Cologne, July 5th, 1836.
Dear Schleinitz,
I have in vain sought a moment of leisure, after the Musical Festival, to send you my first greeting and letter since my journey. In Düsseldorf the bustle was great, and no end to all kinds of music, fêtes, and recreations, which never left me a quiet moment. I have been staying a day here to revive and to rest, with my old President,[27] and as evening is now approaching, about the time when you often used to peep into my room, I feel an impulse, if only for a moment, to shake hands and say good-evening.
You would certainly have been for some time well amused and delighted with the Musical Festival; and from your taking so friendly an interest in me and my “St. Paul,” I thought a hundred times at least during the rehearsals, what a pity it was that you were not there. You would assuredly have been delighted by the love and goodwill with which the whole affair was carried on, and the marvellous fire with which the chorus and orchestra burst forth, though there were individual passages, especially in the solos, which might have annoyed you. I think I see your face, could you have heard the St. Paul’s aria sung in an indifferent, mechanical manner, and I think I hear you breaking loose on the Apostle of the Gentiles in a dressing-gown; but then I know also how charmed you would have been with the “Mache dich auf,” which went really splendidly. My feelings were singular; during the whole of the rehearsals and the performance I thought little enough about directing, but listened eagerly to the general effect, and whether it went right according to my idea, without thinking of anything else. When the people gave me a flourish of trumpets or applauded, it was very welcome for the moment, but then my Father came back to my mind, and I strove once more to recall my thoughts to my work. Thus, during the entire performance I was almost in the position of a listener, and tried to retain an impression of the whole. Many parts caused me much pleasure, others not so; but I learnt a lesson from it all, and hope to succeed better the next time I write an oratorio.
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Frankfort, July 14th, 1836.
Dear Mother and dear Rebecca,
I have just received your affectionate letters, and must answer them instantly, for indeed I had been eagerly expecting them for several days past, during which I have done nothing but lie on the sofa and read Eckermann’s ‘Conversations with Goethe,’ and long for letters from home which I could answer. I am as much delighted with Eckermann as you are, my dear Mother and Sister. I feel just as if I heard the old gentleman speaking again, for there are many things introduced into the work which are the very same words I have heard him use, and I know his tone and gestures by heart. I must say that Eckermann is not sufficiently independent. He is always rejoicing over “this important phrase, which pray mark well.” But it must be admitted that it was a difficult position for the old man, and we ought to be grateful to him for his faithful notices, and also for his delicacy,—a contrast to Riemer.
Here I am, seated in the well-known corner room with the beautiful view, in Schelble’s house, he and his wife being gone to visit his property in Swabia, and they do not return to Frankfort so long as I am here; but the accounts his wife has sent here are very consolatory, and inspire us all with much hope. There is no one living in this house but Schelble’s mother-in-law, and a maid-servant, on one side,—and myself, with two travelling-bags and a hat-box, on the other. At first I was unwilling to come here, owing to many remembrances, but now I am glad that I came. A very kind reception, an excellent grand pianoforte, plenty of music, entire rest, and undisturbed tranquillity, are all things which are nowhere to be found in an inn; and I might well be envied the view from my corner window. In this splendid summer weather I see all down the Maine, with its numerous boats, rafts, and ships, the gay shore opposite, and above all, my old favourite, the Wartthurm, facing the south, and on the other side the blue hills. I came here with plans for great industry, but for nearly a week I have done little else every forenoon, but admire the prospect and sun myself. I must go on in the same way for a couple of days still,—idleness is so pleasant, and agrees with me so well. My last days in Düsseldorf, and my first here, were crammed so full that I could only recover my balance by degrees. The very day of my arrival here, I had to direct the St. Cecilia Association; then came my numerous acquaintances, old and new, and the arrangements for the next few weeks. I was obliged to take a rest after all this, or at least I said so to myself, to palliate, and furnish a pretext for my love of idleness. The St. Cecilia Association went on well, and they were very friendly; I however made a speech that deserved to have been written down. We sang some things from “Samson,” and some from the B minor Mass of Bach. There was much worth remembering in the former. The Bach went almost faultlessly, though it is fully twice as difficult; and so I had a fresh opportunity of admiring how Schelble, by dint of his admirable tenacity, has succeeded in making his will obeyed. I shall not be able to do much for the association. Six weeks are not sufficient, and even under the most favourable circumstances, Schelble’s physician wishes him to rest the whole of the ensuing winter. How the matter will proceed then we know not. All the musicians here think too much about themselves, and too little about their work; but we shall see how this may be, and what we have now to do is to provide for the intervening time; and I rejoice to be able in this respect to oblige Schelble. I must say my life assumes a most agreeable form here. Never could I have thought, that through my overtures and songs, I could have become such a lion with the musical world. The “Melusina” and the “Hebrides” are as familiar to them as to us at home (I mean No. 3, Leipziger Strasse), and the dilettanti dispute warmly about my intentions.
Then Hiller is here, at all times a delightful sight to me, and we have always much that is interesting to discuss together. To my mind, he is not sufficiently—what shall I call it?—one-sided. By nature he loves Bach and Beethoven beyond all others, and would therefore prefer adopting wholly the graver style of music; but then he is much delighted also with Rossini, Auber, Bellini, etc., and with this variety of tastes no man makes real progress. So this forms the subject of all our conversations as soon as we see each other, and it is most agreeable to me to be with him for some time, and, if possible, to lead him to my mode of thinking.... Early yesterday I went to see him, and whom should I find sitting there but Rossini, as large as life, in his best and most amiable mood. I really know few men who can be so amusing and witty as he, when he chooses; he kept us laughing incessantly the whole time. I promised that the St. Cecilia Association should sing for him the B minor Mass, and some other things of Sebastian Bach’s. It will be quite too charming to see Rossini obliged to admire Sebastian Bach; he thinks, however, “different countries, different customs,” and is resolved to howl with the wolves. He says he is enchanted with Germany, and when he once gets the list of wines at the Rhine Hotel in the evening, the waiter is obliged to show him his room, or he could never manage to find it. He relates the most laughable and amusing things about Paris and all the musicians there, as well as of himself and his compositions, and entertains the most profound respect for all the men of the present day,—so that you might really believe him, if you had no eyes to see his sarcastic face. Intellect, and animation, and wit, sparkle in all his features and in every word, and those who do not consider him a genius, ought to hear him expatiating in this way, and they would change their opinion.