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Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland

by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy · English · Gutenberg #39384 · 548,319 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland

Author: Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy

Contributor: Julie de Marguerittes

Editor: Paul Mendelssohn-Bartholdy

Translator: Lady Grace Wallace


        
Release date: April 5, 2012 [eBook #39384]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39384

Credits: Produced by Hélène de Mink, Bryan Ness, Music transcribed
        by Anne Celnick, Linda Cantoni, and the DP Music Team and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
        generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
        Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY FROM ITALY AND SWITZERLAND ***




Produced by Helene de Mink, Bryan Ness, Music transcribed
by Anne Celnick, Linda Cantoni, and the DP Music Team and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)







Transcriber's note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the
original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors
have been corrected.




     LETTERS
     OF
     FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY
     FROM
     ITALY AND SWITZERLAND.

     TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE.

     WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE
     BY JULIE DE MARGUERITTES.

     [Illustration: logo]

     BOSTON:
     OLIVER DITSON & CO., 277 WASHINGTON STREET.
     NEW YORK: C. H. DITSON & CO.




FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.


Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy was born at Hamburg, on the third of
February, 1809. The name to which he was destined to add such
lustre, was already high in the annals of fame. Moses Mendelssohn,
his grandfather, a great Jewish philosopher, one of the most
remarkable men of his time, was the author of profound Metaphysical
works, written both in German and Hebrew. To this great power of
intellect, Moses Mendelssohn added a purity and dignity of
character worthy of the old stoics. The epigraph on the bust of
this ancestor of the composer, shows the esteem in which he was
held by his contemporaries:

"Faithful to the religion of his fathers, as wise as Socrates, like
Socrates teaching the immortality of the soul, and like Socrates
leaving a name that is immortal."

One of Moses Mendelssohn's daughters married Frederick Schlegel,
and swerving from the religion in which both had been brought up,
both became Roman Catholics.

Joseph Mendelssohn, the eldest son of this great old man, was also
distinguished for his literary taste, and has left two excellent
works of very different characters, one on Dante, the other on the
system of a paper currency.

In conjunction with his brother, Abraham, he founded the
banking-house of Mendelssohn & Company at Berlin, still flourishing
under the management of the sons of the original founders, the
brothers and cousins of Felix, the subject of this memoir.

George Mendelssohn the son of Joseph, was also a distinguished
political writer and Professor in the University at Bonn.

With such an array of intellectual ancestry, the Mendelssohn of our
day came into the world at Hamburg, on the third of February,1809.
He was named Felix, and a more appropriate name could not have been
found for him, for in character, circumstance and endowment, he was
supremely happy. Goethe, speaking of him, said "the boy was born on
a lucky day." His first piece of good fortune, was in having not
only an excellent virtuous woman for his mother, but a woman who,
besides these qualities, possessed extraordinary intellect and had
received an education that fitted her to be the mother of children
endowed as hers were. She professed the Lutheran creed, in which
her children were brought up. Being of a distinguished commercial
family and an heiress, her husband added her name of Bartholdy to
his own. Mme. Mendelssohn Bartholdy's other children were, Fanny
her first-born, whose life is entirely interwoven with that of her
brother Felix, and Paul and Rebecca, born some years later.

When yet a boy, Felix removed with his parents to Berlin, probably
at the time of the formation of the banking house. The Prussian
capital has often claimed the honor of being his birthplace, but
that distinction really belongs to Hamburg.

His extraordinary musical talent was not long in developing itself.
His sister Fanny, his "soul's friend" and constant companion,
almost as richly endowed as himself, aroused his emulation, and
they studied music together first as an art, and then as a science,
to be the foundation of future works of inspiration and genius.

Zelter, severe and classic, profoundly scientific, inexorable for
all that was not true science, became the teacher of these two
gifted children in composition and in counterpoint. For piano-forte
playing, Berger was the professor, though some years later
Moscheles added the benefit of his counsels, and Felix was fond of
calling himself the pupil of Moscheles, with whom in after life he
contracted a close friendship. Zelter was exceedingly proud of his
pupil, soon discovering that instead of an industrious and
intelligent child, one of the greatest musical geniuses ever known
was dawning on the world. When he was but fifteen, Zelter took the
young musician to Weimar, and secured for him the acquaintance and
good will of Goethe, which as long as Goethe lived, seemed to be
the necessary consecration of all talent in Germany. By this time
not only was he an admirable performer on the piano, possessed of
a talent for improvisation and a memory so wonderful, that not only
could he play almost all Bach, Haendel, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven
by heart, but he could also without hesitation accompany a whole
opera from memory, provided he had but seen the score once. The
overture to Midsummer Night's Dream, so popular now in every
country, was composed before he was seventeen, and was played for
the first time as a duet on the piano by his sister Fanny and
himself on the 19th November, 1826. This is indeed the inspiration
of youth with its brilliancy, its buoyancy, its triumphant joy,
full of the poetry of a young heart, full of the imagination of a
mind untainted by the world. It was not till some years after, that
Mendelssohn completed the music to Shakspeare's great play. In
1827, Felix left the University of Berlin with great honors. He was
a profound classical scholar, and has left as a specimen of his
knowledge, a correct, graceful and elegant translation of Terence's
comedy of Andria, a work greatly approved of by Goethe. He excelled
in gymnastics, was an elegant rider, and like Lord Byron, a bold
and accomplished swimmer. The year he left the University, he went
to England, where Henrietta Sonntag was in the height of her fame.
He played in several concerts where she sang, as well as with
Moscheles, his old friend and teacher, now established in London.

