Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Milan, July 15th, 1831.

(Extracts from two Letters to Edward Devrient)

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 assuredly 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 Concertstück, 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!