Chapter X: Part 10

So this is an account of my concert of the 17th, which is now among the things of the past. There were eleven hundred people present, so the poor may well be satisfied: but enough of all this. Farewell! May every happiness attend you all!

FELIX.

Paris, December 19th, 1831.

Dear Father,

Receive my hearty thanks for your letter of the 7th. Though I do not quite apprehend your meaning on some points, and also may differ from you, still I have no doubt that this will come all right when we talk things over together, especially if you permit me, as you have always hitherto done, to express my opinion in a straight-forward manner. I allude chiefly to your suggestion, that I should procure a libretto for an opera from some French poet, and then have it translated, and compose the music for the Munich stage.[25]

[25] Felix Mendelssohn, during his stay in Munich, received a
commission from the director of the theatre, to write an opera
for Munich.

Above all, I must tell you how sincerely I regret that you have only now made known to me your views on this subject. I went to Duesseldorf, as you know, expressly to consult with Immermann on the point. I found him ready, and willing; he accepted the proposal, promising to send me the poem by the end of May at the latest, so I do not myself see how it is possible for me now to draw back; indeed I do not wish it, as I place entire confidence in him. I do not in the least understand what you allude to in your last letter, about Immermann, and his incapacity to write an opera. Although I by no means agree with you in this opinion, still it would have been my duty to have settled nothing without your express sanction, and I could have arranged the affair by letter from here, I believed however that I was acting quite to your satisfaction when I made him my offer. In addition to this, some new poems that he read to me, convinced me more than ever that he was a true poet, and supposing that I had an equal choice in merit, I would always decide rather in favour of a German than a French libretto; and lastly, he has fixed on a subject which has been long in my thoughts, and which, if I am not mistaken, my mother wished to see made into an opera,--I mean Shakspeare's "Tempest". I was therefore particularly pleased with this, so I shall doubly regret if you do not approve of what I have done. In any event, however, I entreat that you will neither be displeased with me, nor distrustful with regard to the work, nor cease to take any interest in it.

From what I know of Immermann, I feel assured I may expect a first-rate libretto. What I alluded to about his solitary life, merely referred to his inward feelings and perceptions; for in other respects he is well acquainted with what is passing in the world. He knows what people like, and what to give them; but above all he is a genuine artist, which is the chief thing; but I am sure I need not say that I will not compose music for any words I do not consider really good, or which do not inspire me, and for this purpose it is essential that I should have your approval. I intend to reflect deeply on the poem before I begin the music. The dramatic interest or (in the best sense) the theatrical portion, I shall of course immediately communicate to you, and in short look on the affair in the serious light it deserves. The first step however is taken, and I cannot tell you how deeply I should regret your not being pleased.

There is however one thing which consoles me, and it is that if I were to rely on my own judgment, I would again act precisely as I have now done, though I have had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with a great deal of French poetry, and seeing it in the most favourable light. Pray pardon me for saying exactly what I think. To compose for the translation of a French libretto, seems to me for various reasons impracticable, and I have an idea that you are in favour of it more on account of the _success_ which it is likely to enjoy than for its own _intrinsic merit_. Moreover I well remember how much you disliked the subject of the "Muette de Portici," a _Muette_ too who had gone astray, and of "Wilhelm Tell," which the author seems almost purposely to have rendered tedious.

The success however these enjoy all over Germany does not assuredly depend on the work itself being either good or dramatic, for "Tell" is neither, but on their coming from Paris, and having pleased there. Certainly there is _one_ sure road to fame in Germany,--that by Paris and London; still it is not the only one; this is proved not only by all Weber's works, but also by those of Spohr, whose "Faust" is here considered classical music, and which is to be given at the great Opera-house in London next season. Besides, I could not possibly take that course, as my great opera has been bespoken for Munich, and I have accepted the commission. I am resolved therefore to make the attempt in Germany, and to remain and work there so long as I can continue to do so, and yet maintain myself, for this I consider my first duty. If I find that I cannot do this, then I must leave it for London or Paris, where it is easier to get on. I see indeed where I should be better remunerated and more honoured, and live more gaily, and at my ease, than in Germany, where a man must press forward, and toil, and take no rest,--still, if I can succeed there, I prefer the latter.

None of the new libretti here, would in my opinion be attended with any success whatever, if brought out for the first time on a German stage. One of the distinctive characteristics of them all, is precisely of a nature that I should resolutely oppose, although the taste of the present day may demand it, and I quite admit that it may in general be more prudent to go with the current than to struggle against it. I allude to that of immorality. In "Robert le Diable" the nuns come one after the other to allure the hero of the piece, till at last the abbess succeeds in doing so: the same hero is conveyed by magic into the apartment of her whom he loves, and casts her from him in an attitude which the public here applauds, and probably all Germany will do the same; she then implores his mercy in a grand aria. In another opera a young girl divests herself of her garments, and sings a song to the effect that next day at this time she will be married; all this produces effect, but I have no music for such things. I consider it ignoble, so if the present epoch exacts this style, and considers it indispensable, then I will write oratorios.

