Berlin, May, 1841.
It is proposed to establish a German Music Academy in Berlin, to concentrate in one common focus the now isolated efforts in the sphere of instruction in art, in order to guide rising artists in a solid and earnest direction, thus imparting to the musical sense of the nation a new and more energetic impetus; for this purpose, on the one side, the already existing institutes and their members must be concentrated, and on the other, the aid of new ones must be called in.
Among the former may be reckoned the various Royal academies for musical instruction, which must be united with this Musical Academy, and carried on as branches of the same, with greater or less modifications, in one sense and in one direction. In these are included, for example, the Institute for Élèves of the Royal Orchestra; the Organ Institute; that of the Theatre (limited to the theatre alone) for instruction in singing, declamation, etc. Further, the members of the Royal Capelle must be required to give instruction on their various instruments. A suitable locality can no doubt be found among the Royal buildings, and also a library, with the requisite old and new musical works, scores, and books.
The new appointments to consist of—
1. A head teacher of composition; the best that can be found in Germany, to give regular instructions in theory, thorough-bass, counterpoint, and fugues.
2. A head teacher of solo singing; also the best to be had in Germany.
3. A head teacher of choral singing, who should strive to acquire personal influence over the scholars under his care, by good pianoforte-playing and steady direction.
4. A head teacher of pianoforte-playing, for which office a man of the most unquestionable talent and reputation must alone be selected. The other teachers for these departments could be found in Berlin itself; nor would there be any difficulty in procuring teachers of Æsthetics, the history of music, etc.
The complete course to last three years; the scholars, after previous examination, to be instructed gratis; no prize works to be admitted but at stated periods; all the works of the scholars, from the time of their admission, to be collected and criticized in connection with each other, and subsequently a prize (probably consisting of a sum sufficient for a long journey through Germany, Italy, France, and England) to be adjudged accordingly. Every winter a certain number of concerts to take place, in which all the teachers (including the above-named members of the Royal Capelle) must co-operate, and by which, through the selection of the music, as well as by its execution, direct influence may be gained over the majority of the public.
The following principle must serve as a basis for the whole Institute: that every sphere of art can only elevate itself above a mere handicraft, by being devoted to the expression of lofty thought, along with the utmost possible technical finish, and a pure and intellectual aim; that also solidity, precision, and strict discipline in teaching and learning, should be considered the first law, thus not falling short in this respect of any handicraft; that in every department, all teaching and learning should be exclusively devoted to the thoughts intended to be expressed, and to that more elevated mood, to which technical perfection in art must ever be subordinate.
Leipzig, July 9th, 1841.
Dear Brother,
I send you with this, a copy of the Minister Eichhorn’s letter, which I received this evening. It is evident from it, that the King only intends to make me Capellmeister, if the plan, for the Academy is carried out; not otherwise. If this be his irrevocable determination, I have only to choose between two alternatives; to go to Berlin on the 1st of August without the title, and without any further public appointment, and merely receive the salary there—or at once to break off all further negotiations on the matter, and never to renew them.
Now I must confess, first, that I could not without unpleasant feelings enter on an office, after having considerably abated my own demands; secondly, that I still find all those reasons valid, now as heretofore, which made such a title necessary, in Herr Massow’s opinion, as well as in my own, in order to enable me to give the desired concerts and performances in the course of the winter; and, thirdly, it appears to me only just, that from the first I should receive a public proof of the King’s confidence; for very possibly after the lapse of a year, no renewal of the relation may be desired on the other side, in which case I alone shall be the losing party, for they only risk conferring a title for nothing, while I lose my present situation, and you know that this costs me no small sacrifice. I beg you will communicate this letter and Eichhorn’s to Von Massow. He will observe that his proposals, and the results of my whole residence in Berlin, are again detailed, so that I must go to Berlin under very different circumstances, which, as I said, I am very unwilling to do. Hear what Massow says, and let me know. Do not forget to place strongly before him, that I always thought it probable, and now more likely than ever, that no definitive arrangement about the Academy should take place in one year; not indeed from any fault on my side, or from any want of complaisance in me, but from want of decision on their part. I therefore wished at that time, and wish now, that there should be something definite, for which I am called to Berlin. I cannot say to any one that the mere direction of the Academy is a sufficient purpose. If they choose to make me “Geheimsecretär,” instead of Capellmeister, I am equally content, but I should like to have some ostensible ground for going there, if I am to go at all; probably the affair will be now more complicated by my having in the meanwhile received the much-discussed title (deuce take it!) in Saxony; they will say, what is the use of a second? and pronounce it to be obstinacy on my part. I appeal however to the above reasons, and think, on the contrary, that it proves I did not, or do not, insist on this point from any love of a title.
Pray, pray forgive me, dear Brother, you have most cause to complain; for in any case I shall reap some advantage, having at the worst gained valuable experience, but you only much plague and lost time (even at the best, by which I mean my remaining in Berlin). Forgive me.—Ever your
Felix.[50]
Leipzig, July 15th, 1841.
