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Advances in Technical Nonwovens
The Textile Institute and Woodhead Publishing
The Textile Institute is a unique organisation in textiles, clothing and footwear. Incor-
porated in England by a Royal Charter granted in 1925, the Institute has individual and
corporate members in over 90 countries. The aim of the Institute is to facilitate
learning, recognise achievement, reward excellence and disseminate information
within the global textiles, clothing and footwear industries.
Historically, The Textile Institute has published books of interest to its members and
the textile industry. To maintain this policy, the Institute has entered into partnership
with Woodhead Publishing Limited to ensure that Institute members and the textile in-
dustry continue to have access to high calibre titles on textile science and technology.
Most Woodhead titles on textiles are now published in collaboration with The
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which advises Woodhead on appropriate titles for future publication and suggests
possible editors and authors for these books. Each book published under this arrange-
ment carries the Institute’s logo.
Woodhead books published in collaboration with The Textile Institute are offered to
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able directly from the Institute’s web site at: www.textileinstitutebooks.com.
A list of Woodhead books on textiles science and technology, most of which have
been published in collaboration with the Textile Institute, can be found towards the end
of the contents pages.
Related titles
Composite Nonwoven Materials
(ISBN: 978-0-85709-770-5)
Applications of Nonwovens in Technical Textiles
(ISBN: 978-1-84569-437-1)
Handbook of Nonwovens
(ISBN: 978-1-85573-603-0)
Woodhead Publishing Series in Textiles:
Number 181
Advances in Technical
Nonwovens
Edited by
George Kellie
Notices
Knowledge and best practice in this field are constantly changing. As new research and
experience broaden our understanding, changes in research methods, professional practices,
or medical treatment may become necessary.
Practitioners and researchers must always rely on their own experience and knowledge in
evaluating and using any information, methods, compounds, or experiments described
herein. In using such information or methods they should be mindful of their own safety and
the safety of others, including parties for whom they have a professional responsibility.
To the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the authors, contributors, or editors,
assume any liability for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of
products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods,
products, instructions, or ideas contained in the material herein.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress
List of contributors xi
Woodhead Publishing Series in Textiles xiii
Index 497
List of contributors
116 Handbook of textile and industrial dyeing Volume 1: Principles, processes and types
of dyes
Edited by M. Clark
117 Handbook of textile and industrial dyeing Volume 2: Applications of dyes
Edited by M. Clark
118 Handbook of natural fibres Volume 1: Types, properties and factors affecting
breeding and cultivation
Edited by R. Kozłowski
119 Handbook of natural fibres Volume 2: Processing and applications
Edited by R. Kozłowski
120 Functional textiles for improved performance, protection and health
Edited by N. Pan and G. Sun
121 Computer technology for textiles and apparel
Edited by J. Hu
122 Advances in military textiles and personal equipment
Edited by E. Sparks
123 Specialist yarn and fabric structures
Edited by R. H. Gong
124 Handbook of sustainable textile production
M. I. Tobler-Rohr
125 Woven textiles: Principles, developments and applications
Edited by K. Gandhi
126 Textiles and fashion: Materials design and technology
Edited by R. Sinclair
127 Industrial cutting of textile materials
I. Viļumsone-Nemes
128 Colour design: Theories and applications
Edited by J. Best
129 False twist textured yarns
C. Atkinson
130 Modelling, simulation and control of the dyeing process
R. Shamey and X. Zhao
131 Process control in textile manufacturing
Edited by A. Majumdar, A. Das, R. Alagirusamy and V. K. Kothari
132 Understanding and improving the durability of textiles
Edited by P. A. Annis
133 Smart textiles for protection
Edited by R. A. Chapman
134 Functional nanofibers and applications
Edited by Q. Wei
135 The global textile and clothing industry: Technological advances and future
challenges
Edited by R. Shishoo
136 Simulation in textile technology: Theory and applications
Edited by D. Veit
137 Pattern cutting for clothing using CAD: How to use Lectra Modaris pattern cutting
software
M. Stott
Woodhead Publishing Series in Textiles xix
Language: English
MENDELSSOHN’S LETTERS,
FROM 1833 TO 1847.
