Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland Part 11

I called on Teschner, as you, dear mother, desired me to do so; such a musician however is as depressing as a thick fog. Madame Ertmann has more soul in her little finger than that fellow has in his whole body, with his formidable moustaches, behind which he seems to lie in ambush. There is no public music in Milan; they still speak with enthusiasm of last winter, when Pasta and Rubini sang here, but say that they were miserably supported, and the orchestra and choruses bad. I however heard Pasta six years ago in Paris, and I can do the same every year, with the addition of a good orchestra and a good chorus, and many other advantages; so it is evident that if I wish to hear Italian music, I must go to Paris or to England. The Germans however take it amiss when you say this, and persist _par force_ in singing, playing, and acquiring new ideas here, declaring this is the land of inspiration; while I maintain that inspiration is peculiar to no country, but floats about in the air.

Two days ago I was in the morning theatre here, and was amused.

There you can see more of the life of the people than in any other part of Italy. It is a large theatre with boxes, the pit filled with wooden benches, on which you can find places if you come early; the stage is like every other stage, but there is no roof either over the pit or boxes, so that the bright sun s.h.i.+nes into the theatre and into the eyes of the actors. Moreover, the piece they gave was in the Milanese dialect. You feel as if you were secretly watching all these complicated and diverting situations, and might take part in them if necessary, and thus the most familiar comic dilemmas become novel and interesting; and the public seem to feel the most lively interest in them. And now, good night. I wished to talk to you a little before going to bed, and so it has become a letter.

FELIX.

EXTRACTS FROM TWO LETTERS TO EDWARD DEVRIENT.

Milan, July 15th, 1831.

You reproach me with being two-and-twenty without having yet acquired fame. To this I can only reply, had it been the will of Providence that I should be renowned at the age of two-and-twenty, I no doubt should have been so. I cannot help it, for I no more write to gain a name, than to obtain a Kapellmeister's place. It would be a good thing if I could secure both. But so long as I do not actually starve, so long is it my duty to write only as I feel, and according to what is in my heart, and to leave the results to _Him_ who disposes of other and greater matters. Every day, however, I am more sincerely anxious to write exactly as I feel, and to have even less regard than ever to external views; and when I have composed a piece just as it sprang from my heart, then I have done my duty towards it; and whether it brings hereafter fame, honour, decorations, or snuff-boxes, etc., is a matter of indifference to me. If you mean, however, that I have neglected, or delayed perfecting myself, or my compositions, then I beg you will distinctly and clearly say in what respect and wherein I have done so. This would be indeed a serious reproach.

You wish me to write operas, and think I am unwise not to have done so long ago. I answer, place a right libretto in my hand, and in two months the work shall be completed, for every day I feel more eager to write an opera. I think that it may become something fresh and spirited, if I begin it now; but I have got no words yet, and I a.s.suredly never will write music for any poetry that does not inspire me with enthusiasm. If you know a man capable of writing the libretto of an opera, for Heaven's sake tell me his name, that is all I want. But till I have the words, you would not wish me to be idle--even if it were possible for me to be so?

I have recently written a good deal of sacred music; that is quite as much a necessity to me, as the impulse that often induces people to study some particular book, the Bible, or others, as the only reading they care for at the time. If it bears any resemblance to Sebastian Bach, it is again no fault of mine, for I wrote it just according to the mood I was in; and if the words inspired me with a mood akin to that of old Bach, I shall value it all the more, for I am sure you do not think that I would merely copy his form, without the substance; if it were so, I should feel such disgust and such a void, that I could never again finish a composition. Since then I have written a grand piece of music which will probably impress the public at large--the first "Walpurgis Night" of Goethe. I began it simply because it pleased me, and inspired me with fervour, and never thought that it was to be performed; but now that it lies finished before me, I see that it is quite suitable for a great _Concertstuck_, and you must sing the Bearded Pagan Priest at my first subscription concert in Berlin. I wrote it expressly to suit your voice; and as I have hitherto found that the pieces I have composed with least reference to the public are precisely those which gave them the greatest satisfaction, so no doubt it will be on this occasion also. I only mention this to prove to you that I do not neglect _the practical_. To be sure this is invariably an after-thought, for who the deuce could write music, the most unpractical thing in the world--the very reason why I love it so dearly--and yet think all the time of the practical! It is just as if a lover were to bring a declaration of love to his mistress in rhyme and verse, and recite it to her.