My dear Friend,
To-morrow I go with some pleasant friends to Dresden to hear Ungher and Moriani sing, to see Raphael and Titian paint, and to breathe the air of that lovely region. A few days after my return I am off for a year to Berlin, one of the sourest apples a man can eat, and yet eaten it must be. Strangely enough, there seems to be a misunderstanding between us on this affair, and hitherto we have scarcely ever had one. You think I want your advice, and mean to act according to it; but, in fact, when I say anything to you, or discuss anything, I say it and do it from no other reason than from instinct. I must speak to you or discuss whatever is of importance to me, or nearly concerns me; it cannot be otherwise, and this proceeds so little from that tiresome asking for advice, that I am convinced, if you had not answered me at all, and if we had not spoken to each other for ten years, I should have asked you the same questions, and expected your answer as eagerly, and received it with as much pleasure as now. There is a curious misapprehension on your part, with regard to the comparison between the two cities. You believe (and several of the residents here, as well as strangers, have told me the same), that here in Leipzig we have comfort, domestic life, and retirement; and in Berlin, public efficacy in and for Germany, and active work for the benefit of others, etc. etc.; whereas it is in truth exactly the reverse. It is just because I am so unwilling to be burdened with a sinecure, the public active efficiency which you so urged on me formerly, and which seemed to myself so necessary, having become gradually dear to me, and nothing of the kind being possible in Berlin,—it is for these very reasons I go there unwillingly. There, all efforts are private efforts without any echo in the land, and this they certainly do have here, small as the nest is. I did not establish myself in Leipzig with a view to a quiet life; on the contrary, I felt a longing to do so, because here all is so gay and motley. On the other hand, I have mastered and learned many things, which could only be thus mastered and learned, nor have I been idle either; I think I am on a better footing with my countrymen, in Germany, and have gained their confidence more than I should probably have done all my life long in Berlin, and that is worth something too. That I am now to recommence a private life, but at the same time to become a sort of school-master to a Conservatorium, is what I can scarcely understand, after my excellent vigorous orchestra here. I might perhaps do so if I were really to enjoy an entirely private life, in which case I should only compose and live in retirement; but the mongrel Berlin doings interfere; the vast projects, the petty execution, the admirable criticism, the indifferent musicians, the liberal ideas, the Court officials in the streets, the Museum and the Academy, and the sand! I doubt whether my stay there will be more than a year; still I shall of course do all in my power, not to allow this time to pass without some profit to myself and others. I shall have no solitude during the time, for I must bestir myself and write what I can; a couple of earlier melodies may bring up the rear-guard. Many others have come to light since their date; you see I defend myself vigorously, with claws and teeth. Believe me, Berlin is at the present day the city which is the least efficacious, and Leipzig the most beneficial to the public. Do you know what I have recently been composing with enthusiasm? Variations for the piano,—actually eighteen on a theme in D minor, and they amused me so famously, that I instantly made fresh ones on a theme in E flat major, and now for the third time on a theme in B flat major. I feel quite as if I must make up for lost time, never having written any before.
Berlin, August 9th, 1841.
Dear Friend,
You wish to hear some news about the Berlin Conservatorium,—so do I,—but there is none. The affair is on the most extensive scale, if it be actually on any scale at all, and not merely in the air. The King seems to have a plan for reorganizing the Academy of Arts; this will not be easily effected, without entirely changing its present form into a very different one, which they cannot make up their mind to do; there is little use in my advising it, as I do not expect much profit for music from the Academy, either in its present or future form. The musical portion of the new academy is, I believe, to become a Conservatorium; but to reorganize one part alone, is an idea which cannot be entertained under any circumstances, so it depends now on the three others. A director is not yet found for the architectural department, and in the four different departments the existing members cannot (or at least will not) be superseded, or their privileges diminished,—so these members must first die off; but we must die off as well as they, and whether the reorganization will then take place in the wished-for manner is the question. One service I have at all events accomplished here, in having placed these relations in a clear light, and free from all circumlocution,—so that there will be no longer any necessity to refer to these projects, or the discussions connected with them, until the obstacles are removed.
You will ask, then, what in the world do they want with me just now in Berlin? My answer is, on the one side, I really do not know; on the other, I believe that it is intended to give, during the winter, some great concerts, with the addition of all their best means, and that I am to direct them, some in church, and some in the concert hall; but whether they will ever take place seems to me very doubtful: at all events these are, in my opinion, the only projects which can or will be carried out at this time.
Berlin, August 14th, 1841.
Dear and esteemed Herr President,
Though so much delighted by recognizing on the address of your letter of yesterday the well-known writing, I was equally grieved by the grave and mournful tone of your words, and I cannot tell you how much the intelligence of your continued illness alarms and distresses me. It is, indeed, often the case, that in moments of indisposition, everything seems to us covered with a black veil,—that illness drags within its domain, not only the body, but also the spirit and the thoughts (thus it is always with me when I am ailing or ill), but with returning health, these mournful images are chased away. God grant this may be the case with you, and soon, too, very soon; such sorrowful moments, however, are not less distressing at the time, though they quickly pass away, and are forgotten. Would that I could do anything to make you more cheerful, or to drive away such sad thoughts! These are the moments when distance seems doubly painful; when cordially-loved and honoured friends are in suffering, and yet we must go on living apart from them, instead of being near to sympathize with them, even if unable to do them good, or to alleviate their troubles.
You say that my letters are agreeable to you. I shall therefore frequently write; let me know if I do so too often; and Heaven grant that, in return, I may soon receive good news of your recovery, from yourself, or one of your family!
I have now been a fortnight here with my family, and am living with my mother and brother and sisters, in the very same house, which I quitted twelve years ago, with a heavy heart. The more unaccountable is it to me that, in spite of the delight of being with my mother and family once more, in spite, also, of every advantage, and many and glad memories, there is scarcely a place in all Germany where I feel so little at home as here. The ground of this may be, that all the causes which formerly made it impossible for me to begin and to continue my career in Berlin, and which drove me away, still subsist, just as they formerly did, and are likely, alas! to subsist to the end of time. There is the same frittering away of all energies and all people, the same unpoetical striving after outward results, the same superfluity of knowledge, the same failure in production, and the same want of nature, the same illiberality and backwardness as to progress and development, by which, indeed, though the latter are rendered safer and less dangerous, still they are robbed of all merit, and of all life. I believe that these qualities will one day be reproduced here in all things; that it is the case with music, there can be no doubt whatever. The King has the best inclination to alter and to improve all this; but if he were to hold fast his will steadily for a succession of years, and were he to find none but people with the same will, working unweariedly in accordance with it,—even then, results and happy consequences could not be anticipated, till after a succession of years had elapsed; yet here these are expected first and foremost. The soil must be entirely ploughed and turned up before it can bring forth fruit, at least so it seems to me in my department; the musicians work, each for himself, and no two agree; the amateurs are divided and absorbed into thousands of small circles; besides, all the music one hears is, at the best, only indifferent; criticism alone is keen, close, and well-studied. These are no very flattering prospects, I think, for the approaching period, and to “organize this from the foundation” is not my affair, for I am deficient both in talent and inclination for the purpose. I am, therefore, waiting to know what is desired of me, and probably this will be limited to a certain number of concerts, which the Academy of Arts is to give in the coming winter, and which I am then to direct. In my next letter, I will write you some musical details. Heaven grant that I may soon be tranquillized about your recovery, and may we meet again in cheerfulness and health; God grant it!—Ever your faithful
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, August 23rd, 1841.