OF
FELIX MENDELSSOHN
BARTHOLDY,
WITH
A CATALOGUE OF ALL HIS MUSICAL COMPOSITIONS
COMPILED BY
DR. JULIUS RIETZ.
Translated
BY
L A D Y W A L L A C E.
LONDON:
LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, ROBERTS, & GREEN.
1863.
PRINTED BY
JOHN EDWARD TAYLOR, LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
PREFACE.
The Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland,
have amply fulfilled the purpose of their publication, by making him
personally known to the world, and, above all, to his countrymen.
Those Letters, however, comprise only a portion of the period of
Mendelssohn’s youth; and it has now become possible, by the aid of his own
verbal delineations, to exhibit in a complete form that picture of his life and
character which was commenced in the former volume.
This has been distinctly kept in view in the selection of the following
letters. They commence directly after the termination of the former volume,
and extend to Mendelssohn’s death. They accompany him through the most
varied relations of his life and vocation, and thus lay claim, at least partially,
to another kind of interest from that of the period of gay, though not
insignificant enjoyment, depicted by him in the letters written during his
travels. For example, the negotiations on the subject of his appointment at
Berlin take up a large space; but this is inevitable, so characteristic are they
of the manner in which he conceived and conducted such matters, while they
reveal to us much that lies outside his own personal character, and thus
possess a more than merely biographical value.
On the other hand, the minute details of the pure and elevated happiness
which Mendelssohn enjoyed in his most intimate domestic relations, are
expressly withheld, as being the peculiar treasure of his family, and a few
passages only have been selected for publication from these letters, which
however are sufficiently clear on the point. In conclusion, it should be
observed, that no letter addressed to any living person has been published
without express permission readily accorded.
A Catalogue of all Mendelssohn’s compositions, compiled by Herr
Kapellmeister Dr. Julius Rietz, is added as a supplement, which, by its
classification and arrangement, will no doubt prove an object of interest both
to musicians and amateurs of music.
Berlin and Heidelberg,
June, 1863.
LETTERS.
To Pastor Bauer, Beszig.
Berlin, March 4th, 1833.
Since I set to work again, I feel in such good spirits that I am anxious to
adhere to it as closely as possible, so it monopolizes every moment that I do
not spend with my own family. Such a period as this last half-year having
passed away makes me feel doubly grateful. It is like the sensation of going
out for the first time after an illness; and, in fact, such a term of uncertainty,
doubt, and suspense, really amounted to a malady, and one of the worst kind
too.[1] I am now however entirely cured; so, when you think of me, do so as
of a joyous musician, who is doing many things, who is resolved to do many
more, and who would fain accomplish all that can be done.
For the life of me I cannot rightly understand the meaning of your recent
question and discussion, or what answer I am to give you. Universality, and
everything bordering on æsthetics, makes me forthwith quite dumb and
dejected. Am I to tell you how you ought to feel? You strive to discriminate
between an excess of sensibility and genuine feeling, and say that a plant
may bloom itself to death.
But no such thing exists as an excess of sensibility; and what is
designated as such is, in fact, rather a dearth of it. The soaring, elevated
emotions inspired by music, so welcome to listeners, are no excess; for let
him who can feel do so to the utmost of his power, and even more if
possible; and if he dies of it, it will not be in sin, for nothing is certain but
what is felt or believed, or whatever term you may choose to employ;
moreover, the bloom of a plant does not cause it to perish save when forced,
and forced to the uttermost; and, in that case, a sickly blossom no more
resembles a healthy one, than sickly sentimentality resembles true feeling.
I am not acquainted with Herr W——, nor have I read his book; but it is
always to be deplored when any but genuine artists attempt to purify and
restore the public taste. On such a subject words are only pernicious; deeds
alone are efficient. For even if people do really feel this antipathy towards
the present, they cannot as yet give anything better to replace it, and
therefore they had best let it alone. Palestrina effected a reformation during
his life; he could not do so now any more than Sebastian Bach or Luther.
The men are yet to come who will advance on the straight road; and who
will lead others onwards, or back to the ancient and right path, which ought,
in fact, to be termed the onward path; but they will write no books on the
subject.
To Pastor Bauer, Beszig.
Berlin, April 6th, 1833.