On his return to Germany in 1830, he visited Goethe at Weimar, and
there planned his journey to Italy, a country which all men of
genius yearn after, as the promised land of inspiration. When in
Rome, Felix Mendelssohn began the grand Cantata of the Walpurgis
Night, to Goethe's words, at which he worked for some years. On his
return from his travels, Mendelssohn, who had now all the assurance
and self-possession of an artist, was appointed chapel-master at
Duesseldorf, a position which gave him the direction of the grand
musical festivals held at that time in this city and in
Aix-la-Chapelle. It was during his residence in Duesseldorf, that he
composed his oratorio of St. Paul, and also, the first set of his
"Songs without Words" for the piano, where the music, by its varied
expression and its intensity, alone told the story of the poet.
These compositions were a novelty for piano-forte players, and
inaugurated a new style, full of interest, gradually setting aside
the variations and sonatas which had become so meaningless and
tedious. The oratorio of St. Paul was not given until 1836, when it
was produced at Duesseldorf, under his own special superintendence.
Mendelssohn composed very rapidly, but he was cautious in giving
his works to the public, until they thoroughly satisfied his
judgment, the most critical to which they could be submitted.

In the latter part of 1836, having gone to Frankfort, to direct a
concert of the Ceciliaverein, he became acquainted with Cecilia
Jeanrenaud, a beautiful and accomplished girl, the second daughter
of a clergyman of the Reformed Church, and in the spring of 1837
she became his wife. The marriage had been delayed some months by
Mendelssohn's ill health; he had begun to feel the first symptoms
of the nervous disease, affecting the brain, from which he was
destined henceforth to suffer, and of which, finally, he was fated
to die.

After his marriage he undertook the direction of the Leipzig
Concerts. All over Germany, Mendelssohn was in requisition; his
immense genius as a composer, his great skill as a conductor, his
gentle, fascinating manners, gave him extraordinary popularity. It
was England, however, after all, who appreciated him most. Sacred
music seems to appeal especially to the English taste. Haydn,
Haendel, Beethoven have all found more patronage and appreciation in
England than in their own country. So it was with Mendelssohn; the
greatest musical triumph ever achieved, was the performance of the
oratorio of Elijah, given at Birmingham, the work on which
Mendelssohn's fame will rest. He was nine years in composing this
oratorio; and notwithstanding the most flattering ovation,
Mendelssohn's serene temperament was not moved to vanity or
conceit. In the very moment of his success, he sat down modestly to
correct many things that had not satisfied him. The trio for three
female voices (without accompaniment) one of the most beautiful
pieces in the oratorio, was added by the composer after the public
had declared itself satisfied with the work as it originally stood.
Elijah was produced in 1847, but Mendelssohn had been several times
to England before this, playing at the ancient and Philharmonic
concerts; at that time, the resort of the elite in London.

It was during one of these visits in 1842, that Prince Albert, who
as a German and a musician, had sought his acquaintance, introduced
him to Queen Victoria. The visit was entirely devoid of formality,
for without any previous announcement, the Prince conducted
Mendelssohn from his private apartments, to the Queen's study,
where they found her surrounded by papers, and just terminating her
morning's work. The Queen receiving him most graciously, apologized
to the composer for the untidiness of the room, beginning herself
to put it in order and laughingly accepting his assistance. After
some agreeable conversation Mendelssohn sat down to the piano and
played whatever the Queen asked of him. When at length he rose,
Prince Albert asked the Queen to sing, and gracefully choosing one
of Mendelssohn's own compositions, she complied with the request.
Mendelssohn of course applauded, but the Queen laughingly told him,
that she had been too frightened to sing well. "Ask Lablache,"
(Lablache was her singing master) added the Queen, "he will tell
you that I can sing better than I have done to-day." Prince Albert
and the Queen were ever warm patrons and friends of Mendelssohn.

