Selected letters of Mendelssohn

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SELECTED LETTERS

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Letter 1

SELECTED

LETTERS OF MENDELSSOHN.

TO HIS FAMILY.

Weimar, 21st May, 1830.

Since my travels began I can’t remember such a bright and fresh day’s journeying as yesterday. Early in the morning the sky was grey and clouded, but later on the sun came out; the air was cool; it was Ascension Day, so the people all had their best clothes on, and I saw them in one village going into church, in the next coming out, in another they were all playing bowls. The gardens were full of brilliant tulips, and there was I driving fast through it all, getting a view of everything. At Weissenfels they gave me a little basket-carriage, and at Naumburg a regular open drosky; the luggage was piled up behind, hat and cloak along with them; and then I bought myself a pair of May nosegays, and so dashed through the country in perfect holiday fashion.

Just past Naumburg, there appeared a party of upper form boys from Pforta, who must perforce look at me with envy; then we drove by President G., mounted in a trap which only just carried him, and his daughters, or his wives—the two ladies, at all events, who were with him, envied me likewise. We trotted up the Kösener Hills, for the horses scarcely needed to pull, and then we overhauled a procession of overloaded waggoners, and they envied me, too, for, indeed, I was worthy of envy. The country-side looked so full of the spring and its brilliancy, all bright and glad; and then the sun went down solemnly behind the hills. Then there came the Russian ambassador, proceeding along with two great four-horse chaises in a sombre, business-like style, and I flew past him in my drosky like a hare, and in the evening I got government horses again, so that a slight vexation should not be wanting (it is essential to pleasure by my theory), and all day I composed nothing, but merely enjoyed myself. It was a noble day, that is the truth, and one not to be forgotten. I close this description with the remark that the children of Eckartsberge play “Ringe, Rosenkranz,” just as they do with us, and did not let the strange gentleman’s presence disturb them, though he looked very imposing. I should have liked nothing better than to play with them myself.

May 24th.

This I wrote before I went to Goethe after walking in the park early in the morning; now I am still here, and have never been able to get further with the letter. Very likely I shall remain here two days longer, and I shall lose nothing by doing so, for I have never yet found the old man so cheerful and amiable as now, nor so sympathetic and full of talk. But the real reason for my stopping is a fine one, and makes me almost vain, I should rather say, proud; I will not conceal it from you. Goethe sent me yesterday a letter addressed to a painter here, which I was to deliver myself, and Ottilie told me in confidence it contained a commission to paint my portrait, which Goethe wished to add to a collection of portraits of his acquaintance which he has long been making. The thing rejoiced my heart (almost in the Biblical sense); but as I have not yet encountered my kindly painter, nor he me, it is clear that I must stop till the day after to-morrow; I don’t regret it, as I said before, for I am having a glorious time here, and feel such delight in being near my old hero. I have dined with him every day till now, and my presence is required again to-morrow morning. This evening he gives a party, at which I am to play; he talks about everything, asks questions about everything; it is a delight to hear him. But now I must give you a reasonable and orderly account of my proceedings, so that you may know all I have to tell.

The first morning I went to visit Ottilie, whom I found indeed still in weak health, and complaining sometimes, but just as amiable and charming to me as ever. We have been together almost perpetu ever since, and it has been a great pleasure to me thus coming to know her more intimately.

Ulrica I find even more winning and sweet than before. She has gained a seriousness that seems to pervade her whole being, and the depth and unfailing truth of her feeling make her one of the most beautiful spirits I have ever met with. The two boys, Walter and Wolff, are lively, industrious, and affectionate; it is delightful to hear them talking about “grandpapa’s Faust.” To come back to my narrative. I sent Zelter’s letter in to Goethe, who invited me to dinner. I found him outwardly unchanged, but at first somewhat silent and reserved; I fancy he must have wanted to observe me, but at the moment I felt disappointed, and thought to myself, “Now he is always like that.” But then by good fortune the conversation happened to turn on the Weimar “Women’s Association” and the Chaos, a fantastic newspaper, which circulates among the ladies, and to the staff of which I have just been promoted myself.

