after the reopening of the theatre. The affair goes on quite as well as we could expect in Düsseldorf: Rietz’s playing is admirable,--he is studious, accurate, and artistic, so that he is praised and liked by every one. The operas we have hitherto given are, the “Templar” twice, “Oberon” twice, which I conducted, “Fra Diavolo,” and yesterday the “Freischütz.” We are about to perform the “Entführung,” the “Flauto Magico,” the “Ochsenmenuett,” the “Dorf Barbier,” and the “Wasserträger.” The operas are well attended, but not the plays, so that the shareholders are sometimes rather uneasy; five of the company up to this time have actually run away, two of them being members of the orchestra.

The Committee gave a supper to the company, which was very dull, and cost each member of the Council (including myself) eleven dollars; but pray refrain from all tokens of sympathy, in case of causing my tears to flow afresh. But since I have withdrawn from this sphere, I feel as if I were a fish thrown back into the water; my forenoons are once more at my own disposal, and in the evenings I can sit at home and read. The oratorio daily causes me more satisfaction, and I have also composed some new songs; the Vocal Association gets on well, and we intend shortly to give the “Seasons,” with a full orchestra. I mean soon to publish six preludes and fugues, two of which you have already seen; this is the sort of life I like to lead, but not that of an intendant. How vexatious it is, that at the close of such well-spent days we cannot all assemble together to enjoy each other’s society![18]

I enclose my translation of “Alexander’s Feast;” you must read it aloud to the family in the evening, and in various passages where the rhymes are rugged or deficient, if you will let me have your amendments I shall be grateful. One stipulation, however, I must make, that Ramler, or rather, I should say, the English text, should not be sacrificed. _Apropos_, since then I have once more mounted Pegasus, and translated Lord Byron’s poem, the first strophe of which, by Theremin, is incomprehensible, and the second false. I find, however, that my lines halt a little; perhaps, some evening, you may discover something better.

Schlafloser Augensonne, heller Stern!
Der du mit thränenvollem Schein, unendlich fern,
Das Dunkel nicht erhellst, nur besser zeigst,
O wie du ganz des Glücks Erinn’rung gleichst!
So funkelt längst vergangner Freuden Licht,
Es scheint, doch wärmt sein matter Schimmer nicht,
Der wache Gram erspäht die Nachtgestalt,
Hell, aber fern, klar--aber ach! wie kalt!

The poem is very sentimental, and I think I should have set it to music repeatedly in G sharp minor or B major, (but, at all events, with no end of sharps,) had it not occurred to me that the music of Löwe pleases you and Fanny; so this prevents my doing so, and there is an end of it, and of my letter also. Adieu, love me as ever.--Your

FELIX.

TO CARL KLINGEMANN, LONDON.

Düsseldorf, December 16th, 1834.

... So now in these lines you have read my whole life and occupations since I came here; for that I am well and happy, and often think of you, is included in them, and that I am also diligent and working hard at many things, is the natural result. I really believe that Jean Paul, whom I am at this moment reading with intense delight, has also some influence in the matter, for he invariably infects me for at least half a year with his strange peculiarities. I have been reading ‘Fixlein’ again; but my greatest pleasure in doing so, is the remembrance of the time when I first became acquainted with it, by your reading it aloud to me beside my sick-bed, when it did me so much good. I also began ‘Siebenkäs’ again, for the first time for some years, and have read from the close of the prologue to the end of the first part, and am quite enchanted with this noble work. The prologue itself is a masterpiece such as no one else could write, and so it is with the whole book, the friends, and the school-inspector, and Lenette. It revives my love for my country, and makes me feel proud of being a German, although in these days they all abuse each other. Yet such people do sometimes rise to the surface, and I do believe that no country can boast of such a sterling fellow as this.

TO REBECCA DIRICHLET, BERLIN.

Düsseldorf, December 23rd, 1834.

