-
-
|
-
-

EPTILITIZºº § |U||||||||||||||
|Nº||II C
tº. • * MD p F. ſu sº
ſºmºutmºn
i
i
rd
\;=
#.
#}
Eº cº-ºc a Cº. Cºcº ºr a = e º 'º e = e = e º 'º a cle - a cº - ºr a
Emmm.
*









Music
\ \\ C
WNES
\º
*
-
-->
--> *
-
------

SELECTED LETTERS
OF
* MEN DELSSOHNº.
... • *
º
&
:©
:
gº
ga
tº e A.
ſº
o
i
EDITED BY
W. F. ALEXANDER M.A.
lſ/ITH A W WAVTRODUCTION B V SZR GEORGE GROVE
AAWD A PORTRA/T OF MENDELSSOHAV
LONDON
SWAN SO N N EN SCHE IN & CO.
NEW YORK : MACMILLAN & CO.
1894

* rt,
\ºf C
\,\g, (..."
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF
EV E N T S.
-O-
# Jacob Ludwig F elix Mendelssohn.
Bartholdy, born, wº . February 3rd, 1809.
overture to “A Midsummer Night's
Dream” completed, . . August 6th, 1826.
Reformation Symphony composed, Winter of 1829-30.
Journey to Italy commences, • August, 1830.
Return from Italy and Switzerland
to Munich, Q ſº • October, 1831.
Settles at Düsseldorf as Intendant
of Church and Secular Music, . September 27th, 1833.
Commences “St. Paul,” . tº ‘March, 1834.
Leaves Düsseldorf to become Con-
ductor of the Gewandhaus con- commencement of .
certs at Leipsic, . e & I835.
His father, Abraham Mendelssohn,
dies, * e G . Movember 19th, 1835.
First performance of “St. Paul,” . May, 1836. .
Married to Cécile Jeanrenaud, . March 28th, 1837.
3 : T.263
iv CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF EVENTS.
The Lobgesang, first performed, . June 25th, 1840.
His Mother dies, . g . December 12th, 1842.
“Elijah" completed, e © July, 1846.
Mendelssohn conducts “Elijah" at
Birmingham, . tº . April 26th, 1847.
Death of his Sister, Fanny Hensel, . May 14th, 1847.
Mendelssohn dies, . © . . Movember 4th, 1847.
LETTER
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
CONTENTS.
--O-
TO HIS FAMILY. Weimar, 21st May, 1830
TO HIS FAMILY. Weimar, 25th May, 1830
TO HIS FAMILY. Rome, 8th Movember, 1830
TO HIS SISTERS. Rome, 22nd Movember,
1830 te g ©
TO HIS FATHER. Rome, Ioth December, 1830
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET IN BERLIN.
Maples, 13th April, 1831
TO HIS FAMILY. Rome, 4th April, 1831
TO PROFESSOR ZELTER OF BERLIN.
Rome, 16th June, 1831
FROM A LETTER TO HIS FAMILY.
Isola Bella, I4th July, 1831
. TO HIS FAMILY. Milan, 14th July, 1831
TO HIS SISTERS. Charney, 6th August,
I83.I . & º
TO HIS FAMILY. Munich, 6th October,
I83I . e o
TO HIS FAMILY. London, I Ith May, 1832
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING, DESSAU.
Coblemſ, 6th September, 1833
TO J. MOSCHELES IN LONDON.
Düsseldorf, 7th February, 1834
TO PASTOR SCHUBRING AT DESSAU.
Düsseldorf, I 5th /uly, 1834
TO HIS MOTHER. Düsseldorf, 4th Movemz-
ber, 1834 e º
TO SECRETARY HIRTE AT COLOGNE.
Düsseldorf, 18th May, 1835
5 -
PAGE
IO
I6
2O
27
32
36
57
6o
64
82
89
90
93
95
98
IOI
vi
CONTENTS.
LETTER
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
- XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
TO PASTOR SCHUBRING AT DESSAU.
Leiffsic, 6th December, 1835
TO HERR ADVOCAT CONRAD SCHLEIN ITZ
AT LEIPSIC. Berlin, Ist August, 1838
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING AT DESSAU.
Meißsic, 2nd AVovember, 1838
TO PROFESSOR SCHIRMER AT DijSSELDORF.
Berlin, 21st November, 1838
TO R. SIMROCK AT BONN. Zeipsic, 4th
March, 1839
TO J. MOSCHELES, LONDON. Zeipsic, 30th
& AVovember, 1839
FROM A LETTER TO MINISTER WON
FALKENSTEIN (proposing the founda-
tion of an Academy of Music in Leipsic).
Meißsic, 8th April, 1840
TO HIS MOTHER. Leipsic, 27th October,
I84o . e e
TO THE MUSICAL DIRECTOR, JULIUS RIETZ,
DüSSELDORF. Leipsic, 23rd April,
I84I . * > º
TO HIS MOTHER. Interlaken, 18th August,
- I842. ge
TO MARE ANDRE SOUCHAY, LUBECK.
Berlin, 15th October, 1842
TO PAUI, MENT) ELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
Birmingham, 26th August, 1846
TO CARL KLINGEMANN, LONDON.
Meißsic, 6th December, 1846
XXXII. TO GENERAL VON WEBER, BERLIN.
XXXIII.
Frankfort, 24th May, 1847
To HIS NEPHEW, SEBASTIAN HENSEL.
Baden-Baden, 13th June, 1847
PAGE
IO2
IO5
Io/
IO9
II 2
I I4
II 7
I 19
I 22
I24
I26
PREFACE.
~sºs-->
I HAVE been asked to say a few words to in-
troduce this new translation of a selection from
the letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy to
the public. Mendelssohn is so well-known and
so much beloved in England that to some this
may seem unnecessary. But there are still
many who, much as they enjoy his music, do
not know him in his almost equally attractive
character of a letter-writer, and to these the
present volume may be heartily recommended.
At any rate the task is a very pleasant one
to me, and I think that I am not without
justification in attempting it. I believed that
I knew these very letters well; and yet, on
reading them over again in Mr. Alexander's
version, they come upon me almost as freshly
vii
viii PREFACE.
as they did in 1861, when I first made their
acquaintance on the deck of the Austrian-
Lloyd steamer between Jaffa and Alexandria.
Not only had Mendelssohn the keenest in-
sight into the scenes, events, and persons that
came before him, but few writers have ever
had a happier knack of expression; in this
even Dean Stanley, the prince of letter-
writers, hardly exceeds him.
To convey such happy expressions — free
and gay, but never tinctured with slang—into
equivalent English is a very difficult task.
The reader must judge for himself how far
Mr. Alexander has succeeded. It appears to
me that he has been unusually fortunate.
G. GROVE.
Christmas, 1893.
* SELECTED
LETTERS OF MENDELSSOHN.
To HIS FAMILY.
WEIMAR, 21st May, 1830.
SINCE my travels began I can't remember such a
bright and fresh day's journeying as yesterday. Early
in the morning the sky was grey and clouded, but
later on the sun came out ; the air was cool; it was
Ascension Day, so the people all had their best clothes
on, and I saw them in one village going into church,
in the next coming out, in another they were all play-
ing bowls. The gardens were full of brilliant tulips,
and there was I driving fast through it all, getting a
view of everything. At Weissenfels they gave me a
little basket-carriage, and at Naumburg, a regular
open drosky; the luggage was piled up behind, hat
and cloak along with them ; and then I bought hyself
a pair of May nosegays, and so dashed through the
country in perfect holiday fashion. .
A
2 SELECTED LETTERS OF
Just past Naumburg, there appeared a party of
upper form boys from Pforta, who must perforce look
at me with envy; then we drove by President G.,
mounted in a trap which only just carried him, and
his daughters, or his wives—the two ladies, at all
events, who were with him, envied me likewise. We
trotted up the Kösener Hills, for the horses scarcely
needed to pull, and then we overhauled a procession
of overloaded waggoners, and they envied me, too,
for, indeed, I was worthy of envy. The country-side
looked so full of the spring and its brilliancy, all
bright and glad ; and then the sun went down
solemnly behind the hills. Then there came the
Russian ambassador, proceeding along with two great
four-horse chaises in a sombre, business-like style,
and I flew past him in my drosky like a hare,
and in the evening I got government horses again, so
that a slight vexation should not be wanting (it is
essential to pleasure by my theory), and all day I
composed nothing, but merely enjoyed myself. It
was a noble day, that is the truth, and one not to be
forgotten. I close this description with the remark
that the children of Eckartsberge play “Ringe, Rosen-
kranz,” just as they do with us, and did not let the
strange gentleman's presence disturb them, though he
looked very imposing. I should have liked nothing
better than to play with them myself.
May 24th.
This I wrote before I went to Goethe after walking
in the park early in the morning ; now I am still here,
MENDELSSOHN. 3
and have never been able to get further with the
letter. Very likely I shall remain here two days
longer, and I shall lose nothing by doing so, for I
have never yet found the old man so cheerful and
amiable as now, nor so sympathetic and full of talk.
But the real reason for my stopping is a fine one, and
makes me almost vain, I should rather say, proud ; I
will not conceal it from you. Goethe sent me yester-
day a letter addressed to a painter here, which I was
to deliver myself, and Ottilie told me in confidence it
contained a commission to paint my portrait, which
Goethe wished to add to a collection of portraits of
his acquaintance which he has long been making.
The thing rejoiced my heart (almost in the Biblical
sense); but as I have not yet encountered my kindly
painter, nor he me, it is clear that I must stop till
the day after to-morrow ; I don’t regret it, as I said
before, for I am having a glorious time here, and feel
such delight in being near my old hero. I have
dined with him every day till now, and my presence
is required again to-morrow morning. This evening
he gives a party, at which I am to play ; he talks
about everything, asks questions about everything;
it is a delight to hear him. But now I must give
you a reasonable and orderly account of my proceed-
ings, so that you may know all I have to tell.
The first morning I went to visit Ottilie, whom I
ſound indeed still in weak health, and complain-
ing sometimes, but just as amiable and charming to
me as ever. We have been together almost perpetu-
4. SELECTED LETTERS OF
ally ever since, and it has been a great pleasure to me
thus coming to know her more intimately.
Ulrica I find even more winning and sweet than
before. She has gained a seriousness that seems to
pervade her whole being, and the depth and unfailing
truth of her feeling make her one of the most beautiful
spirits I have ever met with. The two boys, Walter
and Wolff, are lively, industrious and affectionate; it is
delightful to hear them talking about “grandpapa's
Faust.” To come back to my narrative. I sent Zelter's
letter in to Goethe, who invited me to dinner. I found
him outwardly unchanged, but at first somewhat silent
and reserved ; I fancy he must have wanted to ob-
serve me, but at the moment I felt disappointed, and
thought to myself, “Now he is always like that.” But
then by good fortune the conversation happened to
turn on the Weimar “Women's Association ” and the
Chaos, a fantastic newspaper, which circulates among
the ladies, and to the staff of which I have just been
promoted myself.
The old man all at once became jovial, and began to
quiz the two ladies about their philanthropy and their
intellect, also about the subscriptions and their visita-
tion of the sick, which seemed particularly to move his
wrath. He appealed to me to join him in a revolt
against these things, and, when I would not, he re-
turned to his former indifference, but at last he
became more friendly and intimate than I had ever
known him before. It was beyond everything ! Talking
about the “Robber's Bride,” by Ries, he said it
contained everything a writer nowadays wanted to
MENDELSSOHN. 5.
make him happy, namely, a robber and a bride. Then
he railed against the universal sentimentality of young
people, and their perpetual melancholy. He told us
stories about a young lady whom he had courted once,
and who also had taken a certain interest in him. Then
came the turn of the bazaar for the benefit of the un-
fortunate, at which the Weimar ladies acted as sales-
women, and where he maintained it was impossible to
buy a single thing, because the young people arranged
beforehand between themselves who everything was to
go to, and then it was hidden away till the right buyer
appeared ; and so forth. After dinner, he all at once
began to hum, “Gute Kinder—hiibsche Kinder muss
immer lustig sein—tolles Volk,” and his eyes grew like
those of an old lion just falling asleep. Presently I
had to play to him, and he said it was very strange to:
him to think how long it was since he had heard any
music, and meanwhile great advances had been made
and he knew nothing of them. There were many things
I must explain to him, “some time we must have a
reasonable talk together.” Then he said to Ottilie,
“No doubt you have made all your wise arrangements,
but that doesn't avail against my commands, which are,
that you are to make tea here to-day, so that we may
keep each other company.” She asked if it would not
be too late, as Riemer would be coming and expect to
work with him; but he replied: “You gave your
children a holiday from their Latin this morning to
hear Felix play, so you can let me off my work too.”
Then he invited me to dinner to-day, and I played to
him for a long time in the evening. My three Welsh
6 SELECTED LETTERS OF
pieces' succeed admirably here, and I am practising
my English again. I had asked Goethe to say “du ’’
when he spoke to me, so the next day I received
a sort of message through Ottilie that then I should
have to stop longer than two days, as I had in-
tended, or else he would not have time to get used
to it. He said the same thing to me himself, and let
me feel I should be losing nothing by stopping
rather longer; besides, he asked me to dine with him
whenever I had no other engagement, so I have been
there daily till now. Yesterday I had to tell him every-
thing about Scotland, Hengstenberg, Spontini and
Hegel's aesthetics; then he sent me out to Tiefurt with
the ladies, but forbade me to go to Berke, because a
very pretty girl lives there, and he would not let me
fall into misfortune; and to crown it all, I think to my-
self this is indeed the very Goethe about whom people
used to affirm that he was not one person at all, but had
been formed by the blending together of many
smaller “Goethides 1’—truly I should be mad if I
regretted the loss of my time. To-day I am to play
him some things by Bach, Haydn and Mozart, and
conduct him down to the present time, as he says.
Besides, I have gone through the regular duties of the
visitor, and have seen the library and Iphigenia in
Aulis.
FELIX.
1 Opus I6
MENDELSSOHN. 7
TO HIS FAMILY.
WEIMAR, 25th May, 1830.
I HAVE just received your very welcome letter written
on Ascension Day, and must yield to the temptation
to send you another answer from here. To you, dear
Fanny, I am just about to send the copy of my
symphony, which I am having copied here and sent
to Leipsic (where, perhaps, it will be performed), with
strict injunctions that one copy shall be forwarded you
as soon as possible. Please collect votes for a title to
it, which I have to choose. “Reformation Symphony,”
“Confession Symphony,” “Symphony for a Church
Festival,” “Child's Symphony,” or what you like ; only
write to me, and, in place of all these dull suggestions,
give me a bright one; still I should like to hear the
stupid ones that are brought to light by the occasion.
Yesterday evening I was at a party at Goethe's, and
played alone the whole evening : a concert piece,
“Aufforderung,” and “Polonaise” in C by Weber, three
foreign pieces, Scotch Sonatas. At ten o'clock came
the end, but, of course, I stopped for the frivolities,
dancing, singing, and so on, till twelve. I am living
like a very pagan. The old man always goes to his
room at nine, and when he has gone we dance
8 SELECTED LETTERS OF
A
furiously, and as yet have never broken up before
midnight. -
To-morrow my portrait will be ready; it will be a
large dark drawing in chalks, and a very good likeness,
only it makes me look very bearish. Goethe is so
friendly and affectionate with me that I know not how
to thank him or how to deserve his kindness. In the
morning I have to play the piano to him for an hour,
pieces from all the great composers arranged in the
order of dates, and then explain to him how music has
progressed in their hands; meanwhile he sits in a dark
corner, like a Jupiter Tonans, and his old eyes flash
fire. About Beethoven he was indifferent. But I
said he must endure some, and played him the first
movement of the symphony in C minor. It affected
him very strangely. First he said, “That does not
touch one at all, it only"astonishes one.” Then he
murmured to himself, and said presently, “It is very
great, it is wild ; it seems as though the house were
falling; what must it be with the whole orchestra !”
And at dinner, in the middle of a conversation about
something else, he began again on the same theme.
You know already I dine with him every day, and at
those times he asks me searching questions, and
after dinner grows so gay and sympathetic that we
generally sit together for an hour alone in the room,
while he talks without a pause. It is a very especial
joy when he shows me his engravings and talks
critically about them, or pronounces judgment on
Hernani or Lamartine's Elegies, or on theatrical
matters, or on pretty girls. On several evenings he
MENDELSSOHN. 9
has invited guests, which is very rare with him now,
so that it is long since most of the people have
seen him. Then I have to play a good deal, and he
makes me compliments before the company,
“stupendous ” being his favourite expression. To-day
he invited a bevy of Weimar beauties for my delight,
for “I ought to live with young people.” If I meet
him in such company he says to me, “Dear heart,
you must go to the ladies and behave prettily.” I
displayed my savoir wizre by asking yesterday if,
perhaps, I did not come there too often ? Then he
growled rather to Ottilie, who put the question, and
said, on the contrary, he wanted more talk with me,
for I quite understood my business, and he had a great
deal to learn from me. I felt twice my height when
Ottilie repeated that to me, and when he said it again
himself, and told me there was much in his spirit that
I must light up for him. I said just, “Oh, yes,” and
thought to myself: “this is an honour never to be
forgotten.” More often it is the other way about !
FELIX.
IO SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS FAMILY.
ROME, 8th Movember, 1830.
To-DAY I must give you an account of my first eight
days in Rome, how I have arranged my life here,
what my prospects are for the winter, and how these
divine places affected me at first ; to describe all which
is hard. I seem to myself to have changed since my
arrival ; before that I tried to repress my impatience
to move forwards and push on fast with the journey,
putting it down simply to my own natural hastiness, but
here I recognise clearly that it was only the keen
desire to reach this great centre of things that made
me so. Now I have attained it, and my feeling has
grown quiet and glad and earnest in a way I cannot
describe, nor can I define what it is that produces
this effect; the awful Colosseum and the brilliant
Vatican alike contribute to it, so does the soft spring
weather and the kindly people, my pleasant room and
everything. Things somehow are different. I feel
happy and well as I have not been for ages, and have
such a pleasure in work and desire of it that I hope
to accomplish far more here than ever I proposed. I
have made some way already. If Heaven will only
grant me an endurance of this good fortune I look
forward to a splendidly fruitſul winter.
MENDELSSOHN, I I
Q
Picture a little house two windows broad, number
5 in the Piazza di Spagna, that catches the sun all day,
then the room on its first floor in which there stands a
good Viennese piano, on the table lie portraits of Pales-
trina, Allegri, and so on, and the scores of their music,
also a Latin psalm book out of which to compose AVon
nobis ; this is my personal residence. It was too far
off by the Capitol, and I had my fears of the coldness
of the air, which gives no trouble here, when I look
out over the square in the morning and everything
stands out so clear cut on the blue sky in the sun-
shine. My host was formerly a captain in the French
service ; the maid has the most magnificent contralto
voice I know. Above me there lives a Prussian officer,
with whom I exchange courtesies; altogether, my sur-
roundings are excellent. When I come into the
room early in the morning and the sun is shining so
brightly on my breakfast things—you see I am throw-
ing myself away on poetry—an amazing cheerfulness
takes possession of me, and then I think it is really late
in the autumn, and who could make sure of warmth,
bright skies or grapes and flowers at home P After
breakfast my work goes forward, and I play, sing, and
compose till about noon.
Then all the measureless delight of Rome lies as a
free gift before me; I proceed with it very leisurely,
and every day pick out afresh some great historic
object; one day a ramble about the ruins of the
ancient city, another day the Borghese Gallery or the
Capitol, or else St. Peter's or the Vatican, so each
day is one never to be forgotten, and this sort of
I 2 SELECTED LETTERS OF
dallying leaves each impression firmer and stronger.
Sometimes working in the morning, I should like not
to leave off but to write steadily on, but I say to my-
self, “Now there is the Vatican to see,” and once there
I only leave it in turn with reluctance, so each occu-
pation becomes a pure delight, and one pleasure is a
foil to another. If Venice seemed like the gravestone
of its own past, its ruinous, modern palaces and the
enduring remembrance of a bygone supremacy giving it
a disquieting, mournful impression, the past of Rome
strikes one as history itself; its monuments ennoble,
and make one at the same moment serious and joyful,
for there is joy in feeling how human creations may
survive a thousand years and yet possess their quick-
ening restoring influence. Each day some new image
of that past imprints itself on my mind, and then
comes the twilight, and the day is at an end. Then I
seek out my acquaintances and friends ; we exchange
news of what each has done, or, what is the same thing
here, enjoyed, and these meetings are very pleasur-
able. The evenings I spend mostly at Bendemann's
and Hübner's, who get together a number of German
artists; every now and then I go to Schadow's as well.
One valuable acquaintance I have made is that of
the Abbé Santini, who has a very complete collection
of old Italian music, and gladly lends or gives me
anything I want. He is the embodiment of kindness.
At night, however, he is obliged to have Ahlborn or
myself to accompany him home, for to be alone in
the streets at a late hour would bring an abbé into ill
repute. For fellows like Ahlborn and myself to be
MENDELSSOHN. - I 3
serving an ecclesiastic aged 60 in the capacity of
duenna is piquant enough. Countess had given
me a list of pieces of old music that she wished to have
copies of if possible ; Santini had all the originals,
and I owe him my best thanks for giving me copies
of them, so that I can go through them together
and thus come to know them. I beg you will send
the six cantatas of Sebastian Bach which Marx has
had published by Simrock, or else some of the organ
pieces, to serve as tokens of my gratitude. I should
much prefer the cantatas; he has already the Mag-
nificat, the Motets, and so forth.
He has adapted “Singet dem Herrn ein neues
Lied,” and is going to produce it at Naples ; we owe
him something for that. I am writing at length to
Zelter about the papal choir which I have heard three
times, twice at the Quirinal on the Monte Cavallo,
and once at San Carlo. One person I delight in is
Bunsen. We shall have a great deal of talking to do
together; sometimes it even strikes me that this will
be the starting-point of some of my future work ;
and I am sure that anything I can try at with a good
conscience shall be done joyfully, and with all the
power I have. It helps me beside to feel at home
and read Goethe's Italian Journey for the first time, and
I must confess it was a great joy to discover that he
arrived in Rome precisely the same day that I did.
Further, that he also went first to the Quirinal and heard
a requiem there; he says too that at Florence and
Bologna a sort of impatience took possession of him,
and on arrival here he felt calm again, and, as he calls
I4. : SELECTED LETTERS OF
it, well-knit together in mind; so I have experienced
all he describes, a reflection which pleases me. But
he writes at length about a great picture by Titian in
the Vatican, thinking it impossible to see any mean-
ing in it, and leads one to suppose that the figures are
only arranged elegantly side by side. I flatter
myself, however, that I have found a deep significance
in this picture, and maintain that he is right who sees
most in a Titian, for the man was simply divine. He,
indeed, found no opportunity to display the whole
breadth of his inspiration, as Raphael did here in the
Vatican ; yet one can never forget his three pictures
at Venice, and this of the Vatican, which I first saw
this morning, stands in line with them. If a child
could enter the world with perceptions fully developed,
things would everywhere break on him with the same
joyful, vivid effect as the pictures here do on oneself.
The school of Athens, the Disputa, and the St.
Peter one feels to be the exact realisation of what
the artist’s mind conceived.
How delightful is the entrance past the luminous
open arches when one sees the unbroken view
into the place of St. Peter's, and over Rome to the
blue Alban mountains, while above one are the figures
from the Old Testament, and a thousand bright, little
angels amid arabesques of fruits and garlanded
flowers. It is thus one enters the gallery for the first
time !
But, dear Hensel, all hail to you, for your copy of
the Transfiguration is wonderful. It was not to-day
that I first felt the delightful shudder which seizes one
MENDELSSOHN. I5.
on first looking at an eternal work of art, and feeling
its significance or its peculiar impressiveness, not to-
day, but before your picture. My first look at the
original only gave me what I had already got through
you, and it was only after studying it long and
minutely that I discovered things which were new to
me. On the other hand, the Madonna of Foligno.
struck me with all the glow of its loveliness. I had a
happy morning among all those splendours. As yet
I have not seen the statues, and keep a first impres-
sion of them for another day.
The 9th.—So every morning brings me new ex-
pectations, and every day ſulfills them. The sun has.
just been shining on my breakfast again, and now I am
setting to work. At the first opportunity I will send
you, my dear Fanny, the Viennese things, and what
else is ready, and you, Rebecca, my sketch-book.
But this does not satisfy me very well at present, and
I want to see a number of sketches by the landscape
painters here, and if it may be, get hold of a new
manner. I thought of originating one for myself, but
no To-day I am for the Lateran and the ruins of
ancient Rome. This evening I am going to a very
friendly English family whose acquaintance I have
made here. Please send me many letters of introduc-
tion. I want to know an endless number of people,
especially Italians. So I go on my way gladly and
think of you in every moment of enjoyment. Be
happy and share with me in the pleasant days that.
seem to be opening up here. FELIX M. B.
I6 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS SISTERS.
RoME, 22nd Movember, 1830.
DEAR SISTERS,-You know how much I hate giv-
ing good advice to people a thousand miles and
fourteen days away, but for once I will do it. It
is because I think you are making the same mistake
that I did once. I never in my life knew our father
write in such an irritable tone as since I have been in
Rome, and I want to ask you if you couldn't find some
household medicine to cure this a little P I mean
just that sort of concession by which you might put
the side of things that father likes to see more in the
front than the other ;-keep silent on topics which
vex him, say “unpleasant” instead of “shameful,”
or “pretty good” instead of “delightful.” It’s
sometimes a wonderful help, and I should like to
whisper to you it might be useful just now. For,
apart from the great affairs of politics, his ill-
humour seems to me to come from much the same
source as it did before, when I began to be a musician
on my own account, and father's temper became
very troubled so that he used to rail against
Beethoven and fantastical people, often disturbing and
setting me in revolt. And just at that time something
fresh happened which put him out, and, if I remem-
MENDELSSOHN. 17
ber right, made him really anxious ; and so long as I
stood up for Beethoven and exalted him above every-
body the trouble only grew worse, and once, I believe,
I was sent out of the room. But presently it struck me
that it was possible to say a great many true things,
and yet not precisely those which father could not
endure to hear, and then things went on better and
came quite right in the end. Perhaps you, too, have
forgotten a little how needful it is to give way now
and then. Father thinks himself older and more
excitable than, thank God, he really is, and
it is our part to make concessions to him, be
the right ever so much on our side, just as he has so
often yielded to us. So praise a little the things he
likes, and don’t find fault with the old-fashioned
established things that are rooted in his heart. And
only praise novelties when they have acquired some
sort of acceptance in the world, for till then it can
only be a question of taste. Ishould like to see you draw
father prettily into your circle and amuse him; in short,
try to smooth away the difficulties, and remember that,
after all, travelled man of the world as I am, of course,
I have never yet found a family that, taking account of
all our weaknesses and vexations and faults, has been
