To Rebecca Dirichlet, Berlin.
Düsseldorf, November 23rd, 1834.
My dear, dear Rebecca,
Can I still expect you to read anything that I write? I have been remiss, very remiss, in fact behaved shamefully, and I heartily wish it were not so; but I can’t help it now! Would that I had an opportunity to make up for it; but unluckily this is not the case; I can therefore only say that I hope I am still in your good graces, and that I was very foolish. I ought indeed to have said this to you long since, but I could not, for I was resolved to write you a long confidential letter the first day I could find leisure, and this is the very first leisure day. Now that it is getting dark, and the shutters closed, and lights brought in at five o’clock, I thought that I must write to you, and, as it were, pull your door bell and ask if you are at home. Do look kindly on me.
How things have been going on with me for some time past it would not be easy to say, all has been so detestable. But you really must listen to a little grumbling from me, that you may never take it into your head to become director of a theatre, nor to permit any one belonging to you to accept the office of an intendant. Immediately on my return here[16] the Intendant breezes were wafted towards me. In the statute it is set forth:—The intendancy is to consist of an intendant and a music director. The Intendant proposed that I should be the musical intendant, and he the theatrical intendant. Then the question arose, which was to take precedence of the other; so here was forthwith a fine piece of work. I wished to do nothing but conduct and direct the musical studies, but this was not enough for Immermann. We exchanged desperately uncivil letters, in which I was obliged to be very circumspect in my style, in order to leave no point unanswered, and to maintain my independent ground and basis; but I think I did credit to Herr Heyse.[17] We came to an agreement after this, but quarrelled again immediately, for he required me to go to Aix, to hear and to engage a singer there, and this I did not choose to do. Then I was desired to engage an orchestra,—that is, prepare two contracts for each member, and previously fight to the death about a dollar more or less of their monthly salary; then they went away, then they came back and signed all the same, then they all objected to sit at the second music desk, then came the aunt of a very wretched performer, whom I could not engage, and the wife and two little children of another miserable musician, to intercede with the Director; then I allowed three fellows to play on trial, and they played so utterly beneath contempt that I really could not agree to take any of them; then they looked very humble, and went quietly away, very miserable, having lost their daily bread; then came the wife again, and wept. Out of thirty persons there was only one who said at once, “I am satisfied,” and signed his contract; all the others bargained and haggled for an hour at least, before I could make them understand that I had a prix fixe. The whole day I was reminded of my father’s proverb, “Asking and bidding make the sale;” but they were four of the most disagreeable days I ever passed. On the fourth, Klingemann arrived in the morning, saw the state of things, and was horrified. In the meantime Rietz studied the “Templar,” morning and evening; the choruses got drunk, and I was forced to speak with authority; then they rebelled against the manager, and I was obliged to shout at them like the Boots at an inn; then Madame Beutler became hoarse, and I was very anxious on her account (a new sort of anxiety for me, and a most odious one); then I conducted Cherubini’s “Requiem” in the church, and this was followed by the first concert. In short, I made up my mind to abdicate my Intendant throne three weeks after the reopening of the theatre. The affair goes on quite as well as we could expect in Düsseldorf: Rietz’s playing is admirable,—he is studious, accurate, and artistic, so that he is praised and liked by every one. The operas we have hitherto given are, the “Templar” twice, “Oberon” twice, which I conducted, “Fra Diavolo,” and yesterday the “Freischütz.” We are about to perform the “Entführung,” the “Flauto Magico,” the “Ochsenmenuett,” the “Dorf Barbier,” and the “Wasserträger.” The operas are well attended, but not the plays, so that the shareholders are sometimes rather uneasy; five of the company up to this time have actually run away, two of them being members of the orchestra.
The Committee gave a supper to the company, which was very dull, and cost each member of the Council (including myself) eleven dollars; but pray refrain from all tokens of sympathy, in case of causing my tears to flow afresh. But since I have withdrawn from this sphere, I feel as if I were a fish thrown back into the water; my forenoons are once more at my own disposal, and in the evenings I can sit at home and read. The oratorio daily causes me more satisfaction, and I have also composed some new songs; the Vocal Association gets on well, and we intend shortly to give the “Seasons,” with a full orchestra. I mean soon to publish six preludes and fugues, two of which you have already seen; this is the sort of life I like to lead, but not that of an intendant. How vexatious it is, that at the close of such well-spent days we cannot all assemble together to enjoy each other’s society![18]
I enclose my translation of “Alexander’s Feast;” you must read it aloud to the family in the evening, and in various passages where the rhymes are rugged or deficient, if you will let me have your amendments I shall be grateful. One stipulation, however, I must make, that Ramler, or rather, I should say, the English text, should not be sacrificed. Apropos, since then I have once more mounted Pegasus, and translated Lord Byron’s poem, the first strophe of which, by Theremin, is incomprehensible, and the second false. I find, however, that my lines halt a little; perhaps, some evening, you may discover something better.
Schlafloser Augensonne, heller Stern!
Der du mit thränenvollem Schein, unendlich fern,
Das Dunkel nicht erhellst, nur besser zeigst,
O wie du ganz des Glücks Erinn’rung gleichst!
So funkelt längst vergangner Freuden Licht,
Es scheint, doch wärmt sein matter Schimmer nicht,
Der wache Gram erspäht die Nachtgestalt,
Hell, aber fern, klar—aber ach! wie kalt!
The poem is very sentimental, and I think I should have set it to music repeatedly in G sharp minor or B major, (but, at all events, with no end of sharps,) had it not occurred to me that the music of Löwe pleases you and Fanny; so this prevents my doing so, and there is an end of it, and of my letter also. Adieu, love me as ever.—Your
Felix.