I am now going to Munich, where they have offered me an opera, to see if I can find a man there who is a poet, for I will only have a man who has a certain portion of fire and genius. I do not expect a giant, and if I fail in meeting with a poet there, I shall probably make Immermann's acquaintance for this express purpose, and if he is not the man either, I shall try for him in London. I always fancy that the right man has not yet appeared; but what can I do to find him out? He certainly does not live in the Reichmann Hotel, nor next door; so where does he live? Pray write to me on this subject; although I firmly believe that a kind Providence, who sends us all things in due time when we stand in need of them, will supply this also if necessary; still we must do our duty, and look round us--and I do wish the libretto were found.

In the meantime I write as good music as I can, and hope to make progress, and we already agreed, when discussing this affair in my room, that, as I said before, I am not responsible for the rest.

But enough now of this dry tone. I really have become once more almost morose and impatient, and yet I had so firmly resolved never again to be so!

Lucerne, August 27th, 1831.

I quite feel that any opera I were to write now, would not be nearly so good as any second one I might compose afterwards; and that I must first enter on the new path I propose to myself, and pursue it for some little time, in order to discover whither it will lead, and how far it will go, whereas in instrumental music I already begin to know exactly what I really intend. Having worked so much in this sphere, I feel much more clear and tranquil with regard to it--in short, it urges me onwards. Besides, I have been made very humble lately, by a chance occurrence that still dwells on my mind.

In the valley of Engelberg I found Schiller's "Wilhelm Tell," and on reading it over again, I was anew enchanted and fascinated by such a glorious work of art, and by all the pa.s.sion, fire, and fervour it displays. An expression of Goethe's suddenly recurred to my mind. In the course of a long conversation about Schiller, he said that Schiller had been able to _supply_ two great tragedies every year, besides other poems. This business-like term _supply_, struck me as the more remarkable on reading this fresh, vigorous work; and such energy seemed to me so wonderfully grand, that I felt as if in the course of my life I had never yet produced anything of importance; all my works seem so isolated. I feel as if I too must one day _supply_ something. Pray do not think this presumptuous; but rather believe that I only say so because I know what _ought_ to be, and what _is not_. Where I am to find the opportunity, or even a glimpse of one, is. .h.i.therto to me quite a mystery. If however it be my mission, I firmly believe that the opportunity will be granted, and if I do not profit by it another will; but in that case I cannot divine why I feel such an impulse to press onwards. If you could succeed in not thinking about singers, decorations, and situations, but feel solely absorbed in representing men, nature, and life, I am convinced that you would yourself write the best libretto of any one living; for a person who is so familiar with the stage as you are, could not possibly write anything undramatic, and I really do not know what you could wish to change in your poetry. If there be an innate feeling for nature and melody, the verses cannot fail to be musical, even though they sound rather lame in the libretto; but so far as I am concerned, you may write prose if you like, I will compose music for it. But when one form is to be moulded into another, when the verses are to be made musically, but not _felt_ musically, when fine words are to replace outwardly what is utterly deficient in fine feeling inwardly--there you are right--this is a dilemma from which no man can extricate himself; for as surely as pure metre, happy thoughts, and cla.s.sical language do not suffice to make a good poem, unless a certain flash of poetical inspiration pervades the whole, so an opera can only become thoroughly musical, and accordingly thoroughly dramatic, by a vivid feeling of life in all the characters.

There is a pa.s.sage on this subject in Beaumarchais, who is censured because he makes his personages utter too few fine thoughts, and has put too few poetical phrases into their mouths. He answers, that this is not his fault. He must confess that during the whole time he was writing the piece, he was engaged in the most lively conversation with his _dramatis personae_: that while seated at his writing table he was exclaming: "Figaro, prends garde, le Comte sait tout!--Ah! Comtesse, quelle imprudence!--vite, sauve-toi, pet.i.t page;" and then he wrote down their answers, whatever they chanced to be,--nothing more. This strikes me as being both true and charming.