so happy as we have up till now. -
Don't answer this, for your letter would not reach
me for four weeks, and then something else would
have happened. Finally, if it is stupid of me to
write this, I don't intend to take a scolding from you ;
and if I am right, you had better follow my good
advice.
B
I8 SELECTED LETTERS OF
The other day we young people went to Albano.
We set out early in the brightest of weather; the road
went beneath the great aqueduct with its dark-brown
masses sharply defined against the clear sky, so to
Fraseati, from there to the monastery of Grottaferrata,
where there are beautiful frescoes by Domenichino,
then to Marino which lies very picturesquely on a hill-
side, and so we came to Castel Gandolfo on the lake.
All these landscapes repeat the first impression I had
of Italy, not so much of something striking or startlingly
beautiful, as one imagines them, but with a wonderful
beneficent and calming effect. They are pictures in
which the gentle outlines make a very charming whole
full of fine points of shading and light. And here I
must sing the praises of my monks who are always
there to accentuate the picture and give it tone with
all their various draperies, their quiet devotional
carriage and their shadowlike look. From Castel
Gandolfo to Albano there goes a charming shady
alley of evergreen oaks sloping down to the lake, and
along it goes a perpetual fluttering of all sorts of
monks, who enliven the scene, or perhaps bring out its
loneliness. By the town a pair of begging friars were
marching along, then came a troop of young Jesuits,
presently we spied a young and elegant ecclesiastic
lying among the bushes with a book, and next it was
a pair of monks in the forest frightening off the birds
with their flintlocks, and then we arrived at a mon-
astery encircled by a crowd of small chapels. Here
all was quiet for a time, but there came out a stupid-
looking, dirty Capuchin loaded with heavy bouquets of
MENDELSSOHN. I9
flowers, which he proceeded to hang on the crucifixes
all about, kneeling to each before adorning it. Going
further, we met two aged prelates deep in an exciting
conversation, and soon we heard the vesper bell
sounding at Albano. Here on the highest point of the
mountains there stands a convent of the Passionists.
Here they are only allowed to speak during one hour
of the day, and are bound to employ their thoughts
perpetually with the story of the Passion.
It was a curious sight in Albano to meet among all
the girls with pitchers on their heads and people
selling flowers and vegetables, one of these coal-black
silent monks, who was turning his steps back to Mont
Cavo. They have taken all the beautiful region in
possession, and add a strange melancholy ground-tone
to all the brilliancy and freedom and the perpetual
blitheness there is in Nature here. It is as though the
people required a sort of counterpoise to all that. But
it is no affair of mine, and indeed, I need no contrast
myself to enjoy what one has here.
2O SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS FATHER.
ROME, Ioth ZXcember, 1830.
DEAR FATHER,--It is a year to-day since we kept
your birthday at the Hensels ; let me keep a sort of
celebration of it now and relate you something from
Rome, as then from London. To-morrow I hope to
finish writing down my old overture to the “Lonely
Island” for a present, and when I date it “December
I Ith " it will seem as if I was going to lay it actually
in your hands. You may say that you cannot read it,
but I give you the best I can create, and though
indeed one has to do one's best every day, still a
birthday stands by itself; I wish only I could be with
you. About my wishes for you let me be silent.
You know it all and know how we all feel ourselves
bound up with your happiness and contentment, and
that I can wish you nothing which would not so re-
turn to us twofold. It is a festival to-day; I rejoice
in thinking how gladsome everything must look with
you; and, in telling you how pleasant my life is here.
I have a sense that this also is to send you a felicita-
tion. A time like this in which seriousness and
pleasure unite does indeed strengthen and refresh one.
* “Overture to the Hebrides.”
MENDELSSOHN. 2 I
Every day when I enter my room I feel delighted afresh
at the thought of not having to travel on to-morrow—
that so much can be quietly postponed—that I am in
Rome. Everything that my time of travel put into
my head was soon driven out by something else, and
my impressions chased each other through my mind,
but here everything has time to expand calmly.
Never, I think, was my work so much a pleasure; and
to accomplish all the plans I have now, I must stick
close to them the whole winter. To be sure, I must
, do without the great satisfaction of communicating
what one has done to others who could appreciate and
take part in it, but just that drives me to work again,
because it all pleases me more than it could another,
as long, that is, as I am in the thick of it.
I wish you would lecture P. It makes me angry at
heart to see men of no vocation take on themselves
the office of judging men who have aims of their own,
even the most limited, and to the best of my capacity
I lately did a musical person here the service of
making that clear. He began talking about Mozart,
and as Bunsen and his sister admire Palestrina, he
sought to ingratiate himself with them ; among other
things, by asking me what I thought of the good
Mozart and his various offences. But I replied that
for my part I would gladly throw my virtues over-
board and take Mozart's sins in their place, at all
events, it was not for me to measure his virtues.
The people around us were a good deal amused.
What a thing it is that such fellows should not hesi-
22 SELECTED LETTERS OF
tate before the greatest names. Still, it is a consola-
tion that it is the same with all the arts. The
painters here are no better; it is terrible to see
them at their Café Greco. I seldom go there, for
I am rather afraid of them and the place they
haunt. It is a small dark room about eight paces
wide; on one side it is permitted to smoke tobacco,
on the other not. They sit round on the benches
with their brigand-hats and their big bloodhounds;
their throats, chins, and faces are entirely covered
with hair, and they pour out dense volumes of smoke
and exchange incivilities with one another while the
dogs are exchanging their insects. A necktie or a
frock-coat would be a modern weakness; all the face
that's left by the beard is concealed by their spec-
tacles; they swill their coffee and discourse of Titian
and Pordenone as though these persons were sitting
there with beards and brigand-hats like them-
selves. Their business is to paint sickly madonnas,
rickety saints and effeminate knights, things one
longs to dash one's fist through. As for Titian's picture
in the Vatican, which you ask about, these infernal
critics have no respect for it. According to them it
has neither subject nor conception, and it never occurs
to one of them that a master who gave laborious days
of love and reverence to a picture, may still have seen
as far as they can through their glistening spectacles,
and if all my life I never contrive to do anything
else, I am resolved, at least, to be as rude as I
can to people who have no respect for the
great masters ; that will be one good work accom-
MENDELSSOHN. 23
plished. Then they stand before all the wonderful
visions of which they have no true inkling, and pretend
to criticise them. In this picture there are three zones
or planes, whatever you please to call them, much as
there are in the “Transfiguration.” Below stand saints
and martyrs, with figures expressing suffering and weari-
ness; pain, despair almost, is stamped upon their fea-
tures; one, clad in the richly-coloured robes of a bishop,
gazes upward with a keen, bitter longing ; he seems
almost to weep, yet he cannot see the presence actu-
ally hovering above him. The spectator may see it,
however—in the cloud above is seated the Madonna
with the Child; her countenance is bright, and round
her are angels carrying many crowns; the Child holds
one of these, and seems about to crown the saints be-
low, but the mother holds it back for a moment. The
contrast between the sorrowful region below, where St.
Sebastian gazes with a stern almost indifferent expres-
sion before him, and the radiant calm above where
the crowns stand ready in the clouds, is indeed
very noble. High again above the group of the
Madonna hovers the Paraclete, with brilliant light
radiating from his form ; and this is the key-stone to
the arch. It just occurs to me that Goethe, during
his first stay in Rome, admired this picture and de-
scribes it, but I have not the book by me, and so
cannot consult it to see how far he concurs with my
description. He speaks of it at length. Then it was
in the Quirinal, and was afterwards brought to the Vati-
can. Whether it was painted by commission, as these
people say, or not, makes no difference; he has
24 SELECTED LETTERS OF
put his own feeling and poetry in it, and therefore it
is his own. Schadow, whom I am often glad to
spend my time with, a truly modest artist with
a clear, calm understanding of great work, lately
said to me that Titian had never painted a meaning-
less or dull picture, and I believe he is right, for all
the master's works speak of life and inspiration and
the power of health; where these are is great art.
To-day I was in St. Peter's, where the ceremonies
of the “Absolution’ at the Pope's death have begun.
They last till Tuesday, and then the Cardinals will enter
the conclave. The edifice is beyond all conception.
It seems to me like some great wonder of Nature, a
forest, or a mountain of rock ; one loses sight of the
human contrivance. It seems to tax the sight to look
up to the roof; it is like looking up to the sky.
You start on a journey in the interior and soon find
yourself tired of walking. The services are being
said and sung in one part, and one only becomes
aware of it on arriving there. The angels of the
font are uncouth giants, the doves huge as eagles ;
one forgets all the relations of perspective, yet it is a
grand sensation to stand beneath the dome and let the
eye pierce the unbroken height above. At present a
monstrous catafalque stands in the nave, shaped some-
thing like the drawing I send. The coffin is placed
in the centre beneath the pillars, a tasteless
arrangement, but with a weird effect. The two
biers and their decorations are thickly studded with
lights, an altar lamp hangs above the bier, and beneath
the statues again are countless tapers. The whole
MENDELSSOHN. 25
pile is a hundred feet high, and rears itself in front of
you on going in. The guard of honour and the
Swiss are formed about it in a square, at each angle
of which is stationed a cardinal in deep mourn-
ing with his attendants, holding vast flaming torches;
then begins the chant with the monotonous responses.
This is the only occasion on which they sing in the
centre of the church, and the effect is very wonderful.
It is very striking to stand among the choir, as I am
allowed to do, and watch them all grouped round
the colossal book they sing from. An enormous taper
throws its light upon the page, and it is most interest-
ing to see how they all press round in their vestments
to read the music, Baini, with his monastic face, beat-
ing time with his hand, and at intervals coming in with
his deep Sonorous voice, and to observe all the play
of the strongly-marked Italian faces. One passes
from one spectacle to another in Rome, and so it is
in St. Peter's; one takes a few steps and the whole scene
is changed. I went to the farther end, and there it was
a wonderful picture to look down between the twisted
pillars of the high altar, which one knows to be equal
in height to the Schloss at Berlin, to see across the
floor of the dome the catafalque with its crowded
lights, strangely diminished by the distance, and the
throng of people about it like so many dwarfs.
If the music begins when one is at this distance,
the notes only reach one after a long interval, then re-
echo and obliterate each other so that one catches the
strangest indefinable harmonies. Changing position
again, so as to stand in face of the catafalque, one
:
:
O
o
:
i
26 SELECTED LETTERS OF
sees, beyond the glow of the many lights and the
flashing splendour, the great twilight of the dome
filled with purple vapour ; and that is the most inde
scribable thing of all. That is, precisely, Rome !
This letter has got too long. I will end it now, and
it will arrive just at Christmas. A happy festival to
you all ! I am sending some presents too, which will
get off to-morrow morning, and reach you for the silver
wedding. We are having many great days together,
and I cannot tell whether to think of you to-day and
wish you all happiness, or to let myself travel with the
letter and come to you for Christmas, and then
mother will refuse to let me through into your study.
Well, at least I send my thoughts. Farewell, with all
good wishes. t FELIX.
Your letter has just come with the news of Goethe's
illness. I cannot describe what I feel about it. All
the evening I seemed to hear his last words, “I will
do my best to keep up till your return; ” they blot out
all other thoughts from my mind. If he is gone,
Germany will have another aspect for all artists. I
have never thought of our country but with delight and
pride in the knowledge that it contained Goethe ; all
else that has grown up there seems so weak and in-
effectual that one’s heart is saddened. He is the last,
and closes our fortunate era. The year ends heavily.
MENDELSSOHN. 27
TO REBECCA DIRICHLET IN BERLIN.
NAPLES, 13th April, 1831.
DEAR REBECCA, This is by way of a birthday letter.
May it be a pleasant one ; it comes late, but it
means well, and as for the festival itself, I kept it
this year in a very curious way, though a delightful one.
Writing was out of the question. I had neither table
nor ink; in fact, I was stuck fast in the Pontine
Marshes. May there be a happy year before you, and
may it bring about our meeting ; if you thought of me
on the day, our thoughts must have met somewhere on
the Brenner, or perhaps in Innsbruck, for all mine
travelled towards you. If you have not noticed the date
of this, you will see from its tone that I am at Naples.
I can’t get back to a reasonable state of mind just yet;
things round one are too seductive, and compel one
to do nothing and think of nothing—the example
set by the whole population is irresistible; and though
I intend to alter all that, it must be so during these
first days. So I stand on my balcony for hours, and
stare at Vesuvius and the bay.
But I shall have to fall back on my old strain of de-
scription, or with all this crowding in on me, I shall
get confused, and you won't be able to follow me
28 SELECTED LETTERS OF
A mass of new experiences is again storming my
mind, but I have only to send you my diary for you
to understand. And so I must begin with the con-
fession that leaving Rome went very hard. Life there
was so quiet and yet so full. I had made so many de-
lightful acquaintances, and had grown so used to it,
that the last days, with their disquietude and running
up and down, were doubly unwelcome.
The last evening I went to see Vernet, to say good-
bye and thank him for the portrait which was quite
finished. Then we had some music, chattered about
politics and played chess. Late in the evening I
went down the Monte Pincio to my house, threw my
things together, and next morning started off with my
companions.
I sat in the post-chaise looking out at the country,
and could dream my full. When we had taken up
our quarters in the evening we all strolled about.
The two days were more like a ramble than a journey.
The country from Rome to Naples is the richest I
know, and the fashion in which one travels very plea-
sant. One flies over the level plains; for a little drink
money the postilions will go at a furious gallop, which
is quite what is wanted on the marshes, and if one
wants to see the country, it is only necessary to refuse
the drink money, and the pace falls off at once.
From Albano through Ariccia, and Gengano to Velletri
the road goes all the way between hills that are
deeply shaded with all sorts of trees, up-hill and down-
hill, through long avenues of elms, past monasteries
and roadside images of the virgin. On the one hand,
MENDELSSOHN. 29
there is still the Campagna with its wild brilliant
vegetation, beyond lies the sea glistening in the sun,
and above the brightest of skies, for since Sunday the
weather has been glorious. So we came into Velletri,
our first sleeping-place ; there we found it was a great
feast-day of the Church. Charming women with
pretty, piquant faces were going in groups up and
down the alleys, men with mantles on their shoulders
stood grouped about the streets, the churches were
hung with garlands of fresh leaves, and as we went by
one of them we heard a serpent and several fiddles
being played inside. A piece of fireworks had been
prepared on the piazza. Then there was a clear, quiet
sunset, and over the Pontine Marshes, now glowing
with many tints, we could see our route of to-morrow
stretching to the lonely points of rock that stand up
on the horizon. After supper it occurred to me to go
out again, and I discovered a sort of illumination ;
the streets were all alive, and when at last coming
near the church I turned the corner, all of a sudden I
saw the whole street lighted up on both sides with flam-
ing torches, and a stream of people going along the
middle of it closely packed together and quite delighted
to see each other so clearly at night-time. I cannot
describe how pleasant it was. The press was at its
height in front of the church. I made my way inside,
and found the little building full of people kneeling, all
adoring the host exposed on the altar; no one said a
word, and there was no music; the silence, the
church flaming with light, the crowds of white-hooded
women on their knees, all made an admirable picture.
3O SELECTED LETTERS OF
When I got outside, an Italian boy, who was wonderfully
pretty and clever as well, explained everything to me,
and added that the festival would have been much
finer if the disturbances had not broken out; they had
stopped the horse races and the bonfires, and so
it was a misfortune that the Austrians had not arrived
sooner. The next morning at six, we continued our
journey across the Pontine Marshes. It is a sort of
mountain road, which goes through an avenue lying
straight as a thread on the level ; on one side there
runs a chain of hills, on the other the marshes spread
away without limit. They are covered with innumer-
able flowers, and a sweet odour pervades them ; after
a time, however, it is depressing, and I could feel the
heaviness of the air in spite of the happy weather.
Along the high road goes a canal which Pius VI. had
made for the drainage, and a herd of buffaloes lay
wallowing in this, with only their heads out of the
water, and enjoyed themselves immensely. The ab-
solute straightness of the road has a curious effect; at the
first halting-place one sees the mountains closing the
vista of the lines of trees on either side, and just the
same at the second and third places, only taller as they
get nearer. Terracina, which lies immediately at the
end of this road, one does not see till one comes
straight on it. Then the road turns suddenly left-
wards on a rocky shoulder, and discloses a view of the
whole sea lying before you; on the hills sloping down
from the walls are citron groves and palm trees, and
all sorts of growths of the South. The towers rise
above the branches, below is the harbour standing
|
MENDELSSOHN. 3 I
out into the water. The sea is always the most
beautiful thing in the world to me; perhaps I love it
even better than the sky. In all Naples it is the sea
that gives me most pleasure ; everything seems delight-
ful if I can only see the broad expanse of waters be-
fore me. At Terracina is the real beginning of the
South. It is another country, and every plant, every
bit of bush makes one aware of it. Two great masses
of mountain specially pleased me, not a tree or a shadow
was to be seen on them, but they were covered with little
blossoms like gold dust, so that they looked all yellow
and the smell was almost overpowering. There is
great lack of tall trees and grass. Fondi and Itri are
perched up like robbers' nests on the rocks, to which
the houses seem to cling desperately; great mediaeval
towers stand between them; on the height were
numbers of sentinels and pickets, but we got through
without adventure. That evening we stopped at
Mola di Gaeta, where there is the famous balcony,
from which one looks over the garden of citron and
orange to the purple sea, with Vesuvius and its islands
in the far distance. That was the eleventh of April ;.
all day I had been keeping the festival privately, and
in the evening I was able to confide to the company
that it was your birthday, and your health was drunk
with acclamation, indeed an old English gentleman
who was there joined in and wished me “ a happy re-
turn to my sister.” I emptied my glass and thought.
of you. Do not be changed when we meet again.
32 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS FAMILY.
ROME, 4th April, 1831.
THE first of the offices was on Palm Sunday. The
crush was so great that I could not make my way
into the interior to my accustomed seat on the so-
called bench of the prelates, but had to remain stand-
ing among the guard of honour. I could see the
ceremony well enough, but could not follow the music
completely, for they pronounced the words indis-
tinctly, and I had no book. So, this first day, all the
different antiphones, the chanting of the gospels and
psalms, and the reading in recitative, all which exist
here in their primitive form, gave me the strangest,
most confusing impression; I had no definite idea by
what rule the various cadences were adjusted. My
efforts to get a grasp of these rules were, however,
gradually successful, and at the last I could have
taken a part in the singing. They helped me also to
escape the ennui which everybody complains of dur-
ing the endless psalms which come before the
Miserere ; I could catch the differences in the mono-
tony, and by writing down any cadence I was sure
of, at last, as I deserved, secured eight psalm chants,
noted down the antiphones and so forth, and thus
MENDELSSOHN. 33
kept myself throughout busy and intent. But as I
said, the first Sunday I could not find my way in the
music, and only know that the choir sang “Hosanna
in exelsis” and intoned several hymns while the
plaited palms were being given to the Pope and
divided by him among the cardinals. They are long
staves adorned with fretted points, crosses and crowns,
but all made of dried palm leaves, which make them
look as though they were gold. The cardinals who
are seated in a square in the inner chapel with their
abbés at their feet, advance singly and receive each a
palm staff, with which they retire; then come the
bishops, monks, abbots, all the remaining ecclesiastics,
then the choirmen, the cavaliers of honour and every-
one else. They all receive olive branches bound with
palm leaves; this makes a long procession, and
meanwhile the choir continues to sing. The abbés
hold the tall palms of their cardinals, looking like so
many sentinels' lances, and then lay them in front on
the ground ; just then the pomp of colour in the
chapel was beyond what I ever saw in any other
ceremonial. There are the cardinals in vestments
worked in gold with red caps, before them the violet-
robed abbés holding the golden palms, further off the
brilliant dresses of the Pope's attendants, then the
Greek priests and the patriarchs in all their splendour,
the Capuchins with their white beards and all the other
monks; on another side one sees the Swiss guards
with their uniforms as gay as the plumage of paro-
quets; all have olive branches in their hands, and the
music goes on perpetually. One scarcely took in what
C
34 SELECTED LETTERS OF
they were singing, but only felt the melody of it; then
the Pope has his throne brought to him, that is, the chair
on which he is carried in state in all processions, and
on which I saw Pius VIII. enthroned the day of my
arrival in Rome; the cardinals, two and two, bearing
palms, commence the procession ; the Sweeping doors
of the chapel are thrown back, and the train proceeds
slowly out.
The chant, which till now has seemed to fill the
atmosphere about one, now grows fainter and fainter,
for the choristers retire in the procession, and at last
one is just aware of a faint murmur reaching the
chapel from without. Then a choir stationed within
commences a chant very loud, the other sends back
the response from a great distance, and this continues
for a time, till, as the procession draws nearer again,
the two choirs unite. Here, too, it does not matter so
much how and what they sing ; the effect is splendid,
and though, it is true, that the chants are very uniform,
indeed formless, in simple unison without real construc-
tion and sung fortissimo throughout, still nobody could
deny their power. The procession is followed by the
recitation of the Gospel with the most peculiar in-
tonation, then comes the mass. What charmed me
in this was the creed. Now for the first time the
priest stands immediately before the altar and intones
Seb. Bach's Creed in his hoarse, aged voice; as he
concludes, all the ecclesiastics rise, the cardinals
leave their seats, and advancing to the centre of the
chapel, form a circle, and altogether repeat aloud the
continuation “patrem omnipotentem,” and so on At
MENDELSSOHN. 35
once the choir strikes in and sings the same words.
When I first heard my well-known
“Cre-do in un-um De-um,”
and all the monastic voices round me took up the
words with a sort of eager resonance, the result was
fairly startling ; it is still always my special moment.
After the service Santini presented me with his olive
branch, and I walked about with it in my hand all
day, for the weather was charming. The Stabat
Mater, which they placed after the creeds, impressed
me little, the singing was uncertain, sometimes false,
and they cut it short ; our academy sings it better
beyond comparison. -
36 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO PROFESSOR. ZELTER OF BERLIN.
ROME, 16th /une, 1831.
MY DEAR PROFESSOR,--I have been wanting to write
to you for a long time to give you an account of the
music of Holy Week, but my journey to Naples came
between, and then, as I wandered here and there on
the mountains or gave myself up to looking at the Sea,
there was no reasonable time for writing at all. That
was the cause of my delay, which I must beg you to
excuse. Since Holy Week I have heard nothing that
impressed me. In Naples it was the most ordinary
stuff; so I have nothing to write to you of the last few
months but of that Holy Week alone, and of that I
think I have forgotten nothing, nor ever shall. I have
already written something to my parents of the effect
it produced on me as a whole, and they will have told
you of it. It was well that I set myself to listen to it
all quite quietly and critically, and also well that, in
spite of this, even while awaiting the commencement
of the service, a sense of solemnity and reverence
came over me. Such a mood, I believe, is essential
if one is really to enter into anything new, and, indeed,
I lost nothing of the effect of the whole, though I
MENDELSSOHN. 37
forced myself to attend to all the individual parts as
well. The office commenced at half-past four on
Wednesday with the antiphon—“Zelus domus tuae.”
The little book containing the services appointed for
the week explains the true meaning of the whole series
of offices :-
“At that evensong three psalms are sung, that we
may remember how Christ died for maidens, for
matrons, and for widows; they also have reference to
the three divisions of law, the natural law, the written
law, and the law of the Gospel. The ‘Domine labia
mea' and the ‘Deus in adjutorium ' are not sung, since
the wicked have robbed us of our one Head and
Source. The fifteen candles symbolise the twelve
apostles and the three Maries,” and so forth. The
book contains great treasures of this kind, and I will
bring it back with me. The psalms are sung fortis-
simo by all the male voices divided into two choirs,
each verse being divided into two parts, as question and
answer, or say simply a and b, so that one choir sings
a, and the other responds with b. The whole sentence
except the last word, is sung very fast on one note,
and at the last word there comes a brief inflexion,
which differs in each verse.
To this chant or “tonus,” as they call it, they sing
through all the verses of the psalm, and I have noted
down seven different ones, from one to another of
which they changed during the three days. You
cannot imagine how wearisome and monotonous this
comes to sound, how coarse and mechanical is their
way of getting through with it.
38 SELECTED LETTERS OF
For example, the first “tonus ” they sang was :—
CORO I.
£ ~,
fººt-º-º-º-E2–2E2–2–2–a–F–A–H
\ 2 Ł º, fº, (A L *A Ł, KA | | L H
I w w y w w w w
In - fi - xus sum in li - mo pro - fun - di,
CORO II.
f __-_ /~\
:*— •º-º-º-º-º-º-mm. ) O º
G}=#EEE?=#EEEE||
Z y y y I n
©t non est Sub - Stan ſº wº tia.