My work, about which I had recently many doubts, is finished; and now,
when I look it over, I find that, quite contrary to my expectations, it satisfies
myself. I believe it has become a good composition; but be that as it may, at
all events I feel that it shows progress, and that is the main point. So long as
I feel this to be the case, I can enjoy life and be happy; but the most bitter
moments I ever endured, or ever could have imagined, were during last
autumn, when I had my misgivings on this subject. Would that this mood of
happy satisfaction could but be hoarded and stored up! But the worst of it is,
that I feel sure I shall have forgotten it all when similar evil days recur, and I
can devise no means of guarding against this, nor do I believe that you can
suggest any. As, however, a whole mass of music is at this moment buzzing
in my head, I trust that it will not, please God, quickly pass away.
Strange that this should be the case at a time, in other respects so imbued
with deep fervour and earnestness, for I shall leave this place feeling more
solitary than when I came. I have found my nearest relatives, my parents, my
brother and sisters, alone unchanged; and this is a source of happiness for
which I certainly cannot be too grateful to God; indeed, now that I am (what
is called) independent, I have learned to love and honour, and understand my
parents better than ever; but then I see many branching off to the right and to
the left, whom I had hoped would always go along with me; and yet I could
not follow them on their path, even if I wished to do so.
The longer I stay in Berlin, the more do I miss Rietz, and the more deeply
do I deplore his death. X—— declares that the fault lies very much with
myself, because I insist on having people exactly as I fancy they ought to be,
and that I have too much party spirit for or against a person; but it is this
very spirit, the want of which I feel so much here. I hear plenty of opinions
given, but where there is no fervour there can be no sound judgment; and
where it does exist, though it may indeed not unfrequently lead to error, still
it often tends towards progress too, and then we need not take refuge in past
times, or anywhere else, but rather rejoice in the present, if only for bringing
with it in its course a spring or an Easter festival.
To Pastor Julius Schubring, Dessau.
Coblenz, September 6th, 1833.
Dear Schubring,
Just as I was beginning to arrange the sheets of my oratorio,[2] and
meditating on the music that I intend to write for it this winter, I received
your letter enclosing your extracts, which appeared to me so good that I
transcribed the whole text so far as it has gone, and now return it to you with
the same request as at first, that you will kindly send me your remarks and
additions. You will perceive various annotations on the margin as to the
passages I wish to have from the Bible or the Hymn Book. I am anxious also
to have your opinion—1st. As to the form of the whole, especially the
narrative part, and whether you think that the general arrangement may be
retained,—the blending of the narrative and dramatic representation. I dare
not adopt the Bach form along with this personified recital, so this
combination seems to me the most natural, and not very difficult, except in
such passages, for example, as Ananias, owing to the length of the
continuous narration. 2nd. Whether you are of opinion that any of the
principal features in the history or the acts, and also in the character and
teaching of St. Paul, have been either omitted or falsified. 3rd. Where the
divisions of the first and second parts should be marked. 4th. Whether you
approve of my employing chorales? From this I have been strongly
dissuaded by various people, and yet I cannot decide on giving it up entirely,
for I think it must be in character with any oratorio founded on the New
Testament. If this be also your opinion, then you must supply me with all the
hymns and passages. You see I require a great deal from you, but I wish first
to enter fully into the spirit of the words, and then the music shall follow:
and I know the interest you take in the work.
If you will do all this for me, write me a few lines immediately to Berlin,
for I am obliged to go there for three or four days with my father, who went
to England with me, and was dangerously ill there. Thank God, he is now
quite restored to health; but I was under such dreadful apprehensions the
whole time, that I shall leave nothing undone on my part to see him once
more safe at home. I must, however, return forthwith and proceed to
Düsseldorf, where you are probably aware that I directed the Musical
Festival, and subsequently decided on taking up my abode there for two or
three years, nominally in order to direct the church music, and the Vocal
Association, and probably also a new theatre which is now being built there,
but in reality for the purpose of securing quiet and leisure for composition.
The country and the people suit me admirably, and in winter “St. Paul” is to
be given. I brought out my new symphony in England, and people liked it;
and now the “Hebrides” is about to be published, and also the symphony.
This is all very gratifying, but I hope the things of real value are yet to come.
