Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

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 passion, 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 hitherto 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 classical 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 passage 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 personæ: that while seated at his writing table he was exclaming: "Figaro, prends garde, le Comte sait tout!—Ah! Comtesse, quelle imprudence!—vite, sauve-toi, petit 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 languishing, 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.