Another strong reason why it would prove impracticable is that no French poet would undertake to furnish me with a poem. Indeed, it is no easy matter to procure one from them for this stage, for all the best authors are overwhelmed with commissions. At the same time I think it quite possible that I might succeed in getting one; still it never would occur to any of them to write a libretto for a _German_ theatre. In the first place it would be much more feasible to give the opera here, and infinitely more rational too; in the second place, they would decline writing for any other stage than the French; in fact they could not realize any other. Above all it would be impossible to procure for them a sum equivalent to what they receive here from the theatres, and what they draw as their share from the _part d'auteur_.

I know you will forgive me for having told you my opinion without reserve. You always allowed me to do so in conversation, so I hope you will not put a wrong construction on what I have written, and I beg you will amend my views by communicating your own.--Your

FELIX.

Paris, December 20th, 1831.

Dear Rebecca,

I went yesterday to the Chambre des Deputes, and I must now tell you about it; but what do you care about the Chambre des Deputes? It is a political song, and you would rather hear whether I have composed any love songs, or bridal songs, or wedding songs; but it is a sad pity, that no songs but political ones are composed here. I believe I never in my life passed three such unmusical weeks as these. I feel as if I never could again think of composing; this all arises from the "juste milieu;" but it is still worse to be with musicians, for they do not _wrangle_ about politics, but _lament_ over them. One has lost his place, another his title, a third his money, and they say this all proceeds from the "Milieu."

Yesterday I saw the "Milieu," in a light grey coat, and with a noble air, in the first place on the Ministerial bench. He was sharply attacked by M. Mauguin, who has a very long nose. Of course you don't care for all this; but what of that? I must have a chat with you. In Italy I was lazy, in Switzerland a wild student, in Munich a consumer of cheese and beer, and so in Paris I must talk politics. I intended to have composed various symphonies, and to have written some songs for certain ladies in Frankfort, Duesseldorf, and Berlin; but as yet not a chance of it. Paris obtrudes herself, and as above all things I must now see Paris, so I am busily engaged in seeing it, and am dumb.

Moreover I am freezing with cold--another drawback. I cannot contrive to make my room warm, and I am not to get another and warmer apartment, till New Year's Day. In a dark little hole on the ground floor, overlooking a small damp garden, where my feet are like ice, how can I possibly write music? It is bitterly cold, and an Italian like myself is peculiarly susceptible. At this moment a man outside my window is singing a political song to a guitar.

I live a reckless life--out morning, noon, and night: to-day at Baillot's; to-morrow I go to some friends of the Bigots; the next day, Valentin; Monday, Fould; Tuesday, Hiller; Wednesday, Gerard; and the previous week it was just the same. In the forenoon I rush off to the Louvre, and gaze at the Raphaels, and my favourite Titian; a person might well wish for a dozen more eyes to look at such a picture.

Yesterday I was in the Chamber of Peers, who were engaged in pronouncing judgment on their own hereditary rights, and I saw M. Pasquier's wig. The day before I paid two musical visits, to the grumbling Cherubini, and the kind Herz. There is a large sign-board before the house: "Manufacture de Pianos, par Henri Herz, Marchand de Modes et de Nouveautes." I thought this formed one, not observing that it was a notice of two different firms, so I went in below, and found myself surrounded by gauze, and lace, and trimmings: so, rather abashed, I asked where the pianos were. A number of Herz's fair scholars with industrious faces, were waiting upstairs. I sat down by the fire and read your interesting account of our dear father's birthday, and so forth. Herz presently arrived, and gave audience to his pupils. We were very loving, recalled old times, and besprinkled each other mutually with great praise. On his pianos is inscribed: "Medaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." This was very imposing.

From thence I went to Erard's, where I tried over his instruments, and remarked written on them in large letters: "Medaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." My respect seemed to diminish. When I went home I opened my own instrument by Pleyel, and to be sure there also I saw in large letters: "Medaille d'or. Exposition de 1827." The matter is like the title of "Hofrath," but it is characteristic. It is alleged that the chambers are about to discuss the following proposition: "Tous les Francais du sexe masculin ont des leur naissance le droit de porter l'ordre de la Legion d'Honneur," and the permission to appear without the order, can only be obtained by special services. You really scarcely see a man in the street without a bit of coloured ribbon, so it is no longer a distinction.

_Apropos_, shall I be lithographed full length? Answer what you will, I don't intend to do it. One afternoon in Berlin, when I was standing _unter den Linden_ before Schenk's shop looking at H----'s and W----'s lithographs, I made a solemn vow to myself, unheard by man, that I would never allow myself to be hung up till I became a great man. The temptation in Munich was strong; there they wished to drape me with a Carbonaro cloak, a stormy sky in the background, and my fac-simile underneath, but I happily got off by adhering to my principles. Here again I am rather tempted, for the likenesses are very striking, but I keep my vow; and if, after all, I never do become a great man, though posterity will be deprived of a portrait, it will have an absurdity the less.