I trust it may be so. It is not fair in me to have written you such a half-dry
and wholly serious letter, but such has been the character of this recent
period, and so I am become in some degree like it.
To I. Moscheles, London.
Berlin, 1833.
... Do you suppose that I have not gone to hear Madame B—— because
she is not handsome, and wears wide hanging sleeves? This is not the
reason, although there are undoubtedly some physiognomies which can
never, under any circumstances, become artistic; from which such icy cold
emanates that their very aspect freezes me at once. But why should I be
forced to listen for the thirtieth time to all sorts of variations by Herz? They
cause me less pleasure than rope-dancers or acrobats. In their case, we have
at least the barbarous excitement of fearing that they may break their necks,
and of seeing that nevertheless they escape doing so. But those who perform
feats of agility on the piano do not even endanger their lives, but only our
ears. In such I take no interest. I wish I could escape the annoyance of being
obliged to hear that the public demands this style; I also form one of the
public, and I demand the exact reverse. Moreover, she played in the theatre
between the acts, and that I consider most obnoxious. First, up goes the
curtain, and I see before me India, with her pariahs and palm-trees and
prickly plants, and then come death and murder, so I must weep bitterly;
then up goes the curtain again, and I see Madame B—— with her piano, and
a concert ensues in every variety of minor key, and I must applaud with all
my might; then follows the farce of “Ein Stündchen vor dem Potsdamer
Thor,” and I am expected to laugh. No! This I cannot stand, and these are the
reasons why I do not deserve your censure. I stayed at home because I like
best to be in my own room, or with my own family, or in my own garden,
which is wonderfully beautiful this year. If you will not believe me, come
and judge for yourself. I cannot resist always reverting to this.
To Rebecca Dirichlet, Berlin.
Düsseldorf, October 26th, 1833.
My dear Sister,
The history of my life during the last few weeks is long and pleasant.
Sunday, Maximilian’s day, was my first Mass; the choir crammed with
singers, male and female, and the whole church decorated with green
branches and tapestry. The organist flourished away tremendously, up and
down. Haydn’s Mass was scandalously gay, but the whole thing was very
tolerable. Afterwards came a procession, playing my solemn march in E flat;
the bass performers repeating the first part, while those in the treble went
straight on; but this was of no consequence in the open air; and when I
encountered them later in the day, they had played the march so often over
that it went famously; and I consider it a high honour, that these itinerant
musicians have bespoken a new march from me for the next fair.
Previous to that Sunday, however, there was rather a touching scene. I
must tell you that really no appropriate epithet exists for the music which has
been hitherto given here. The chaplain came and complained to me of his
dilemma; the Burgomaster had said that though his predecessor was
evangelical, and perfectly satisfied with the music, he intended himself to
form part of the procession, and insisted that the music should be of a better
class. A very crabbed old musician, in a threadbare coat, was summoned,
whose office it had hitherto been to beat time. When he came, and they
attacked him, he declared that he neither could nor would have better music;
if any improvement was required, some one else must be employed; that he
knew perfectly what vast pretensions some people made now-a-days,
everything was expected to sound so beautiful; this had not been the case in
his day, and he played just as well now as formerly. I was really very
reluctant to take the affair out of his hands, though there could be no doubt
that others would do infinitely better; and I could not help thinking how I
should myself feel, were I to be summoned some fifty years hence to a town-
hall, and spoken to in this strain, and a young greenhorn snubbed me, and
my coat were seedy, and I had not the most remote idea why the music
should be better,—and I felt rather uncomfortable.
Unluckily, I could not find among all the music here even one tolerable
solemn Mass, and not a single one of the old Italian masters; nothing but
modern dross. I took a fancy to travel through my domains in search of good
music; so, after the Choral Association on Wednesday, I got into a carriage
and drove off to Elberfeld, where I hunted out Palestrina’s “Improperia,” and
the Misereres of Allegri and Bai, and also the score and vocal parts of
“Alexander’s Feast,” which I carried off forthwith, and went on to Bonn.