And in that way the whole psalm with the forty-two
verses continues, one half verse always ending on G
A G, the other on G E G. They sing without variety
of expression, and it sounds as if a number of people
were earnestly and fiercely disputing, and each side
doggedly repeating the same reply over and over
again. In the last verse of each psalm they sing the
closing words more slowly, and with greater emphasis,
and, instead of the inflexion, end with a sustained
chord of three notes sung piano, for example, in the
first :—
p /TN
* e \ - -
- ==================#
*—4–4–4–4–4–4–H–L–E–E–E–
y v-z-z-z-z-y-z-z- I r—— G H
\º
Qui di - li-gunt nomen e - jusha-bi-ta - bunt in e - a.

At the commencement of each psalm comes an
antiphon, or several, by way of prelude; usually
these in “canto fermo " are sung by two altos very
coarsely and harshly, so, too, is the first half verse of
the psalm itself, and at the second the system of re-
sponses by the male choirs comes into play. I am
MENDELSSOHN. 39
º by me the separate antiphons, etc., which
I have noted down, so as to show them to you, and
let you see them in their connection with the book.
On the Wednesday evening the first psalm sung was the
68th, and then the 69th and 70th. The dividing of
the verses and their partition between the two choirs
is, by the way, one of the arrangements that Bunsen
has made for the Protestant church here, and in the
same way he has every chorale preluded by an anti-
phon. The latter are composed by Giorgio, a native
musician ; they are written in the style of the “canto
fermo,” and are commenced by a few voices, the
chorale with the full choir coming in later, e.g., “Ein
feste Burg ist unser Gott.” In the Quirinal the
7oth psalm is followed by a “Pater Noster sub
silentio,” that is to say, all assisting at the office stand
up, and a short interval of silence takes place. Then
the first “Lamentation of Jeremiah” is commenced
very softly and quietly in G major. It is a beautiful
and solemn composition of Palestrina; following on
that clamour of psalms, itself without bass parts, and
including only high solo voices and tenor, with the
tenderest of swells and falls almost dropping into sil-
ence and always slowly drawing out its harmony from
one scale and chord to another, one can, indeed, only
call it heavenly.
It is a misfortune, to be sure, that the passages
which they sing with the most appealing devotion,
and which it is also clear the composer himself dwelt
on most affectionately, are of necessity the mere
headings of the chapters or verses—Aleph, Beth,
4O SELECTED LETTERS OF
Gimel, etc., and that the beautiful opening which one
would think the very echo of heaven, falls on the
words, “Incipit Lamentatio Jeremiae Prophetae
Lectio I.” This is bound to stir up some hostile
feeling in a Protestant, and would make almost an
insuperable objection to introducing these composi-
tions into our churches; when some one sings the
words, “first chapter,” one cannot feel reverential
however exquisite the music may be. My little
volume says, indeed, “Having sung with deep anguish
the prophecy of the crucifixion, we yet sing very
mournfully ‘Aleph, and other such words, which are
the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, since they are
customarily received in every chant in place of
sorrowful exclamations. Each letter contains in it-
self the sentiment of the following verse as though it
were its argument and epitome.” But that does not
mend matters. After the “Lamentatio’ they sang
the 71st, 72nd, and 73rd psalms, in the same manner
as the preceding, with antiphons. The latter were
divided among the different voices quite arbitrarily, so
that, in one instance, the sopranos begin, “In Monte
Oliveti,” then the basses come in forte, “Oravit ad
Patrem ; Pater,” etc. Then follow extracts from
the writings of St. Augustine on the Psalms. The
peculiar manner in which these are sung impressed
me indescribably on Palm Sunday, when I first heard
them without knowing what they were. -
A single voice takes up the chant in recitative on
one note, not, however, as in the psalms, but slowly,
and with emphasis, and giving the note its ſull value.
MENDELSSOHN. 4 [.
For the punctuations, comma, query, and full stop,
there are different musical intonations. Possibly
these are known to you already; to me they were new,
and seemed quite wonderful. The first piece, for
example, was begun by a fine bass voice in G, then
coming to a comma he sings:—
2->
zº,
s—as-O-as- g
On the last word GH: == at a question



G### At a full stop, however, &###|
- /*N /*N /*N
as egº Gº: EEE?=}=#=f=#EE
Con-jun - ga - Imus o - ra - ti - O º In ell).
How singular the fall from A to C sounds is more
than I can describe, especially when after the bass
comes a soprano starting on D, and then making an
equivalent fall from E to G, and then perhaps an alto
on his note, and so on. And thus they sung three
different Lectiones, always alternating with the “Canto
fermo.” For an example of how they sang the “Canto
fermo' utterly without regard to words or sense, the
fragment, “It were better for that man that he had
never been born,” was given like this :—
Allegro.

iſ. ~ GN
ZGHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
\ºl” iſ, ſ, fº, fºL f_I_1_i –L-L-L- |A ||
Z y Z w Z_I I' Z_T,
Me - li - us il - li e º rat si
s—f º * r—f: E-º-T—s--T—a-º----> 3.
(6):--—H IT I H- E— H-e-H | s: –H
\ 2 + F- +- H--—H-H
Ila, & tuS In OI) fu - is tº Set.

fortissimo, without any variety of tone.
42 SELECTED I,ETTERS OF
Then came psalms 74, 75, and 76. Then again
three Lectiones. Then the Miserere, but in the
same style as the preceding psalms—thus :-
CORO H.
f a S. º.
sº __ __2_L 2 ſº ſº. 2 - CTI IC ſº sº. ICI
G#3–3–3–3–3–3–3–3–3–3– #######".
*—2–2–2–2–2–2–-º-2–%– %—% |-
Et Secundum multitu-di-nem mi-se-ra-tionum tu-a - runi
CORO II.
^
de • - ni - qui - ta - tem me
You must pound your ears in a mortar to beat it !
Then come psalms 8, 62, and 66, then the “Canticun
Moysi” in a key of its own, and psalms 148, I49, and
150. Then follow more antiphons, and meanwhile all
the candles on the altar are extinguished but one which
is placed beneath the altar. High above the entrance
six tapers are still burning, all else is dark ; and
now the whole choir in unison commences with full
power the “Canticum Zachariae" while the last
candles are put out. The great forte sounding in the
darkness, and the solemn resonance of all the voices
in unison, are beautiful beyond description. The
melody in D minor is lovely too. At the end all is
in darkness; an antiphon falls on the words: “He
that betrayed Him gave them a sign,” and so on to
“take Him and lead Him away.” At this point all
the assistants fall on their knees, and a single voice
sings, piano, “Christus factus est pro nobis
obediens usque ad mortem.” On the second day