It is now the 24th, and we had a very pleasant evening at Baillot's yesterday. He plays beautifully, and had collected a very musical society of attentive ladies and enthusiastic gentlemen, and I have seldom been so well amused in any circle, or enjoyed such honours. It was the greatest possible delight to me to hear my quartett in E flat major (dedicated to B. P.) performed in Paris by Baillot's quartett, and they executed it with fire and spirit. They commenced with a quintett by Bocherini, an old-fashioned _perruque_, but a very amiable old gentleman underneath it. The company then asked for a sonata of Bach's; we selected the one in A major; old familiar tones dawned once more on me, of the time when Baillot played it with Madame Bigot.[26] We urged each other on, the affair became animated, and so thoroughly amused both us and our audience, that we immediately commenced the one in E major, and next time we mean to introduce the four others.

[26] The lady who instructed Mendelssohn in the piano in Paris,
when the family resided there for a time in 1816.

Then my turn came to play a solo. I was in the vein to extemporize successfully, and felt that I did so. The guests being now in a graver mood, I took three themes from the previous sonatas, and worked them up to my heart's content; it seemed to give immense pleasure to those present, for they shouted and applauded like mad. Then Baillot gave my quartett; his manner towards me has something very kind, and I was doubly pleased, as he is rather cold at first and seldom makes advances to any one. He appears a good deal depressed by the loss of his situation. I saw a number of old well-known faces, and they asked after you all, and recalled many anecdotes of that former period.

When I was passing through Louvain two years ago with my "Liederspiel" in my head, and my injured knee,[27] I seized the brass handle of a pump to prevent myself from falling; and when I returned this year in the same miserable diligence, driven by a postilion exactly similar, with a big queue, the "Liederspiel," my knee, and Italy, were all things of the past; and yet the handle of the pump was still hanging there, as clean and brightly rubbed up as ever, having survived 1830, and all the revolutionary storms, and remaining quite unchanged. This is sentimental; my father must not read it, for it is the old story of the past and the present, which we discussed so eagerly one fine evening, and which recurs to me among the crowd here at every step. I thought of it at the Madeleine, and when I went to aunt J----'s, and at the Hotel des Princes, and at the gallery, which my father showed me fifteen years ago, and when I saw the coloured signs, which at that time impressed me exceedingly, and are now grown brown and shabby.

[27] Mendelssohn had been thrown out of a cabriolet in London in
1829, and his knee seriously injured.

Moreover this is Christmas Eve; but I feel little interest in it, or in New Year's Night either. Please God, another year may wear a very different aspect, and I will not then go to the theatre on Christmas Eve, as I am about to do to-night, to hear Lablache and Rossini for the first time. How little I care about it! I should much prefer _Polichinelles_ and apples to-day, and I think it very doubtful whether the orchestra will play as pretty a symphony as my "Kinder-Sinfonie."[28] I must be satisfied with it however. I am now modulating into the minor key, a fault with which the "Ecole Allemande" are often reproached, and as I profess not to belong to the latter, the French say I am _cosmopolite_. Heaven defend me from being anything of the kind!

[28] A "Kinder-Sinfonie," composed by Mendelssohn in the year
1829, for a Christmas family fete.

And now good-bye; a thousand compliments from Bertin de Vaux, Girod de l'Ain, Dupont de l'Eure, Tracy, Sacy, Passy and other kind friends. I had intended to have told you in this letter how Salverte attacked the Ministers, and how during this time a little _emeute_ took place on the Pont Neuf; how I sat in the Chambers along with Franck, in the midst of St. Simoniens; how witty Dupin was; but no more at present. May you all be well and happy this evening, and thinking of me!

FELIX.

Paris, December 28th, 1831.

Dear Madam Fanny,

For three months past I have been thinking of writing you a musical letter, but my procrastination has its revenge, for though I have been a fortnight here, I don't know whether I shall still be able to do so. I have appeared in every possible mood here; in that of an inquiring, admiring traveller; a coxcomb; a Frenchman, and yesterday actually as a Peer of France; but not yet as a musician. Indeed there is little likelihood of the latter, for the aspect of music here is miserable enough.