Dear Herr President,
You see that I take advantage of your permission, and write constantly; if it be too much for you, let me know it, or do not read my letters. May it please God that I shall soon receive good news of your returning health! I think of it every day, and I wish it every day! In my previous letter, I promised you some details of musical life here, so far as I am acquainted with it. Unfortunately, there is very little that is cheering to relate. Here, as everywhere else, it is principally the committees which ought to be answerable for this; while, as these are appointed, more or less, by the public, I cannot make the distinction which seems so usual with the Berliners, who abuse and revile all committees, both musical and others, and yet like to see them remain in their old form. The whole tendency of the musicians, as well as of the dilettanti, is too little directed to the practical; they play chiefly that they may talk about it, before and afterwards, so the discussions are better and wiser than in most other places in Germany, but the music more defective. Unfortunately, there is very little to discuss with regard to music and its deficiencies; the only thing to be done is to feel, and to improve it; so I have not the least idea how it is ever to become better. In the orchestra (excellent as some individual members of it are), this is, alas! too perceptible. In operas and symphonies, I have heard blunders, and false notes constantly played, which could only proceed from the grossest carelessness. The people are Royal functionaries, and cannot be brought to account, and if the conversation turns on these faults afterwards, they strive to prove that there is no such thing as time, or should be none,—what can I say? but item, it goes badly. I have played my trio ten or twelve times here; on each occasion the same mistakes were made in the time, and the same careless blunders in the accompaniment, though they were the first artists here who played with me. The blame of this state of things rests chiefly on Spontini, who was for so long a period at their head, and who rather oppressed, than sought to elevate and improve, the many excellent musicians in this orchestra. My conviction is, that Spohr would be the man to aid them, and to restore proper order; but just because he is so, he will not be elected; too many talk about it, and wish to have everything in ideal beauty; and this produces mediocrity. The dilettanti doings are even worse. Their chief organ and institution is the Academy for Singing, and there each individual considers himself far superior to the Director. But if they really did all know properly how things should be, they would sing better together,—whoever directed,—and the false notes, and errors in time, would disappear,—but they by no means disappear. So here again, it is mostly all talk. I lately heard Pasta in “Semiramide.” She sings now so fearfully out of tune, especially in the middle notes, that it is quite painful to listen to her; but, of course, the splendid remains of her great talent, the traces of a first-class singer, are often unmistakable. In any other city, this dreadful want of tune would have been felt first of all, and, afterwards, the remembrance that she was a great artist would have recurred; here every one said, beforehand, that here was the Pasta, she was old, she could no longer sing in tune, so this must be put out of the question. In other places, they would perhaps have unjustly abased her; here they as unjustly praised her to the skies, and after deliberate reflection, and entire consciousness of the state of things, they continued to be delighted,—this is a bad kind of delight!
How hypochondriacal this letter is become! I ought rather to write to you in a gayer strain, to cheer you. Next time I shall try to find a more rose-coloured aspect; forgive the dark-brown hues of to-day.[51] With the most heartfelt and cordial wishes for your recovery, I am always, your loving
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, October 12th, 1841.
... I do not know what you have been told about Berlin and its prospects. If, however, you allude to the project of which all the people and all the journals are speaking, that of establishing a Musical Conservatorium here, then I regret to be obliged to say, that I know no more about it than every one else seems to know. It is said the desire for it exists, and perhaps a remote prospect, but far too remote for anything to be told about it with the least certainty at present. Years may pass away, nothing may ever come of it (which is not at all improbable), and also it may soon be again discussed. During the last three months which I passed here I came to this conclusion, on seeing the proceedings more closely. I am so kindly received on every side, that personally I can wish for nothing better, and have only cause for gratitude. But though it is easy for a person here to do what he chooses, it is proportionably difficult to aid the cause; and yet that is, after all, the most important point, and should be the very first. If I only knew how to make this better! In the meanwhile I write music, and when asked a question I answer it.
Berlin, October 21st, 1841.
Dear David,
Thanks for your having at once read through ‘Antigone.’ I felt assured beforehand that it would please you beyond measure when you did so; and the very impression which reading it made on me, is in fact the cause of the affair being accomplished. There was a great deal of talking about it, but no one would begin; they wished to put it off till next autumn, and so forth, but as the noble style of the piece fascinated me so much, I got hold of old Tieck, and said “Now or never!” and he was amiable, and said “Now!” and so I composed music for it to my heart’s content; we have two rehearsals of it daily, and the choruses are executed with such precision, that it is a real delight to listen to them. All in Berlin of course think that we are very sly, and that I composed the choruses to become a court favourite, or a court musicus, or a court fool; while at the beginning I thought, on the contrary, that I would not mix myself up with the affair; but the piece itself, with its extraordinary beauty and grandeur, drove everything else out of my head, and only inspired me with the wish to see it performed as soon as possible. The subject in itself was glorious, and I worked at it with heartfelt pleasure. It seems to me very remarkable that there is so much in art quite unchangeable. The parts of all these choruses are to this day so genuinely musical, and yet so different from each other, that no man could wish anything finer for his composition. If it were not so difficult here to come to any kind of judgment about a work! There are only shameless flatterers, or equally shameless critics to be met with, and there is nothing to be done with either, for both from the very first deprive us of all pleasure. As yet I have had only to do with admiration. After this performance the learned will, no doubt, come forward and reveal to me how I should and must have composed, had I been a Berliner.—Your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, October 28th, 1841.