There I rummaged through the whole library alone, for poor Breidenstein is
so ill that it is scarcely expected he can recover; but he gave me the key, and
lent me whatever I chose. I found some splendid things, and took away with
me six Masses of Palestrina, one of Lotti and one of Pergolesi, and Psalms
by Leo and Lotti, etc. etc. At last, in Cologne I succeeded in finding out the
best old Italian pieces which I as yet know, particularly two motetts of
Orlando Lasso, which are wonderfully fine, and even deeper and broader
than the two “Crucifixus” of Lotti. One of these, “Populus meus” we are to
sing in church next Friday.
The following day was Sunday, so the steamboat did not come, and
knowing that my presence was necessary in Düsseldorf, I hired a carriage
and drove here. People were crowding along the chaussée from every
direction; a number of triumphal arches had been erected, and the houses all
adorned with lamps. I arrived with my huge packet, but not a single person
would look at it; nothing but “the Crown Prince,” “the Crown Prince,” again
and again. He arrived safely at the Jägerhof on Sunday evening, passing
under all the triumphal arches during the time of the illuminations, and
amidst the pealing of bells and firing of cannon, with an escort of burgher
guards, between lines of soldiers, and to the sound of martial music. Next
day he gave a dinner, to which he invited me, and I amused myself famously,
because I was very jovial at a small table with Lessing, Hübner, and a few
others. Besides, the Crown Prince was as gracious as possible, and shook
hands with me, saying that he was really quite angry at my forsaking both
him and Berlin for so long a time; listened to what I had to say, called me
forward from my corner as “dear Mendelssohn,”—in short, you see I am
thought infinitely more precious when I am a little way from home.
I must now describe to you the fête that was given in his honour, and for
which I suggested the employment of some old transparencies, to be
connected by appropriate verses for “Israel in Egypt,” with tableaux vivants.
They took place in the great Hall of the Academy, where a stage was erected.
In front was the double chorus (about ninety voices altogether), standing in
two semicircles round my English piano; and in the room seats for four
hundred spectators. R——, in mediæval costume, interpreted the whole
affair, and contrived very cleverly, in iambics, to combine the different
objects, in spite of their disparity.
He exhibited three transparencies:—first, “Melancholy,” after Dürer, a
motett of Lotti’s being given by men’s voices in the far distance; then the
Raphael, with the Virgin appearing to him in a vision, to which the “O
Sanctissima” was sung (a well-known song, but which always makes people
cry); thirdly, St. Jerome in his tent, with a song of Weber’s, “Hör’ uns,
Wahrheit.” This was the first part. Now came the best of all. We began from
the very beginning of “Israel in Egypt.” Of course you know the first
recitative, and how the chorus gradually swells in tone; first the voices of the
alti are heard alone, then more voices join in, till the loud passage comes
with single chords, “They sighed,” etc. (in G minor), when the curtain rose,
and displayed the first tableau, “The Children of Israel in bondage,”
designed and arranged by Bendemann. In the foreground was Moses, gazing
dreamily into the distance in sorrowful apathy; beside him an old man
sinking to the ground under the weight of a beam, while his son makes an
effort to relieve him from it; in the background some beautiful figures with
uplifted arms, a few weeping children in the foreground,—the whole scene
closely crowded together like a mass of fugitives. This remained visible till
the close of the first chorus; and when it ended in C minor, the curtain at the
same moment dropped over the bright picture. A finer effect I scarcely ever
saw.
The chorus then sang the plagues, hail, darkness, and the first-born,
without any tableau; but at the chorus, “He led them through like sheep,” the
curtain rose again, when Moses was seen in the foreground with raised staff,
and behind him, in gay tumult, the same figures who in the first tableau were
mourning, now all pressing onwards, laden with gold and silver vessels; one
young girl (also by Bendemann) was especially lovely, who, with her
pilgrim’s staff, seemed as if advancing from the side scenes and about to
cross the stage. Then came the choruses again, without any tableau, “But the
waters,” “He rebuked the Red Sea,” “Thy right hand, O Lord,” and the
recitative, “And Miriam, the Prophetess,” at the close of which the solo
soprano appeared. At the same moment the last tableau was uncovered,—
Miriam, with a silver timbrel, sounding praises to the Lord, and other
maidens with harps and citherns, and in the background four men with
trombones, pointing in different directions. The soprano solo was sung
behind the scene, as if proceeding from the picture; and when the chorus
came in forte, real trombones, and trumpets, and kettledrums, were brought
on the stage, and burst in like a thunder-clap. Handel evidently intended this
effect, for after the commencement he makes them pause, till they come in
again in C major, when the other instruments recommence. And thus we
concluded the second part.