The sketch of the opera introducing an Italian Carnival, and the close in Switzerland, I already knew, but was not aware that it was yours. Be so good however as to describe Switzerland with great vigour, and immense spirit. If you are to depict an effeminate Switzerland, with _jodeln_ and languis.h.i.+ng, such as I saw here in the theatre last night in the 'Swiss Family,' when the very mountains and Alpine horns became sentimental, I shall lose all patience, and criticize you severely in Spener's paper. I beg you will make it full of animation, and write to me again on the subject.

Isola Bella, July 24th, 1831.

You no doubt imagine that you inhale the fragrance of orange-flowers, see blue sky, and a bright sun, and a clear lake, when you merely read the date of this letter. Not at all! The weather is atrocious, rain pouring down, and claps of thunder heard at intervals;--the hills look frightfully bleak, as if the world were enshrouded in clouds; the lake is grey, and the sky sombre. I can smell no orange-flowers, and this island might quite as appropriately be called "Isola Brutta!" and this has gone on for three days! My unfortunate cloak! I am confessedly the "spirit of negation" (I refer to my mother), and as it is at present the fas.h.i.+on with every one not to consider the Borromean Islands "by any means so beautiful," and somewhat formal; and as the weather seems resolved to disgust me with this spot,--from a spirit of opposition I maintain that it is perfectly lovely. The approach to these islands, where you see crowded together green terraces with quaint statues, and many old-fas.h.i.+oned decorations, along with verdant foliage, and every species of southern vegetation, has a peculiar charm for me, and yet something affecting and solemn too.

For what I last year saw in all the luxuriance and exuberance of wild nature, and to which my eye had become so accustomed, I find now cultivated by art, and about to pa.s.s away from me for ever.

There are citron-hedges and orange-bushes; and sharp-pointed aloes shoot up from the walls--it is just as if, at the end of a piece, the beginning were to be repeated; and this, as you know, I particularly like.

In the steamboat was the first peasant girl I have seen here in Swiss costume; the people speak a bad half-French Italian. This is my last letter from Italy, but believe me the Italian lakes are not the least interesting objects in this country; _anzi_,--I never saw any more beautiful. People tried to persuade me that the gigantic forms of the Swiss Alps that have haunted me from my childhood[17]

had been exaggerated by my imagination, and that after all a snowy mountain was not in reality so grand as I thought. I almost dreaded being undeceived, but at first sight of the foreground of the Alps from the Lake of Como, veiled in clouds, with here and there a surface of bright snow, sharp black points rearing their heads, and sinking precipitously into the lake, the hills first scattered over with trees and villages, and covered with moss, and then bleak and desolate, and on every side deep ravines filled with snow,--I felt just as I formerly did, and saw that I had exaggerated nothing.

[17] The whole family had been in Switzerland in the year 1821.

In the Alps all is more free, more sharply defined; more uncivilized, if you will: yet I always feel there both healthier and happier. I have just returned from the gardens of the Palace, which I visited in the midst of the rain. I wished to imitate Albano,[18] and sent for a barber to open a vein: he however misunderstood my purpose, and shaved me instead,--a very pardonable mistake. Gondolas are landing on every part of the island, for to-day is the fete following the great festival of yesterday, in honour of which the P. P. Borromeo sent for singers and musicians from Milan, to sing and play to the islanders. The gardener asked me if I knew what a wind instrument was. I said with a clear conscience that I did; and he replied that I ought to try to imagine the effect of thirty such instruments, and violins and ba.s.ses, all played at once; but indeed I could not possibly imagine it, for it must be heard to be believed. The sounds (continued he) seemed to come from Heaven, and all this was produced by _philharmony_. What he meant by this term I know not; but the music had evidently made more impression on him, than the best orchestra often does on musical connoisseurs. At this moment some one has just begun to play the organ in the church for Divine service, in the following strain:--

[Music]

Full organ in the ba.s.s, Bourdon 16, and reed stops, have a very fine effect. The fellow has come all the way from Milan, too, expressly to make this disturbance in the church. I must go there for a little, so farewell for a few moments. I intend to remain here for the night, instead of crossing the lake again, for I am so much pleased with this little island. I certainly cannot say that I have slept soundly for the last two nights; one night owing to the innumerable claps of thunder, the next owing to the innumerable fleas; and, in all probability, I have to-night the prospect of both combined. But as the following morning I shall be speaking French, and have left Italy, and crossed the Simplon, I mean to ramble about all this day and to-morrow in true Italian fas.h.i.+on.

