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Updated: June 4, 2025
I know not what it is, but there is something in the writer's highly finished style that reminds me of Mendelssohn. It would almost do for the words of one of his celebrated "Lieder ohne Worte": "DEAR MISS MARIA, I hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your kind note with the inclosure for which I return my best thanks.
It was not that he disliked or had any prejudice against Brahms; he took a delight in some of his works, especially his chamber music, but he found fault with his symphonies and was shocked by the carelessness of the declamation in his Lieder and, in general, could not bear his want of originality and power, and found him lacking in joy and fulness of life.
"Another two new Lieder! There is one that sounds so horribly strange that it frightens me. There is nothing like it in existence. Heaven help the unfortunate people who will one day hear it!... "If you could only hear the last Lied I have just composed you would only have one desire left to die.... Your happy, happy Wolf."
Opus 5 contained five songs, of which the ecstatic "'Twas April" reached the largest popularity. Possibly the smallest sale was enjoyed by "Herbstgefühl." Many years have not availed to shake my allegiance to this song, as one of the noblest songs in the world's music. It is to me, in all soberness, as great as the greatest of the Lieder of Schubert, Schumann or Franz.
Lamonte enjoys slipping off discretely on occasion to hear some... jazz..." Putting both palms on the table, she whispered. "The way I sometimes slip off to sing... Schubert." Jurgen laughed and sat back in his chair. "Schubert." He did not feel particularly surprised; she probably sang all of Schubert's lieder beautifully.
They keep still a saying of old Martin Luther, which runs, if I remember rightly, "Wo man singt, leg' ich mich freilich nieder. Bose Menschen haben keine Lieder." "Keep to plain English, you Hushan!" shouted the musket with a kick. "I am sorry to hurt your feelings, my old soldier," said the good natured cloak.
Settled at Perchtoldsdorf, near Vienna, in February, 1888, in absolute peace, he wrote in three months fifty-three Lieder to the words of Eduard Mörike, the pastor-poet of Swabia, who died in 1875, and who, misunderstood and laughed at during his lifetime, is now covered with honour, and universally popular in Germany.
He would sit for hours playing the exquisite Lieder Ohne worte of Mendelssohn, while Jessie would shrug her shoulders if asked to play, and call on her brother, saying she could not bear "that nasty practising."
Christophe's heart would grow big at the thought that he would never know these charming people whom it would have given him such joy to love: he would kiss some of these anonymous letters as the writers of them kissed his lieder; and each to himself would think: "Dear written sheets, what a deal of good you have done me!"
He had an untuned voice and could never hear himself without disgust. However, intoxicated by his success, Pottpetschmidt began to "put expression" into Christophe's Lieder, that is to say he substituted his own for Christophe's. Naturally he did not think that the music gained by the change, and he grew gloomy. Schulz saw it.
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