MENDELSSOHN. 43
they add the words, “mortem autem crucis,” and on
Good Friday, “Propter quod et Deus exaltavit illum
et dedit illi Nomen quod est super omne Nomen.”
Again there is a pause, while everyone repeats the
Pater Noster to himself; there is a death-like stillness
in the chapel, and now the Miserere rises, at first
soft-toned and then caught up by both choirs. It was
this commencement with its first penetrating notes
that made the deepest impression of all on me. For
an hour and a half one had listened to unison singing
without variety; and now after the silence comes this
beautifully arranged harmony. The effect is splendid,
and the hearer feels the power of music in his heart
of hearts. It is this piece which is most peculiarly
striking. They reserve the best voices for the
“Miserere,” and render it with very great variation,
swelling and falling from the lightest piano to the
whole power of the voices. It is no wonder that
everyone is captivated by it.
It is important, too, that they never forget their
principle of contrast, and have each alternative verse
sung by all the male voices in unison, forte, and with-
out expression. Then at the commencement of the
next comes the beautiful soft and full harmony of the
part singing, always lasting a very short time, and then
interrupted again by the chorus of male voices.
During the monotone verse one has the presentiment
of this lovely alternation ; then it breaks forth again
and again too briefly, and before one is well aware of
it, it is gone.
For example, on the first day when they had Baini’s
44 SELECTED LETTERS OF
Miserere, the keynote was B minor, and they sang
“Miserere mei Deus ” down to the “Misericordiam
tuann " in unison, the solo voices and the two choirs
joining in with all their vocal resources; then came in
the basses “tutti forte” in F sharp, and on this single
note gave as recitative the “et secundum multitu-
dinem' down to “iniquitatem mean.” Immediately
after that the soft harmony in B minor returns, and so
it goes to the last verse, which is always sung with all the
power possible. Another brief interval of mental
prayer follows, and then all the cardinals scrape their
feet loudly on the floor, with which the ceremony
closes. My little volume says, “The noise signifies
how the Jews took our Lord captive with great
tumult.” That may be so, but it sounds precisely like
the drumming of feet in the pit when the play is de-
layed or fails to win favour. The single taper is now
brought from beneath the altar, and by its light the
congregation silently departs. I must say it is a
marvellous effect when one steps from the chapel into
the ante-chapel where a noble chandelier is burning,
and the cardinals with their attendant priests pass be-
tween ranks of the Swiss guard through the blazing
Quirinal. The Miserere given the first day was by
Baini, and, like all his compositions, without a touch of
life or power.
However, it had good harmony, and the quality of
music which always makes an impression. On the
second day they gave some pieces of Allegri’s
Miserere, the other days pieces from Bai, and on
Good Friday the whole was Bai's.
MENDELSSOHN. 45
As Allegri has only composed a single verse, to
which all the verses are sung, I have really heard the
whole of the three compositions. However, they
sing much the same thing throughout, for they give
the same variations, “embellimenti,” in any case, an
especial one for each harmony, so the composition in
itself is not very apparent.
How these “embellimenti” found their way in,
they decline to say, maintaining that they are tradi-
tional. I do not believe it ; musical tradition, in
general, is a dubious matter, and I do not know how
a piece of five-voice part-singing could be well handed
down by hearsay; it doesn't seem probable. The
variations have obviously been worked in by a later
composer, and it seems to me the director must have
had several good high voices, which he would naturally
wish to bring out on the occasion of Holy Week, and
so have composed these embellishments of the simple
harmonies in order to give them free scope and an
opportunity of display. Old they certainly are not,
but they are written with great taste and skill, and
produce an admirable effect.
There is one in particular which often recurs and is
the most impressive of all, so much so that when it
commences a slight movement passes through the
auditory, whatever sort of people compose it; and in
conversation whenever this style of music is spoken of,
and you hear people talk of how the voices ring out
as though less human than angelic, or of a harmony
that one can hear but once, it is always this particular
variation that is meant. Thus in the Miserere,
46 SELECTED LETTERS OF
whether Bai's or Allegri’s (the same “embellimenti”
occur in either), the original is :— --
–S 1 — 2–~
instead of which they sing:—
| 2. e- ºf R m
l- 2–2, #__f = ||...] FF
PE-2–H–e–2–Hz |-2–|–2-#–E–4°-
p–5–F–F– S I 2 s. | 2 || T]
WSJI TTT |->i- g J
Q_/
--~ --~ 2-s –
3: -3 3: 3.
RNE–I- >==== <---I-Le-Le— I
| T-J - J | i >H- T
N-2-n–l- | |
* D. | | I.
_-- --~ _-
–0–5 62 G ©
Złº-RP (º) | 62 |-z-H
Uz ſ ſ aſº - e
J S. | Z X- = --- * *
{{}}-2 |–4–4: *:
&J * ! ! !
3. * d. 3 -a -s. –62– ..c7–
• 62 | Gº | 62 | @ Tº
[[Vºy sºlº L. N. *—S- | Z |
-- n_ _ ſ I
2-D | Ul
The way in which the soprano takes that high C
quite clearly and Softly, making it resound at length,
and then dropping slowly down, while the alto all the
time maintains his own C, so that at first I was
deceived, and fancied the high C had been sustained ;
that and all the gradual development of the harmony
from itself is truly glorious. The other variations are
worked into the original in the same way, but this one
is by far the most beautiful. -

MENDELSSOHN. 47
I did not observe any other peculiarities of style.
Certainly what I once read of an acoustic arrange-
ment to multiply the sound is a mere fable, and so is
the assertion that they sing everything by sheer tradi-
tion, and without direction, taking the time from one
another, for beyond doubt, I saw the shadow of
Baini’s long arm moving up and down, and every
now and then he struck very audibly on the wood-
work of his stall.
There is, indeed, a good deal of uncertainty on
various points, spread about by the singers themselves
as well as by other people. They never say before-
hand what Miserere will be sung; it is decided at the
very moment, etc. Besides this, the way in which
they sing it depends on the condition of the voices.
The first day it was B minor, the second and third E.
minor, but on each occasion they ended up nearly in
B flat minor. The leading soprano, Mariano, had
come expressly ſrom the mountains to Rome to join
the choir, and to him I owe my hearing the “embel-
limenti’’ with their high notes.
But however much they brace themselves up for
the great effort, the neglect and the bad habits of the
rest of the year still take their revenge, and appalling
discords sometimes break out. I must tell you,
also, how on the Thursday I climbed upon a ladder
that was leaning against the wall just as the Miserere
commenced, and so, getting up close to the roof, had
the music and the priests and all the auditory far be-
neath me in the darkness. Sitting up there alone,
with none of those wearisome strangers round one,
48 SEI,ECTED LETTERS OF
I was more impressed than ever. And now to con-
tinue ! You will have enough Miserere on this page
and a half, and some particular points I can tell you
when I get back or let you see my notes. At half-
past ten on Thursday there was High Mass. They
sang a composition for eight voices by Fazzini, which
had just nothing remarkable in it. I am keeping by
me several “cante fermi” and antiphons which I
wrote down at the time, and the little book contains
the order of the office and explanations of its meaning.
At the “Gloria in excelsis " all the bells in Rome are
sounded, and after that are silent till Good Friday is
over. The hours are announced from the churches
by the striking together of pieces of wood. It was
very beautiful that the words of the “Gloria,” which
were the signal for all the wild uproar, should be
chanted from the altar by the aged Cardinal Pacca in
a weak quavering voice, which ceased and was suc-
ceeded by the crash of the choir and all the bells of
Rome. After the “Credo,” they put the “Fratres ego
enim * of Palestrina, but sang it with no sort of atten-
tion and very coarsely. I have already sent a de-
scription to my father and mother of the washing of
the pilgrim’s feet, which comes next, and the proces-
sion, in which the choir also walks, with Baini beat-
ing time out of a great book which is carried before
him, and signalling now to one, now to another of the
singers, who walk bent over their notes, halting at
times, and then moving on again, and in the proces-
sion goes the Holy Father himself, carried on his
throne of state. In the evening the Psalms, Lamenta-
MENDELSSOHN. 49
tions, Lections, and Miserere were as on the previous
day, with only slight differences. One Lection was
given by a single soprano to a curious melody, which
I am bringing you. It is an adagio in long notes,
and lasts certainly more than a quarter of an hour;
the voice has not the slightest pause, and the key is
very high. Nevertheless, the whole was gone through
with the clearest, purest, most unfailing intonation;
the singer never dropped a hairbreadth, and his last
note rose and sank just as evenly and roundly as the
first ; it was masterly. I was also struck by the sense
they attach to the word “appoggiatura.” For
example, if the melody passes from C to D or from
C to E, they sing:—
O
#EH or
e J J
and this auxiliary note they call an “appoggiatura.”
But they may call it what they will, it is a fearful
thing, and one needs to become familiar with it not
to be quite put out by this strange performance,
which really reminded me of nothing so much as of
our old women at church. The melody itself, as I
said before, was a different matter. However, I saw
beforehand from my book that the “Tenebrae” would
form part of the service, and thinking it would interest
you to know how it was sung in the papal chapel, I
remained on the watch with my pencil sharpened till
it came, and now set down for you the leading pas-
sages. (Again they sang it quite fast, forte all the
D
Or,

5O SELECTED LETTERS OF
way through without the least exception.) The com-
Imen Cement WaS :—
TENORI.
l —l ſ | -
I 2-, Gº || T | 2. Tº TT 2-, 62 2-, [...]
Lºe- ITD | 2–3 º' J. Taº ºf Evº II
I | wº | |Twº ſº, | | H
I -— | ||
Te - ne - brae fac tº º tº tale Sullht.
BASSI. f
ho - =s.
Z2N G. J. T. 2TLø v. Tº TøTPS I H
VººDºo Cº ITT IT * Q Cºll 2-, 2-,
\LZ Teº EzT. L. L. L. L. ITUTI | L: tº E- H
|Tºrº II ºt- T-L [TL TL
then later
f ^
*N
sºbe-a- ^ © _^TS
G#######f7+E"—ºft-e-Esº-sº-sº-sº
s—-–ESEEEEEEEEEEEEE FEF
De - us me - us ut quid me de - re - li - quistip
ex-cla gº sº mans Je - Sus vo $. Ce
/*N ^
+-I-I-1
º l tº
——— HTTE | || || º F. j T f ºn-
- ––––. --- – ~s –––––
======EHEHEEEE====EEE===
magna a - it : Pa - ter in ma - nus tu - as
tr
commendo spi - ri-tum me tº gº tº um, etc.
I cannot help it. It drives me beside myself to hear
the holiest and loveliest of words sung in such a casual,
humdrum style. They say it is plain song ; it is
Gregorian,—that makes no difference. If, indeed, in
those times men had no deeper feelings or no finer
resources, still we are in no such case, and truly there




MENDELSSOHN. 5 I
is, in the words of the Bible, no motive at all for this
monotonous formula. Everything there is fresh and
true, and the expression always as good and natural
as it can be ; why, then, should it be made to sound
so formal P And really, there is nothing in such a
style of music. How can one give the name of
church-music to that “Pater" with the little flourish,
the “Meum ” with a quaver, the “ut quid me?” To
be sure, there is no false expression in it, for there is
no expression at all; but is that not just the utter
desecration of the words P A hundred times during
the ceremony I felt furious; and when people came
to me quite in ecstasy about the beauty of it all, it
seemed to me like a bad joke, and yet they were quite
in earnest
At early Mass on Good Friday the chapel was
stripped of all ornament, the altar bare, the pope and
cardinals in mourning. The “Passio secundum
Johannem,” a composition by Vittoria, was now sung.
But only the words of the chorus of the people are
really his ; the rest was arranged in a way which I
will describe later. From time to time I felt keenly
how petty and constrained it was. I became deeply ir-
ritated, and indeed the entire work quite failed to please
me. Really, there are only two methods possible;
either the Passion must be calmly laid before us as
a narrative by the priest, as in the record of St.
John, and in that case there is no need of any choir
to strike in, “Crucifige eum,” or of an alto to repre-
sent Pilate. Or else, the Passion itself must be made
present to me, so that I may feel myself a witness of
52 , SELECTED LETTERS OF
it all. The Pilate must sing as he may have spoken,
the choir must shriek “Crucifige,” and that in no
ecclesiastical accents. But then, in its inward truth
and in virtue of the story it would make present to
us, that music would be truly religious music. Then
I should need no “associations” with the music, for
the music would be no longer an “instrument to
raise the mind to devotion,” as these people conceive
it, but it would be a language that spoke to me, and the
meaning be expressed only by the words themselves,
embodied only in them. Thus it is with Sebastian
Bach's Passion music; but even this, as they sing it
here, is only a sort of compromise, neither simple
narration nor great dramatic, passionate truth. The
choir sings “Barabbam ” in just the same devotional
accents as “Et in terra pax.” Pilate is made to
speak in the same tone as the evangelist. The words
of Jesus are always commenced piano, to give
them a sort of distinction, while the choir is
strenuously shouting its ecclesiastical phrases. One
really fails to see what it is all about. But pardon
my comments, and I will go on at once with my
description.
The evangelist is a tenor, and the style of recitation
is the same as in the Lections, with special cadences
for comma, query, and full stop. The evangelist
recites on D, and at a full stop changes thus:–

MENDELSSOHN. 53
- • _ſº
At a comma #####| and at the end
==Tº ^
when another person comes in #######|
i n TD
Christ is represented by a bass, and always begins:—
,..., P -T --~ ſº
Ada 920. * • * -º- . ſe G (º)
ſº-º-EH HEEE H
N_2 |- | I | H
E. º -> © º tº 3O,
I could not get hold of the scheme, but I have
noted down several passages, which I can show you,
among others the words from the Cross. All the
other speakers, Pilate, Peter, the maid, and the high
priest, are now represented by the alto in G.
- /*N
The words of the People are sung by the choir above,
all the rest from the altar. I must set down for you the
“Crucifige” as I noted it, for the sake of its strangeness.
! Allegro.
l—— H––– j-S ]
––– | || |=S I I !e s C : — - l i - -
####3: 3-f-#-3 2=3: |
Taj-a-ay- © t
€ - lllll.
ff Tol-le ! Toile ! Cru - ci - fi - ge
it in * ſe- *
Gºf e H ==E== -: H Ho- ºssº" | ==|
I HT- i I I | TI I I __ | | |
E
The “Barabbam,” too, is curious; they are the
mildest of Jews. But this letter is already too long,
So I will be silent about the rest. Now come the
Prayers for all nations and institutions, each named

54 SELECTED LETTERS OF
individually. But at the prayer for the Jews no one
kneels as is done during the others, and no amen is
said ; they pray “pro perfidis Judaeis,” and the little
book has its explanation for this too. Then comes the
adoration of the Cross. A small crucifix is placed in
the middle of the chapel, and all the assistants approach
it with naked feet, that is, without shoes, fall before it
and kiss it. Meanwhile the Improperia are sung.
After a single hearing this seems to me one of the
most beautiful compositions of Palestrina, and they
sing it with especial appreciation. The treatment of
this piece by the choir brings out a marvellous tender-
ness and great precision ; they succeed in placing
every minute detail in its true light and its true
relief, without the least over-emphasis ; each chord
melts quite softly into the next. And the ceremony
is truly solemn and worthy of the occasion. The
deepest silence reigns in the chapel, and the ever
returning Greek “Sanctus” is very beautifully sung,
also with the same softness and the same expression.
They would be surprised, however, to see it written
down, for what they sing is this :-
CORO I.
P Adagio. *~~~s - ^
<. ->.
Sanc - tus De - us.
\ly ~ :-
Da Capo thrice.

