My new Scena,[25] however, which I am writing for the Philharmonic, will, I am afraid, be only too tame. But so much self-criticism is no good; so I stick to my work, and that means, in plain language, that I am well and happy.
I feel particularly comfortable in this place, having just as much official occupation as I want and like, and plenty of time to myself. When I do not feel inclined to compose, there is the conducting and rehearsing, and it is quite a pleasure to see how well and brightly things go; and then the place is so charmingly diminutive that you can always fancy yourself in your own room; and yet it is complete in its way. There is an opera, a choral society, an orchestra, church music, a public, and even a small opposition; it is simply delightful. I have joined a society formed for the improvement of our stage, and we are now rehearsing the “Wasserträger.” It is quite touching to see with what eagerness and appetite the singers pounce upon every hint, and what trouble they will take if anybody will be at the pains of teaching them; how they strain every nerve and really make our performances as perfect as can be imagined considering the means at our disposal. Last December I gave “Don Juan” (it was the first time I conducted an opera in public), and I can assure you many things went better and with more precision than I have heard them at some of the large and famous theatres, because from first to last every one concerned went in for it heart and soul; well, we had twenty rehearsals. The lessee of the theatre had, however, thought fit to raise the prices on account of the heavy expenses; and when, at the first performance of “Don Juan,” the curtain rose, the malcontent section of the public called for Signor Derossi like mad, and made a tremendous disturbance; after five minutes, order was restored, we began and went through the first act splendidly, constantly accompanied by applause; but lo and behold! as the curtain rises for the second act, the uproar breaks out afresh, with redoubled vigor and persistence. Well, I felt inclined to hand the whole concern over to the devil,—never did I conduct under such trying circumstances. I countermanded the opera which was announced for the next night, and declared I would have nothing more to do with the whole theatre; four days later I allowed myself to be talked over, gave a second performance of “Don Juan,” was received with hurrahs and a threefold flourish of trumpets, and now the “Wasserträger” is to follow. The opposition consists mainly of beerhouse keepers and waiters; in fact, by four o’clock P.M., half Düsseldorf is intoxicated. Anybody wanting to see me must call between eight and nine in the morning; it is quite useless attempting to do any kind of business in the afternoon.
Now, what do you think of such a discreditable state of things, and can you have anything more to say to such boors as we are?
By the by, Mr. Spring of Moscow is quite destroying my peace of mind. He would have it that he knew you very well, and I would not believe him on any account; at last he showed me a manuscript note of invitation from Chester Place, and I had to give in, but still I cannot digest him;—a pity that at his age, and with as little talent as he seems to have, he should be obliged to give concerts and make money.
Blagrove was here. I took him to our Choral Society, where we were just rehearsing the choruses from “Alexander’s Feast;” our performance produced the most excellent effect on him,—it sent him to sleep.
Can you not send me one or the other of your new things (a copy or whatever you like)? The gentleman who takes charge of this returns shortly, and would, I am sure, be the bearer of your parcel. So, if you have anything, please send it to Klingemann’s, and it shall be called for.
I hear from my mother that the “Gipsies’ March,” or rather the “April Variations,” are out. Is that the case; and if so, could I have a copy of them? I hope you have done a good deal of patching and polishing to my part,—you know, I am thinking of those restless passages of mine. The whole of the last number wants repairing or lining with a warm melody; it was too thin. The first variation, too, I hope you have turned inside out and padded. Don’t I speak as if I were Musikdirector Schneider? And can’t you send me one of Mori’s annual gems? But I must really take courage and another little sheet of paper and write to your wife, for I haven’t half done. Good-by—till we meet on the next page.
Your
F. Mendelssohn.