Sir,
The kind and amiable feelings which your letter of yesterday testified towards me, caused me great pleasure, and I beg to thank you very sincerely and truly. Although I entirely agree with you that my choruses to ‘Antigone’ will furnish an opportunity for a number of unfair and malignant attacks, still I cannot meet these unpleasant probabilities by the means which you are so good as to propose to me. I have always made it an inviolable rule, never to write on any subject connected with music, even in newspapers, nor either directly or indirectly to prompt any article to be written on my own compositions; and although I am well aware how often this must be both a temporary and sensible disadvantage, still I cannot deviate from a resolution which I have strictly followed out under all circumstances. I decline, therefore, accepting your obliging offer; but I beg you will believe that my gratitude for the friendly intentions you expressed remains the same; and in the hope of soon finding an opportunity to repeat this assurance in person, I am, etc.[53]
Berlin, December 15th, 1841.
... When I was lately in society, I was seated next a lady at supper who spoke the South German dialect, and seemed at home in Stuttgart, so I thought I would ask her if she knew anything of Tübingen, and inquired about Professor Köstlin. She said she did not know him, but one of her acquaintances had written to her that he had been recently betrothed. This was the first happy news. She did not know the name of the bride, but so far she remembered, that she was from Munich, and a fine musical genius. I had instantly a presentiment. I vowed it must be Josephine Lang. She thought it was another name; but she would look at the letter when she went home. Next morning I got a note. “The bride of Herr Köstlin is Josephine Lang after all, and he has been recently in Munich, and then in Stuttgart with her,” etc. Had it not been for this last piece of intelligence, I would have written to you instantly, to offer you both my congratulations, and to express my most heartfelt joy. Now I have got your welcome letter, and the details of the piece of good news the South German lady told me; first, then, receive my thanks for it, and then accept my fervent prayers for a blessing on your fortunate union, my wishes for health for you and your bride (happiness and every other good you already have), and my cordial, most cordial sympathy in all connected with you both, now and for the future. Whatever concerns you, concerns me also. If I were not the most miserable correspondent in the world, I should have written to your bride six months ago, to thank her for the two books of songs she published. I have done so in thought twenty times at least. It is long since I have seen any new music so genial, or which affected me so deeply, as these charming songs; their appearance was equally unexpected and welcome, not only to me, but to all those whose predilections are in accordance with my own, who participate in my love of music, and feel in a similar manner with myself. I sent my Sister a copy at the time from Leipzig, but when it arrived she had already bought one, without our ever having corresponded on the subject. The “poem” in F sharp major, is, I think, best of all, and the “Lenau Meer,” in C major, and the “Frühlingskinder” in E, and the “Goethe’schen geliebten Bäume” in D; I also think the “Blumauer’sche” in F major 3/8 wonderfully lovely. Nothing more charming could be devised than the happy way in which they prattle together, one after the other telling their tale, and all so delicate and sportive, and a little amorous too. In so many passages in both books, I thought I heard Josephine Lang’s voice, though it is a long time now since I have heard her sing; but there are many inflections peculiar to her, and which she inherits from the grace of God, and when such a turn occurred in the music, she made a little turn with her head; and in fact the whole form, and voice, and manner, were once more placed before my eyes by these songs. I intended to have written all this to her, and to have thanked her a thousand times in my name, and in that of all my friends. Now this will come sadly in the background, for our cordial congratulations must take place of everything else, and prevent any other topic being alluded to. But when you tell her of these, tell her at the same time what pleasure she caused us all.
For Heaven’s sake, urge her to continue composing. It is really your duty towards us all, who continually long and look for good new music. She once sent me a collection of the music of various composers, with some of her own, saying that among so many master-works she hoped I would view her attempts with indulgence, etc. Oh, Gemini! how petty many of these chefs-d’œuvre appear beside her fresh music! So, as I said, instigate her strongly to new compositions.
If I have still a wish to form, it is that your blissful betrothal mood may be continued in marriage; that is, may you be like me, who feel every day of my life that I cannot be sufficiently thankful to God for my happiness.
Do not punish me for my laziness as a correspondent. I really cannot contrive to write a tolerably sensible letter to-day; still, you must write to me from time to time. If it were by music I should not complain, for your music is speech, though probably you have other things to think of.
And now farewell for to-day, and remember kindly your devoted
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
London, June 21st, 1842.
Dear Mother,
Your letter of yesterday was most charming, and gave us so much pleasure,[54] that I must thank you for it in detail to-day; I could scarcely do so as I wished for the previous one, containing quite a kaleidoscope of events in Berlin, which through the glasses of your description assumed constant novel and pleasing forms. If I could write half as well, you should receive to-day the most charming letter, for we are daily seeing the most beautiful and splendid objects; but I am somewhat fatigued by the incessant bustle of this last week, and for two days past I have been chiefly lying on the sofa reading ‘Wilhelm Meister,’ and strolling through the fields with Klingemann in the evening, to try to restore myself.