[18] In the 't.i.tan' of Jean Paul.

I must now relate to you historically how I happened to come here.

At the very last moment of my stay in Milan, the Ertmanns came to my room to bid me farewell, and we took leave of each other more cordially than I have done of any one for many a long day. I promised to send you many kind wishes from them, though they are unacquainted with you, and I also agreed to write to them occasionally. Another valued acquaintance I made there, is Herr Mozart, who holds an office in Milan; but he is a musician, heart and soul. He is said to bear the strongest resemblance to his father, especially in disposition; for the very same phrases that affect the feelings in his father's letters, from their candour and simplicity, constantly recur in the conversation of the son, whom no one can fail to love from the moment he is known. For instance, I consider it a very charming trait in him, that he is as jealous of the fame and name of his father, as if he were an incipient young musician; and one evening, at the Ertmanns', when a great many of Beethoven's works had been played, the Baroness asked me in a whisper to play something of Mozart's, otherwise his son would be quite mortified; so when I played the overture to "Don Juan," he began to thaw, and begged me to play also the overture to the "Flauto Magico" of his "_Vatter_," and seemed to feel truly filial delight in hearing it: it is impossible not to like him.

He gave me letters to some friends near the Lake of Como, which procured me for once a glimpse of Italian provincial life, and I amused myself famously there for a few days with the Doctor, the Apothecary, the Judge, and other people of the locality. There were very lively discussions on the subject of Sand, and many expressed great admiration of him; this appeared strange to me, as the occurrence is of such distant date that no one any longer argues on the subject. They also spoke of Shakspeare's plays, which are now being translated into Italian. The Doctor said that the tragedies were good, but that there were some plays about witches that were too stupid and childish: one, in particular, "Il Sonno d' una Notte di Mezza State." In it the stale device occurred of a piece being rehea.r.s.ed in the play, and it was full of anachronisms and childish ideas; on which they all chimed in that it was very silly and advised me not to read it.[19] I remained meekly silent, and attempted no defence! I bathed frequently in the Lake, and sketched, and yesterday rowed on the Lake of Lugano, which frowned sternly on us with its cascades and dark canopy of clouds; then across the hills to Luvino, and to-day I came here by steam.

[19] The overture to the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was composed by Mendelssohn as early as the year 1826.

_Evening._--I have this moment returned from the Isola Madre, and most splendid it is; s.p.a.cious, and full of terraces, citron-hedges, and evergreen shrubs. The weather has at last become less inclement; thus the large white house on the island, with its ruins and terraces, looked very pretty. It is indeed a unique land, and I only wish I could bring with me to Berlin a portion of the same balmy air that I inhaled when in the boat to-day. You have nothing like it, and I would rather you enjoyed it, than all the people who imbibe it here. A fiercely moustachioed German was with me in the boat, who examined all the beautiful scenery as if he were about to purchase it and thought it too dear. Presently I heard a trait quite in the style of Jean Paul. When we were walking on the island, surrounded by verdure, an Italian, who was of the party, observed that this was a spot well adapted for lovers to ramble in, and to enjoy the charms of nature. "Ah! yes!" said I, in a languis.h.i.+ng tone. "It was on this account," continued he, "that I separated from my wife ten years ago; I established her at Venice in a small tobacconist's shop, and now I live as I please. You must one day do the same."

The old boatman told us that he had rowed General Bonaparte on this lake, and related various anecdotes of him and Murat. He said Murat was a most extraordinary man; all the time that he was rowing him on the lake, he never ceased singing to himself for a single moment, and once when setting off on a journey he gave him his spirit-flask, and said he would buy another for himself in Milan. I cannot tell why these little traits, especially the singing, seemed to realize the man in my mind more than many a book of history.

