I have now been a fortnight here with my family, and am living with my mother and brother and sisters, in the very same house, which I quitted twelve years ago, with a heavy heart. The more unaccountable is it to me that, in spite of the delight of being with my mother and family once more, in spite, also, of every advantage, and many and glad memories, there is scarcely a place in all Germany where I feel so little at home as here. The ground of this may be, that all the causes which formerly made it impossible for me to begin and to continue my career in Berlin, and which drove me away, still subsist, just as they formerly did, and are likely, alas! to subsist to the end of time. There is the same frittering away of all energies and all people, the same unpoetical striving after outward results, the same superfluity of knowledge, the same failure in production, and the same want of nature, the same illiberality and backwardness as to progress and development, by which, indeed, though the latter are rendered safer and less dangerous, still they are robbed of all merit, and of all life. I believe that these qualities will one day be reproduced here in all things; that it is the case with music, there can be no doubt whatever. The King has the best inclination to alter and to improve all this; but if he were to hold fast his will steadily for a succession of years, and were he to find none but people with the same will, working unweariedly in accordance with it,—even then, results and happy consequences could not be anticipated, till after a succession of years had elapsed; yet here these are expected first and foremost. The soil must be entirely ploughed and turned up before it can bring forth fruit, at least so it seems to me in my department; the musicians work, each for himself, and no two agree; the amateurs are divided and absorbed into thousands of small circles; besides, all the music one hears is, at the best, only indifferent; criticism alone is keen, close, and well-studied. These are no very flattering prospects, I think, for the approaching period, and to “organize this from the foundation” is not my affair, for I am deficient both in talent and inclination for the purpose. I am, therefore, waiting to know what is desired of me, and probably this will be limited to a certain number of concerts, which the Academy of Arts is to give in the coming winter, and which I am then to direct. In my next letter, I will write you some musical details. Heaven grant that I may soon be tranquillized about your recovery, and may we meet again in cheerfulness and health; God grant it!—Ever your faithful
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
To President Verkenius, Cologne.
Berlin, August 23rd, 1841.
Dear Herr President,
You see that I take advantage of your permission, and write constantly; if it be too much for you, let me know it, or do not read my letters. May it please God that I shall soon receive good news of your returning health! I think of it every day, and I wish it every day! In my previous letter, I promised you some details of musical life here, so far as I am acquainted with it. Unfortunately, there is very little that is cheering to relate. Here, as everywhere else, it is principally the committees which ought to be answerable for this; while, as these are appointed, more or less, by the public, I cannot make the distinction which seems so usual with the Berliners, who abuse and revile all committees, both musical and others, and yet like to see them remain in their old form. The whole tendency of the musicians, as well as of the dilettanti, is too little directed to the practical; they play chiefly that they may talk about it, before and afterwards, so the discussions are better and wiser than in most other places in Germany, but the music more defective. Unfortunately, there is very little to discuss with regard to music and its deficiencies; the only thing to be done is to feel, and to improve it; so I have not the least idea how it is ever to become better. In the orchestra (excellent as some individual members of it are), this is, alas! too perceptible. In operas and symphonies, I have heard blunders, and false notes constantly played, which could only proceed from the grossest carelessness. The people are Royal functionaries, and cannot be brought to account, and if the conversation turns on these faults afterwards, they strive to prove that there is no such thing as time, or should be none,—what can I say? but item, it goes badly. I have played my trio ten or twelve times here; on each occasion the same mistakes were made in the time, and the same careless blunders in the accompaniment, though they were the first artists here who played with me. The blame of this state of things rests chiefly on Spontini, who was for so long a period at their head, and who rather oppressed, than sought to elevate and improve, the many excellent musicians in this orchestra. My conviction is, that Spohr would be the man to aid them, and to restore proper order; but just because he is so, he will not be elected; too many talk about it, and wish to have everything in ideal beauty; and this produces mediocrity. The dilettanti doings are even worse. Their chief organ and institution is the Academy for Singing, and there each individual considers himself far superior to the Director. But if they really did all know properly how things should be, they would sing better together,—whoever directed,—and the false notes, and errors in time, would disappear,—but they by no means disappear. So here again, it is mostly all talk. I lately heard Pasta in “Semiramide.” She sings now so fearfully out of tune, especially in the middle notes, that it is quite painful to listen to her; but, of course, the splendid remains of her great talent, the traces of a first-class singer, are often unmistakable. In any other city, this dreadful want of tune would have been felt first of all, and, afterwards, the remembrance that she was a great artist would have recurred; here every one said, beforehand, that here was the Pasta, she was old, she could no longer sing in tune, so this must be put out of the question. In other places, they would perhaps have unjustly abased her; here they as unjustly praised her to the skies, and after deliberate reflection, and entire consciousness of the state of things, they continued to be delighted,—this is a bad kind of delight!
How hypochondriacal this letter is become! I ought rather to write to you in a gayer strain, to cheer you. Next time I shall try to find a more rose-coloured aspect; forgive the dark-brown hues of to-day.[51] With the most heartfelt and cordial wishes for your recovery, I am always, your loving
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
To Franz Hauser,
(PRESENT DIRECTOR OF THE CONSERVATORIUM IN MUNICH.)
Berlin, October 12th, 1841.