The concerts in the Conservatoire, which were my great object, probably will not take place at all, because the Commission of the Ministry wished to give a Commission to the Commission of the society, to deprive a Commission of Professors of their share of the profits; on which the Commission of the Conservatoire replied to the Commission of the Ministry, that they might go and be hanged (suspended), and then they would not consent to it. The newspapers make some very severe comments on this, but you need not read them, as these papers are prohibited in Berlin; but you don't lose much by this. The Opera Comique is bankrupt, and so it has had _relache_ since I came; at the Grand Opera, they only give little operas, which amuse me, though they neither provoke nor excite me. "Armida" was the last great opera, but they gave it in three acts, and this was two years ago. Choron's "Institut" is closed, the "Chapelle Royale" is gone out like a light; not a single Mass is to be heard on Sundays in all Paris, unless accompanied by serpents. Malibran is to appear here next week for the last time. So much the better, say you: retire within yourself, and write music for "Ach Gott vom Himmel," or a symphony, or the new violin quartett which you mentioned in your letter to me of the 28th, or any other serious composition; but this is even more impossible, for what is going on here is most deeply interesting, and entices you out, suggesting matter for thought and memory and absorbing every moment of time. Accordingly I was yesterday in the Chambre des Pairs, and counted along with them the votes, destined to abolish a very ancient privilege; immediately afterwards I hurried off to the Theatre Francais, where Mars was to appear for the first time for a year past; (she is fascinating beyond conception; a voice that we shall never hear equalled, causing you to weep, and yet to feel pleasure in doing so). To-day I must see Taglioni again, who along with Mars constitutes two Graces (if I find a third in my travels, I mean to marry her), and afterwards I mean to go to Gerard's classical _salon_. I lately went to hear Lablache and Rubini, after hearing Odillon Barrot quarrel with the Ministry. Having seen the pictures in the Louvre in the morning, I went to Baillot's; so what chance is there of living in retirement? The outer world is too tempting.

There are moments, however, when my thoughts turn inwards--such as on that memorable evening, when Lablache sang so beautifully, or on Christmas-day, when there were no bells and no festivities, or when Paul's letter came from London, inviting me to visit him next spring; the said spring to be passed in England. Then I feel that all that now interests me is merely superficial: that I am neither a politician, nor a dancer, nor an actor, nor a _bel esprit_, but a _musician_--so I take courage, and am now writing a professional letter to my dear sister.

My conscience smote me, especially when I read about your new music that you so carefully conducted on my father's birthday, and I reproached myself for not having said a single word to you about your previous composition; but I cannot let you off that, my colleague! What the deuce made you think of setting your G horns so high? Did you ever hear a G horn take the high G without a squeak? I only put this to yourself! and at the end of this introduction, when wind instruments come in, does not the following note

[Music]

stare you in the face, and do not these deep oboes growl away all pastoral feeling, and all bloom? Do you not know that you ought to take out a license to sanction your writing the low B for oboes, and that it is only permitted on particular occasions, such as witches, or some great grief? Has not the composer evidently, in the A major air, overloaded the voice by too many other parts, so that the delicate intention, and the lovely melody of this otherwise charming piece, with all its beauties, is quite obscured and eclipsed?

To speak seriously, however, this aria is very beautiful, and particularly fascinating. But I have a remark to make about your two choruses, which indeed applies rather to the text than to you. These two choruses are not sufficiently original. This sounds absurd; but my opinion is that it is the fault of the words, that express nothing original; one single expression might have improved the whole, but as they now stand, they would be equally suitable for church music, a cantata, an offertorium, etc. Where, however, they are not of such universal application, as for example, the lament at the end, they seem to be sentimental and not natural. The words of the last chorus are too material ("mit dem kraftlosen Mund, und der sich regenden Zunge"). At the beginning of the aria alone, are the words vigorous and spirited, and from them emanated the whole of your lovely piece of music. The choruses are of course fine, for they are written by you; but in the first place, it seems to me that they might be by any other good master, and secondly, as if they were not _necessarily_ what they are, indeed as if they might have been _differently_ composed. This arises from the poetry not imposing any particular music. I know that the latter is often the case with my own compositions; but though I am fully aware of the beam in my own eyes, I would fain extract the mote from yours, to relieve you at once from its pressure.

My _resume_ therefore is, that I would advise you to be more cautious in the choice of your words, because, after all, it is not everything in the Bible, even if it suits the theme, that is suggestive of _music_; but you have probably obviated these objections of mine in your new cantata, before being aware of them, in which case, I might as well have said nothing. So much the better if it be so, and then you can prosecute me for defamation! So far as your music and composition are concerned, they quite suit my taste; the young lady's cloven foot nowhere peeps forth, and if I knew any _Kapellmeister_ capable of writing such music, I would give him a place at my court. Fortunately I know no such person, and there is no occasion to place you at my right hand at court, as you are there already.[29]

[29] A play upon Fanny Hensel's house, in a court--No. 3,
Leipziger Strasse.

When do you mean to send me something new to cheer me? Pray do so soon! As far as regards myself, shortly after my arrival here, I had one of those attacks of musical spleen, when all music, and more especially one's own, becomes actually hateful. I felt thoroughly unmusical, and did nothing but eat and sleep, and that revived me. F----, to whom I complained of my state, instantly constructed a musical theory on the subject, proving that it could not be otherwise; I however think exactly the reverse; but though we are so entirely dissimilar, and have as many differences as a Bushman and Caffre, still we like each other exceedingly.

With L----, too, I get on famously. He is very pleasing, and the most _dilettante_ of all the _dilettanti_ I ever met. He knows everything by heart, and plays wrong basses to them all; he is only deficient in arrogance, for with all his undeniable talent, he is very modest and retiring. I am much with him, because he is a benevolent, kind-hearted man; we should thoroughly agree on all points, if he would not consider me a _doctrinaire_, and persist in talking politics (a subject that I wish to avoid for at least a hundred and twenty reasons; and chiefly because I don't in the least understand it); besides, he delights in hitting at Germany, and in depreciating London in favour of Paris. Both these things are prejudicial to my _constitution_, and whoever assails that, I must defend it and dispute with him.