The old man all at once became jovial, and began to quiz the two ladies about their philanthropy and their intellect, also about the subscriptions and their visitation of the sick, which seemed particularly to move his wrath. He appealed to me to join him in a revolt against these things, and, when I would not, he returned to his former indifference, but at last he became more friendly and intimate than I had ever known him before. It was beyond everything! Talking about the “Robber’s Bride,” by Ries, he said it contained everything a writer nowadays wanted to make him happy, namely, a robber and a bride. Then he railed against the universal sentimentality of young people, and their perpetual melancholy. He told us stories about a young lady whom he had courted once, and who also had taken a certain interest in him. Then came the turn of the bazaar for the benefit of the unfortunate, at which the Weimar ladies acted as saleswomen, and where he maintained it was impossible to buy a single thing, because the young people arranged beforehand between themselves who everything was to go to, and then it was hidden away till the right buyer appeared; and so forth. After dinner, he all at once began to hum, “Gute Kinder—hübsche Kinder muss immer lustig sein—tolles Volk,” and his eyes grew like those of an old lion just falling asleep. Presently I had to play to him, and he said it was very strange to him to think how long it was since he had heard any music, and meanwhile great advances had been made and he knew nothing of them. There were many things I must explain to him, “some time we must have a reasonable talk together.” Then he said to Ottilie, “No doubt you have made all your wise arrangements, but that doesn’t avail against my commands, which are, that you are to make tea here to-day, so that we may keep each other company.” She asked if it would not be too late, as Riemer would be coming and expect to work with him; but he replied: “You gave your children a holiday from their Latin this morning to hear Felix play, so you can let me off my work too.” Then he invited me to dinner to-day, and I played to him for a long time in the evening. My three Welsh pieces succeed admirably here, and I am practising my English again. I had asked Goethe to say “du” when he spoke to me, so the next day I received a sort of message through Ottilie that then I should have to stop longer than two days, as I had intended, or else he would not have time to get used to it. He said the same thing to me himself, and let me feel I should be losing nothing by stopping rather longer; besides, he asked me to dine with him whenever I had no other engagement, so I have been there daily till now. Yesterday I had to tell him everything about Scotland, Hengstenberg, Spontini, and Hegel’s æsthetics; then he sent me out to Tiefurt with the ladies, but forbade me to go to Berke, because a very pretty girl lives there, and he would not let me fall into misfortune; and to crown it all, I think to myself this is indeed the very Goethe about whom people used to affirm that he was not one person at all, but had been formed by the blending together of many smaller “Goethides!”—truly I should be mad if I regretted the loss of my time. To-day I am to play him some things by Bach, Haydn, and Mozart, and conduct him down to the present time, as he says. Besides, I have gone through the regular duties of the visitor, and have seen the library and Iphigenia in Aulis.

Felix.

Letter 2

TO HIS FAMILY.

Weimar, 25th May, 1830.

I have just received your very welcome letter written on Ascension Day, and must yield to the temptation to send you another answer from here. To you, dear Fanny, I am just about to send the copy of my symphony, which I am having copied here and sent to Leipsic (where, perhaps, it will be performed), with strict injunctions that one copy shall be forwarded you as soon as possible. Please collect votes for a title to it, which I have to choose. “Reformation Symphony,” “Confession Symphony,” “Symphony for a Church Festival,” “Child’s Symphony,” or what you like; only write to me, and, in place of all these dull suggestions, give me a bright one; still I should like to hear the stupid ones that are brought to light by the occasion. Yesterday evening I was at a party at Goethe’s, and played alone the whole evening: a concert piece, “Aufforderung,” and “Polonaise” in C by Weber, three foreign pieces, Scotch sonatas. At ten o’clock came the end, but, of course, I stopped for the frivolities, dancing, singing, and so on, till twelve. I am living like a very pagan. The old man always goes to his room at nine, and when he has gone we dance furiously, and as yet have never broken up before midnight.

To-morrow my portrait will be ready; it will be a large dark drawing in chalks, and a very good likeness, only it makes me look very bearish. Goethe is so friendly and affectionate with me that I know not how to thank him or how to deserve his kindness. In the morning I have to play the piano to him for an hour, pieces from all the great composers arranged in the order of dates, and then explain to him how music has progressed in their hands; meanwhile he sits in a dark corner, like a Jupiter Tonans, and his old eyes flash fire. About Beethoven he was indifferent. But I said he must endure some, and played him the first movement of the symphony in C minor. It affected him very strangely. First he said, “That does not touch one at all, it only astonishes one.” Then he murmured to himself, and said presently, “It is very great, it is wild; it seems as though the house were falling; what must it be with the whole orchestra!” And at dinner, in the middle of a conversation about something else, he began again on the same theme. You know already I dine with him every day, and at those times he asks me searching questions, and after dinner grows so gay and sympathetic that we generally sit together for an hour alone in the room, while he talks without a pause. It is a very especial joy when he shows me his engravings and talks critically about them, or pronounces judgment on Hernani or Lamartine’s Elegies, or on theatrical matters, or on pretty girls. On several evenings he has invited guests, which is very rare with him now, so that it is long since most of the people have seen him. Then I have to play a good deal, and he makes me compliments before the company, “stupendous” being his favourite expression. To-day he invited a bevy of Weimar beauties for my delight, for “I ought to live with young people.” If I meet him in such company he says to me, “Dear heart, you must go to the ladies and behave prettily.” I displayed my savoir vivre by asking yesterday if, perhaps, I did not come there too often? Then he growled rather to Ottilie, who put the question, and said, on the contrary, he wanted more talk with me, for I quite understood my business, and he had a great deal to learn from me. I felt twice my height when Ottilie repeated that to me, and when he said it again himself, and told me there was much in his spirit that I must light up for him. I said just, “Oh, yes,” and thought to myself: “this is an honour never to be forgotten.” More often it is the other way about!

