Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Munich, June 6th, 1830.

It is a long time since I have written to you, and I fear you may have been anxious on my account. You must not be angry with me, for it was really no fault of mine, and I have been not a little annoyed about it. I expedited my journey as well as I could, inquiring everywhere about diligences, and invariably receiving false information. I travelled through one night on purpose to enable me to write to you by this day's post, of which I was told at Nürnberg; and when at last I arrive, I find that no post leaves here to-day: it is enough to drive one wild, and I feel out of all patience with Germany and her petty Principalities, her different kinds of money, her diligences, which require an hour and a quarter for a German mile, and her Thuringian forests, where there is incessant rain and wind,—nay, even with her 'Fidelio' this very evening, for, though dead beat, I must do my duty by going to see it, when I would far rather go to bed. Pray do not be angry with me, or scold me for my delay in writing; I do assure you that this very night while I was travelling, I thought I saw peeping through the clouds the shadow of your threatening finger; but I shall now proceed to explain why I could not write sooner.

Some days after my last letter from Weimar, I wished, as I told you, to set off for this place, and said so during dinner to Goethe, who made no reply. After dinner however he withdrew with Ottilie into the recess of a window, and said, "You must persuade him to remain." She endeavoured to prevail on me to do so, and walked up and down in the garden with me. I wished however to show that I was a man of determination, so I remained steady to my resolve. Then came the old gentleman himself, and said he saw no use in my being in such a hurry; that he had still a great deal to tell me, and I had still a great deal to play to him; and what I had told him as to the object of my journey, was really all nonsense,—Weimar was my present object,—and he could not see that I was likely to find in tables-d'hôte elsewhere, what I could not obtain here: I would see plenty of hotels in my travels. He talked on in this style, which touched my heart, especially as Ottilie and Ulrike added their persuasions, assuring me that the old gentleman much more often insisted on people going away, than on their remaining; and as no one can be so sure of enjoying a number of happy days, that he can afford to throw away those that cannot fail to be pleasant, and as they promised to go with me to Jena, I resolved not to be a man of determination, and agreed to stay.

Seldom in the course of my life have I so little regretted any resolution as on this occasion, for the following day was by far the most delightful that I ever passed in Goethe's house. After an early drive, I found old Goethe very cheerful; he began to converse on various subjects, passing from the 'Muette de Portici' to Walter Scott, and thence to the beauties in Weimar; to the 'Students,' and the 'Robbers,' and so on to Schiller; then he spoke on uninterruptedly for more than an hour, with the utmost animation, about Schiller's life and writings, and his position in Weimar. He proceeded to speak of the late Grand-Duke, and of the year 1775, which he designated as the intellectual spring of Germany, declaring that no man living could describe it so well as he could; indeed, it had been his intention to have devoted the second volume of his life to this subject; but what with botany, and meteorology, and other stuff of the same kind, for which no one cared a straw, he had not yet been able to fulfil his purpose. He proceeded to relate various anecdotes of the time when he was director of the theatre, and when I wished to thank him, he said, "It is mere chance, it all comes to light incidentally,—called forth by your welcome presence." These words sounded marvellously pleasant to me; in short, it was one of those conversations that a man can never forget so long as he lives. Next day he made me a present of a sheet of the manuscript of 'Faust,' and at the bottom of the page he wrote, "To my dear young friend F. M. B., mighty, yet delicate master of the piano—a friendly souvenir of happy May days in 1830. J. W. von Goethe." He also gave me three letters of introduction to take with me.

If that relentless 'Fidelio' did not begin at so early an hour. I could tell you much more, but as it is, I have only time to detail my farewell interview with the old gentleman. At the very beginning of my visit to Weimar, I spoke of a print taken from Adrian von Ostade, of a peasant family praying, which nine years ago made a deep impression on me. When I went at an early hour to take leave of Goethe, I found him seated beside a large portfolio, and he said, "So you are actually going away? I must try to keep all right till you return; but at all events we won't part now without some pious feelings, so let us once more look at the praying family together." He told me that I must sometimes write to him—(courage! courage! I mean to do so from this very place), and then he embraced me, and we drove off to Jena, where the Frommans received me with much kindness, and where the same evening I took leave of Ottilie and Ulrike, and came on here.

Nine o'clock.—'Fidelio' is over; and while waiting for supper I add a few words.

Schechner is very much gone off; the quality of her voice has become husky; she repeatedly sang flat, yet there were moments when her expression was so touching, that I wept in my own fashion; all the others were bad, and there was also much to censure in the performance. Still, there is great talent in the orchestra, and the style in which they played the overture was very good. Certainly our Germany is a strange land; producing great people, but not appreciating them; possessing many fine singers and intellectual artists, but none sufficiently modest and subordinate to render their parts faithfully, and without false pretension. Marzeline introduces all sorts of flourishes into her part; Jaquino is a blockhead; the minister a simpleton: and when a German like Beethoven writes an opera, then comes a German like Stuntz or Poissl (or whoever it may have been) and strikes out the ritournelle, and similar unnecessary passages; another German adds a trombone part to his symphonies; a third declares that Beethoven is overloaded: and thus is a great man sacrificed.

Farewell! be happy and merry; and may all my heartfelt wishes for you be fulfilled.

Felix.