During all this time so brilliantly filled up, Mendelssohn's health
was continually and gradually declining. His nervous susceptibility
was such that he was often obliged to abstain from playing for
weeks together, his gentle and affectionate wife watching him and
keeping him as much as possible from composition. This was a very
difficult task, for Mendelssohn was a great worker. Even when
travelling, he would take out pen and ink from his pocket and
compose at one corner of the table, whilst the dinner was getting
ready.

Little was Mendelssohn prepared, either mentally or physically at
this time, to bear the one great sorrow that overwhelmed this happy
life, on which the sun of prosperity had ever shone. His sister
Fanny, to whom many of his letters were written, and who had been
the companion of his studies, possessing the same tastes and a
great deal of the same genius; his sister Fanny, who was the
nearest and dearest affection of his life, was suddenly taken from
him. She had married and was living in Frankfort, where she was the
ornament of society, in this enlightened and art-loving city, when
in the midst of a rehearsal of Faust, a symphony of her own
composition, she was struck with apoplexy and fell back dead in her
chair. There is no doubt that this shock considerably increased the
disease from which Mendelssohn was suffering, and though he used to
rally and even appear resigned, this sorrow, until the day of his
death, lay heavy at his heart. Again he tried to find health and
peace in travel; he went to Switzerland with his wife, who strove
to keep him from all occupation and labor, but he would gently urge
her to let him work. "The time is not far off, when I shall rest; I
must make the most of the time given me." "I know not how short a
time it may be," would he say to her. On his return from
Switzerland and Baden-Baden, he went to Berlin; and once more all
that remained of this tenderly attached family, were united for a
short time. At length he returned to his home in Leipzig, serene as
ever, but worn to a shadow by the acute and continued pains in the
head for which he could obtain no relief. On the 9th of October, he
went to the house of a friend, one of the artists of the Leipzig
concerts, and entreated her to sing for him a song he had that
night composed. By a strange coincidence, this song began with
these words, "Vanished has the light of day." It was Mendelssohn's
last composition, the last music he heard on earth, for whilst the
lady was singing it, he was seized with vertigo and was carried
insensible back to his house. He recovered, however, comparatively
from this attack, but a second stroke of apoplexy placed his life
in extreme peril, and a third, on the 3rd of November, made him
utterly unconscious. Towards nine o'clock on the evening of the
4th, (1847,) he breathed his last, going to his everlasting rest as
easily and as calmly as a tired child sinks to sleep. He was in the
thirty-ninth year of his age.

Mendelssohn's death was looked upon, throughout Germany, as a
public calamity. The funeral ceremonies at Leipzig were of a most
imposing character, and all the way from Leipzig to Berlin, where
the corpse was taken, to be buried in the family vault, the most
touching honors greeted it. Nearly all the crowned heads of Europe
wrote letters of condolence to his widow.

Mendelssohn as a musician is profoundly original. In his oratorios
"Paul" and "Elijah" he has swerved from the conventional religious
style; eschewing all fugues, his oratorios are full of power, and
contain great dramatic effects--at once grand and solemn. His other
music is remarkable for the sweetness of its melodies--its earnest
simplicity. His instrumentality is scientific without being
pedantic or heavy, and utterly devoid of antiquated formalism;
though pathetic often, there is always a vigor and life in all his
inspirations; the low mournful wail that runs through all Chopin's
works, arising from a morbid condition of health and heart, is
never felt in Mendelssohn. There is none of the bitterness, the
long suffering that artists' lives entail and that artists infuse
into their works, for Mendelssohn was a happy man from first to
last.

Mendelssohn the happy, "the boy born on a lucky day," has left a
life-record that amid the gloomy heart-rending and often degrading
histories of artists, shines with a chaste and holy life. Nature,
the world and circumstance had done every thing for him. To the
great and all-sufficient gift of his musical genius he added many
others,--he had the eye of a painter, the heart of a poet, his
intellect was of the highest order; he was tall, handsome,
graceful, his social position one of the finest in Berlin, rich,
and surrounded by the tenderest family affections. With all these
advantages, with all the success that attended him, with all the
flattery lavished on him, Mendelssohn was never vain or proud, and
throughout his life was utterly free from envy. His fine, fearless,
childlike spirit, led him through the world, unconscious of evil,
undaunted by it. With all the temptations that must have assailed
the young, handsome, rich man, there is not one moment of his life
over which his friends would wish to draw a veil. On such a life as
that of Felix Mendelssohn, it is good for every one to look, for
once, genius is not set forth as a dazzling screen to hide and to
excuse disorder and crime, but genius, that one great gift from
heaven, was employed as heaven would have directed it, each action,
each succeeding year of his life, bringing forth in various but
harmonious ways, that extraordinary moral and intellectual worth,
that rare beauty of character that endeared him to all who knew
him, ensured him the unvarying love of kindred and friends, and the
admiration of the whole world.




PREFACE.