Felix.

Letter 3

TO HIS FAMILY.

Rome, 8th November, 1830.

To-day I must give you an account of my first eight days in Rome, how I have arranged my life here, what my prospects are for the winter, and how these divine places affected me at first; to describe all which is hard. I seem to myself to have changed since my arrival; before that I tried to repress my impatience to move forwards and push on fast with the journey, putting it down simply to my own natural hastiness, but here I recognise clearly that it was only the keen desire to reach this great centre of things that made me so. Now I have attained it, and my feeling has grown quiet and glad and earnest in a way I cannot describe, nor can I define what it is that produces this effect; the awful Colosseum and the brilliant Vatican alike contribute to it, so does the soft spring weather and the kindly people, my pleasant room, and everything. Things somehow are different. I feel happy and well as I have not been for ages, and have such a pleasure in work and desire of it that I hope to accomplish far more here than ever I proposed. I have made some way already. If Heaven will only grant me an endurance of this good fortune I look forward to a splendidly fruitful winter.

Picture a little house two windows broad, number 5 in the Piazza di Spagna, that catches the sun all day, then the room on its first floor in which there stands a good Viennese piano, on the table lie portraits of Palestrina, Allegri, and so on, and the scores of their music, also a Latin psalm book out of which to compose Non nobis; this is my personal residence. It was too far off by the Capitol, and I had my fears of the coldness of the air, which gives no trouble here, when I look out over the square in the morning and everything stands out so clear cut on the blue sky in the sun-shine. My host was formerly a captain in the French service; the maid has the most magnificent contralto voice I know. Above me there lives a Prussian officer, with whom I exchange courtesies; altogether, my surroundings are excellent. When I come into the room early in the morning and the sun is shining so brightly on my breakfast things you see I am throwing myself away on poetry an amazing cheerfulness takes possession of me, and then I think it is really late in the autumn, and who could make sure of warmth, bright skies or grapes and flowers at home? After breakfast my work goes forward, and I play, sing, and compose till about noon.

Then all the measureless delight of Rome lies as a free gift before me; I proceed with it very leisurely, and every day pick out afresh some great historic object; one day a ramble about the ruins of the ancient city, another day the Borghese Gallery or the Capitol, or else St. Peter’s or the Vatican, so each day is one never to be forgotten, and this sort of dallying leaves each impression firmer and stronger. Sometimes working in the morning, I should like not to leave off but to write steadily on, but I say to myself, “Now there is the Vatican to see,” and once there I only leave it in turn with reluctance, so each occupation becomes a pure delight, and one pleasure is a foil to another. If Venice seemed like the gravestone of its own past, its ruinous, modern palaces and the enduring remembrance of a bygone supremacy giving it a disquieting, mournful impression, the past of Rome strikes one as history itself; its monuments ennoble, and make one at the same moment serious and joyful, for there is joy in feeling how human creations may survive a thousand years and yet possess their quickening restoring influence. Each day some new image of that past imprints itself on my mind, and then comes the twilight, and the day is at an end. Then I seek out my acquaintances and friends; we exchange news of what each has done, or, what is the same thing here, enjoyed, and these meetings are very pleasurable. The evenings I spend mostly at Bendemann’s and Hübner’s, who get together a number of German artists; every now and then I go to Schadow’s as well. One valuable acquaintance I have made is that of the Abbé Santini, who has a very complete collection of old Italian music, and gladly lends or gives me anything I want. He is the embodiment of kindness. At night, however, he is obliged to have Ahlborn or myself to accompany him home, for to be alone in the streets at a late hour would bring an abbé into ill repute. For fellows like Ahlborn and myself to be serving an ecclesiastic aged 60 in the capacity of duenna is piquant enough. Countess 2 had given me a list of pieces of old music that she wished to have copies of if possible; Santini had all the originals, and I owe him my best thanks for giving me copies of them, so that I can go through them together and thus come to know them. I beg you will send the six cantatas of Sebastian Bach which Marx has had published by Simrock, or else some of the organ pieces, to serve as tokens of my gratitude. I should much prefer the cantatas; he has already the Magnificat, the Motets, and so forth.