The "Walpurgis Nacht" is finished and revised, and the overture will soon be equally far advanced. The only person who has heard it as yet, is Mozart, and he was so delighted with it that the well-known composition caused me fresh pleasure; he insisted on my publis.h.i.+ng it immediately. Pray forgive this letter, written in true student phraseology. You no doubt perceive from its style that I have not worn a neckcloth for a week past; but I wished you to know how gay and happy I have been during the days spent among the mountains, and with what pleasure I look forward to those that yet await me.

Yours, FELIX.

A l'Union-prieure de Chamounix, end of July, 1831.

My dear Parents,

I cannot refrain from writing to you from time to time, to thank you for my wondrously beautiful journey; and if I ever did so before, I must do so again now, for more delightful days than those on my journey hither, and during my stay here, I never experienced.

Fortunately you already know this valley, so there is no occasion for me to describe it to you; indeed, how could I possibly have done so? But this I may say, that nowhere has nature in all her glory met my eyes in such brightness as here, both when I saw it with you for the first time and now; and as every one who sees it, ought to thank G.o.d for having given him faculties to comprehend, and to appreciate such grandeur, so I must also thank you for having supplied me with the means of enjoying such a pleasure.

I had been told that I exaggerated the forms of the mountains in my imagination; but yesterday, at the hour of sunset, I was pacing up and down in front of the house, and each time that I turned my back on the mountains, I endeavoured vividly to represent to myself these gigantic ma.s.ses, and each time when I again faced them, they far exceeded my previous conceptions. Like the morning that we drove away from this when the sun was rising[20] (no doubt you remember it) the hills have been clear and lovely ever since I arrived. The snow pure, and sharply defined, and apparently near in the dark blue atmosphere; the glaciers thundering unremittingly, as the ice is melting; when clouds gather, they lie lightly on the base of the mountains, the summits of which stand forth clear above. Would that we could see them together! I have pa.s.sed this whole day here quietly, and entirely alone. I wished to sketch the outlines of the mountains, so I went out and found an admirable point of view, but when I opened my book, the paper seemed so very small that I hesitated about attempting it. I have indeed succeeded in giving the outlines what is called _correctly_,--but every stroke looks so formal, when compared with the grace and freedom which everywhere here pervade nature. And then the splendour of colour! In short, this is the most brilliant point of my travels; and the whole of my excursion on foot, so solitary, independent, and enjoyable, is something new to me, and a hitherto unknown pleasure.

[20] In the year 1821.

I must however relate how I came here, otherwise my letter at last will contain nothing but exclamations. As I previously wrote to you, I had the most odious weather on the Lago Maggiore, and the Islands. It continued so incessantly stormy, cold, and wet, that the same evening I took my place in the diligence in rather a sulky humour, and we drove on towards the Simplon. Scarcely had we been journeying for half an hour, when the moon came out, the clouds dispersed, and next morning the weather was most bright and beautiful. I felt almost ashamed of this undeserved good fortune, and I could now thoroughly enjoy the glorious scenery; the road winding first through high green valleys, then through rocky ravines and meadows, and at last past glaciers and snowy mountains.

I had with me a little French book on the subject of the Simplon road, which both pleased and affected me; for the subject was Napoleon's correspondence with the _Directoire_ about the projected work, and the first report of the General who crossed the mountain.

With what spirit and vigour these letters are written! and yet a little swagger too, but with such a glow of enthusiasm that it quite touched me, as I was driven along this capital level road by an Austrian postilion. I compared the fire and poetry displayed in every description contained in these letters (I mean those of the subaltern General) with the eloquence of the present day, which leaves you so terribly cold and is so odiously prosaic in all its philanthropic views, and so lame--where there is plenty of _fanfaronnade_, but no genuine youth--and I could not but feel that a great epoch has pa.s.sed away for ever. I was unable to divest myself of the idea that Napoleon never saw this work--one of his favourite conceptions--for he never crossed the Simplon when the road was finished, and was thus deprived of this great gratification. High up, in the Simplon village, all is bleak, and I actually s.h.i.+vered from cold for the first time during the last year and a half. A neat civil Frenchwoman keeps the inn on the summit, and it would not be easy to describe the sensation of satisfaction caused by its thrifty cleanliness, which is nowhere to be found in Italy.