I was yesterday studying your new music, and enjoying it, when Kalkbrenner came in, and played various new compositions. The man is become quite romantic, purloins themes, ideas, and similar trifles, from Hiller, writes pieces in F sharp minor, practises every day for several hours, and is as he always was, a knowing fellow. Every time I see him, he inquires after "my charming sister, whom he likes so much, and who has such a fine talent for playing and composing." My invariable reply is, that she has not given up music, that she is very industrious, and that I love her very much; which is all true. And now farewell, dear sister. May you be well and happy, and may we meet at the New Year.

FELIX.

TO CARL IMMERMANN IN DUeSSELDORF.

Paris, January 11th, 1832.

You permitted me to give you occasional tidings of myself, and since I came here, I have daily intended to do so; the excitement here is however so great, that till to-day I have never been able to write. When I contrast this constant whirl and commotion, and the thousand distractions among a foreign people, with your house in the garden, and your warm winter room, your wish to exchange with me and to come here in my place, often recurs to me, and I almost wish I had taken you at your word. You must indeed in that case have remained all the same in your winter room, so that I might come out to you through the snow, take my usual place in the corner, and listen to the "Schwanritter;" for there is more life in it than in all the tumult here.

In a word, I rejoice at the prospect of my return to Germany; everything there is indeed on a small scale, and homely, if you will, but _men_ live there; men who know what art really is, who do not admire, nor praise, in fact who do not _criticize_, but _create_. You do not admit this, but it is only because you are yourself among the number.

I beg you will not however think that I am like one of those German youths with long hair, lounging about listlessly, and pronouncing the French superficial, and Paris frivolous. I only say all this because I now thoroughly enjoy and admire Paris, and am becoming better acquainted with it, and especially as I am writing to you in Duesseldorf. I have, on the contrary, cast myself headlong into the vortex, and do nothing the whole day but see new objects, the Chambers of Peers and Deputies, pictures and theatres, dio- neo- cosmo- and panoramas, constant parties, etc. Moreover, the musicians here are as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, all hating each other; so each must be individually visited, and wary diplomacy is advisable, for they are all gossips, and what one says to another, the whole corps know next morning.

The days have thus flown past hitherto as if only half as long as they were in reality, and as yet I have not been able to compose a single bar; in a few days, however, this exotic life will cease. My head is now dizzy from all I have seen and wondered at; but I then intend to collect my thoughts, and set to work, when I shall feel once more happy and domesticated.

My chief pleasure is going to the little theatres in the evening, because there French life and the French people are truly mirrored; the "Gymnase Dramatique" is my particular favourite, where nothing is given but small _vaudevilles_. The extreme bitterness and deep animosity which pervade all these little comedies, are most remarkable, and although partially cloaked by the prettiest phrases, and the most lively acting, become only the more conspicuous. Politics everywhere play the chief part, which might have sufficed to make me dislike these theatres, for we have enough of them _elsewhere_; but the politics of the "Gymnase" are of a light and ironical description,--referring to the occurrences of the day, and to the newspapers, in order to excite laughter and applause, and at last you can't help laughing and applauding with the rest. Politics and sensuality are the two grand points of interest, round which everything circles; and in the many pieces I have seen, an attack on the Ministry, and a scene of seduction, were never absent.

The whole style of the _vaudeville_, introducing certain conventional music at the end of the scene in every piece, when the actors partly sing and partly declaim some couplets with a witty point, is thoroughly French; we could never learn this, nor in fact wish to do so, for this mode of connecting the wit of the day with an established _refrain_, does not exist in our conversation, nor in our ideas. I cannot imagine anything more striking and effective, nor yet more prosaic.

A great sensation has been recently caused here, by a new piece at the Gymnase, "Le Luthier de Lisbonne," which forms the delight of the public. A stranger is announced in the play-bills; scarcely does he appear when all the audience begin to laugh and to applaud, and you learn that the actor is a close imitation of Don Miguel, in gestures, manner, and costume; he proceeds to announce that he is a king, and the fortune of the piece is made. The more stupid, uncivilized, and uncouth, the Unknown appears, the greater is the enjoyment of the public, who allow none of his gestures or speeches to pass unobserved. He takes refuge from a riot in the house of this instrument maker, who is the most devoted of all royalists, but unluckily the husband of a very pretty woman. One of Don Miguel's favourites has forced her to grant him a rendezvous for the ensuing night, and he begs the king--who arrives at this moment--to give him his aid, by causing the husband to be beheaded. Don Miguel replies, "Tres volontiers," and while the Luthier recognizes him, and falls at his feet, beside himself from joy, Don Miguel signs his death-warrant, but also that of his favourite, whom he means to replace with the pretty woman. At each enormity that he commits, we laugh and applaud, and are immensely delighted with this stupid stage Don Miguel. So ends the first act. In the second, it is supposed to be midnight; the pretty wife alone and agitated. Don Miguel jumps in at the window, and does all in his power to gain her favour, making her dance and sing to him, but she cannot endure him, and falls at his feet, imploring him to spare her; on which he seizes her, and drags her repeatedly round the stage, and if she did not make a snatch at a knife, and then a sudden knocking ensue, she might have been in a bad plight; at the close, the worthy Luthier rescues the king from the hands of the French soldiery, who are just arrived, and of whose valour, and love of liberty, he has a great horror. So the piece ends happily.