MENDELSSOHN. 55
Points like the commencement of this, where all
the voices unite in one grace-note, occur very often,
and one becomes accustomed to them. The whole,
however, is really noble. I wish you could hear the
tenor of the first choir take the high A on Theos. The
way in which they bring out the tone is so penetrating
and yet so gentle, that the effect is most touching.
This passage they repeated till all in the chapel had
knelt before the crucifix, and as it happened that
there was no great crowd, I unluckily did not hear it
so often as I would have wished. But I can well
understand why the Improperia made the greatest
impression on Goethe ; it is really the most com-
plete of rituals, music and ceremonial meeting there
in their fullest measure. There follows now a pro-
cession of the host which on the evening before had
been placed in another chapel of the Quirinal and
adored there by the light of many hundred tapers.
After that the office for the morning came to an end
about half-past one with a hymn in plain song. At
half-past four the first “nocturnum,” commenced
with psalms, lections, etc., and I took notes of several
things. I heard Baini’s Miserere, and about seven we
took our way behind the cardinals through the
lighted vestibule homewards. And thus it all came
to an end. I wished to give you an exact description
of the Holy Week, dear professor, for to me those
were beautiful days, and every hour brought some-
thing I had long waited for, and made it mine. I was
especially pleased that in spite of the strain and all
the comments from this side or that, praising or
56 SELECTED LETTERS OF
blaming, the whole made just as fresh and living an
impression on me as though I had come indepen-
dently and without prepossession, and I saw it once
more established that whatever is perfect, even though
it be in the sphere most distant from one's own, still
has the power of perfection. And so may you read
this long letter with half the joy it has given me to
recall my Holy Week in Rome !
Your faithful
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
MENDELSSOHN. 57
FROM A. LETTER, TO HIS FAMILY.
ISOLA BELLA, 14th /u/y, 1831.
PEOPLE have tried to persuade me that my im-
agination had exaggerated the vastness of the Swiss
mountains, the unearthly forms of which hover among
the recollections of my childhood, and that a Snow
mountain was not so imposing as I fancied. I was
almost afraid to find myself disillusioned, but when I
reached the IAke of Como, and saw the outposts of
the Alps covered with cloud, with brilliant white snow
and precipitous black peaks showing here and there,
and their steep descent to the water, the trees and
villages at their feet, then the mossy slopes and the
cold barren rocks above furrowed with snowy clefts,
the old feeling came back as at first, and I saw
my memory had exaggerated nothing of it. I have
just come back from visiting the gardens of the castle
in a downpour of rain. I wanted to have it like
Albano," and sent for a barber to bleed me ; but
he did not understand, and shaved me instead,
which no doubt was a very excusable mistake. Boats
are arriving at the island from all sides, as there is a
*In Richter’s Titan.
58 SELECTED LETTERS OF
great festival, which is to be honoured by musicians
and singers from Milan. The gardiner asked me if I
knew what a wind instrument was. I assured him with
a good conscience that I did, and then he said I must
imagine thirty of them together with fiddles and bass
viols as well, but indeed, he went on, I couldn’t im-
agine it, one must hear a thing like that before one
could believe it. It was sound that seemed to de-
scend from heaven, and all brought about by “Phil-
harmonics.” What he understood by this I cannot
tell, but it had made more impression on him than
the best orchestra would make on many musical
critics. . . .
Another very pleasant acquaintance I made at
Milan was that of Herr Mozart, who is an official
there, but a musician at heart. He must have a great
resemblance to his father, especially in character, for
the things, he says, continually recall to one's mind
the naïveté and frankness of his father's letters,
and one’s heart goes out to him at once. I
very much admire his jealousy for his father's re-
putation, as though he was now commencing his
career. One evening at the Ertmann's, after we had
played a great deal of Beethoven, the baroness
whispered to me that it was time to have something by
Mozart, otherwise the son would be unhappy, and
when I had played the overture to Don Juan, he
thawed completely, and begged to hear “his father's
Zauberflöte.” At this last he was as pleased as a child ;
one could not but like him. He gave me letters to
his friends about Como. So I have caught a glimpse
MENDELSSOHN. 59
of Italian provincial life, and have found much enter-
tainment with the doctor, the apothecary, the magi-
strate, and other of the inhabitants. There were lively
discussions about Sand, and some admired him
greatly. It seemed curious to me, for the story is
somewhat old, and people have almost left off disput-
ing about it. They talked also of Shakespere's plays,
which are now translated into Italian. The doctor
affirmed that the tragedies were good, but there were
certain tales of magic among them, and these were very
childish. One especially, “The Midsummer Night
Dream.” This introduced the antiquated subject of
a rehearsal for the stage, and the whole of it was full
of anachronisms and puerile ideas. All the company
agreed it was very inane. I should do better not to
read it ! I was mournfully silent, and attempted no
defence."
I Mendelssohn's Overture to “A Midsummer Night Dream” is
dated 1826.
6O SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS FAMILY.
MILAN, 14th /uly, 1831.
& e º tº © tº
IN the evenings I was always in society, owing to a
mad idea of mine, which, like some others, suc-
ceeded admirably. I believe I have discovered this
sort of eccentricity, and must take out a patent for it,
for I have always made the most charming acquaint-
ances, without letters, introductions, or anything of
the sort. On arriving I chanced to ask the names of
the officers commanding in the garrison, and among
those of various generals occurred General Ertmann's.
This recalled to me Beethoven's sonata in A major
and its dedication. And as I had heard from every-
body the most charming accounts of Frau Ertmann,
who is said to have fascinated Beethoven, and to be
an exquisite pianist, I attired myself in a frock-coat
at the proper hour for visiting, inquired my way to the
palace, and, composing a fine speech for Madame
General en route, went boldly to call on her.
It is not to be denied that I was alarmed on hear-
ing that the general resided on the first floor in the
front, and as I reached the magnificent vaulted vesti-
bule, I felt in a perfect panic, and would gladly have
MEN DELSSOHN. 61
turned back. But it seemed too provincial to be dis-
concerted by a vaulted ceiling. So I advanced straight
on a knot of military men who stood there, and asked
an old person in an undress jacket if General Ertmann
lived there, as I wished to call on Madame Ertmann.
Unfortunately, he replied, “I am General Ertmann,
at your service.” This was very unpleasant, and I
had to bring out my whole speech in an abridgment.
He did not seem particularly edified, and begged to
know whom he had the honour of addressing. This
was not pleasant either, but, fortunately, he knew my
name, and became very courteous; his wife, he said,
was not at home. I should find her at two, if I was
then free, or at another hour. I was delighted that it
had turned out so well in the end, and spent the in-
tervening time at the Brera, looked at Raphael's
Sposalizio, and at two made the acquaintance of
Freifrau Dorothea v. Ertmann.
She received me in a very friendly manner, and was
so obliging as to play me Beethoven's sonata in Csharp
minor, and then the one in D minor. The old general,
who now appeared in his grey full-dress uniform with
many decorations, was highly pleased, and shed tears
of joy. He had not heard his wife play for so long.
There was no one in Milan who cared to listen to
that style of music. She spoke of the trio in B flat,
which she could not well recall. I played it and sang
the voice parts; this gave the old couple great joy, and
so our acquaintance became complete. Since then
they have shown me a friendliness which makes me
quite ashamed. The old general shows me the points
62 SELECTED LETTERS OF
of interest in Milan. In the afternoon his wife calls
for me in her carriage to drive on the Corso, and in the
evenings we have music till one o'clock. Yesterday
morning they took me an excursion in the country,
and made me come to dinner at midday. In the
evening they had a reception. Besides, they are the
most delightful and cultivated people one can wish
for, and as much in love with one another as though
they had been married the other day, instead of four
and thirty years ago. Yesterday he was speaking of
his profession and military life, and about personal cour-
age and kindred matters, with a clearness and a fine
freedom of view such as I have scarcely heard except
from father. He has already been an officer for forty-
six years, and you should see him riding beside his
wife's carriage in the park, such a brisk and noble
style the old gentleman has still. She plays Beet-
hoven's things very beautifully, though it is long since
she studied them. Often she exaggerates the expres-
sion a little, lingering too much, and then hurrying on,
yet she renders some pieces grandly. And I think I
have learnt something from her. At times she can
draw out no more expression from the piano, and then
she throws in her voice, that seems to come straight
from her innermost heart; at those times she often re-
minds me of you, my Fanny, though, indeed, you far
surpass her. As I reached the end of the adagio on
the trio in B major, she exclaimed, “It is too expres-
sive to be played,” and that is really true of the passage.
The next day I was there again, and played the
symphony in C minor; she insisted on my taking
MENDELSSOHN. 63.
off my coat on account of the heat. Now and then
the general throws in the most wonderful stories about
Beethoven, how one evening, when she was playing,
he used the candle-snuffers for a tooth-pick, etc.
She told me how, when she lost her last child,
Beethoven at first could not bring himself to come to the
house. At last he begged her to visit him, and when
she got there he sat down at the piano, and said only,
“We will talk in music.” Then he played on for an
hour, and as she expressed it, “He said everything to
me, and in the end brought me consolation.”
64 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS SISTERS.
CHARNEY, 6th August, I83 I.
My DEARSISTERs, You have read all through Ritter's
Africa of course, but I don’t fancy you know the
whereabouts of Charney. Then fetch the old atlas up
from the cellar, for you must be prepared to give me
your company on my travels. Go with your finger
from Vevay to Clarens, and then on to the peak of
Jaman, straight as a string. This string is a footpath,
and where you must go with your fingers I have come
this morning on my feet. (It is now half-past seven,
and I am still fasting.) I am going to have breakfast
here, and am now writing in a clean wooden-walled
room till the milk is hot.
From outside comes in the gleam of the bright,
blue lake. I am beginning my diary here, and will
go on with it while I travel on foot as well as I can.
After breakfast.—Great heaven consider my mis-
fortune. The hostess has come in with a face full of
trouble to say there is no one in the village to be my
guide to Jaman and carry my bundle except a young
girl; the men are all at their work. You must know
I always set out alone in the morning with my bundle
MENDELSSOHN. 65
and cloak on my back; the guides from the inns are too
dear and too tedious for me. The first honest-looking
young fellow whom I find after two hours gets hired, and
so I get on better on foot. How charming the lake and
the path hither were is more than I can say. Fancy
all the beauties you have ever delighted in-it is that.
The footpath is always sloping upwards under the
shade of nut trees, past country houses and castles ;
on all the slope down to the glittering lake lie
villages scattered here and there, and the villages are
full of the sound of streams and fountains splashing at
every corner ; most beautiful it was, and one felt so
free and bright ! Now comes the village-girl with her
straw hat; she is wonderfully pretty, and her name is
Pauline. She puts my baggage in the basket on her
shoulder, and so we march for the mountains,
Adieu !
Avening at Chaſeau d'Oex.—I have had the most
charming journey. Could I get you such a day,
I would give much for it, but then you would first
have to turn into two young men, and be able to
climb vigorously, drink milk when you had the chance,
make little of a great deal of heat, a great many stones,
also of many holes in the path, and still more holes
in your boots. I fear you are much too tender for
that. But it was wonderfully beautiful. . Never shall
I forget the walk with Pauline, who was one of the
jolliest girls I ever met in my life, so pretty and
healthy and full of natural cleverness. She told me
stories about her village, and I told her stories about
- E
66 SELECTIED LETTERS OF
Italy, but I know which of us amused the other most.
Last Sunday all the young people of distinction in her
village were taken to a place far across the mountains
for a dance that was to happen at noon. They
started a little after midnight, were on the mountains
while it was still dark, and there made a great fire and
cooked coffee. About dawn the men had a leaping
match before the ladies—we went by the broken fence
that marked the spot—-then they had the dance, and
by Sunday evening were all home again. Early on
Monday the work began again in the vineyards. By
heaven I was taken with a vast desire to be a peasant
of the Canton de Vaud as I heard her stories, and she
showed me villages down below where the people dance
when the cherries are ripe, and others where they dance
when the cows go up to the pastures and there is fresh
milk again. To-morrow there is a dance at St.
Gingolph ; they row across the lake, and those skilled
in music take their instruments with them. Pauline,
though, does not go with them, as her mother does
not permit her for fear of the broad lake; and a .
number of other girls do not go either, because they
always keep together. Then she asked my permission
to go and say good-day to her cousin, and went down
to a charming house on the meadow-land. Presently
the two girls came out and sat chattering on the
seat; above, on the Col de Jaman, I could see their
kinsmen, who were mowing and pasturing the cows;
they called and screamed to them, and were answered
with jodels from above; then everybody laughed. I
understood no word of the patois but the first, and
MENDELSSOHN. 67
that was “Adieu, Pierrot.” All the time there went
on a jovial mocking echo, that sent back all the
shoutings and laughter and jödeling. About mid-
day we got to Allières. After a little rest, I took my
bundle again on my own shoulders, for I didn’t take
to a certain sturdy old porter who wanted to carry it for
me, and shaking hands with Pauline took leave of her
and descended through the Alpine meadow. If the
peasant girl fails to please you, or, indeed, has bored
you, I cannot help it, you must put the blame on my
description, for in reality she was delightful, and so
was my journey on. I came on a group of people
eating fruit under a cherry tree, lay down with them in
the grass, and ate fruit, too, for a while. Then I took
a midday rest at La Tine in a cleanly house all built
of wood. The carpenter, who had built it for himself,
gave me his company to a dish of roast lamb, and
proudly pointed out to me the tables, chairs, and cup-
boards.
And to conclude, I reached here this evening
through dazzling green meadows, where the houses
stand all about between pine trees and waterfalls.
The church here stands on a knoll, all one mass of
green. Far away the houses are dotted about, and
beyond them are huts among the crags, while in a
gorge above the meadows a little snow is still lying.
It is an idyllic place, like the one we saw together in
Wattwyl, only the village is smaller and the moun-
tains broader and greener. But to-day I must close
with a paean in honour of the Canton de Vaud. Of
all the countries that I know it is the most beautiful,
68 SELECTED LETTERS OF
and the one where I should best like to live when I
am downright old. The people are so contented and
look so healthy, and the country is the same. Coming
from Italy, one is profoundly touched by the honesty
that still exists in the world, by the happy faces here,
and then by the absence of beggars and bad-tempered
officials, such a wonderful contrast there is between
one people and another. I thank God for making
many things so beautiful, and may He give us all in
Berlin and England and Chateau d'Oex a pleasant
evening and a good night !
BoLTIGEN, 7th August.
Evening.—Outside there is terrible thunder and
lightning, and heavy rain as well. In the mountains
one learns to treat the weather with respect. I did
not go on from here, for it would have been a pity to
travel down the lovely Simmenthal beneath an
umbrella. It was a grey day, but beautifully cool for
walking in the forenoon. The valley about Saanen
and the whole route is indescribably fresh and delight-
ful. I can never see too much green; if I were to
state all my life long at a sloping meadow-land with a
couple of reddish-brown houses, I should always find
the same pleasure in it. And the road winds among
such meadows all the way up and down along the
streamlets. -
At midday, I was at Zweisimmen in one of the
monstrous Bernese houses where everything shines
so; all order and cleanliness, all polished down
MENDELSSOHN. 69
to the very smallest detail. From there I sent my
bundle by the post to Interlaken, and am now regu-
larly marching through the country, with my night-
shirt in my pocket, together with brush, comb, and
guide-book. There is nothing further that I want.
However, I am very tired—if only it would be fine
weather to-morrow.
WEISSENBURG, 8th August.
I had breakfast at this place. I had to draw it for
you with a pen, so do not laugh at my ingenuous
water. At Boltigen I had a terrible night. There
was no room in the inn on account of the fair, so I
had to take refuge in a neighbouring house. There
one had all sorts of nuisances, like in Italy—a loud,
harsh clock that struck all the hours immensely loud,
and a little child that cried the entire night through.
I was really obliged to study the child for a while ; it
cried in every key, and with every sort of suggestion
in its voice. First captious, then furiously angry, then
plaintive, and when it could scream no longer, it be-
gan to snore deeply. And people will tell one we
ought to wish our childhood back, children are so
happy but I am persuaded a little rascal like that
has as many bad tempers as one of us grown-up folk ;
its sleepless nights, too, its passions, and all the rest
of it. This philosophic reflection occurred to me this
morning while I was sketching Weissenburg, and I
was going to give it you all hot, but I found a copy of
the “Constitutional,” in which I read that Casimir
Perrier insists on resigning, and much other matter
70 SELECTED LETTERS OF
for thought. Among other things was a remarkable
article on the cholera, that one ought to copy for the
sake of its foolishness. The whole thing is denied ;
only one Jew had it at Dantzic, and he got well again.
On the heels of that came a string of abstract reflec-
tions as bad as Hegel, and in French —then the
election of deputies—oh, the world ! As soon as I
had got through my reading, I couldn’t help going
out in the rain across the meadows; and, indeed, in
no dream could one see such a charming country as
this. In the worst of weathers the churches, the groups
of houses, bushes and streams, are delightful. And
the green, too; that was in its element to-day. Now
it is pouring outside long after the midday dinner.
This evening I shall get no further than Spiez. I am
disappointed not to see the country here, which seems
to lie so beautifully; nor yet Spiez, which I know al-
ready from Rösel's drawings. This is just the capital
point of the whole Simmenthal, as it says in the old
Song:—
Hinterm Niesen vornam Niesen sind die besten
/N
Al-pen im Siebethal, Siebethal, Siebethal, Siebethal, Siebethal.
I was singing that all to-day along the road. But the
Siebethal did not thank me for the compliment, but
went raining on.


MENDELSSOHN. 7I
UNTERSEEN.
Evening of the 9th.-My joke is turned to bitter
earnest as may easily happen nowadays. The
frightful weather has done great damage, and the
country is half devastated. The people cannot
remember such a furious storm and rain for many
years. And all that happens with such incredible
rapidity! Early this morning it was only uncomfort
able bad weather, and this afternoon all the bridges
are swept away, the routes blocked for the time.
Landslips are happening on the Lake of Brientz,
everything is upside down. And now I hear that
war is declared in Europe as well, so things are going
wildly in the world, and one may be glad to have a
warm room and a decent roof over one's head for the
moment, as I have here. The rain ceased for a while
this morning, and I thought the clouds had drained
themselves out. So I started from Wyler, and soon
found the road pretty well destroyed; the weather
played me a trick as well. The rain began again
softly, then about nine dashed down with such
fury that one saw something uncommon was going
on. I crept into a half-built hut where there was
a great bundle of hay, and made a bed for myself in
the sweet smelling stuff. A soldier of the canton
going to Thun, crept in from the opposite side as
well. After an hour, as things got no better, we went
on, each in his own direction. At Leisingen I had to
get under a roof again and wait a long time, but as
my things were at Interlaken, only two hours off, I
72 SELECTED LETTERS OF
thought I could manage it, and set off about one.
There was nothing to see except the grey mirror of
the lake, no mountains, seldom the outline of the
opposite shore. *
The streams which, as you remember, often run
down the footpaths, had turned into torrents, along
which one had to wade, and when the path was level
for a little, the water stood still and formed a lake.
Then I had to get through the wet hedges into the
squelchy meadows, for all the tree-trunks, by which
one is supposed to cross the streams, lay under water.
Once I came between two brooks that had over-
flowed into one another, and had to wade up against
the current with water up to my chin. All this water
was black or chocolate coloured. It looked as if
streams of liquid earth were flowing down and leaping
one above the other. From above the rain streamed
down, and the wind every now and then shook the water
from the dripping walnut-trees, and the waterfalls that
pour themselves into the lake roared with a terrible
sound on either shore. One's eye could follow the brown
streaks they made far down till they fell plashing into
the clear lake, which remained all the time quite calm,
and quietly received all the wild seething that rushed
down on it.
Then I met a man wading with shoes and stockings
off, and his breeches turned up. By this time I was
getting rather depressed. Two women came along,
who told me I could not get through the village, all
the bridges were down. I asked them how far it was
to Interlaken. “A good hour,” was the answer.
MENDELSSOHN. 73
Turning back was not to be thought of, so I pushed
on into the village. Then the people shouted to me
out of the windows that I could go no further, the
water was coming down from the mountains too
strong, and there was indeed a terrible business going
on in the middle of the village. The earth-coloured
torrent had swept everything before it. It poured
round the corners of houses through the pastures, high
above the bridges, and went roaring down to the lake
below. Luckily there was a small boat at hand, in
which I got myself put over to Neuhaus, though the
passage in this sort of open punt in the furious rain
was by no means pleasant. My condition when I
reached Neuhaus was fairly wretched; I looked as if
I had top-boots on. Shoes, stockings and everything.
up to the knees were dark brown, then came the real
white colour, then a soft blue overcoat ; even my
sketch-book that I had tucked under my waistcoat
was moist. In this fashion I reached Interlaken, and
was received with small hospitality; the people either
could not or would not find me a room, and so I had
to find my way back to Unterseen, where I am now
comfortably housed. It was very curious how I had felt
pleased all the time at the idea of getting back to my
inn at Interlaken, where so many recollections
would be waiting me, and when I actually drove on to
the square with the walnut-trees, in the little trap I had
hired at Neuhaus, and saw my well-remembered glass
gallery and met the fair hostess, changed and aged
indeed, at the door, really all the bad weather and
discomfort I had gone through did not vex me so
74 SELECTED LETTERS OF
much as that I couldn’t stop there. For the first
time since leaving Vevey I was out of humour for half
an hour, and had to sing Beethoven, E flat major,
Adagio.
three or four times, before I came right again.
It was here that I first found out what damage the
storm had done, and may do yet, for it is still pouring
steadily.
9.30 in the evening.—The bridge at Zweilütchinen
has been swept away. The coach-drivers for Brienz
and Grindelwald refuse to go for fear of getting a
rock or two on their head. Here the water is a
foot and a half under the bridge on the Aar, and the
gloominess of the sky is beyond description. Still I
can wait to see it out here, for one wants nothing
from circumstances to call back old memories. They
have even put me in a room where there is a piano.
It dates from 1794, and its tone is rather like the
little old Silbermann in my study, so, at the first note
I felt friendly towards it, and while playing I can
think of you. It has lived through a great deal this
piano, and doubtless never had an idea that I, who
was only born in 1809, would come to compose on
it. I am twenty-two years old, and the piano is al-
ready thirty-seven, and good for a while yet. There
are going to be some new songs, my sisters You
don’t know as yet my great “Travellers' Song” in E
major. It is wonderfully sentimental. Now I am