Dear Rebecca,

Why should we not, like established correspondents, exchange repeated letters on any particular subject about which we differ? I on my part will represent a methodical correspondent, and must absolutely resume the question of _révolution_. This is chiefly for Fanny’s benefit, but are not you identical? Can you not therefore discuss the subject together, and answer me together, if you choose? And have I not pondered and brooded much over this theme since I got your letter, which now prompts me to write? You must, however, answer me in due form, till not one jot or tittle more remains to be said in favour of _révolution_. Observe, I think that there is a vast distinction between reformation or reforming, and revolution, etc. Reformation is that which I desire to see in all things, in life and in art, in politics and in street pavement, and Heaven knows in what else besides. Reformation is entirely negative against abuses, and only removes what obstructs the path; but a revolution, by means of which all that was formerly good (and really good) is no longer to continue, is to me the most intolerable of all things, and is, in fact, only a fashion. Therefore, I would not for a moment listen to Fanny, when she said that Lafont’s playing could inspire no further interest since the _revolution_ effected by Paganini; for if his playing ever had the power to interest me, it would still do so, even if in the meantime I had heard the Angel Gabriel on the violin. It is just this, however, that those Frenchmen I alluded to can form no conception of; that what is good, however old, remains always new, even although the present must differ from the past, because it emanates from other and dissimilar men. _Inwardly_ they are only ordinary men like the former, and have only _outwardly_ learned that something new must come, so they strive to accomplish this, and if they are even moderately applauded or flattered, they instantly declare that they have effected a _révolution du goût_. This is why I behave so badly when they do me the honour (as you call it) to rank me among the leaders of this movement, when I well know that, for thorough self-cultivation, the whole of a man’s life is required (and often does not suffice); and also because no Frenchman, and no newspaper, knows or ever can know what the future is to give or to bring; and, in order to guide the movements of others, we must first be in motion ourselves, while such reflections cause us to look back on the past, not forward. Progress is made by work alone, and not by talking, which those people do not believe.

But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t suppose that I wish to disown either reformation or progress, for I _hope_ one day myself to effect a reform in music; and this, as you may see, is because I am simply a musician, and I wish to be nothing more. Now answer me, I beg, and preach to me again.

To-day I have completed and transcribed an entire chorus for “St. Paul.” I may as well at once reply here to a letter I received this morning, dictated by my father to Fanny, and to which my mother added a postscript. First of all, I thank you for writing, and then, dear Father, I would entreat of you not to withhold from me your advice, as you say, for it is always clear gain to me; and if I cannot rectify the old faults, I can at least avoid committing new ones. The non-appearance of St. Paul at the stoning of Stephen is certainly a blemish, and I could easily alter the passage in itself; but I could find absolutely no mode of introducing him at that time, and no words for him to utter in accordance with the Scriptural narrative; therefore it seemed to me more expedient to follow the Bible account, and to make Stephen appear alone. I think, however, that your other censure is obviated by the music; for the recitative of Stephen, though the words are long, will not occupy more than two or three minutes, or--_including_ all the choruses--till his death, about a quarter of an hour; whereas subsequently, at and after the conversion, the music becomes more and more diffuse, though the words are fewer.

TO PASTOR BAUER, BESZIG.

Düsseldorf, January 12th, 1835.

[_About a proposal as to some words for sacred music._]

... What I do not understand is the purport--musical, dramatic, or oratorical, or whatever you choose to call it--that you have in view. What you mention on the subject--the time before John, and then John himself, till the appearance of Christ--is to my mind equally conveyed in the word ‘Advent,’ or the birth of Christ. You are aware, however, that the music must represent one particular moment, or a succession of moments; and how you intend this to be done you do not say. Actual church music,--that is, music during the Evangelical Church service, which could be introduced properly while the service was being celebrated,--seems to me impossible; and this, not merely because I cannot at all see into _which_ part of the public worship this music can be introduced, but because I cannot discover that _any_ such part exists. Perhaps you have something to say which may enlighten me on the subject.... But even without any reference to the Prussian Liturgy, which at once cuts off everything of the kind, and will neither remain as it is nor go further, I do not see how it is to be managed that music in our Church should form an integral part of public worship, and not become a mere concert, conducive more or less to piety. This was the case with Bach’s “Passion;” it was sung in church as an independent piece of music, for edification. As for actual church music, or, if you like to call it so, music for public worship, I know none but the old Italian compositions for the Papal Chapel, where, however, the music is a mere accompaniment, subordinate to the sacred functions, co-operating with the wax candles and the incense, etc. If it be this style of church music that you really mean, then, as I said, I cannot discover the connecting link which would render it possible to employ it. For an oratorio, one principal subject must be adopted, or the progressive history of particular persons, otherwise the object would not be sufficiently defined; for if all is to be only contemplative with reference to the coming of Christ, then this theme has already been more grandly and beautifully treated in Handel’s “Messiah,” where he begins with Isaiah, and, taking the Birth as a central point, closes with the Resurrection.

When you however say “our poor Church,” I must tell you what is very strange; I have found, to my astonishment, that the Catholics, who have had music in their churches for several centuries, and sing a musical Mass every Sunday if possible, in their principal churches, do not to this day possess one which can be considered even tolerably good, or in fact which is not actually distasteful and operatic. This is the case from Pergolese and Durante, who introduce the most laughable little trills into their “Gloria,” down to the opera finales of the present day. Were I a Catholic, I would set to work at a Mass this very evening; and whatever it might turn out, it would at all events be the only Mass written with a constant remembrance of its sacred purpose. But for the present I don’t mean to do this; perhaps at some future day, when I am older.

TO HERR CONRAD SCHLEINITZ, LEIPZIG.

Düsseldorf, January 26th, 1835.

Sir,