So if the tone of this letter is rather languid and weary, it accurately paints my feelings. I have really been urged to do too much. Lately, when playing the organ in Christ Church, Newgate Street, I almost thought, for a few moments, I must have been suffocated, so great was the crowd and pressure round my seat at the organ; and two days afterwards I played in Exeter Hall before three thousand people, who shouted hurrahs and waved their handkerchiefs, and stamped with their feet till the hall resounded with the uproar; at the moment I felt no bad effects from this, but next morning my head was confused and stupefied. Add to this the pretty and most charming Queen Victoria, who looks so youthful, and is so gently courteous and gracious, who speaks such good German and who knows all my music so well; the four books of songs without words and those with words, and the symphony, and the “Hymn of Praise.” Yesterday evening I was sent for by the Queen, who was almost alone with Prince Albert, and who seated herself near the piano and made me play to her; first seven of the “songs without words,” then the serenade, two impromptus on “Rule Britannia,” Lützow’s “Wilde Jagd,” and “Gaudeamus igitur.” The latter was somewhat difficult, but remonstrance was out of the question, and as they gave the themes, of course it was my duty to play them. Then the splendid grand gallery in Buckingham Palace where they drank tea, and where two boars by Paul Potter are hanging, and a good many other pictures which pleased me well. I must tell you that my A minor symphony has had great success with the people here, who one and all receive us with a degree of amiability and kindness which exceeds all I have ever yet seen in the way of hospitality, though this sometimes makes me feel my head quite bewildered and strange, and I am obliged to collect my thoughts in order not to lose all self-possession.
June 22nd.—To-day, however, I can continue my letter in a more cheerful spirit; I have slept away my weary mood, and feel again quite fresh and well. Yesterday evening I played my concerto in D minor, and directed my “Hebrides” in the Philharmonic, where I was received like an old friend, and where they played with a degree of enthusiasm which caused me more pleasure than I can describe. The people make such a fuss with me this time that I feel really quite abashed; I believe they clapped their hands and stamped for at least ten minutes after the concerto, and insisted on the “Hebrides” being repeated. The directors are to give a dinner at Greenwich next week, and we are to sail down the Thames in corpore and to make speeches. They talk of bringing out ‘Antigone’ at Covent Garden as soon as they can procure a tolerable translation. Lately I went to a concert in Exeter Hall where I had nothing whatever to do, and was sauntering in quite coolly with Klingemann,—in the middle of the first part, and an audience of about three thousand present,—when just as I came in at the door, such a clamour, and clapping, and shouting, and standing up ensued, that I had no idea at first that I was concerned in it; but I discovered it was so. On reaching my place, I found Sir Robert Peel and Lord Wharncliffe close to me, who continued to applaud with the rest till I made my bow and thanked them. I was immensely proud of my popularity in Peel’s presence. When I left the concert they gave me another hurrah.
Oh! how splendidly Mrs. Butler, at Chorley’s, lately read aloud Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra;’ we have always been on the most friendly terms since our acquaintance twelve years ago, when she was Miss Fanny Kemble; and she gave this reading in honour of me, and quite too beautiful it was; and Lady Morgan was there, and Winterhalter, and Mrs. Jameson, and Duprez, who afterwards sang a French Romance of a starving old beggar, and another of a young man losing his reason, with the refrain, “Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne me rendra fou!” “Sweet!” said the ladies; and Benedict, and Moscheles, and the Grotes—who can enumerate them all! This evening at seven o’clock we dine with Bunsen, and as we do not know what to do with our evening afterwards, we shall probably drive to Charles Kemble’s about eleven o’clock and be among his early guests; the late ones will not arrive till after midnight. We have too such invariably bright and beautiful weather. One day lately we saw first in the morning the Tower, then the Katharine Docks, then the Tunnel, and ate fish at Blackwall, had luncheon at Greenwich, and home by Peckham; we travelled on foot, in a carriage, on a railway, in a boat, and in a steamboat. The day after to-morrow we intend to go to Manchester for a couple of days, and next week be on our way back to Frankfort. I have given up the musical festival at the Hague, though they pressed me very hard to go there for my “Hymn of Praise.” I wish to have nothing to do with music during the next few weeks.
I have still a vast deal to say to Fanny about the Bridgewater Collection, where pictures and sketches by Hensel are hanging up, and Sutherland House, and Grosvenor House, etc. etc.; and to Rebecca, about the meeting of scientific men at Manchester, to which I was invited, but unfortunately I could not go to greet Whewell. Jacoby and Enke were also there; I alone was absent.
But I must conclude. May we soon have a happy meeting, dearest Mother, and dearest Brother and Sisters.—Your
Felix.
Berlin, January 26th, 1842.
Dear Eckert,
I have been long in your debt for an answer to your kind letter; pray forgive this. I have been living such a stirring, excited life this year, that I am more than ever unable to carry on any correspondence. I need not tell you the great pleasure I felt in hearing from you, and always shall feel every time that I do so. You know how entirely you won my regard during the years when you resided in Leipzig, and how highly I both honour and estimate your talents and your character. It is really difficult to say which, in the present day, should be considered most important; without talent nothing can be done, but without character just as little. We see instances of this day after day, in people of the finest capacities, who once excited great expectations, and yet accomplish nothing. May Heaven bestow on you a continuous development of both, in the same measure that within the last few years you have made progress; or rather, bestow all this on yourself, for Heaven can do no more than endow you with the germs and capabilities for this end, with which it has already so richly endowed you: the rest becomes the affair, and the responsibility, of each individual. Such a preaching tone must sound very strange to you, living in joyous Paris; but it is a part of the world and of life, that every wild animal has its own special skin and roar, so I continue to roar in my old tones.
