Leipzig, October 31st, 1846.
My dear Brother,
From my only being able to-day to wish you joy of yesterday, that is, in writing and by words, you will at once see that I have even more than my full share of affairs at this moment. What I wish most to do, I cannot accomplish all day long, and what I most particularly dislike often occupies my whole day,—but no more Jérémiades, and now for true heartfelt good wishes. A thousand good wishes, which may all be summed up in one,—health for you and yours, and all those you love; in this wish lies the continuance of your happiness, in this lies your enjoyment of it, in this lies all that is good, all that I can possibly desire for you, and no human being could possibly wish or desire anything better for any man? Were you very happy on the day? were all your family well? (this however is included in my previous question;) had you a cake decorated with lights? This is certainly an entirely novel question, but not absolutely indispensable to the happiness of life (like the last). Did you drink chocolate? were my sisters with you, or you with them at dinner or supper? did you think of us? May God bless you, my dear Brother, on that day, and on every day of your life!
It is shameful in me, not to have thanked you yet for the beautiful copy of Dahlmann, but it is still more shameful, that such ordinary—not extraordinary—but honest, able, true words, are so seldom to be met with in our Fatherland; and the cause of this is, that mediocrity, or what is still worse, vapid superficiality, is so prevalent in Germany, parading itself till we would fain drive out of sight; and this is also why I have been hitherto prevented from even thanking you. I never yet encountered such an accumulation of strangers, of inquiries and proposals, and almost all entirely worthless; many so modest—and many so immodest! Singers, players, a fine heap of compositions, and scarcely one that can be called even tolerably good, but at the same time overflowing with the longest words, full of patriotic ardour, full of—anything but striving after high aims, though laying claim to the highest of all; and then the impossibility of fulfilling even one of these demands with a good conscience, or recommending them to others. But why should I tell you all this? you, no doubt, know it by experience in your own department, for it pervades every department. All this however confirms me in my resolution, not to continue in this public official situation more than a few years; and just as it formerly was my duty to fill such an office to the best of my ability, it is now equally my duty to give it up. Everything here is gradually assuming a pleasant aspect. Moscheles has set to work very vigorously with the Conservatorium; the concerts also pursue their steady course now as ever; when all this is secure and certain, I daily meditate on the possibility of being able to pass the summer in some pretty country (somewhere near the Rhine), and the winter in Berlin, and this I hope to be able to do, without any public duties to perform in Berlin, and without all that has now irrevocably passed away there; I intend to live entirely with you in all happiness, and to write music. Ainsi soit-il.
I should have been glad to bring the “Elijah” with me, but I am still at work on two passages, which I am striving to remodel, and they cause me great tribulation. In the meantime, I have been obliged to compose afresh the whole Liturgy for the King. He has desired that I should be repeatedly written to on the subject, and now at last it is finished. I am often too in no happy mood, for poor Johann[88] is very seriously ill, and causes us really very great anxiety. “May I be so bold as to ask who is to play the part of the servant?” says Goethe, and lately these words often recurred to me. May God soon restore the poor faithful fellow! Love me as ever, and may you be happy in the approaching year.—Your
Felix.
To Professor Edward Bendemann.
Leipzig, November 8th, 1846.
... Have I already thanked you for your excellent contributions, and advice about “Elijah”? All your notes on the margin are most acceptable, and are a fresh proof that you have not only a different, but a much deeper insight than almost any one else into a subject of this kind. You recommend that the “Sanctus” should be followed by the command of God to Elijah to resume his mission; such was indeed my original intention, and I think of replacing it, but I cannot dispense with an answer from Elijah; and I think both can and ought to be there. I shall not however be able to bring in King Ahab again. The greatest difficulty in the whole undertaking, was after the manifestation of the Lord in the “still small voice,” to discover a conclusion for the whole, with sufficient breadth (and yet not long); and if Elijah were to be afterwards introduced again in person as a zealous and avenging prophet (in a dramatic aspect) it would in my opinion be difficult to represent, without great circumlocution, his significance for the new dispensation (which however must necessarily be alluded to), while I think it most important, that from the moment of the appearance of the Lord, all should go on in grand narrative to the close. But when you say that one of these passages should relate how he came down, and again came down in vain, you are quite right, and I will try to accomplish it, as I am at this moment revising the whole, and re-writing several passages before sending it to the engraver. It is singular that the passage which caused me the greatest trouble, is the very one that you would like to see omitted,—that of the widow. To me it seems, that by introducing some phrases (either by the chorus or otherwise), the part might become more significant and comprehensive, whereas you prefer its being a simple narrative. After all, you are possibly right, which would be unfortunate, for I believe that in the distribution of the whole, the passage in its present expansion could not possibly be spared. This is a point therefore which I shall weigh well.