MENDELSSOHN. 75
composing one that I am afraid will not turn out much,
but it will do for us three ; it is very well meant. The
words are Goethe's, but I won't say what ; it is too
foolish to compose on just that theme. Besides, it
doesn’t really suit the music, but I think it so
heavenly that I must always be singing it. And that
is the end for to-day. Good-night, my loves |
FELIX.
LAUTERBRUNNEN, 13th August, 1831.
I have just got in from a walk to the Schmadri-Bach
and towards the Breithorn. All that one imagines of
the mass and sweep of the mountains is very poor
compared to the reality. That Goethe contrived to
write nothing from Switzerland, but a couple of feeble
poems, and some still more feeble letters, is just as
unintelligible to me as a great many other things in
the world. The road up to here was again all topsy-
turvey. Where was an admirable road a week ago is
now a wild heap of rocks, great boulders in piles,
gravel and sand everywhere, no trace of human labour
to be seen. The water has gone down, indeed, but
the streams are not quiet yet; now and then one hears
the grinding of stones that are hurled together at the
bottom, and the waterfalls sweep down pieces of
black rock in their white foam. My guide showed
me a handsome new house standing in the midst
of the furious current. He said it belonged to
his brother-in-law, and that there had been a fine
meadow all round it, that used to bring in a great deal.
76 SELECTED LETTERS OF
The man had been compelled to fly from the house
during the night; the meadow had disappeared for
ever, nothing but gravel and stones there now ! “He
was never rich, but now he is poor,” so ended the
story of misfortune.
It was curious in the middle of this desolate scene,
where the Lutschine had overflowed the entire breadth
of the valley, to see a char-a-banc standing among the
swamped meadows and blocks of stones, where no
ghost of a road remained. There it is likely to stand
for some time to come. Some people wanted to
drive through right in the middle of the storm, but the
tempest came down on them, and they had to leave
trap and all in the mud, so there it stands waiting
events. It was an ugly sight when we reached a place
where the entire valley with the road and the dams on
each side of the stream were covered with a mere sea
of rocks. My guide, who was going on in front, kept
murmuring to himself, “Awful work.” In the middle
of the stream the water had whirled down two great
tree trunks, and caught them on the sudden between
two rocks, which pinned them in so as to leave the
naked stems standing half upright. I could never
get to an end of telling you all the shapes of devasta-
tion that one sees coming up here from Unterseen.
But nevertheless the beauty of the valley made a
greater impression on me than I can tell you. It was
most unlucky that you never went up further than the
Staubbach, the point where the real Lauterbrunnen
valley begins. As you go up the Schwarze Mönch,
with all the snows behind, it rises grander and grander ;
MENDELSSOHN. 77
on every side flashing torrents fall like dust into the
valley; one sees the Snow mountains and glaciers
quite near through the woods of pine, oak and maple,
and the wet meadows are strewn with innumerable
bright flowers. On one side the Lutschine was hurl-
ing down the boulders one over another. As my
guide said, it had brought down rocks “bigger than a
stove.” But it is beautiful beyond everything. Un-
fortunately, we could not get up to the Smadribach,
because all the bridges and pathways were destroyed.
Still I shall never forget that walk. I made an at-
tempt at a sketch of the Mönch, but what use is one's
little pencil P I know Hegel says that every human
thought is something more sublime than the whole of
nature, but here that strikes me as hardly modest. It
is a fine idea, but a confounded paradox. For once I
will be on the side of the whole of nature, which, in-
deed, is likely to be the safe side.
You know the position of the inn here, or if you
have forgotten take my old Swiss sketch-book, where
I have drawn it from every point of view, with the foot-
path in front, and which still makes me laugh privately.
I am looking out of the self-same window now, getting
a peep at the dark outlines of the mountains, for it is
late in the evening, a quarter to eight, in fact. And I
have an idea which is higher than the whole of nature,
namely, that I will go to bed. So good-night, my
loves. .
GRIN DELWALD.
The 14th, evening.—It went hard to leave the Jung-
frau behind, but what a day it has been for me !
78 SELECTED LETTERS OF
Since we were here together I have always wanted to
see the Lesser Scheideck again. So I woke early this
morning almost in a state of fear, so many things
might happen to spoil my chance, bad weather, clouds,
rain, or mist. But no, it was a day that might have
been made solely for me to cross the Wengernalp.
The sky was flecked with light clouds, that swept clear
of the highest peaks; there was no mist on any of the
mountains, every summit sparkling in the clear air
with every point and mass on it clear cut—how am I
to describe it? You know the Wengernalp, but then
we saw it in bad weather. To-day all the mountains
were arrayed as for a feast, nothing was wanting, from
the thundering avalanches to the people in their Sun-
day clothes going to church, just as they were doing
then. I really remembered little of the mountains
except the wild jagged outline of them high up
against the sky; but to-day I felt overpowered by
their measureless breadth, the mass of the white
expanses, the harmonious placing of all these
monstrous towers, the way in which they enfold
each other and join hands, as it were, round one.
Fancy besides all the glaciers, all the snow fields, all
the crags lit up to a dazzling whiteness, and flashing
in it, and then the distant summits of other chains
struggling up to peep into the landscape. I have a
feeling that God's own thoughts must look something
like that. Whoever does not know God may find
Him here, and the nature He has made, clear be-
fore his very eyes. And through it all there is the
dear fresh air that rouses you when you are tired, and
MENDELSSOHN. 79
- r ------------——--- - - . . . - == -— ----------———------—
cools you when you are overheated. And then the
waterfalls I have quite a treatise to write to you still on
the nature of waterfalls, but to-day, there is no time,
for now I have a different sort of story to tell. Now,
you think, he is just going to descend and find the
country below very pleasant. No, that isn't it; but
when I reached the Sennhütte, I heard that in a
meadow, right up among the mountains, there was
going to be a festival, and now and then one saw
people in the distance climbing up. I wasn't in the
least tired, and an Alpine village festival is not to be
seen every day. The good weather said, “Yes,” and
my guide was immensely pleased at the prospect, so I
said then, let us make for Itramen. The old cowherd
pushed on, so we had to take manfully to climbing
again, for Itramen is a good thousand feet above the
Ilesser Scheideck. The cowherd was a sort of wild
man of the mountains; he rushed on in front of us
like a cat. Presently, however, he took pity on my
guide, and relieved him of the bundle and cloak ;
and even with these he still ran ahead so fast
that we had no chance of catching him. The path
was horribly steep, but he said it was good, and that
formerly he used to take a steeper and shorter one. He
was about sixty years old, and yet when my young
guide and I had struggled up to a hill-top, we invari-
ably saw him disappearing over the next. For two
hours we went over the hardest bit of mountain I ever
attempted, now high up, now far down again, over
loose stones and streams and crevasses, across two
snow fields, all in the utmost loneliness without a
8O SELECTED LETTERS OF
path or the least trace of human labour. Now and
again one heard the avalanches on the Jungfrau;
otherwise all was quiet, and not a tree near us. But
in the middle of all this silence and solitude, on
reaching the top of a little grassy hill, we suddenly came
in sight of a great crowd of people standing in a circle,
all talking and laughing and calling to one another.
All were dressed in their finery, with flowers in their
hats; there were many girls among them. Two tables
with butts of wine were in the middle—all round the
vast stillness and the awful mountains. It was
curious that while climbing I could think of
nothing but the rocks and stones, or else the snow
and the track we had to follow ; but from the moment
I saw the people all that went out of my mind, and I
thought only of them and their jovial festival. It was
delightful there; the broad green meadow far above
the clouds served for a stage. Straight in front the
snow mountains lifted themselves in the sky, the
mighty spire of the Eiger, with the Schreckhorn, the
Wetterhorn and all the rest, away to the Blumlisalp.
In the misty depth below lay the Lauterbrunnen
valley looking quite small, and down there we could
see all the route we had been the day before with its
waterfalls marked like threads, the houses just little
points, and the trees showing like tufts of grass. Be-
hind, one now and then caught a glimpse of the Lake
of Thun through the dimness. Among the crowd of
good, stalwart, hearty peasants it was all leaping and
singing, drinking and laughing. I saw the leaping for
the first time with great interest. When it was over,
MENDELSSOHN. 8 I
the girls handed the men cherry brandy and Schnaps;
the bottles passed round from hand to hand, and I
drank with the company. Then I treated three little
children to cakes, and made them very happy. An
old peasant who was extremely drunk sang me several
songs; then they all sang, and my guide gave us quite
a modern song in the finest of styles, and presently
two small boys began to fight. Everything seemed de-
lightful on that mountain. I lay on the grass till
towards evening, and made myself at home. Then
we went leaping down to the meadows, and soon came
in sight of our well-known inn with its windows
flashing in the sunset. A fresh wind blew from the
glaciers and cooled us. Now it is late, and from time
to time one hears the avalanches. That was my Sun-
day; it was a festival indeed
F
82 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS FAMILY.
MUNICH, 6th October, 1831.
IT is a delightful feeling to wake in the morning
with a long allegro to instrument with any num-
ber of hautboys and trumpets, and with the brightest
of weather outside as well, promising a long stretch
in the fresh country for the atternoon. I have been
like this for an entire week, and the friendliness
of Munich, as I felt it the first time, is now more ap-
parent than ever. I scarcely know any place where I
feel so much at home, so much a regular, a burgher
of the city, as I do here. It is so charming to be
among absolutely cheerful faces, and to look cheer-
ful oneself in company, and then to know everybody
in the streets besides. Now I have my concert before
me, which is a handful, not to mention the friends who
break in on me at every moment, nor the lovely
weather which entices one out of doors, nor the
copyists who compel one to stay at home—it is all a
most pleasurable and most stormy existence. My
concert has had to be put off on account of the
October festival, which begins on Sunday and lasts
all the week. There is the theatre and a ball every
evening, no chance of an orchestra or a hall to play
1I].
MENDELSSOHN. 83
So on Monday the 17th, about half-past six in the
evening, think of me and the thirty fiddlers and the
wind instruments striking up. The C minor symphony
starts the first part, the “Midsummer Night's Dream ”
the second. The first closes with my new piece in G
minor. Then, alas ! at the close of the second I have
to improvise, a thing you will believe I don't look
forward to, but these people insist on it. Bärmann
has decided to play again ; Breiting, the Vials, Loehle,
Beyer and Pellegrini are the singers and share the
part-music. The place will be the Odeon, and the
proceeds go to the Munich charities.
Every morning I have to write and correct and
instrument in preparation for the great event;
then comes one o'clock, and I depart for Scheidel's
coffee-house in the Kausingergasse, where I know all
the faces already by heart, and find their owners every
day in precisely the same positions, two playing chess,
three looking on, five reading the newspapers, six
dining, and myself the seventh. After dinner Bārmann
generally comes and carries me off. We talk about
concert business, or else go for a walk to a beer and
coffee-house, then back home and to work again. For
the evenings I have rigorously refused all invitations, but
there are so many delightful houses where I can walk
in uninvited that I am seldom in my study after eight.
The place I live in is a room flush with the ground,
which was formerly a shop, so that everybody who
passes looks in and says good morning. Near me
there lives a Greek, who is learning the piano; he is
abominable, but my landlord's daughter, who is very
84 SELECTED LETTERS OF
slender and wears a silver band to keep her curls in
order, is all the more charming by comparison.
Three days in the week I have music at four o'clock,
to wit, Bārmann, Breiting, Standacher, young Poissl,
and various others come in, and we hold a sort of
musical picnic. In this way I come to know operas
which, to my discredit, I have neither heard nor seen
before, as “Lodoiska,” “Faniska,” “Medea ; ” also
“Preciosa,” “Abu Hassan,” etc.—the scores being
lent us from the theatre. But on Wednesday evening
we had a great joke. We had lost several wagers which
we were all supposed to share in, so after many pro-
posals we at last resolved to hold a musical Soirée in
my room, and invite all our creditors. This brought
up the list to about thirty persons ; divers came unin-
vited and had themselves presented to us. There
was a woeful lack of space ; we had to put several
on my bed, and a flock of patient sheep were
conducted into my little room. The affair was
incredibly lively and a great success. E. also was
there, sweet as never was, melting with admiration and
poetic fervour, and grey stockings, in short infinitely
tedious. First I played my old quartette in E flat
minor, then Breiting sang “Adelaide,” then Herr S.
played variations on the violin—with many apologies.
Bărmann played Beethoven's first quartette (F major),
which he had arranged for two clarinets, basset-
horn and bassoon ; then came an air from
Euryanthe, furiously demanded over again da capo,
and for a finale I had to improvise—would not—but
the uproar became so violent that I had to set to it
MENDELSSOHN. 85
against my will, though I had nothing in my mind
but wine glasses, chairs, and cold meat. Close at
hand, just by my landlord and his family, sat the
Cornelius girls; the Schauroths were making a call
on the first floor with the same object ; inside there
was a crowd, and outside in the street another.
What with the heat in the room, the uproarious
noise, the very various guests scattered about con-
fusedly, and, at last, refreshments and drinkables,
the whole thing became perfectly insane, all manner
of sentiments and health were drunk with acclamation,
while the people of quality sat in the middle of the
swarm and held themselves erect with severe counten-
ances. It was half-past one before we broke up. Next
evening was the antipodes of all that. I had to play
before the Queen and Court. It was all very proper
and dressed up and polished ; one's elbow continually
ran against an “Excellency.” The finest flattering
speeches flew about the room, and there was I, the
roturier, with my citizen-like good-fellowship and my
last night's headache. I got out of it, however, some-
how, not without having to improvise on a theme set
by royalty, and getting much applauded. The most
charming thing was the Queen remarking that I really
carried one away, so that one could think of nothing
else during my music, and after that I prayed to be
excused. -
Such, you see, are my days at Munich. But I
have forgotten that every day at twelve I have been
giving little". L. a lesson in double counterpoint and
* Fräulein Lang.
86 SELECTED LETTERS OF
four-part composition, and so on, which makes me
think again how confused and stupid most teachers
and most books are on these points, and how clear
the whole thing is when one presents it clearly.
She is a delightful vision to me. Imagine a delicate
little pale maiden with noble, though not beautiful,
features, so interesting and rare that it is hard to look
away from her, and with all her movements and words
full of a sort of geniality. She has the gift of composing
songs and then singing them in a way I have never
heard the like of; it is the most complete musical
delight that ever yet fell to my lot. When she sits
down at the piano and begins one of these songs of
hers, the notes acquire a strange, new tone; all the
music seems wonderfully swayed hither and thither,
and in every note there is the finest and profoundest
feeling. Then, when she sings the first bar in her
tender voice, every hearer grows perfectly still and wrapt,
and each in his own fashion feels himself penetrated
through and through. I wish you could only hear her
voice It is so innocently and unconsciously beauti-
ful; it comes from her inmost heart, and yet is so
tranquil Last year all this was perfectly recognisable.
In every song she had written her talent was as clear
as noonday, yet Marx and I sounded the tocsin about
her among all the musicians here, and no man heeded
us. But since then she has made a very remarkable
advance. Anyone whom her present songs do not
touch must be utterly insensible. So, unfortunately,
it has become the fashion to ask the little maid
for songs, to take the lights away from the piano
MENDELSSOHN. 87
when she sings, and to be interested in her melan-
choly. It is an unpleasant contrast; sometimes when
I have been wanted to play something after her,
I could not bring myself to it, and let the people go
away. Very possibly all this talk will spoil her, for she
has no friend to understand or direct her. Be-
sides, she is curiously without musical training, knows
little, can scarcely discriminate good music from bad,
and, left to herself, thinks everything outside her own
songs wonderfully fine. If she once comes to an
understanding with herself, it will go well. Meanwhile
I have done all I can, that is, most earnestly en-
treated her parents and herself to avoid soirées and
so forth, and not to let anything so divine be wasted.
Heaven grant my advice may do some good. Perhaps
I may send you some of her songs, things she
wrote for me out of gratitude for my teaching her
what she already knew naturally, and because I have
done a little to attach her to good and serious music.
Besides this, I play the organ for an hour every day;
but, unluckily, I can’t get the practice I want, because
the pedals are without the five high notes, so that one
can’t play a single passage of Seb. Bach's with it.
But there are marvellously fine stops in it, with which
one can embellish chorales ; and especially, my
Fanny, I have found the stops which are wanted for
Bach’s “Schmücke dich o liebe Seele.” They seem
made for the purpose, and the tone is so thrilling
that a kind of shudder runs all through me when
I begin. For the florid accompaniment I have an
eight-foot flute, and a perfectly soft four-foot, which
88 SELECTED LETTERS OF
continues floating above the chorale itself. That
you remember in Berlin. But there is one row
of keys that has nothing but reed-stops, and of
these I use a soft oboe, a clarion, very light, a four-
foot, and a viola. That brings out the chorale so
quick and penetrating; it sounds like human voices,
full of emotion, singing in the distance.
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, when you will be
in possession of this letter, I shall be in the Theresien
Park with eighty thousand others. Think of me
there, and be good enough to be well, and remain so.
FELIX.
MENDELSSOHN. 89
TO HIS FAMILY.
LONDON, 11th May, 1832.
I MUST just describe to you one very delightful
morning last week. It was the pleasantest and most
touching instance of public recognition that has ever
yet happened to me, and I perpetually recur to it
with satisfaction. On Saturday morning there was a
rehearsal at the Philharmonic, at which, however,
nothing of my own was performed, for my overture
was not yet completed. I was in a box during
Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony and then went down
to the floor of the hall to speak to some old acquaint-
ances. Just as I got down, some one in the orchestra
exclaimed : “There is Mendelssohn l’ and on that
they all began to shout and clap with such vehemence
that for a time I was at a loss what to do; then as
they were leaving off, some one else cried out : “Wel-
come to him ” and then the uproar began over again,
and I was obliged to make my way down the hall and
climb up into the orchestra, whence I conveyed my
thanks to them. I shall never forget it, for that
pleased me more than any distinction. It shows that
the musical people like me, and are glad of my
coming ; altogether, it was a greater joy than I can
tell you. FELIX.
90 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING,
DESSAU.
COBLENTZ, 6th September, 1833.
DEAR SCHUBRING, Your letter with the enclosed
contribution came to hand while I was beginning to
arrange the sheets of my oratorio," and thinking
much at the same time of the music I am going to
write next winter. It struck me so much that I
have copied out the whole text, as far as it has got,
and now send it, hoping that you will do what you
did before, and give me the benefit of all your com-
ments and suggestions. You will see in the margin
some notes of things that are still wanting, and of
places which I want to fill with passages from the
Bible and hymn book. But what I chiefly want is
your opinion (I) about the form of the whole work,
particularly of the narrative parts. Do you think it
can be left as it is, with the narrative and the dramatic
elements side by side P I can't venture on Bach's
method of personified narrative, and this combina-
tion strikes me as the most natural thing, and only
laborious at certain places, as the “Ananias,” where
the lengthy inter-connected recitals make it so.
1 The “ St. Paul.”
MENDELSSOHN. 9 I
(2) Do you think there are any leading features of
the story, or of the character and teaching of Paul,
either omitted or set in a false light?
(3) Where would you make the divisions of the first
and second parts?
(4) Do you think I could bring in the chorale.
Some people have objected to it very strongly, and yet
I cannot bring myself to give it up altogether, for it
seems to me it must have a natural place in every
oratorio taken from the New Testament. If you
agree to this, please let me hear what chorales you
would put in, and where. You see I ask a great deal;
but then I shall have to work hard enough when I
begin the music, and, besides, I know you take an