A little comedy followed, where the wife betrays her husband, and has a lover; and another, where the man is faithless to his wife, and is maintained by his mistress; this is succeeded by a satire on the new constructions in the Tuileries, and on the Ministry, and so it goes on.

I cannot say how it may be at the French Opera, for it is bankrupt, so there has been no acting there since I came. In the Academie Royale, however, Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" is played every night with great success; the house is always crowded, and the music has given general satisfaction. There is an expenditure of all possible means of producing stage effect, that I never saw equalled on any stage. All who can sing, dance, or act in Paris, sing, dance, and act on this occasion.

The _sujet_ is romantic; that is, the devil appears in the piece--(this is quite sufficient romance and imagination for the Parisians). It is however very bad; and were it not for two brilliant scenes of seduction it would produce no effect whatever. The devil is a poor devil, and appears in armour, for the purpose of leading astray his son Robert, a Norman knight, who loves a Sicilian princess. He succeeds in inducing him to stake his money and all his personal property (that is, his sword) at dice, and then makes him commit sacrilege, giving him a magic branch, which enables him to penetrate into the Princess's apartment, and renders him irresistible. The son does all this with apparent willingness; but when at the end he is to assign himself to his father, who declares that he loves him, and cannot live without him, the devil, or rather the poet Scribe, introduces a peasant girl, who has in her possession the will of Robert's deceased mother, and reads him the document, which makes him doubt the story he has been told; so the devil is obliged to sink down through a trap-door at midnight, with his purpose unfulfilled, on which Robert marries the Princess, and the peasant girl, it seems, is intended to represent the principle of good. The devil is called Bertram.

I cannot imagine how any music could be composed on such a cold, formal _extravaganza_ as this, and so the opera does not satisfy me. It is throughout frigid and heartless; and where this is the case it produces no effect on me. The people extol the music, but where warmth and truth are wanting, I have no test to apply.

Michael Beer set off to-day for Havre. It seems he intends to compose poetry there; and I now remember that when I met you one day at Schadow's, and maintained that he was no poet, your rejoinder was, "That is a matter of taste." I seldom see Heine, because he is entirely absorbed in liberal ideas and in politics. He has recently published sixty "Fruehlings Lieder." Very few of them seem to me either genuine or truthful, but these few are indeed inimitable. Have you read them? They appeared in the second volume of the "Reisebilder." Boerne intends to publish some new volumes of letters: he and I are full of enthusiasm for Malibran and Taglioni; all these gentlemen are abusing and reviling Germany and all that is German, and yet they cannot speak even tolerable French; I think this rather provoking.

Pray excuse my having sent you so much gossip, and for writing to you on such a disreputable margin of paper; but it is long since we met; and as for a time I could see you every day, it has become quite a necessity to write to you; so you must not take it amiss. You once promised to send me a few lines in reply: I don't know whether I may venture to remind you of this, but I should really be glad to hear how you pass your time, and what novelty a certain cupboard in the corner contains; how you get on with "Merlin," and my "Schwanritter," the sound of which still vibrates in my ears like sweet music; and also whether you sometimes think of me, and of next May, and "The Tempest." It is certainly expecting a good deal to ask you for an early reply to my letter, but I fear that you had enough of the first, and would rather not receive a second; therefore I take courage, and beg for an answer to this one. But I need not have asked this, for you usually guess my wishes before I can utter them; and if you are as kindly disposed towards me now as you were then, you will fulfil this desire of mine as you did all the others.--Yours,

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

Paris, January 14th, 1832.

I now first begin to feel at home here, and really to know Paris; it is indeed the most singular and amusing place imaginable; but for one who is no politician, it does not possess so much interest. So I have become a _doctrinaire_. I read my newspaper every morning, form my own opinion about peace and war, and, only among friends, confess that I know nothing of the matter.

This is however not the case with F----, who is completely absorbed in the vortex of dilettantism and dogmatism, and really believes himself quite adapted to be a Minister. It is a sad pity, for nothing good will ever come of it. He has sufficient sense to be always occupied, but not enough to conduct any affair. He is a _dilettante_ on all points, and has a clever knack of criticizing others, but he produces nothing. We continue on the same intimate terms, meeting every day, and liking each other's society, but inwardly we remain strangers. I suspect that he writes for the public papers; he is very much with Heine, and chatters abuse against Germany like a magpie; all this I much dislike, and as I really have a sincere regard for him, it worries me. I suppose I must try to become accustomed to it, but it is really too sad to know where a person is deficient, and yet to be unable to remedy their defects. Moreover he grows visibly older; so this irregular, unoccupied life is the less suitable for him.