He has adapted “Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied,” and is going to produce it at Naples; we owe him something for that. I am writing at length to Zelter about the papal choir which I have heard three times, twice at the Quirinal on the Monte Cavallo, and once at San Carlo. One person I delight in is Bunsen. We shall have a great deal of talking to do together; sometimes it even strikes me that this will be the starting-point of some of my future work; and I am sure that anything I can try at with a good conscience shall be done joyfully, and with all the power I have. It helps me beside to feel at home and read Goethe’s Italian Journey for the first time, and I must confess it was a great joy to discover that he arrived in Rome precisely the same day that I did. Further, that he also went first to the Quirinal and heard a requiem there; he says too that at Florence and Bologna a sort of impatience took possession of him, and on arrival here he felt calm again, and, as he calls it, well-knit together in mind; so I have experienced all he describes, a reflection which pleases me. But he writes at length about a great picture by Titian in the Vatican, thinking it impossible to see any meaning in it, and leads one to suppose that the figures are only arranged elegantly side by side. I flatter myself, however, that I have found a deep significance in this picture, and maintain that he is right who sees most in a Titian, for the man was simply divine. He, indeed, found no opportunity to display the whole breadth of his inspiration, as Raphael did here in the Vatican; yet one can never forget his three pictures at Venice, and this of the Vatican, which I first saw this morning, stands in line with them. If a child could enter the world with perceptions fully developed, things would everywhere break on him with the same joyful, vivid effect as the pictures here do on oneself. The school of Athens, the Disputa, and the St. Peter one feels to be the exact realisation of what the artist’s mind conceived.

How delightful is the entrance past the luminous open arches when one sees the unbroken view into the place of St. Peter’s, and over Rome to the blue Alban mountains, while above one are the figures from the Old Testament, and a thousand bright, little angels amid arabesques of fruits and garlanded flowers. It is thus one enters the gallery for the first time!

But, dear Hensel, all hail to you, for your copy of the Transfiguration is wonderful. It was not to-day that I first felt the delightful shudder which seizes one on first looking at an eternal work of art, and feeling its significance or its peculiar impressiveness, not to-day, but before your picture. My first look at the original only gave me what I had already got through you, and it was only after studying it long and minutely that I discovered things which were new to me. On the other hand, the Madonna of Foligno struck me with all the glow of its loveliness. I had a happy morning among all those splendours. As yet I have not seen the statues, and keep a first impression of them for another day.

The 9th.—So every morning brings me new expectations, and every day fulfills them. The sun has just been shining on my breakfast again, and now I am setting to work. At the first opportunity I will send you, my dear Fanny, the Viennese things, and what else is ready, and you, Rebecca, my sketch-book. But this does not satisfy me very well at present, and I want to see a number of sketches by the landscape painters here, and if it may be, get hold of a new manner. I thought of originating one for myself, but no! To-day I am for the Lateran and the ruins of ancient Rome. This evening I am going to a very friendly English family whose acquaintance I have made here. Please send me many letters of introduction. I want to know an endless number of people, especially Italians. So I go on my way gladly and think of you in every moment of enjoyment. Be happy and share with me in the pleasant days that seem to be opening up here.

Felix M. B.

Letter 4

TO HIS SISTERS.

Rome, 22nd November, 1830.

Dear Sisters,—You know how much I hate giving good advice to people a thousand miles and fourteen days away, but for once I will do it. It is because I think you are making the same mistake that I did once. I never in my life knew our father write in such an irritable tone as since I have been in Rome, and I want to ask you if you couldn’t find some household medicine to cure this a little? I mean just that sort of concession by which you might put the side of things that father likes to see more in the front than the other;—keep silent on topics which vex him, say “unpleasant” instead of “shameful,” or “pretty good” instead of “delightful.” It’s sometimes a wonderful help, and I should like to whisper to you it might be useful just now. For, apart from the great affairs of politics, his ill-humour seems to me to come from much the same source as it did before, when I began to be a musician on my own account, and father’s temper became very troubled so that he used to rail against Beethoven and fantastical people, often disturbing and setting me in revolt. And just at that time something fresh happened which put him out, and, if I remem right, made him really anxious; and so long as I stood up for Beethoven and exalted him above everybody the trouble only grew worse, and once, I believe, I was sent out of the room. But presently it struck me that it was possible to say a great many true things, and yet not precisely those which father could not endure to hear, and then things went on better and came quite right in the end. Perhaps you, too, have forgotten a little how needful it is to give way now and then. Father thinks himself older and more excitable than, thank God, he really is, and it is our part to make concessions to him, be the right ever so much on our side, just as he has so often yielded to us. So praise a little the things he likes, and don’t find fault with the old-fashioned established things that are rooted in his heart. And only praise novelties when they have acquired some sort of acceptance in the world, for till then it can only be a question of taste. I should like to see you draw father prettily into your circle and amuse him; in short, try to smooth away the difficulties, and remember that, after all, travelled man of the world as I am, of course, I have never yet found a family that, taking account of all our weaknesses and vexations and faults, has been so happy as we have up till now.