This last tableau was by Hübner, and pleased me exceedingly. The effect
of the whole was wonderfully fine. Much might possibly have been said
against it had it been a pretentious affair, but its character was entirely social,
and not public, and I think it would scarcely be possible to devise a more
charming fête. The next that followed was a tableau vivant, designed and
arranged by Schadow, “Lorenzo de’ Medici, surrounded by the Geniuses of
Poetry, Sculpture, and Painting, leading to him Dante, Raphael, Michael
Angelo, and Bramante,” with a complimentary allusion to the Crown Prince,
and a final chorus. The second division consisted of the comic scenes from
the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” represented by the painters here, but I did
not care so much for it, having been so absorbed by the previous one.
How would you translate in the same measure the following line:—
Ramler, with the genuine dignity of a translator, says, “Heil, Liebe, dir!
der Tonkunst Ehr’ und Dank” (All hail to thee, O Love! to Music thanks and
honour), which has no point, and is anything but a translation; the first part
of the Ode closes with these lines, so the whole sense would be lost, for the
pith of the sentence lies in the word “won.” Give me some good hint about
this, for on the 22nd of November we come before the public with
“Alexander’s Feast,” the overture to “Egmont,” and Beethoven’s concerto in
C minor. I am told that an orchestra is to be constructed in Becker’s Hall, for
two hundred persons. All who can sing, or play, or pay, are sure to be there.
Tell me if I shall resume my Greek here.[4] I feel very much disposed to do
so, but fear it will not go on very swimmingly. Could I understand
Æschylus? tell me this honestly. Further, do you attend to my advice about
pianoforte playing and singing? If you want any songs, as Christmas draws
dear, you can get them from me if you wish it. Send for the “Hebrides”
arranged as a duett; it is, no doubt, published by this time. I think, however,
that the overture to “Melusina” will be the best thing I have as yet done; as
soon as it is finished I will send it to you. Adieu.
Felix.
To his Father.
Bonn, December 28th, 1833.
Dear Father,
First of all, I must thank you for your kind, loving letter, and I rejoice that
even before receiving it, I had done what you desired.[5] Strange to say, my
official acceptance, I must tell you, was sent last week to Schadow; the
biography was enclosed, so I expect the patent next week; but I must thank
you once more for the very kind manner in which you write to me on the
subject, and I feel proud that you consider me worthy of such a confidential
tone.
The people in Düsseldorf are an excitable race! The “Don Juan” affair
amused me, although riotous enough, and Immermann had a sharp attack of
fever from sheer vexation.[6] As you, dear Mother, like to read newspapers,
you shall receive in my next letter all the printed articles on the subject,
which engrossed the attention of the whole town for three long days. After
the grand scandale had fairly begun, and the curtain three times dropped and
drawn up again,—after the first duett of the second act had been sung,
entirely drowned by whistling, shouting, and howling,—after a newspaper
had been flung to the manager on the stage, that he might read it aloud, who
on this went off in a violent huff, the curtain being dropped for the fourth
time,—I was about to lay down my bâton, though I would far rather have
thrown it at the heads of some of these fellows, when the uproar suddenly
subsided. The shouting voices were hoarse, and the well-conducted people
brightened up; in short, the second act was played in the midst of the most
profound silence, and much applause at the close. After it was over, all the
actors were called for, but not one came, and Immermann and I consulted
together in a shower of fiery rain and gunpowder smoke—among the black
demons—as to what was to be done. I declared that until the company and I
had received some apology, I would not again conduct the opera; then came
a deputation of several members of the orchestra, who in turn said that if I
did not conduct the opera, they would not play; then the manager of the
theatre began to lament, as he had already disposed of all the tickets for the
next performance. Immermann snubbed everybody all round, and in this
graceful manner we retreated from the field.