A---- has left his parents' house, and gone to the Rue Monsigny,[30] where body and soul are equally engrossed. I have in my possession an appeal to mankind from P---- in which he makes his confession of faith, and invites every one to surrender a share of his property, however small, to the St. Simoniens; calling on all artists to devote their genius in future to this religion; to compose better music than Rossini or Beethoven; to build temples of peace, and to paint like Raphael or David. I have twenty copies of this pamphlet, which P---- desired me, dear Father, to send to you. I rest satisfied by sending you _one_, which you will find quite enough, and even that one, by some private hand of course.

[30] At that time the residence of the St. Simoniens.

It is a bad sign of the state of the public mind here, that such a monstrous doctrine, in such detestable prose, should ever have existed, or impressed others; for it appears that the students of the Polytechnic School take considerable interest in it. It is difficult to say how far it may be carried, when there is temptation offered on every side, promising honour to one, fame to another; to me, an admiring public, and to the poor, money; while by their cold estimate of talent, they check all effort, and all progress. And then their ideas as to universal brotherhood, their disbelief in hell, and the devil, and eternal perdition, and of the annihilation of all egotism,--ideas, which in our country spring from nature, and prevail in every part of Christendom, and without which I should not wish to live, but which they however regard as a new invention and discovery, constantly repeating that they mean to transform the world, and to render mankind happy. A---- coolly tells me that he does not require to improve himself, but others only; because he is not at all imperfect, but on the contrary, perfect. They not only praise and compliment each other, but all those whom they wish to gain over; extolling any talent or capability you may possess, and lamenting that such great powers should be lost, by adhering to the old-fashioned notions of duty, vocation, and action, as they were formerly interpreted. When I listen to all this, it does seem to me a melancholy mystification. I attended a meeting last Sunday, where all the Fathers sat in a circle: then came the principal Father and demanded their reports, praising and blaming them, addressing the assembly, and issuing his commands; to me it was quite awful! A---- has completely renounced his parents, and lives with the Fathers, his disciples, and is endeavouring to procure a loan for their benefit; but enough of this subject!

A Pole gives a concert next week, where I am to play in a composition for six performers, along with Kalkbrenner, Hiller, and Co.; do not be surprised therefore if you see my name mutilated, as in the "Messager" lately, when the death of Professor Flegel (Hegel) was announced from Berlin, and all the papers copied it.

I have set to work again, and live most agreeably. I have not yet been able to write to you about the theatres, although they occupy me very much. How plain are the symptoms of bitterness and excitement even in the most insignificant farce; how invariably everything bears a reference to politics; how completely what is called the Romantic School has infected all the Parisians, for they think of nothing on the stage now but the plague, the gallows, the devil, etc., one striving to outstrip the other in horrors, and in liberalism; in the midst of these _miseres_ and fooleries, how charming is a talent like that of Leontine Fay, who is the perfection of grace and fascination, and remains unsullied by the absurdities she is compelled to utter and to act. How strange all these contrasts are! but this I reserve for future discussion.

FELIX.

Paris, January 21st, 1832.

In every letter of yours I receive a little hit, because my answers are not very punctual, and so I reply without delay to your questions, dear Fanny, with regard to the new works that I am about to publish.

It occurred to me that the octett and the quintett might make a very good appearance among my works, being in fact better than many compositions that already figure there. As the publication of these pieces costs me nothing, but, on the contrary, I derive profit from them, and not wishing to confuse their chronological order, my idea is to publish the following pieces at Easter:--quintett and octett (the latter also arranged as a duet), "Midsummer Night's Dream," seven songs without words, six songs with words; on my return to Germany, six pieces of sacred music, and finally, if I can get any one to print it, and to pay for it, the symphony in D minor. As soon as I have performed "Meeresstille" at my concert in Berlin, it will also appear. I cannot however bring out "The Hebrides" here, because, as I wrote to you at the time, I do not consider it finished; the middle movement forte in D major is very stupid, and the whole modulations savour more of counterpoint, than of train oil and seagulls and salt fish--and it ought to be exactly the reverse. I like the piece too well to allow it to be performed in an imperfect state, and I hope soon to be able to work at it, and to have it ready for England, and the Michaelmas fair at Leipzig.

You inquire also why I do not compose the Italian symphony in A major. Because I am composing the Saxon overture in A minor, which is to precede the "Walpurgis Night," that the work may be played with all due honour at the said Berlin concert, and elsewhere.