Hofrath Förster sent me yesterday your “Lieder ohne Worte,” and your overture, so I have occupied myself with little else than with you and your compositions, and heartily rejoice in both; in the former from the memory of the past, and in the latter from the pleasure of the present. Both yesterday and to-day I have looked through, and played through, your charming “Lieder” with the greatest delight; they all please me, and are thoroughly genial, earnest music. More, more, a thousand times more, in this and every other style! The overture in F sharp major, too, caused me great pleasure, and suits me almost throughout; a few passages only seem to me rather too amplified: we must not write, however, but speak on this subject when we meet again, although the only really important thing I have to say with regard to your music, I have already said in this letter,—more, more! You have reached a standard, that may in every relation well be called a mastership, which all musicians or friends to music must highly esteem, and beyond which nothing actually extrinsic (whether it be called erudition or recognition, facility and knowledge, or honour and fame) is any longer worth striving for; but this is, in my opinion, just the time when true work really first begins. The question is then solely what is felt and experienced within a man’s own breast, and uttered from the depths of his heart, be it grave or gay, bitter or sweet,—character and life are displayed here; and in order to prevent existence being dissipated and wasted when brilliant and happy—or depressed and destroyed when the reverse—there is but one safeguard—to work, and to go on working. So, for your sake, I have only one wish, that you may bring to light what exists within you, in your nature and feelings, which none save yourself can know or possess. In your works, go deeper into your inmost being, and let them bear a distinct stamp; let criticism and intellect rule as much as you please in all outward questions and forms, but in all inner and original thought, the heart alone, and genuine feeling. So work daily, hourly, and unremittingly,—there you never can attain entire mastery or perfection; no man ever yet did, and therefore it is the highest vocation of life.
I was three weeks in Leipzig not long since, where I was well amused, and both heard and assisted in much good music. One morning I went to the Klengels; it was on the Wednesday of the fast-week, at eleven o’clock in the forenoon; the old gentleman was sitting in his dressing-gown at the piano. As during the whole week there had been no rehearsal of any concert, he had made Nanné sing a little. The conversation turned on Julius’s “Lieder.” “If we only had an alto!” said they. I offered to sing falsetto; the music was brought, and good red wine beside. We sat round the table, and sang all his songs, which delighted me exceedingly, and some of yours also. I had a great deal to do that morning, but I stayed on till half-past one o’clock, and could not resolve to come away. See if you can find such mornings in Paris! “And you in Berlin,” you will reply.
Now, farewell; continue your regard for me, and ever believe me your friend,
Felix.
Interlachen, August 18th, 1842.
My dearest Mother,
Do you still remember our staying, twenty years ago, in a pretty small inn here, shaded by large walnut-trees (I sketched some of them), and our lovely young landlady? When I was here ten years ago, she refused to give me a room, I looked so shabby from my pedestrian journey; I believe that was the only single vexation I at that time experienced, during the whole course of my tour. Now we are living here again as substantial people. The Jungfrau, with her silver horns, stands out against the sky, with the same delicate, elegant, and pointed outlines, and looks as fresh as ever. The landlady, however, is grown old, and had it not been for her manner, I should never have recognized her to be the same person. I have again sketched the walnut-trees, much better than I did at that time, but far worse than they deserve; the post in Untersee brings us letters from the same house as it did then, and many new houses are built; and the Aar gurgles, and glides along as rapid, and smooth, and green as ever,—time is, time was, time is past. I have, in fact, nothing more to write about, except that we are all well, and think of you daily and hourly.[55]
Descriptions of Switzerland are impossible, and instead of a journal, such as I formerly kept, I this time sketch furiously, and sit in front of a mountain, and try to draw its likeness, and do not give it up till I have quite spoiled the sketch; but I take care to have at least one new landscape in my book every day. He who has not seen the Gemmi knows nothing of Switzerland; but this is what people say of every new object in this most incredibly beautiful country. With regard to this land, I feel just as I do about clever books; when one is exchanged for another, in every exchange a new phase presents itself, always equally fine and equally admirable. So now, when I see this country with my wife, I have quite a different impression from the previous times; then I wished forthwith to climb every-crested mountain, and to run into every meadow; this time, on the contrary, I should like to stay everywhere, and to remain for months in one spot. I am by no means sure that some fine spring I may not set off, bag and baggage, not returning to the north till all the leaves are gone. Such, at least, are my daily thoughts, and castles in the air. In a few days we are going into Oberland; I rejoice at the thoughts of the full moon in Lauterbrunn. We then return here, across Furka and Grimsel to the Lake of Lucerne and the Righi, and thence away from the land of all lands, and back to Germany,—where it is not so bad, after all. I own there are many days when the world pleases me most exceedingly. I am writing fine novelties, dear Mother! Forgive me, for I have nothing better to say; besides, I know that Paul wrote to you at full length a few days ago. When we meet, I shall have a tale to tell that will know no end. I wish I only knew whether I am to remain in Berlin permanently, or merely for a few weeks. How gladly would I write to you that it was to be the former; but the whole affair has taken so many strange twists and turns of late, that I feel quite astray and bewildered when I try to think what is to be done. On my return it will all come right, no doubt. Do not be displeased with me, I entreat, on account of this prolonged uncertainty; it is no fault of mine.—Ever your
Felix.
Zurich, September 3rd, 1842.
