To Carl Klingemann, London.
Hochheim, near Coblenz, August 1st, 1839.
My dearest Friend,
I earnestly hope that you may fulfil your intention of visiting us late in the autumn. The time seems to me endless till you become acquainted with my wife; besides, it is indeed very long since you and I have conversed in the unreserved confidence of home. When I was in England, two years ago, my wife kept a small diary, which she began after our marriage, and every day during my stay in England she left a blank space in its pages, that I might write the record of my days opposite to hers. For some time past I have accustomed myself to do this, and entered every detail minutely into the little green book (you ought to know it, for you gave it to me in 1832),—the date of Rosen’s death, that of my visit to Birmingham, etc. Now I have arrived exactly at the anniversary, and my diary clearly shows me how much I was then out of sorts, and very different from what I ought to have been. The constant publicity, the grand scale of things on every side, in fact, everything around me attracted me less than formerly, and made me feel bewildered and irritable. May we therefore soon meet in Germany! You certainly would not enjoy yourself less here after England, and I do delight in this beautiful country. The summer months I recently passed in Frankfort have thoroughly refreshed me; in the morning I worked, then bathed or sketched; in the afternoon I played the organ or the piano, and afterwards rambled in the forest, then into society, or home, where I always found the most charming of all society: this was the mode in which my life was agreeably spent, and you must add to all this the glorious summer days which followed each other in uninterrupted succession.
We have now been here nearly a fortnight, and three or four days hence we intend to go up the Rhine, back to Frankfort, and return to Leipzig about the middle of the month. Your wish to have X—— in London (though very natural, I admit), is one in which we do not at all agree, and yet my reasons are by no means egotistical,—quite the reverse. I am convinced that it would not be for his benefit, were he to assume a position in the world which would oblige him to take an interest in so many things, not only foreign to art, but actually adverse to it. A certain number of guineas might accrue to him, but no real gain, either for his happiness or his progress in art. Formerly I used positively to hate all speculators in art, but now I feel chiefly compassion for them, because I see so few who are at rest; it is a never-ending strife for money and fame, and the most superior talents, as well as inferior ones, join in it. Highly as I esteem X——, I am by no means sure that he would not make shipwreck on this rock, and even if he did not lose the brightest part of his genius, he would certainly have to deplore the best part of his life and happiness; and after all, for what? The reformation and improvement of individual cities, even were they as important as London, is in fact either impossible or indifferent; but if a man only strives thoroughly to perfect his own being, and to purify himself by degrees from all dross, in acting thus he is working for all cities alike; and if he does so even in a village, his labours are certain to make their way into the world, and there to exercise their due influence. I would rather, therefore, that X—— remained in Germany wherever music is most appreciated; but you must not ask me where that is,—whether at Frankfort or Vienna? but it lies in the air no doubt; therefore I shall always advise his not leaving Germany.
Planché’s work gets on very slowly, and possibly I may have a new oratorio ready before his text is completed. The number of friends that “St. Paul” has gained me is really quite remarkable. I could never have anticipated it. It was performed twice at Vienna in the spring, and they want to have a festival there in November, with one thousand performers (“St. Paul” is to be given), which I shall probably go to conduct. This has surprised me the more, because no other work of mine has ever made its way into Vienna. I must be in Brunswick for the Musical Festival the end of this month, in order to conduct “St. Paul;” and it is always a source of twofold pleasure to me when I have no personal acquaintances in a place, which will be the case there.
My new pieces are a trio, completed for piano, violin, and violoncello, in D minor; a book of four-part songs, to be sung in the open air; some songs for one voice, organ fugues, half a Psalm, etc. I mean to continue the four-part songs, and have thought a good deal about the capabilities of this style; and it does seem the most natural of all music when four people are rambling together in the woods, or sailing in a boat, and have the melody all ready with them and within them. In quartetts for male voices alone, both for musical and other reasons, there is something prosaic in the four male voices, which has always been perceptible; whereas in those I allude to, the combination of male and female voices will sound more poetical, and this will, I hope, also be perceptible.
Do send me a song or two, to sing in autumn, or better still, in summer, or in spring, or on the water, on the grass, or on a bridge, or in the woods, or in the garden; to the stork, or to a kind Providence, or to the people of the cities and plains, or for a dance, or a wedding, or as a souvenir. It might be a popular romance!
I should like much to hear your sentiments about the events in your Fatherland;[35] they interest me more than you perhaps imagine. Be sure you come to us the end of autumn! Cecilia says your room is ready, and sends you her remembrances.—I am always yours.
Felix M. B.