Next day in every corner appeared, “Owing to obstacles that had arisen,”
etc. etc.; and all the people whom we met in the streets could talk of nothing
but this disturbance. The newspapers were filled with articles on the subject;
the instigator of the riot justified himself, and declared that in spite of it all
he had had great enjoyment, for which he felt grateful to me and to the
company, and gave his name; as he is a Government secretary, the president
summoned him, blew him up tremendously, and sent him to the director,
who also blew him up tremendously. The soldiers who had taken part in the
tumult were treated in the same manner by their officers. The Association for
the Promotion of Music issued a manifesto, begging for a repetition of the
opera, and denouncing the disturbance. The Theatrical Committee intimated
that if the slightest interruption of the performance ever again occurred, they
would instantly dissolve. I procured also from the committee full powers to
put a stop to the opera in case of any unseemly noise. Last Monday it was to
be given again; in the morning it was universally reported that the manager
was to be hissed, on account of his recent testiness; Immermann was seized
with fever, and I do assure you that it was with feelings the reverse of
pleasant that I took my place in the orchestra at the beginning, being
resolved to stop the performance if there was the slightest disorder. But the
moment I advanced to my desk the audience received me with loud
applause, and called for a flourish of trumpets in my honour, insisting on this
being three times repeated, amid a precious row; then all were as still as
mice, while each actor received his share of applause; in short, the public
were now as polite as they formerly were unruly. I wish you had seen the
performance: individual parts could not, I feel sure, have been better given,
—the quartett for instance, and the ghost in the finale at the end of the opera,
and almost the whole of “Leporello,” went splendidly, and caused me the
greatest pleasure. I am so glad to hear that the singers, who at first, I am told,
were prejudiced against me personally, as well as against these classical
performances, now say they would go to the death for me, and are all
impatience for the time when I am to give another opera. I came over here
for Christmas, by Cologne and the Rhine, where ice is drifting along, and
have passed a couple of quiet pleasant days here.
And now to return to the much talked of correspondence between Goethe
and Zelter. One thing struck me on this subject: when in this work
Beethoven or any one else is abused, or my family unhandsomely treated,
and many subjects most tediously discussed, I remain quite cool and calm;
but when Reichardt is in question, and they both presume to criticize him
with great arrogance, I feel in such a rage that I don’t know what to do,
though I cannot myself explain why this should be so. His “Morgengesang”
must unluckily rest for this winter, the Musical Association is not yet
sufficiently full fledged for it, but the first musical festival to which I go it
shall be there. It is said they will not be able to have it at Aix-la-Chapelle,
and that it is to be given at Cologne, and many of my acquaintances urge me
strongly to pay my court to one or the other, in which case I should be
selected, but this I never will do. If they should choose me without this, I
shall be glad; but if not, I shall save a month’s precious time (for it will take
that at least), and remain as I am. Having been obliged to give three concerts
this winter, besides the “Messiah” and the “Nozze di Figaro,” I think I have
had nearly enough of music for the present, and may now enjoy a little
breathing time. But how is it, Mother, that you ask whether I must conduct
all the operas? Heaven forbid there should be any must in the case, for
almost every week two operas are given, and the performers consider
themselves absolved by one rehearsal. I am only one of the members of the
Theatrical Association, chosen to be on the select committee, who give six or
eight classical performances every year, and elect a council for their
guidance, this council consisting of Immermann and myself; we are
therefore quite independent of the rest, who consequently feel increased
respect for us.
When the great Theatrical Association is fairly established, and the
theatre becomes a settled and civic institution, Immermann is resolved to
give up his situation in the Justiciary Court, and to engage himself for five
years as director of the theatre. Indeed, I hear that most of the shareholders
have only given their signatures on condition that he should undertake the
plays, and I the operas; how this may be, lies close hidden as yet in the
womb of time, but in any event I will not entirely withdraw from the affair. I
have composed a song for Immermann’s “Hofer,” or rather, I should say,
arranged a Tyrolese popular melody for it, and also a French march; but I
like the thing, and mean to send it to Fanny. We think of giving “Hofer” this
winter, and perhaps also “Das laute Geheimniss” and “Nathan,” or the
“Braut von Messina,” or both. You also advise me, Mother, to acquire the
habit of dictation; but in the meantime I can get through by the use of my
own pen, and intend only to have recourse to such a dignified proceeding in
the greatest possible emergency.[7] Thank you very much for the letter you
sent me from Lindblad.[8] It gave me great pleasure, and made me like my
concerto far better than I did before, for I know few people whose judgment
I respect more than his. I can as little explain this, or give any reason for it,
as for many another feeling, but it is so; and when I have finished a thing,
whether successful or a failure, he is the first person, next to yourself, whose
opinion I should be glad to hear. That a piece so rapidly sketched as this
pianoforte concerto, should cause pleasure to so genuine a musician,
enhances mine, and so I thank you much for the letter. But it is high time to
close this letter and this year, to which I am indebted for many blessings and
much happiness, and which has been another bright year for me.