Dear Mother,
I am not so hard-hearted a correspondent as to rest satisfied with only writing to you once from Switzerland. Indeed, our Swiss expedition is drawing nearly to a close for the present. There are few more herdsmen’s huts to be seen; neither glaciers, nor anything of the kind; rocks, and so forth, just as little; but we still have the greenish-blue lake, and the clean houses, and the bright gardens, and a chain of mountains, such as could only stand on the confines of a land like this. So my greetings to you all once more from Switzerland! How beautiful all has been, and most thoroughly have we enjoyed it! A gay mood, perfect health, and clear weather, combined to impress all the marvels indelibly on our souls. We were obliged to give up the expeditions we had planned the last few days, owing to the rain, and mists, and unfavourable weather; unfortunately the Righi was among the number, and the Schaffhausen Rheinfall, neither of which is there any chance of our seeing, for the weather continues cloudy, and the air very cold and comfortless for a journey. But, with these two exceptions, we have seen everything in as great beauty as we could have wished or expected; and I am particularly delighted that, on the last fine forenoon, I accomplished my expedition over the Surene (“Durch der Surener furchtbar Eisgebirg,” vide ‘William Tell’). On the same afternoon it began to rain in Engelberg, and next day I was obliged to tramp through the whole of the Unterwalden under an umbrella, nor has it ever been fair since. I sought out my former guide, and we mutually recognized each other, to our great joy.[56] He is now the landlord of the ‘Crown’ in Meiringen. Dearest Mother, recommend the man and his house to all your correspondents. I am quite determined to write to London and ask Murray to praise the ‘Crown’ in Meiringen, in his next red Guide-book to Switzerland; he can do so with a clear conscience. Michael has a good house, an extremely pretty wife, and five fine children, for whom I bought a few little trifles and some toy soldiers in Untersee, and thus we had a happy meeting after the lapse of eleven years. He brought me the words of the song in G major he sang at that time, the melody of which I had retained, but always plagued myself in vain about the verses. When I told him that we wished to go to the Grimsel, he got very red, and said, “Then I must go too—I must go.” He entrusted the public room (which is his department) to the care of a friend, and was ready next morning with his mountain staff and blouse, and led the horses past some awkward places, and the ladies past the most dangerous ones, and us too, when it was possible to cut off the distance by footpaths; and the people in Guttann laughed at seeing him again. “It is only for a little while,” said he; and a man who was making hay called out to him, “Oho! Michael, so you can’t give up being a guide yet?” He confided to me, that it did sometimes seem hard to be obliged to do so, and if he did not think of his wife and children, who knows what might happen? We separated on the Grimsel. This was a pleasant episode. I have sketched a great deal, and taken much trouble, but more than a mere scrawl cannot be accomplished here. Still, it may serve as a kind of diary, and as such I feel an attachment to all the old leaves in my book, and to the present ones also.
Kücken has just been with me; he is going to Paris, having composed an opera, which he is anxious to have performed first in Berlin; he got the libretto from a man in Vienna. The Faulhorn, Meyerbeer, Rungenhagen, the Brünig, the Lungernsee, Donizetti, and the drivers, enlivened the conversation by turns,—not forgetting the Conservatorium in Berlin, and the Grimsel and Furka in the snow. But what kind of letter is this? Paul is resolved to see Zurich, so I must conclude. I feel as if you must be provoked at my chit-chat, all about nothing. Well, then, we are all perfectly hale and hearty, and love you very dearly, and think of you always and everywhere, and send you a thousand greetings, and hope for a joyful meeting. Such is, after all, the chief substance of every letter we long for, and so it is of this one also. Au revoir, dearest Mother.—Ever your
Felix.
Frankfort, September 21st, 1842.
Dear Herr Simrock,
I write to you to-day on a particular subject, relying on your most entire discretion and perfect secrecy; but I know too well from experience, your kindly feeling towards myself, to doubt the fulfilment of my wish, and in full confidence in your silence I shall now come to the point. During my stay here I heard by chance that my friend and colleague in art, Herr X——, had written to you about the publication of some new works, but hitherto had received no answer. Now both in the interest of art, as well as in that of my friend, I should indeed be very glad if the answer were to prove favourable; and as I flatter myself that you place some value on my opinion and my wish, it occurred to me to write to you myself on the subject, and to beg of you, if you possibly can, to make some of my friend’s works known to the German public. My wish for the secrecy which I beg you to observe towards every one and under all circumstances, is owing to this: that I feel certain Herr X—— would be frantic if he had the most remote idea that I had taken such a step on his behalf. I know that nothing would be more intolerable to him than not to stand absolutely on his own ground, and therefore he never must know of this letter; but, on the other hand, it is the positive duty of one artist towards another to assist as much as possible in overcoming difficulties and annoyances, when such efforts are noble and in a good cause, and both of these are so to the highest degree in this case. I therefore beg you to publish some of his compositions, and, above all, if possible, to enter into a more permanent connection with him. I am well aware that the German publishers have not hitherto had any very brilliant success (as it is called) with the works he has written, and whether this may be otherwise in future I cannot pretend to say; but that they well deserve to succeed, is a point on which I have no doubt; and on that account, and solely on that account, I now make my request. Were it not so, however great a friend he might be of mine, I would not do this. In fact, the only consideration which ought to have any influence, is the intrinsic value of a work,—that being the only thing which would inevitably ensure success, if there were any honesty in the world. It is too provoking to hear the oft-told tale of clever, meritorious artists, who, at the beginning of their career, are in such a state of anxious solicitude that their works should be purchased and made known, and when one of these chances to make a good hit, and gains great applause and becomes vastly popular, still this success does not cause him satisfaction equal to all his previous anxiety and vexation; for this very reason I should like you to act differently, and to place more value on true worth than on any chance result. This system, in fact, must soon be abolished, and in such a case the only question is, how soon? and after how many more annoyances? and this is just the point where a publisher can be useful and valuable to an artist. When universal popularity ensues, they are all ready enough to come forward, but I think you are the very man to act differently, not losing sight of the ideal, but also doing what is practical and right. Forgive the liberty I have taken, and if possible, comply with my wish. So far as I have heard, there is no pretension to any considerable sum for these works, but a very strong desire that they may be generally circulated and made known, and that the correspondence should be carried on in a friendly artistic spirit. If you will or can enter into the affair, I rely on your sacred silence as to my interference, my name, or my request. If I shortly hear from my friend that you have written to him in a kind manner, and have agreed to assist him in making the public familiar with his songs and pianoforte works, how heartily shall I then rejoice! Perhaps you will say, what does this lazy composer, and still more lazy correspondent, mean? But I have improved in the latter respect, as the figura proves; and with regard to the former, I mean to set to work shortly, and to overwhelm you with music-paper (as soon as it is well filled), and to request in my own name, what I now so urgently and anxiously entreat in that of my friend.—Ever yours, with esteem,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, October 10th, 1842
Sir,
If I ever was agreeably surprised by any letter, it was by yours, which I received here yesterday. Your kind and immediate compliance with my request, and also the very handsome present you make me for my “Songs without Words,” render it really difficult for me to know how to thank you, and to express the great pleasure you have conferred on me; I must confess that I had not expected such ready courtesy, and satisfactory compliance with my letter of solicitation. I now doubly rejoice in having taken a step which a feeling of false shame, and that odious worldly maxim, “Don’t interfere in the affairs of others,” which occurred to me while writing, nearly deterred me from carrying out. Your conduct, as displayed in your letter of yesterday, has confirmed me more than ever in what I esteem to be good and right; so I intend to lay aside for ever the (so-called) highly-prized worldly wisdom, and henceforth to pursue a straightforward course according to my own first impulse and feeling; if it fails a hundred times, still one such success is ample compensation. What artist, too, would not, at the same time, be highly delighted by the kind manner in which you allude to my compositions, and evince your approbation? Who would not prize and esteem this beyond all other recognition? I ought especially to feel thus, and by hereafter producing better works, strive to deserve the good and friendly feeling shown to me for my present ones. I hope one day, in some degree at least, to succeed in doing so; and if not, you will at all events know that neither goodwill nor earnest efforts were wanting. So I thank you for the fulfilment of my request, I thank you for the flattering and handsome present, and, above all, I thank you for your kindly sentiments about myself and my music, both of which are so much indebted to you, and which will fill me with gratitude and pleasure so long as I live.—I am, with esteem, your
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Berlin, October 15th, 1842.