We then descended into the Valais, as far as Brieg, where I stayed all night, overjoyed to find myself once more among honest, natural people, who could speak German, and who plundered me into the bargain in the most infamous manner. The following day I drove through the Valais--an enchanting journey: the road all along, like those you have seen in Switzerland, ran between two lofty ranges of mountains, their snowy peaks starting up at intervals, and through avenues of green, leafy walnut-trees, standing in front of pretty brown houses,--below, the wild grey Rhone,--past Lenk, and every quarter of an hour a village with a little church. From Martigny I travelled for the first time in my life literally on foot, and as I found the guides too dear I went on quite alone, and started with my cloak and knapsack on my shoulders. About a couple of hours later I met a stout peasant lad, who became my guide, and also carried my knapsack; and so we went on past Forclas to Trient, a little dairy village, where I breakfasted on milk and honey, and thence to the Col de Balme.

The whole valley of Chamouni, and Mont Blanc, with all its precipitous glaciers, lay before me bathed in suns.h.i.+ne. A party of gentlemen and ladies (one of the latter very pretty and young) came from the opposite side on mules, with a number of guides; scarcely had we all a.s.sembled under one roof, when subtle vapours began to rise, shrouding first the mountain and then the valley, and at last thickly covering every object, so that soon nothing was to be seen. The ladies were afraid of going out into the fog, just as if they were not already in the midst of it; at last they set off, and from the window I watched the singular spectacle of the caravan leaving the house, all laughing, and talking loudly in French and English and _patois_. The voices presently became indistinct; then the figures likewise; and last of all I saw the pretty girl in her wide Scotch cloak; then only glimpses of grey shadows at intervals, and they all disappeared. A few minutes later I ran down the opposite side of the mountain with my guide; we soon emerged once more into suns.h.i.+ne, and entered the green valley of Chamouni with its glaciers; and at length arrived here at the Union. I have just returned from a ramble to Montanvert, the Mer de Glace, and to the source of the Arveiron. You know this splendid scenery, and so you will forgive me, if, instead of going to Geneva to-morrow, I first make the tour of Mont Blanc, that I may become acquainted with this personage from the southern side also, which is I hear the most striking. Farewell, dear parents! May we have a happy meeting!--Yours,

FELIX.

Charney, August 6th, 1831.

My dear Sisters,

You have, I know, read Ritter's "Afrika" from beginning to end, but still I do not think you know where Charney is situated, so fetch out Keller's old travelling map, that you may be able to accompany me on my wanderings. Trace with your finger a line from Vevay to Clarens, and thence to the Dent de Jaman; this line represents a footpath; and where your finger has been my legs also went this morning--for it is now only half-past seven, and I am still fasting. I mean to breakfast here, and am writing to you in a neat wooden room, waiting till the milk is made warm for me; without, I have a view of the bright blue lake; and so I now begin my journal, and mean to continue it as I best can during my pedestrian tour.

_After breakfast._--Heavens! here is a pretty business. My landlady has just told me with a long face, that there is not a creature in the village to show me the way across the Dent, or to carry my knapsack, except a young girl; the men being all at work. I usually set off every morning very early and quite alone, with my bundle on my shoulders, because I find the guides from the inns both too expensive and too tiresome; a couple of hours later I hire the first honest-looking lad I see, and so I travel famously on foot. I need not say how enchanting the lake and the road hither were; you must recall for yourself all the beauties you once enjoyed there.

The footpath is in continued shade, under walnut-trees and up hill,--past villas and castles,--along the lake which glitters through the foliage; villages everywhere, and brooks and streams rus.h.i.+ng along from every nook, in every village; then the neat tidy houses,--it is all quite too charming, and you feel so fresh and so free. Here comes the girl with her steeple hat. I can tell you she is vastly pretty into the bargain, and her name is Pauline; she has just packed my things into her wicker basket. Adieu!