To Frau Doctorin Frege, Leipzig.
London, August 31st, 1846.
Dear Lady,
You have always shown such kind sympathy in my “Elijah,” that I may well consider it incumbent on me to write to you after its performance, and to give you a report on the subject. If this should weary you, you have only yourself to blame; for why did you allow me to come to you with the score under my arm, and play to you those parts that were half completed, and why did you sing so much of it for me at sight? Indeed, on this account you in turn should have considered it incumbent on you to go with me to Birmingham; for it is not fair to make people’s mouths water, and to disgust them with their condition, when you cannot remedy it for them; and really the state in which I found the soprano solo parts here was most truly miserable and forlorn.
There was, however, so much that was good to make up for this, that I shall bring back with me a very delightful impression of the whole; and I often thought what pleasure it would have caused you.
The rich, full sounds of the orchestra and the huge organ, combined with the powerful choruses who sang with honest enthusiasm, the wonderful resonance in the grand giant hall, an admirable English tenor singer; Staudigl, too, who took all possible pains, and whose talents and powers you already well know, and in addition a couple of excellent second soprano and contralto solo singers; all executing the music with peculiar spirit, and the utmost fire and sympathy, doing justice not only to the loudest passages, but also to the softest pianos, in a manner which I never before heard from such masses, and in addition, an impressionable, kindly, hushed and enthusiastic audience,—all this is indeed sufficient good fortune for a first performance. In fact, I never in my life heard a better, or I may say so good a one, and I almost doubt whether I shall ever again hear one equal to it, because there were so many favourable combinations on this occasion. Along, however, with so much light, as I before said, there were also shadows, and the worst was the soprano part. It was all so neat, so pretty, so elegant, so slovenly, so devoid both of soul and head, that the music acquired a kind of amiable expression, which even now almost drives me mad when I think of it. The voice of the contralto, too, was not powerful enough to fill the hall, or to make itself heard beside such masses, and such solo singers; but she sang exceedingly well and musically, and in that case the want of voice can be tolerated. At least to me, nothing is so repugnant in music as a certain cold, soulless coquetry, which is in itself so unmusical, and yet so often adopted as the basis of singing, and playing, and music of all kinds. It is singular that I find this to be the case much less even with Italians than with us Germans. It seems to me that our countrymen must either love music in all sincerity, or they display an odious, stupid, and affected coldness, while an Italian throat sings just as it comes, in a straightforward way, though perhaps for the sake of money,—but still not for the sake of money, and æsthetics, and criticism, and self-esteem, and the right school, and twenty-seven thousand other reasons, none of which really harmonize with their real nature. This struck me very forcibly at the Musical Festival. Moscheles was ill on the Monday, so I conducted the rehearsals for him.[87] Towards ten o’clock at night, when I was tired enough, the Italians lounged quietly in, with their usual cool nonchalance. But, from the very first moment that Grisi, Mario, and Lablache began to sing, I inwardly thanked God. They themselves know exactly what they intend, sing with purity and in time, and there is no mistaking where the first crotchet should come in. That I feel so little sympathy for their music is no fault of theirs. But this digression is out of place here. I wished to tell you about the Birmingham Musical Festival, and the Town Hall, and here I am abusing the musical execution of our countrymen. You will say, I have often enough, and too often, been obliged to listen to you on that subject already. So I prefer reserving all further description of the festival till I can relate it to you in your own room.
May I soon meet you in health and happiness, and find you unchanged in kindly feelings towards myself.—Your devoted
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.