interest in the matter.
If you can oblige me in all this, just send a few
words to Berlin, where I must be for two or three
days after to-morrow ; it is to take care of my father,
who was with me in England, and became seriously
ill there. He is well again now, thank God 1 but I
have had so much anxiety all this time that I want to
do everything possible till I can feel he is safe at
home. Then off again, and back to Düsseldorf.
You know that I was director of the musical festival
there, and have opportunely got settled there for two
or three years to manage the church music and the
singing association, and probably a new theatre that
is to be founded there as well; my private reason,
however, is to get an opportunity of composing in
peace and for myself. I find the country and the
people charming, and the “St. Paul” is to be brought
92 SELECTED LETTERS OF
out in the winter. I also had my new symphony pro-
duced in England, and people were pleased with it.
It will be printed after “The Hebrides,” which is
now in hand. That is all very good, but I am think- .
ing one's real work should come first, and so I hope
it will turn out. It is very wrong of me to write you
a dull, impersonal, and entirely serious letter like this,
but things have gone that way with me lately, and so
I am becoming more serious myself-Yours,
FELIX M. B.
MENDELSSOHN. 93
TO J. MOSCHELES IN LONDON,
DüsselDORF, 7th February, 1834.
—— My special weakness in new passages for the
piano has again struck me forcibly in the “rondo
brillant” which I want to adapt to your style. It
is at these points that I always stick fast and
get in distress; I fear you cannot but remark it.
Otherwise, there is much in it that I like, and
certain passages please me decidedly, but how I am
to set about composing something quiet and uneccen-
tric (I remember well that was your advice last
spring), is more than I can tell. All that I have
in my head for the piano is about as quiet as Cheap-
side, and when I sit down quite calmly to improvise,
that sort of thing always comes gradually in again.
On the other hand, the piece which I am now writing
for the Philharmonic I am afraid will be far too tame.
However, I must not criticise myself so much. I am
hard at work, which is as good as saying that I am
well and contented.
But when you, my dear Madame Moscheles, order
me to take no account of public or critics, I must beg
to state that my business is to write music in despite
of the public, and in despite of the critics as well.
94 SELECTED LETTERS OF
What's Hecuba to me, or criticism besides, the printed
sort I mean? So if an overture to “Lord Eldon”
in the form of a reversible canon should happen to
occur to me, or a double fugue with a canto fermo,
I will write them, though they would be sure to be
unpopular. Still more a beautiful Melusine, though
that is another matter. It would be horrible if one
could never get a chance of having one's things
performed; still, as you think that there is no reason
to fear it, I say long live the public and the critics,
only I mean to live myself, and, if possible, come to
England next year.
MENDELSSOHN. 95
TO PASTOR, SCHUBRING AT DESSAU.
DüSSELDORF, 15th July, 1834.
DEAR SCHUBRING, I have owed you a letter for al-
most a year. It is no use to begin with excuses ; I
am too hopelessly in the wrong, and should never get
to the end of my apologies. Indeed, I couldn't ex-
plain how the delay came about. On establishing
myself here last autumn I got your letter with your
notes for the “St. Paul;” they were the best contribu-
tions I had received, and that same afternoon I set to
and thought it over seriously. I took a Bible, and sit-
ting down amid all the confusion of my study, soon
got so deep in it that I could hardly force myself
to go on with other work which was bound to be com-
pleted first. I was on the point of writing then to
give you my heartiest thanks, but then it struck me it
would be pleasanter if I could say the thing had been
already commenced, and when I really did begin it in
the spring the manifold cares of composition sprang
up to distract me. But now I cannot content myself
with thinking of you, but must write to ask about
yourself and your family. That the latter has in-
creased I know, only was it quite right of you not
96 SELECTED LETTERS OF
to let me have a word on the subject, or even a bit of
paste-board, but to leave me to the chance of a round-
about piece of information ? Though I confess, indeed,
I deserved this thoroughly, yet a preacher, as you are,
is the last person who should exact vengeance, or bear
malice against his enemy. Please don’t do so now,
but let me hear from you again.
Your notes for the “St. Paul’’ were admirable ; I
have made use of them all without exception. It is a
curious thing, and a good one, that in all the passages
I formerly wanted to invert or alter for the sake of the
composition, I have time after time had to restore
the precise text of the Bible; it is the best
in the end. Half the first part is now ready ; I
hope to end it by Autumn and to complete the
whole about February. But how are things going
at Dessau ? It would be pleasant to hear they remained
just as they were. I do hope you still keep your
cheerfulness and love of life, still play the piano,
and delight in Sebastian Bach, and so are the same old
fellow you were. I should not doubt it, but here one
is surrounded with such direful examples of preachers
who do their best to freeze up every pleasure for them-
selves and others; dry prosaic pedagogues, who regard a
concert as sinful, and a country dance as a pernicious
dissipation, think a theatre the lake of brimstone itself,
and denounce the spring with its blossoms and sweet
weather as a pit of corruption.
You will have heard of the Elberfeld breed. But
in these parts it is still worse, and its result is
abominable. Worst of all is the arrogance with which
MENDELSSOHN. 97
these folk look down on others, just as if no good
thing could exist out of their own range.
Our music advances slowly, but it does advance.
This summer we performed one of Bach’s masses in
church, an Ave Maria out of “Verleth uns Frieden,”
and next month we are giving Handel's Te Deum
(Dettingen). Of course there is a great deal to be
desired, but one hears the things, and the per-
formance and the performers gradually improve.
Hauser at Leipsic has scored a cantata of Bach's in
F. flat, by Seb. Bach from the manuscript of the
voice parts, one of the strongest of his pieces that
I know. When I can find time I will send you a
copy. But now my paper and this letter are both at
an end. Farewell, dear friend, and write to me
shortly. Yours,
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
98 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS MOTHER.
DüssFLDORF, 4th Mov., 1834.
DEAR MOTHER,-At last I have a chance of thanking
you for your dear letter. You know how much your
lines rejoice me, and I hope you do not find writing
troublesome, for your hand is as small and clear and
classical at the end as at the beginning, and as it
always was ; so I beg you, let me have the joy of
seeing it often ; you know how grateful I am. You
take me home so completely; I am there while I
read your letter, enjoying the Summer in our garden,
visit the exhibition, tease Ganz about his satisfaction
at an invitation from Metternich, and almost renew
my flirtations with the fair Russian ladies. These
flittings home are better than ever these last weeks,
during which I have been absorbed in thunderings and
disputations about Düsseldorf, art, the rising glory of
the Rhineland, and other new marvels. This place has
brought me into a fearful state of heat and confusion,
and things go harder than in my busiest time in Lon-
don. When I set to work in the morning there comes
a pull at the bell at every bar; a procession of
singers with grievances to assail me, or incompetent
singers whom I have to instruct, or else they are
MENDELSSOHN. 99
shabby players whom I have to engage ; and
when that has gone on all day, and I say to myself, it
is all for the Düsseldorf theatre and its salvation, my
temper becomes terribly bad. At the day before
yesterday I made up my mind, shook myself free of
the whole business, and now I am a man again. It
was, indeed, a difficult matter to inform our theatrical
autocrat, alias stage-mufti, of this resolution. He bit
his lip at me as if he was going to devour me whole, but
I delivered him a short, impressive speech, and in-
formed him that my own work concerned me more
than the future of the Düsseldorf theatre, so in spite of
the utmost desire, etc. etc. In short, they let me go
under the sole condition that I should, from time to
time, act as conductor, and this I promised and will
observe.
With “St. Paul " I have now reached a point at
which I should like to play it to someone, only I can't
find the right person. My friends here are quite
delighted with it, but that does not prove very much.
I miss the cantor * with her thick eyebrows and her
critical sense. I have almost got the second part into
shape in my mind up to the place where they imagine
St. Paul to be Jupiter, and want to sacrifice to him ;
several great choruses will have to come in here, but I
have no notion of them yet—it is hard. You ask if I
have made any arrangements for publishing at Leipsic.
Breitkopf and Hartel, however, give me to understand
i Fanny.
:
IOO SELECTED LETTERS OF
they are ready to publish everything, and this for the
sake of a future issue of my collected works (doesn’t
that sound vastly imposing P). They say they feel
much injured at the production of anything of mine by
another publisher. The good people shall be saved
such troubles in future. But apart from them I have
had letters from six musical publishers in different
places asking for things to bring out. This sounds
rather like vain-glory, but I know you will be glad to
hear it, and will excuse me.
MENDELSSOHN. IOI
TO SECRETARY HIRTE AT COLOGNE.
DüsseldorF, 18th May, 1835.
HoNourED SIR,-Accept my thanks for your friendly
lines which have given me great pleasure. The idea
which you communicate in them does me honour,
but I must admit that I have a certain shyness about
it, which I have been unable to get rid of for a con-
siderable time. It is now so much the vogue for
unknown or ordinary people to have their likenesses
published so as to become a little better known, or else
they do it to get a reputation without earning one,
that I have always hesitated to do this too early
myself. I should like to avoid it till I had accom-
plished something which I could be persuaded really
deserved this honour. That is, however, not the case
at present, and I should be happy to see such a recog-
nition postponed till, in my own conviction, I am
worthier of it. But I owe you many thanks for the
friendship and kindness which prompted your pro-
posal. I am, etc., etc.,
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
IO2 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO PASTOR, SCHUBRING AT
DESSAU.
LEIPSIC, 6th December, 1835.”
DEAR SCHUBRING, You no doubt know already
what a heavy blow has fallen on the happiness
of my life and on all who belong to me. It is
the greatest misfortune possible ; I must either en-
dure it or sink under it. I say this now after three
weeks; the keen pain of the first days is over, but I
feel it only more assuredly ; a new life must begin for
me from this time, or all come to an end ; the old life
is torn away. It is our comfort and example that
mother should be able to bear the loss with a wonder-
ful quiet and steadfastness. She finds joy in her
children and grandchildren, and thus tries to conceal
from herself the blank which nothing can fill up. My
sisters are doing everything to repay our debt to her,
and give themselves up to this the more because it is
so hard. I was ten days in Berlin, so that with my
presence our mother might be surrounded by all that
remains of our family, but what days those were I
need not tell you. You understand well, and, I
1. After his father's death.
MENDELSSOHN. IO3
doubt not, have thought of me in this time of dark-
ness. God granted my father's often repeated
petition; his end was as tranquil and gentle, and as
unexpected in its rapidity as he had desired. On
Wednesday, the 18th, we were all of us round him ;
late in the evening he went to bed; the next morning
he complained a little ; at half-past ten his life was
ended. The doctors could give no name to his illness.
My uncle says that my grandfather, Moses Mendels-
sohn died precisely in the same way, at the same age,
and without illness, his mind bright and tranquil. I
cannot say if you knew how especially good my father
was to me of late years, how like a friend, so that my
whole soul hung on him, and scarcely an hour of my
long absence passed without bringing the thought of
him into my mind. But you knew him in his own
circle and knew how lovable was his character ; you
will realise what my feelings are. All that remains is
duty, and I seek to do it with all my power, for that
is what he would desire were he still present with
us, and I shall not cease to struggle after what would
content him, though the sight of his contentment is
granted me no longer. In postponing a reply to your
letter, I never thought I should have to answer thus:
accept my thanks for it and for all your friendship.
One passage for “St. Paul’ is admirable: “Der Du
der rechte Vater bist.” A chorus for it has been in
my mind, and I shall write it very shortly: My especial
aim is now to set about the completion of the “St.
Paul” with double zeal, for my father's last letter urged
me to it. He awaited the finishing of this work with
IO4. SELECTED LETTERS OF
impatience, so it is to me as though I must throw my-
self into making the “St. Paul” as perfect as I can, and
thus think he has still a share in it. If suggestions occur
to you, pray continue to send them. You know how the
work has shaped itself. To-day I have been writing at it
again for the first time, and shall now do so daily.
When it is finished, Heaven direct my further steps.
Farewell, dear Schubring, and remember me.
Yours,
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
MEN DELSSOHN. IO 5
TO HERR, ADVOCAT CONRAD
SCHILEINITZ AT LEIPSIC.
BERLIN, 1st August, 1838.
DEAR SCHLEINITz, –What you say of your increased
occupation gives me great pleasure. You know how
often we have talked over the question, but still
I cannot admit your opinion that one profession
is to be preferred to another. I persist in thinking
that anything which the ordinary right sort of man
can put his heart into and get well hold of is in itself
a noble calling. The only things I could not feel a
very strong interest in are precisely those in which there
is no personal element, in which the individual dis-
appears, such as the military career in times of peace,
and of that Berlin has sufficient examples. But your
whole contention is more or less untrue. In compar-
ing one profession to another, people generally take
the naked reality of one, and the most imposing
ideal of the other, so, naturally, the decision is easy.
And how easy it is for an artist to feel the bare
realities of his trade, and then perhaps to envy
practical men who have the chance of observing all
the relations of life, and knowing all the diversities
there are among men, to envy them especially when
IO6 SELECTED LETTERS OF
one considers all the actual, useful, beneficent things
they may accomplish. And then, just because the
man of honour has the hardest task in dealing with a
public which is more concerned about appearances
than realities, therefore one cannot suffer the needs
of the moment to guide or perturb one's conscience,
but above all external considerations must always
maintain in one's heart a something that can raise and
sustain it. This tells very directly for my view, for
that higher impulse is the best thing in every calling,
and it is common to all—shared equally by yours and
mine and every other. After all, what is the beauty
you find in a quartette or a symphony that I have
worked into shape P Surely it is nothing but the
piece of myself that I have put into it, given voice to
in that fashion. You do the same in your defence of
a pickpocket or a claim for damages, or whatever
it may be that makes you exert yourself, just in the
same measure that any man can do it, and that is the
great point of concern. If only what is within a man
can get issue and declare itself, and if this inward
part of him can become more and more worthy of
declaration, that is all ; the rest is indifferent. With
many thanks for news of all your doings.
Yours,
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
MENDELSSOHN. - ÍO7
TO PASTOR JULIUS SCHUBRING
AT DESSAU.
LEIPSIC, 2nd Movember, 1838.
DEAR SCHUBRING, Many thanks indeed for your
letter and the packet that followed it. You offer me
a most essential service, for which I am very grate-
ful; yet you ask if I desire it ! I should have told
you that the notes I sent were not designed for a
completed plan, but only for a collection of material ;
however, when you have put them together, you leave
me nothing to do but only to add the music. I agree
that the passage about the widow should go out, also
the raven, and that all the beginning should be
brought more together so as to expand in the chief
passages as one wants it to do. I earnestly beg you,
if your time and convenience permit, to continue
the first part and send it me—(it will have to be very
long)—starting from the point at which your last
contribution stopped ; do so and you will earn my
truest gratitude.
You say that at first you saw nothing to cut out,
but then a light suddenly broke on you. For my
own part, what struck me was to make Elijah a
prophet through and through, the man we may really
IO8 SELECTED LETTERS OF
need to-day—a man strong and zealous, full of
bitterness and scorn, the antagonist of the rabble,
whether of courtiers or populace, well nigh the
antagonist of all the world, yet borne aloft as on
the wings of angels. Did that strike you also, and
how came you to think of it P My object is to
make the story dramatic; as you say, the epic style
of narrative cannot come into it. That you look
for the universal significance which goes to one's
heart in the Biblical words pleases me much : one
thing I might say, which is that the dramatic ele-
ment should here and there be very pregnantly and
forcibly apparent. Speech and retort, question and
answer, interruption of one speaker by another, all
these and similar points are wanted. It is not that I
object to Elijah being made first to speak of the
assembly of the people, then immediately to the
assembly ; such a freedom is, of course, among the
privileges of the oratorio; but in this mode of pre-
sentation I would gladly see as much naturalness as
possible. Thus it puts me out that Elijah should
only answer in “number 18’ to Ahab's words in ‘ 16 °
with several speeches and a chorus placed between.
I would have liked a vigorous piece of dialogue there,
etc. But on these points we shall very soon agree,
only remember this if you can, in working further.
With many thanks for your kindness.-Always yours,
FELIX M. B.
MENDELSSOHN. IO9
TO PROFESSOR, SCHIRMER. A.T
DüSSELDORF.
BERLIN, 21st Movember, 1838.
• Q & It is said I have become pious !
If by this is meant what I understand by pious, and
what you from your way of speaking appear to under-
stand too, then I can only say that, unhappily,
I have not become so, but I strive towards it
every day with what power I have, and seek to
become so more and more. Frankly, I know it
will never succeed with me outright, but to get
nearer is something. But if people mean I have
turned into a Pietist, one of those who folds his hands
on his bosom and waits for God to accomplish all
things for him, or one who, instead of struggling after
perfection in his earthly calling, talks of a heavenly
calling which is incompatible with mundane efforts, or
one who cannot truly love any person or anything in
this world—such a one I have not become, thank
Heaven I nor will, I trust, all my life long. And for
the very reason that I so much desire to be soundly and
Sanely pious, I need care, I hope, very little about that
species of piety. But it is curious that people should
pitch upon this special time for saying things of the
I IO SELECTED LETTERS OF
sort, now that I am so happy inwardly and outwardly,
both through my new home-like and also through busy
work, that I never know how to set about being suffi-
ciently thankful. And since you wish me on the way
to quiet and peace, let me Say I never hoped for so
peaceful a life as has now fallen to my lot. Receive
my best of thanks for your good wishes, and do not be
troubled for my tranquillity.
What you write me of yourself and your work
pleases me very much, especially your sharing the
opinion that what people usually term fame and glory
is a wretched business; while another higher spiritual
glory is as needful as it is rare. One sees this most
clearly with those who possess all conceivable distinc-
tions, yet never have a moment's joy in them, but
hunger continually for more ; this first became
perfectly apparent to me in Paris. Yet I am glad
that you do not speak so contemptuously of the
French painters, for I have long taken great delight in
the best men they have at present, and I cannot in
the least imagine how people can be sincere who
find a great poetic stimulus in your pictures and then
look down on Horace Vernet from a critical altitude
—it seems to me if one finds pleasure in one sort of
beauty, another sort cannot remain quite indifferent;
or at least such is the case with me.
MENDELSSOHN. III
TO R. SIMROCK AT BONN.
LEIPSIC, 4th Aſarch, 1839.
e tº we The manuscripts I meant to
send you last year are still incomplete. I want
them to be good work, and for that good humour
and leisure are necessary, things which these end-
less concerts often deprive me of. Now I hope
Soon to make an end of them, and discharge my
debt.
But they are not “songs without words.” Indeed, I
have no intention of producing any more of that species,
let the Hamburgers say what they will. There are
too many crawling between earth and heaven already,
and in the end they grow insipid. There is too great
a mass of music for the piano composed in that style.
It is time to strike another note, say I. With most
sincere respect.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
II 2 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO J. MOSCHELES, LONDON.
LEIPSIC, 3oth ZVovember, 1839.
My DEAR FRIEND,--I have not given Pott any
musical assistance in his undertaking. If you could
only see how abominably this business of monuments
is carried on here, you would not do so either.
People speculate on our great men to make them-
selves a name out of their names, send up a peal of
trumpets in the newspapers, and make atrocious
noises with real trumpets. “Unrefreshing as the
winter wind.” If only they would found a decent
orchestra at Halle for Handel, at Saltzburg for
Mozart, at Bonn for Beethoven, and so on, so that
