I quite agree with you in all you say about Neukomm’s music. Isn’t it wonderful that a man of such taste and refinement should not be able to transfer those qualities to his music? To say nothing of the fundamental ideas of his compositions, the working out seems so careless and commonplace. The Fantasia is probably an example of that kind of thing; and had I come as the most favorably predisposed of listeners, the very title would have scared me away. Then, again, that constant use of the brass! As a matter of sheer calculation it should be sparingly employed, let alone the question of Art! That’s where I admire Handel’s glorious style; when he brings up his kettledrums and trumpets towards the end, and thumps and batters about to his heart’s content, as if he meant to knock you down—no mortal man can remain unmoved. I really believe it is far better to imitate such work, than to overstrain the nerves of your audience, who, after all, will at last get accustomed to Cayenne pepper. There is Cherubini’s new Opera, “Ali Baba,” for instance, which I have just been looking through. I was delighted with some parts, but in others it grieved me to find him chiming in with that perverted new fad of the Parisians, winding up pieces, in themselves calm and dignified, with thunder-clap effects, scoring as if instruments were nothing and effect everything, three or four trombones blasting away at you as if the human ear could stand anything. Then the finales with their uncouth harmonies, tearing and dashing about, enough to make an end of you. How bright and sparkling, on the other hand, are some of the pieces in his former manner; between Faniska and Lodoiska, for instance, and this there really is as wide a difference as between a man and a scarecrow,—no wonder the Opera was a failure. To an admirer of old Cherubini’s it really is annoying that he should write such miserable stuff, and not have the pluck to resist the so-called taste of the day and of the public, (as if you and I were not part of the public, and didn’t live in these times as well, and didn’t want music adapted to our digestive capacities!) As for those who are not admirers of old Cherubini, they will not be satisfied anyhow, do what he may; for them he is too much himself in “Ali Baba,” and after the first three notes they spot their man and put him down as a “vieille perruque,” “rococo,” etc.
You will fancy I am in an all-devouring mood to-day; not at all,—I really don’t know what made me so pugnacious; on the contrary, I am in a most happy, peaceful frame of mind. It is Christmas Day; a fragrant odor of black gingerbread, with which I was regaled at the Schadows’ last night, pervades the room; all around are presents from home,—a lounging jacket, writing materials, confectionery, cup and saucer, etc. In the midst of such splendors I have been happy and cheerful all day long, and now in the evening that wicked pen of mine runs away with me. Düsseldorf, too, is not half as bad as I described it just now, and you would not be slow to appreciate it if you heard the members of our Choral Society sing their Sebastian Bach, true knights as they are. We are soon going to perform the “Seasons,” and during Lent the “Messiah;” in the last concert we had Weber’s “Lyre and Sword,” the first part of “Judas Maccabæus,” and the “Sinfonia Eroica.” I am held in tremendous respect here; but do you know, I think my ink has turned sour just now because my horse bolted with me this afternoon and ran like mad right through our Corso and half the town, straight to the stables. I kept my seat, but I was in such a rage; and weren’t the people just delighted to see the “Herr Musikdirector” racing along! And then really there are not enough pretty girls here; after all, one doesn’t want to be composing fugues and chorales all day long; but, upon my soul, I am getting so frumpy and old-fashioned that I dread the thought of putting on a dress-coat, and how I am to get on if I go to England next spring and have to wear shoes, I know not. Well, it will all come right again if I am really sufficiently advanced with my work in the spring to cross; and if so, you know with what feelings I look forward to No. 3 Chester Place.
My Oratorio is making great progress. I am working at the second part, and have just written a Chorus in F sharp minor (a lively chorus of heathens) which I thoroughly relish myself and should so much like to show you; in fact, I am ever so anxious to hear whether you are satisfied with my new work. I have lately written some Fugues, Songs without words and with words, and a few Studies, and should of all things like to take a new Concerto for piano with me to London, but of that I know nothing as yet. You once said it was time I should write a quiet, sober piece for the pianoforte, after all those restless ones; and that advice is always running in my head and stops me at the outset, for as soon as I think of a pianoforte piece, away I career, and scarcely am I off when I remember, “Moscheles said, etc.,” and there’s an end to the piece. But never mind, I’ll get the better of it yet; and if it turns out restless again, it will certainly not be for want of good intentions.
But now good-by, my dear Moscheles. When you have a leisure hour give me good news and much of it. Remain my friend, as I am yours,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
With the following letter Mendelssohn sent a small, highly finished water-color drawing of the Bridge of Sighs at Venice to Mrs. Moscheles, which we reproduce.
Düsseldorf, Jan. 10, 1835.
Dear Mrs. Moscheles,—I ought to be kneeling on peas to do penance, all the time I am writing this letter, sinner that I am! And indeed, in my innermost heart, I am really on peas, when I think of my long silence. Such a shocking return for your kind letter after the Birmingham Festival! The courier who is to take my long-promised sketch to you leaves to-morrow, or I should scarcely have written to-day. The fact that I write only to accompany the sketch, you must not look upon as an aggravation of my offence,