... There is so much talk about music, and yet so little really said. For my part I believe that words do not suffice for such a purpose, and if I found they did suffice, then I certainly would have nothing more to do with music. People often complain that music is ambiguous, that their ideas on the subject always seem so vague, whereas every one understands words; with me it is exactly the reverse; not merely with regard to entire sentences, but also as to individual words; these, too, seem to me so ambiguous, so vague, so unintelligible when compared with genuine music, which fills the soul with a thousand things better than words. What the music I love expresses to me, is not thought too indefinite to be put into words, but, on the contrary, too definite. I therefore consider every effort to express such thoughts commendable, but still there is something unsatisfactory too in them all, and so it is with yours also. This, however, is not your fault, but that of the poetry, which does not enable you to do better. If you ask me what my idea is, I say—just the song as it stands; and if I have in my mind a definite term or terms with regard to one or more of these songs, I will disclose them to no one, because the words of one person assume a totally different meaning in the mind of another person, because the music of the song alone can awaken the same ideas and the same feelings in one mind as in another,—a feeling which is not, however, expressed by the same words.[58] Resignation, melancholy, the praise of God, a hunting-song,—one person does not form the same conception from these that another does. Resignation is to the one, what melancholy is to the other; the third can form no lively idea of either. To any man who is by nature a very keen sportsman, a hunting-song and the praise of God would come pretty much to the same thing, and to such a one the sound of the hunting-horn would really and truly be the praise of God, while we hear nothing in it but a mere hunting-song; and if we were to discuss it ever so often with him, we should get no further. Words have many meanings, and yet music we could both understand correctly. Will you allow this to serve as an answer to your question? At all events, it is the only one I can give,—although these too are nothing, after all, but ambiguous words!
Berlin, October 23rd 1842.
Your Excellency,
Permit me respectfully to ask whether you will be so good as to assist in procuring me an audience of his Majesty, to place before him my present position here, and my wishes with regard to it.
Your Excellency is aware that I am not so situated as to be able to accept the proposal of Herr Eichhorn to place myself at the head of the whole of the Evangelical Church music here. As I already told the Minister (and your Excellency quite agreed to this in our last conversation), such a situation, if considered practically, must either consist of a general superintendence of all the present organists, choristers, school-masters, etc., or of the improvement and practice of the singing choirs in one or more cathedrals. Neither of these, however, is the kind of work which I particularly desire. Moreover, the first of these functions is superfluous if such places are properly filled; and the second, to be really effectually carried out, demands more vast and comprehensive regulations, and greater pecuniary resources than could be obtained at this moment.
With regard to the other plans which were proposed, partly for the reorganization of the present Institute, and partly for the establishment of a new one, difficulties have arisen which render the establishment of these plans void; and thus the case now occurs which your Excellency may remember I always anticipated, much to my regret, at the very beginning of our correspondence in December, 1840,—there is no opportunity on my side for a practical, influential, musical efficiency in Berlin.
Herr Eichhorn declared that this would be altered in the course of time; that everything was being done in order to bring about a different state of things, and he requested me to wait with patience till the building was completed which it was proposed to erect.
I think, on the contrary, that it would not be responding properly on my part to the confidence the King has placed in me, if I were not at once to employ my energies in fulfilling what your Excellency at that time told me, in the name of the King, were his designs; if, instead of at least making the attempt to animate and ennoble my art in this country (as your Excellency was pleased to say), I were to continue to work for myself personally; if I were to wait instead of to act. The very depth of my gratitude for such flattering confidence constrains me to say all this candidly to his Majesty,—to state that circumstances, over which I have no control, now render the fulfilment of his commands impossible.
My wish is that his Majesty would permit me in the meantime to reside and to work, and to await his commands in some other place, where I could for the moment be useful and efficient. As soon as the building is finished, of which Herr Eichhorn spoke, or so soon as the King required any service from me, I should consider it a great happiness to hasten back and to exert my best energies for such a Sovereign, whose mandates are in themselves the highest rewards for an artist.
I would fain have written this to the King sooner, but when I reflected that my communication would only meet his Majesty’s eye among a vast number of others, I thought I could express my views and feelings of most sincere gratitude, more plainly and better, verbally, even if only by a few words; and that your Excellency may be so obliging as to promote my wish is my present request, and the object of this letter.—I am, your Excellency’s most devoted
Felix M. B.