I thank you also, dear Father, now as ever, for having gone with me to
England for my sake; and though my advice, which you followed for the
first time, proved so unfortunate, and caused us all so much anxiety and
uneasiness, you never once reproached me. Still I think, since you write that
you are now perfectly well and in good spirits, the journey may have
contributed to this. May these happy results be still further increased during
the approaching year, and may it bring you all every blessing. Farewell.
Felix.
To His Family.
Düsseldorf, January 16th, 1834.
We are leading a merry life here just now, casting aside all care; every
one is full of fun and jollity. I have just come from the rehearsal of
“Egmont,” where, for the first time in my life, I tore up a score from rage at
the stupidity of the musici, whom I feed with 6-8 time in due form, though
they are more fit for babes’ milk; then they like to belabour each other in the
orchestra. This I don’t choose they should do in my presence, so furious
scenes sometimes occur. At the air, “Glücklich allein ist die Seele die liebt,”
I fairly tore the music in two, on which they played with much more
expression. The music delighted me so far, that I again heard something of
Beethoven’s for the first time; but it had no particular charm for me, and
only two pieces, the march in C major, and the movement in 6-8 time, where
Klärchen is seeking Egmont, are quite after my own heart. To-morrow we
are to have another rehearsal; in the evening the Prince gives a ball, which
will last till four in the morning, from which I could excuse myself if I were
not so very fond of dancing. I must now tell you about my excursion to
Elberfeld. Sunday was the concert, so in the morning I drove there in a
furious storm of thunder and rain. I found the whole musical world
assembled in the inn, drinking champagne at twelve in the forenoon, instead
of which I ordered chocolate for myself. A pianoforte solo of mine had been
announced, after which I intended to have come away immediately, but
hearing that there was to be a ball in the evening, I resolved not to set off till
night, and as they had introduced music from “Oberon” in the second part,
feeling myself in a vein for extemporizing, I instantly took up their last
ritournelle, and continued playing the rest of the opera. There was no great
merit in this, still it pleased the people wonderfully, and at the end I was
greeted with plaudits loud enough to gratify any one. As the room was
crowded, I promised to return in the course of the winter to play for the
benefit of the poor. The Barmers sent me a deputation of three Barmer ladies
to persuade me to go there on Monday; and as my travelling companion had
both time and inclination for this, I played extempore on the Monday
afternoon in the Barmer Musical Association, and then a quartett in
Elberfeld, travelled through the night, and arrived at home at four on
Tuesday morning, as my hour for receiving people is from eight to nine. The
Barmer fantasia was well designed; I must describe it for Fanny.
A poem had been sent me anonymously, at the end of which I was
advised to marry (of course this was said in good poetry, interwoven with
laurel leaves and immortelles); and, wishing to respond to this compliment, I
began with my “Bachelor’s Song” (though, unluckily, no one found out its
meaning, but that was no matter), continuing to play it gaily for some time; I
then brought in the violoncello with the theme, “Mir ist so wunderbar,” and
so far it was very successful. I was anxious, however, before closing, to
introduce some matrimonial felicity, but in this I utterly failed, which spoilt
the conclusion. I wish, however, you had been present at the beginning, for I
believe you would have been pleased. I think I already wrote to you that my
fantasia in F sharp minor, Op. 28,[9] is about to be published. I have
introduced a fine massive passage in octaves into my new E flat rondo; I am
now going to work at my scena for the Philharmonic, to edit the three
overtures, to compose another trio or a symphony, and then comes “St.
Paul.” Addio.
Felix.
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