You wish me to remove to the Marais, and to write the whole day. My dear child, that would never do; I have, at the most, only the prospect of three months to see Paris, so I must throw myself into the stream; indeed, this is why I came; everything here is too bright, and too attractive to be neglected; it rounds off my pleasant travelling reminiscences, and forms a fine colossal key-stone, and so I consider that to see Paris is at this moment my chief vocation. The publishers too are standing on each side of me like veritable Satans, demanding music for the piano, and offering to pay for it. By Heavens! I don't know whether I shall be able to withstand this, or write some kind of trio; for I hope you believe me to be superior to the temptation of a _pot-pourri_; but I should like to compose a couple of good trios.

On Thursday the first rehearsal of my overture takes place, which is to be performed in the second concert at the "Conservatoire." In the third my symphony in D minor is to follow. Habeneck talks of seven or eight rehearsals, which will be very welcome to me. Moreover I am also to play something at Erard's concert; so I shall play my Munich concerto, but I must first practise it well. Then, a note is lying beside me, "Le President du Conseil, Ministre de l'Interieur, et Madame Casimir Perier prient," etc., on Monday evening to a ball; this evening there is to be music at Habeneck's; to-morrow at Schlesinger's; Tuesday, the first public _soiree_ at Baillot's; on Wednesday, Hiller plays his Concerto in the Hotel de Ville, and this always lasts till past midnight. Let those who like it, lead a solitary life! these are all things that cannot be refused. So when am I to compose? In the forenoon? Yesterday, first Hiller came, then Kalkbrenner, then Habeneck. The day before that, came Baillot, Eichthal, and Rodrigues. Perhaps very early in the morning? Well, I do compose then--so you are confuted!

P---- was with me yesterday, talking St. Simonienism, and either from a conviction of my stupidity, or my shrewdness, he made me disclosures which shocked me so much, that I resolved never again to go either to him or to his confederates. Early this morning Hiller rushed in, and told me he had just witnessed the arrest of the St. Simoniens. He wished to hear their orations; but the Fathers did not come. All of a sudden soldiers made their way in, and requested those present to disperse as quickly as possible, inasmuch as M. Enfantin and the others had been arrested in the Rue Monsigny. A party of National Guards are placed in the street, and other soldiers marched up there; everything is sealed up, and now the _proces_ will begin. My B minor quartett, which is lying in the Rue Monsigny, is also sealed up. The adagio alone is in the style of the "juste Milieu," all the other parts _mouvement_. I suppose I shall eventually be obliged to play it before a jury.

I was lately standing beside the Abbe Bardin at a large party, listening to the performance of my quartett in A minor. At the last movement my neighbour pulled my coat, and said: "Il a cela dans une de ses sinfonies." "Qui?" said I, rather embarrassed. "Beethoven, l'auteur de ce quatuor," said he, with a consequential air. This was a very doubtful compliment! but is it not famous that my quartett should be played in the classes of the Conservatoire, and that the pupils there are practising off their fingers to play "Ist es wahr?"

I have just come from St. Sulpice, where the organist showed off his organ to me; it sounded like a full chorus of old women's voices; but they maintain that it is the finest organ in Europe if it were only put into proper order, which would cost thirty thousand francs. The effect of the _canto fermo_, accompanied by a serpent, those who have not heard it could scarcely conceive, and clumsy bells are ringing all the time.

The post is going, so I must conclude my gossip, or I might go on in this manner till the day after to-morrow. I have not yet told you that Bach's "Passion" is announced for performance in London, at Easter, in the Italian Opera House.--Yours,

FELIX.

Paris, February 4th, 1832.

You will, I am sure, excuse my writing you only a few words to-day: it was but yesterday that I heard of my irreparable loss.[31] Many hopes, and a pleasant bright period of my life have departed with him, and I never again can feel so happy. I must now set about forming new plans, and building fresh castles in the air; the former ones are irrevocably gone, for he was interwoven with them all. I shall never be able to think of my boyish days, nor of the ensuing ones, without connecting him with them, and I had hoped, till now, that it might be the same for the future. I must endeavour to inure myself to this, but I can recall no one thing without being reminded of him; I shall never hear music, or write it, without thinking of him; all this makes the rending asunder of such a tie doubly distressing. The former epoch has now wholly passed away, but not only do I lose that, but also the man I so sincerely loved. If I never had any especial reason for loving him, or if I no longer had such reasons, I must have loved him all the same, even without a reason. He loved me too, and the knowledge that there was such a man in the world--one on whom you could repose, and who lived to love you, and whose wishes and aims were identical with your own--this is all over: it is the most severe blow I have ever received, and never can I forget him.

[31] The death of his friend Edward Ritz, the violin player.

This was the celebration of my birthday. When I was listening to Baillot on Tuesday, and said to Hiller that I only knew one man who could play the music I loved for me, L---- was standing beside me, and knew what had happened, but did not give me the letter. He was not aware indeed that yesterday was my birthday, but he broke it to me by degrees yesterday morning, and then I recalled previous anniversaries, and took a review of the past, as every one should on his birthday; I remembered how invariably on this day he arrived with some special gift which he had long thought of, and which was always as pleasing and agreeable and welcome as himself. The day was a melancholy one to me: I could neither do anything, nor think of anything, but the one subject.