To Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
Leipzig, February 7th, 1840.
Dear Brother,
Every word, alas! that you write about Berlin and the course of things there, corresponds but too well with my own views on the subject. The proceedings there are far from gratifying, and what strikes me as the most hopeless part is, that all its inhabitants are of one accord on the subject, and yet, in spite of this universal feeling, no change to what is good and healthy is ever effected. But where cannot the individual man live and thrive? especially in Germany, where we are all compelled to isolation, and must, from the very first, renounce all idea of working together in unison. Still it has its bright side and its original aspect. When are you coming here again to play billiards with us? I have been living a stirring life all through this winter. Fancy my being obliged to play in public four times last week, and two pieces on each occasion. Last Saturday week, the first Quartett Soirée took place, where pianoforte music was introduced; so I played Mozart’s sonata in A major, with David, and the B flat major trio of Beethoven. On Sunday evening Ernst played four quartetts at Hiller’s; one of them was the E minor of Beethoven, and mine in E flat major. Early on Monday the rehearsal took place, and in the evening the concert, where I accompanied him in his “Elegie,” and in three songs besides; on the following Thursday, Hiller and I played Mozart’s concerto, written for two pianos, into which we introduced two grand cadenzas, and at the close of the second part of the concert, we played Moscheles’ duett in G major.[39] The Saturday after, I again played with David at the Quartett Soirée, a new rondo of Spohr’s, and wound up with my trio. In addition, we are to have a musical soirée at D——’s, a meeting of the Liedertafel, a ball, etc. etc.; and yet, with all this, every one complains that I persist in living so retired. Latterly I have become quite tired of music, and think I must take to painting once more; but my Swiss sketches are coming to an end, and fain would I return thither to make new ones, but I already see that there is no hope of such a thing this summer. Hiller lately said that I was like those ancient barbarians, who took such delight in the luscious fruits and the warm sun of the South, that they were always longing for them once more; and there really is some truth in this. Would that our orchestra had not so many attractions. Yesterday they played the B flat major symphony of Beethoven famously. In the course of a few days the choruses (now completed) in Hiller’s oratorio are to be rehearsed. I feel as much anxiety on the subject as if they were my own, or even greater.
Last week I had an agreeable occupation, which was that of distributing the five hundred dollars, granted to the orchestra, amongst its various members; the sum is small and the aid trifling, still I felt great satisfaction in having even accomplished this much. Next year I mean to begin it all over again, and then I hope to do a real service to the musicians; whether they thank me or not, is after all quite a matter of indifference.
Pray send for a little work, which contains the most beautiful and interesting descriptions I have read for a long time. They are Eastern translations by Rückert, and the title is ‘Erbauliches und Beschauliches aus dem Morgenlande.’ If this book does not delight you beyond measure, I will never recommend one to you again. Do look into it often, for it is most extraordinary.—Your
Felix.
To his Mother.
Leipzig, March 30th, 1840.
The turmoil of the last few weeks was overpowering. Liszt was here for a fortnight, and caused quite a paroxysm of excitement among us, both in a good and evil sense. I consider him to be in reality an amiable warm-hearted man, and an admirable artist. That he plays with more execution than all the others, does not admit of a doubt; yet Thalberg, with his composure, and within his more restricted sphere, is more perfect, taken as a virtuoso; and this is the standard which must also be applied to Liszt, for his compositions are inferior to his playing, and, in fact, are only calculated for virtuosos. A fantasia by Thalberg (especially that on the “Donna del Lago”) is an accumulation of the most exquisite and delicate effects, and a continued succession of difficulties and embellishments that excite our astonishment; all is so well devised and so finished, carried out with such security and skill, and pervaded by the most refined taste.