Don’t answer this, for your letter would not reach me for four weeks, and then something else would have happened. Finally, if it is stupid of me to write this, I don’t intend to take a scolding from you; and if I am right, you had better follow my good advice.

The other day we young people went to Albano. We set out early in the brightest of weather; the road went beneath the great aqueduct with its dark-brown masses sharply defined against the clear sky, so to Fraseati, from there to the monastery of Grottaferrata, where there are beautiful frescoes by Domenichino, then to Marino which lies very picturesquely on a hillside, and so we came to Castel Gandolfo on the lake. All these landscapes repeat the first impression I had of Italy, not so much of something striking or startlingly beautiful, as one imagines them, but with a wonderful beneficent and calming effect. They are pictures in which the gentle outlines make a very charming whole full of fine points of shading and light. And here I must sing the praises of my monks who are always there to accentuate the picture and give it tone with all their various draperies, their quiet devotional carriage and their shadowlike look. From Castel Gandolfo to Albano there goes a charming shady alley of evergreen oaks sloping down to the lake, and along it goes a perpetual fluttering of all sorts of monks, who enliven the scene, or perhaps bring out its loneliness. By the town a pair of begging friars were marching along, then came a troop of young Jesuits, presently we spied a young and elegant ecclesiastic lying among the bushes with a book, and next it was a pair of monks in the forest frightening off the birds with their flintlocks, and then we arrived at a monastery encircled by a crowd of small chapels. Here all was quiet for a time, but there came out a stupid-looking, dirty Capuchin loaded with heavy bouquets of flowers, which he proceeded to hang on the crucifixes all about, kneeling to each before adorning it. Going further, we met two aged prelates deep in an exciting conversation, and soon we heard the vesper bell sounding at Albano. Here on the highest point of the mountains there stands a convent of the Passionists. Here they are only allowed to speak during one hour of the day, and are bound to employ their thoughts perpetually with the story of the Passion.

It was a curious sight in Albano to meet among all the girls with pitchers on their heads and people selling flowers and vegetables, one of these coal-black silent monks, who was turning his steps back to Mont Cavo. They have taken all the beautiful region in possession, and add a strange melancholy ground-tone to all the brilliancy and freedom and the perpetual blitheness there is in Nature here. It is as though the people required a sort of counterpoise to all that. But it is no affair of mine, and indeed, I need no contrast myself to enjoy what one has here.

Letter 5

TO HIS FATHER.

Rome, 10th December, 1830.

Dear Father,—It is a year to-day since we kept your birthday at the Hensels; let me keep a sort of celebration of it now and relate you something from Rome, as then from London. To-morrow I hope to finish writing down my old overture to the “Lonely Island” for a present, and when I date it “December 11th” it will seem as if I was going to lay it actually in your hands. You may say that you cannot read it, but I give you the best I can create, and though indeed one has to do one’s best every day, still a birthday stands by itself; I wish only I could be with you. About my wishes for you let me be silent. You know it all and know how we all feel ourselves bound up with your happiness and contentment, and that I can wish you nothing which would not so return to us twofold. It is a festival to-day; I rejoice in thinking how gladsome everything must look with you; and, in telling you how pleasant my life is here. I have a sense that this also is to send you a felicitation. A time like this in which seriousness and pleasure unite does indeed strengthen and refresh one. Every day when I enter my room I feel delighted afresh at the thought of not having to travel on to-morrow—that so much can be quietly postponed—that I am in Rome. Everything that my time of travel put into my head was soon driven out by something else, and my impressions chased each other through my mind, but here everything has time to expand calmly. Never, I think, was my work so much a pleasure; and to accomplish all the plans I have now, I must stick close to them the whole winter. To be sure, I must do without the great satisfaction of communicating what one has done to others who could appreciate and take part in it, but just that drives me to work again, because it all pleases me more than it could another, as long, that is, as I am in the thick of it.