their works might be well interpreted, I should be
with them; but I will have nothing to do with their
stones, while my musicians have stones for bread, nor
with their conservatoires, where there is nothing to
conserve. My present hobby-horse is the poverty of
our orchestra and the remedy for it. By dint of un-
speakable running about, writing letters, and tor-
menting people, I have managed to Secure them an
extra 500 thalers, and before I go away from here
they must have as much again. If the town will do
that then they may go further and erect a monument to
MEN DELSSOHN. II 3
Sebastian Bach. But the extra salaries first. You
see I am quite a raving Leipsicer. But it would
move you, too, if you could see it all for yourself,
and had also the witness of your own ears for the
efforts of my poor musicians to produce something
good.
II.4. SELECTED LETTERS OF
FROM A. LETTER, TO MINISTER, WON
FALKENSTEIN (proposing the
foundation of an Academy of Music
in Leipsic).
LEIPSIC, 8th April, 1840.
tº Q Music has long been peculiarly a native
growth of this country, and it is just that tend-
ency in it which lies nearest the heart of every
thoughtful and receptive lover of art, the tendency, I
mean, towards the expression of true and profound
feeling, which has struck the deepest root among us
from the beginning. This wide-spread sympathy in
our nation is certainly no matter of accident, nor has
it been without weighty result for our general culture.
And thus music has been a most vital power among
us, not only as affording momentary pleasures, but
working for our higher and spiritual growth. Who-
ever is really interested in this art must also feel
keenly the desire to see it established for the future
on the firmest possible basis.
The dominant tendency of our time, however, is to-
wards the positive and the mechanical ; and in face of
this the development and propagation of true
artistic sense is doubly needful, but also doubly
MENDELSSOHN. I 15
difficult. The attainment of this end seems only
possible if we begin at the foundation. And good
grounding is the surest method in every sort of educa-
tion, certainly it is so in music. We need a good
school of music which would include all the various
branches of the art, subjecting each in turn to that
higher aim towards which they all serve as means, and
leading on its scholars as far as possible to that aim ;
such a school would be able to combat the practical
or material tendency which, unhappily, has many
influential adherents among artists themselves, and
would, I believe, even yet be strong enough to over-
come it.
Simple, private teaching, which in former days bore
such admirable fruit, and that, too, for the community
at large, is for many reasons no longer adequate to
our needs. Masters capable of teaching any musical
instrument were formerly to be found in all classes of
society, but this has more and more declined in our
day, and is now to a great extent confined to a single
instrument—the piano.
The scholars who desire instruction in other direc-
tions are almost entirely limited to those who devote
themselves to music as a profession, and to these
people the means of paying for good private teaching
are generally wanting. It is the fact that among these
one often finds the most brilliant talents; but un-
fortunately teachers of music are on their side seldom
in a position to devote their time to the development
of even the greatest talent without remuneration, and
thus scholars and teachers alike lose, the first the in-
116 SELECTED LETTERS OF
struction they long for, the second the opportunity of
spreading abroad their knowledge and making it live.
Thus a public academy would at the present day be a
great advantage to both masters and scholars. It
would put within reach of the latter the means of de-
veloping capacities which without such help must
often go to waste. And for teachers of music it
would be most valuable to have a centre whence
their energies could be directed from a single point of
view, and to a single object, and thus be preserved
from indifference and isolation, and from the resulting
sterility of which we are too well aware. . . .
MENDELSSOHN. 117
TO HIS MOTHER.
LEIPSIC, 27th October, 1840.
DEAR MOTHER,-A thousand thanks for the dear
letter I received yesterday, which delighted me, except
for that little—well-deserved—thrust at the beginning
of it. Indeed, I ought to have written long ago, but
you cannot conceive how much I have to be Jack-of-all-
work in every corner these winter months. The tri-
fling imperceptible fragments of business, notes, and
so forth, that arise every day, and seem to me so
burthensome, and such useless lumber in one's exist-
ence, like the dust upon one's books persist in ac-
cumulating and become unmanageable if one does not
make a clear sweep of them daily. And then there is
the strong pressure I feel on me, whenever my spirits
are right, to make my regular work result in something,
so altogether my weeks and months fleet by like the
wind.
You will have seen in the newspapers that we
arranged a special concert for the visit of the King
of Saxony, and gave a second performance of the
hymn in his honour, which went off admirably. All
the music went so well that it was a delight to listen.
IDuring the interval the king sent to fetch me,
and I was obliged to make my way somehow through
118 SELECTFD LETTERS OF
a double row of ladies—you know the arrangement of
our hall—to arrive at the spot where his majesty and
suite were seated. He conversed with me a
long time very kindly and pleasantly, and spoke
with discrimination about musical topics. In the
second part came the “hymn,” and at its conclusion,
just as I had moved from my desk, I suddenly heard the
people about me exclaiming, “Now the King is com-
ing to him,” and true enough, he passed through the
rows of ladies, came to my desk—you may fancy what
a general jubilation there was—and spoke to me with
so much feeling and cordiality that I felt in the
highest degree delighted and honoured. He men-
tioned the particular passages which had pleased him
best, thanked the singers, and so went away, both
orchestra and audience making him the finest
bows and courtesies they could contrive. There
was altogether an uproar and confusion like Noah's
Ark. Now, perhaps, he will give us the 20,000 thalers
I have long been endeavouring to get for our musical
institutions here, and then I could truly say I had done
Some service to Leipsic music. . . .
I say nothing of the “silver wedding ” of the
Leipsic Liedertafel; indeed, I have not quite recovered .
from it as yet. Heaven help us, what a bore our
German fatherland is, when one looks at it from that
side I have a vivid recollection of father's extreme
repugnance to these institutions, and everything that has
any sort of connection with “Cousin Michael.” I feel
something similar in myself. Farewell, dearest mother.
Yours ever, FELIX.
MENDELSSOHN. II9
TO THE MUSICAL DIRECTOR, JULIUS
RIETZ, DUSSELDORF,
LEIPSIC, 23rd April, 1841.
HDEAR RIETZ,-Yesterday evening we performed your
overture to Hero and Leander and also the battle-
song; both met with general acclamation, and with
the unanimous approval of musicians and public.
During the rehearsal, when we reached the passage in
D major at the end of the overture, I saw already
smiling faces and nodding heads among the players,
which pleases me much when the piece is yours.
They were all greatly struck with it, and the audience,
who sat yesterday still as mice and without a murmur,
broke out at the end in the most vigorous applause,
and abundantly confirmed their judgment. {
Both rehearsals and performance have afforded
me great Satisfaction ; there is something so genu-
inely artistic, so really musical in your management
of the orchestra, that I felt at home from the first bar,
and it riveted my interest till the last.
But since you insist on my putting on my critical
spectacles, I may say that both pieces suggested
to me one desire, namely, that you would write
much and continuously. My reason I need not give,
I2O SELECTED LETTERS OF
*
at least the chief one ; that lies on the surface. But
there is another. Especially in the overture there is
apparent to me a certain tendency which I am only
too well acquainted with, for, as I believe, it ruined
my own Reformation symphony, and which can yet
be unfailingly overcome by repeated and varied com-
position. Just as the French attempt to make their
ideas appear elevated and interesting by much tor.
menting and juggling with them, so, I believe, a
natural distaste for this sort of thing may lead one to
the opposite extreme of complete timidity at every-
thing piquant and flashing, so that, in the end, the
bare musical idea lacks boldness and interest. Lean-
ness takes the place of corruption ; it is the contrast
of the Jesuit churches sparkling with tinsel to the four
white walls of the Calvinists; true piety may be in
either, but the true path is between them. Heavens !
excuse my sermonising tone, but how is one to explain
one's meaning on such matters ? The leading ideas
both in your overture and in my Reformation sym-
phony, which, I think, resemble each other precisely
in this, are interesting rather for what they signify,
than simply in themselves. Naturally, I don't mean
they should be exclusively the latter, for that would
bring us back to the French style, but neither should
they be the former alone, for the two should be
welded together and interpenetrate each other.
To give a theme real musical interest in and for
itself, as you can do it down to every second hautboy
and trumpet in your instrumentation, that, I take it,
is the chief point to concern oneself with. In your
MENDELSSOHN. I2 I
next works I look to see you steer a clear course in
this direction, and that without your admirable com-
mand of outline, or your masterly control of instru-
ments, etc., in detail, suffering in the least from an
increased polish or sharpness of musical ideas. And
as ideas are not things to polish or to sharpen, but
to be taken and used as they come, and as God sends
them, so labour is the single thing that remains to de-
siderate in an artist like yourself and in creative work
like yours; only the direction in which it is applied
may here and there be a point of discussion. . . . .
I 22 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS MOTHER.
INTERLAKEN, 18th August, 1842.
DEAR LITTLE MOTHER,--Do you still remember our
living here twenty years ago in the pleasant inn under
the great walnut-trees with the fair young hostess P
Ten years back I was here again, and they refused me
quarters. I looked too disreputable after my journey
on foot, and that, I think, was the only annoyance I
had on all that journey. Now we are living here
again, this time as people who are settled in life. The
Jungfrau with its silver horns still shapes itself as steeply
and delicately as ever in the air ; the mountain looks
fresh still, but the hostess is grown quite old, and it
was only by her unchanged deportment I could recog-
nise her. I have been sketching the walnut-trees,
far better than before, no doubt, but far worse than
I know it really ought to be. The Unterseen post
brings us the letters as it used ; but there are many
new houses. The Aar ripples and murmurs as
quickly and quietly; and the water is as green as
ever; “time is, time was, time is passed.” Really,
I have little more to write; description, of Swiss jour-
neyings are neither here nor there, and instead of my
old diary, I now fall to sketching like one pos-
MENDELSSOHN. I23
sessed. All day long I sit down before a mountain
and try to copy its outlines, and never leave off
till the drawing is hopelessly spoilt ; my great idea is
to get at least one landscape daily into my book. . . .
It is a strange thing with the mountains here as
the greatest books, they seem to change with oneself,
and display a new aspect of themselves to one's own
altered temperament, and always rise above one in the
same glory. Now that I come to see them with my
wife, my whole impression is quite different from what
it was ; then I cared for nothing but to rush up every
craggy peak and green meadow-slope, and now I
should like to stop in every place, and live there
quietly for months. I can give no assurance that
some fine spring I won't pack off here with all my
household goods, and never return to the North till
the very last leaves are off the trees. . . . .
I 24 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO MARE ANDRE SOUCHAY,
LUBECK. 1
BERLIN, 15th October, 1842.
THERE is a great deal of talking about music, and very
little said to the purpose. My own belief is that
words are inadequate to express it, and if it were
otherwise I should end by leaving off composing
music altogether. One constantly hears people com-
plain that the meaning of music is so indefinite, it
leaves them in so much doubt as to the significance
intended to be conveyed in it; and yet they imply
that language is intelligible to everybody. With me
it’s exactly the opposite. And that not only with
complete sentences, and so on, but single words
also seem to me vague, indefinite, and very open to
misunderstanding in comparison with real music, the
music that fills one's heart with a thousand things finer
than any language. What any music I care for means
to me is not an indefinite feeling which one might
render definite by translating it into words, but
something perfectly clear. And, therefore, all at-
1 This letter was written in reply to Herr Souchay's question
as to the meaning of some of Mendelssohn’s “Songs without
Words.”
MENDELSSOHN. I25
tempts to express these ideas strike me as accurate,
perhaps, but always as unsatisfying, and that is the
impression I gain from your own. Not that that is
your fault; it is the fault of language itself which,
indeed, must fall short here. If you ask me what was
in my mind while composing a particular song, I
answer, the song itself precisely as it stands. And if,
indeed, there was in any case some particular word
or particular sentence in my thoughts, I can tell no
one what it was, precisely because that word does not
carry the same significance to one person that it does
to another, and it is only the song itself that can
express the same meaning, or suggest the same
emotion, to one as to the other.
Resignation, melancholy, worship, a hunting call ;
these words do not call up the same feeling in two
different persons; what is resignation to one is
melancholy to another, while a third person attaches
no definite significance to either. If one were
a downright keen hunter by nature, perhaps the
hunting call would corne to signify to one pretty much
the same thing as worship, and the notes of a horn be
veritably a sort of anthem. We should hear nothing
in it but the hunting call, and however much we might
discuss it with the huntsman we should never come
to an agreement. The word would still be many-
sensed, and yet we should both understand the music.
Will you let that pass for an answer to your
question? It is, at least, the only answer I know
how to make, and it is nothing itself but words of
doubtful significance. -
I 26 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO PAUL MENDELSSOHN
BARTHOLDY.
BIRMINGHAM, 26th August, 1846.
My DEAR BROTHER,-You have taken so kind an
interest in my “Elijah '' from the beginning, and
your encouragement has helped me so much to its
completion, that I feel bound to write to you at once
after the first performance yesterday, and tell you
how things went. Never did the first production of
any piece of mine succeed so admirably, or call out
such enthusiastic sympathy from musicians and
public as this oratorio. At the first rehearsal in
London it was evident that it won favour, and that the
performers played and sang the music with pleasure,
but I confess that the swing and zest of the first
performance were far beyond what I expected. I
only wish you could have been there ! Through the
whole two and a half hours that it lasted, the great hall
filled with 2,000 people, and the great orchestra all
strained to the utmost and concentrated on the music,
not a single whisper among the audience; I could
control absolutely the crowd of instruments and the
great volume of choir and organ, leading them pre-
cisely as I wanted. How often did I think of you !
MENDELSSOHN. 127
No less than four choruses and four airs had to be
repeated, and in the whole of the first part there was
not a single mistake. In the second there were one
or two, but these very insignificant. A young English
tenor sang the last air most beautifully, so much so
that I had to pull myself together not to let my feel-
ings hinder me from beating time decently. As I
said before, would you had been there ! To-morrow
is my return. Nowadays one does not, like Goethe,
see the carriage-pole pointed homewards, but I still
have always the same feeling when I am starting back
to my own country. In October I hope to see you
in Berlin, and will bring the scene, either to perform
in public or to play it in secret to you and Fanny and
Rebecca, the first probably, but by all means the
second also. Farewell, my dear brother, and excuse
this letter if it is stupid. I am often much distracted,
and all I have really to say is to thank you for your
interest in my “Elijah '' and the help you have given
In e. Yours, FELIX,
I28 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO CARL KLINGEMANN, LONDON:
LEIPSIC, 6th ZXecember, 1846.
For several days I have been straining all my powers
on the “Elijah,” and am hoping to make a good end
of most of the things I disliked on the first per-
formance. I have quite done one of the hardest
portions—the widow—and you will certainly be con-
tent with the alteration, yes, I will say with the im-
provement.
The “Elijah” has gained much in significance and
mystery in this passage. It was the want of these
things which troubled me, the sort of want I discover,
alas ! after the festival, and can only define when I
have mended it. But in the other passages we have
talked about as well I hope to refine somewhat. I
am very seriously going through again everything
that satisfied me before, so that in a few weeks I hope
to be ready with the whole, and then turn to some-
thing new. But the pieces I have already worked
over afresh do show me clearly that it is well not to
rest with such a work till it is as perfect as ever I can
make it, even though a very small number of people
indeed hear or know anything of these refinements.
And though a prodigious time is taken up in making
MENDELSSOHN. I29
them, when a passage is really made better, its effect,
both by itself and on the rest of the piece, is, indeed,
vastly different. You see I am vastly contented with
the “widow,” the passage I completed to-day ; there-
fore, I think one dare not rest satisfied, and conscience,
too, gives me a hint now and then to the same effect.
I 30 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO GENERAL VON WEBER, BERLIN.
FRANKFORT, 24th May, 1847.*
EvKN in the depth of my grief your letter has done
me good. Your very handwriting first and your
nearness to me at this moment is helpful, and then so
also is every single word you write. Take my thanks
for it, dear and faithful friend. Truly, one who has
ever known my sister can never again forget her in a
lifetime. But to us, and perhaps most of all to
myself, to whom she was present with all her
sweetness, and affection at every moment, who could
have no joy alone but only with the thought of her
partaking in it, whom she from the first so helped
and spoiled with all the richness of her sisterly love,
and who always dreamed that this could never fail, it is a
loss which we cannot yet measure at all, and even now I
cannot help instinctively believing that our sorrow will
be suddenly revoked. Yet I know it is all true, and the:
certainty is there, but now I cannot accustom myself
to it, nor ever shall. It is beautiful to think of that
noble, harmonious being, and how she is freed from
the weariness of age and the decline of life, but it is
* After the death of Fanny Hensel.
MENDELSSOHN. I3 I
hard for us to go on our way with true humility and
endurance.
Pardon me that I can write so little, but, thank you,
I must. My family are well, their happy children's
faces with the unbroken gladness on them, are what
has done me good in these days. I cannot think of
music; if I turn my thoughts to it, it all seems waste
and hollow. But when my children come in, a
brightness comes with them, and then I can listen to
them and watch them for hours.
The best of thanks for your letter. Heaven keep you
and yours. FELIX M. B.
I32 SELECTED LETTERS OF
TO HIS NEPHEW, SEBASTIAN
HENSEL. “. .
BADEN-BADEN, 13th June, 1847.
DEARSEBASTIAN,+I must wish you happiness for your
birthday. It is the most solemn you have yet seen.
To look back at this day last year is now a great
sorrow for you, for then your mother stood by your
side; but may the looking forward at your years to
come give you strength and courage, for then also will
your mother be with you in all your life and all your
actions. May it all be good and worthy, and every
step of yours be directed to the goal that she looks
forward to for you, and to which her example and her
spirit have accompanied you and ever will, so long as
you are faithful to her. And, in other words, that
means indeed all your life long. Whatever branch
of life and knowledge and activity you devote your-
self to, it is essential to will, not to wish for, mind,
but to will, something useful and noble, and that is
enough. Everywhere there is now a want, and ever
will be a want, of good, stout-hearted workers. It is not
true what people say about it being harder to accom-
plish anything now than it was formerly. On the
contrary, it is and remains, in a sense, easy, or else it
MENDELSSOHN. 133
is impossible. All that is wanted is true inward
courage, real love, real unconquerable will, and all
these you should not want for, for you have the
sweetest, loveliest pattern of them unchangeably be-
fore you. If you follow that, and accomplish it all,
well; yet nothing can be attained without the accom-
plishment of that inward desire I have for you to-day.
God be with you.
In this lies comfort and strength, and joy for the
future is in it also. I often long to be able to pass
these days with you and your Aunt Rebecca. We
expect your father in ten or twelve days from now,
but I wish you were coming with him, and then we
could sketch from nature together. Lately I have
“composed” several pictures—an old castle perched
on a rock amid the forest with a perspective stretch-
ing away to the plain, then a terrace with an old
linden tree and an image of the Virgin beneath it, and
last, a solitary mountain lake, with high rocks all
round it, and boats is the foreground. Wouldn't you
like to try these subjects, and let us compare our
skill P Do it, dear Sebastian, and show me when we
meet again—very soon, I hope. And God be with
you.-Always yours, FELIX M. B.
THE END.
a ro 2 G 1077
- . *...* J .*, *... … '
*
Prºm ted by Cowan & Co. , Limited, Perth.