Last year a paragraph was inserted in the newspapers, requesting
any one who possessed letters from Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy to
send them to Professor Droysen, or to myself, with the view of
completing a selection from his correspondence which we
contemplated publishing. Our design in this was twofold.

In the first place, we wished to offer to the public in
Mendelssohn's own words, which always so truly and faithfully
mirrored his thoughts, the most genuine impression of his
character; and secondly, we thought that the biographical elements
contained in such a correspondence, might be of infinite use in the
compilation of a memoir--which we reserve for a future day--and
serve as its precursor and basis.

There are difficulties, however, opposed to the immediate
fulfilment of our original purpose to its full extent; and at
present it is impossible to decide when these can be removed.

I have, therefore, formed the resolution to carry out my plan in
the meantime within more circumscribed limits, but which leaves me
unfettered.

On Mendelssohn's return from his first visit to England, in the
year 1829, he came to Berlin for a short time to attend a family
festivity, and thence in 1830 proceeded to Italy, returning through
Switzerland to France, and in the beginning of 1832 visiting
England for the second time.

This period, which to a certain degree forms a separate section of
his life, and which, through the vivid impressions it made,
assuredly exercised an important influence on Mendelssohn's
development (we may mention that he was only one-and-twenty at the
commencement of his journey), supplies us with a number of letters
addressed to his parents, and to his sisters, Fanny and Rebecca, as
well as to myself. I have also added some communications of the
same date, to various friends, partly entire and partly in
extracts, and now present them to the public in their original
integrity.

Those who were personally acquainted with Mendelssohn, and who wish
once more to realize him as he was when in life,--and those also
who would be glad to acquire a more definite idea of his
individuality than can be found in the general inferences deduced
from his musical creations,--will not lay down these letters
dissatisfied. Along with this particular source of interest they
offer a more universal one, as they prove how admirably
Mendelssohn's superior nature, and perceptions of Art, mutually
pervaded and regulated each other.

With this view, it appeared to me a duty to give to the public
these letters, stored up in the peaceful home for which they were
originally destined and exclusively intended, and thus to make them
accessible to a more extended circle. They begin by a visit to
Goethe. May his words then accompany these Letters, as an
appropriate convoy:--

     "Be sure the works of mighty men,
     The good, the faithful, the sublime,
     Stored in the gallery of Time,
     Repose awhile--to wake again."[1]

        PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

  BERLIN, _March_, 1861.

  [1] "Was in der Zeiten Bildersaal
      Jemals ist trefflich gewesen,
      Das wird immer einer einmal
      Wieder auffrischen und lesen."




LETTERS.


     Weimar, May 21st, 1830.

Never, in the whole course of my travels, do I remember a more
glorious and inspiriting day for a journey than yesterday. At an
early hour in the morning the sky was grey and cloudy, but the sun
presently burst forth; the air was cool and fresh, and being
Ascension Sunday the people were all dressed in their best. In one
village I saw them crowding into church as I passed, in another
coming away from divine service, and, last of all, playing at
bowls. The gardens were bright with tulips, and I drove quickly
past, eagerly looking at everything. At Weissenfels they gave me a
little basket carriage, and at Naumburg an open droschky. My
effects, including my hat and cloak, were piled upon it behind. I
bought a few bunches of lilies-of-the-valley, and thus I travelled
on through the country, as if on a pleasure excursion.

Some collegians came up to me beyond Naumburg, and envied me. We
then drove past President G----, seated in a small carriage, which
evidently had some difficulty in containing him, and his daughters
or _wives_; in short, the two ladies with him, who appeared equally
envious of my position. We actually _trotted_ up the Koesen Hill,
for the horses scarcely drew bridle, and overtook several
heavily-laden carriages, the drivers of which no doubt also envied
me, for I was really to be envied. The scenery had a charming air
of spring--so cheerful and gay, and blooming. The sun sank solemnly
behind the hills, and presently we came up with the Russian
minister and his suite, in two heavy carriages, each with four
horses, in true ponderous official array; and my light droschky
darted past him like a hare.

In the evening I got a pair of restive horses, so that I had my
little annoyance also, (according to my theory, enhancing
pleasure,) and not a single bar did I compose all day, but enjoyed
complete idleness. It was a delicious day, and one I shall not soon
forget. I close this description with the remark, that the children
in Eckartsberge dance merry rounds hand-in-hand, just as ours do at
home, and that the appearance of a stranger did not in the least
disturb them, in spite of his distinguished air; I should have
liked to join in their game.


     May 24th.

I wrote this before going to see Goethe, early in the forenoon,
after a walk in the park; but I could not find a moment to finish
my letter till now. I shall probably remain here for a couple of
days, which is no sacrifice, for I never saw the old gentleman so
cheerful and amiable as on this occasion, or so talkative and
communicative. My especial reason however for staying two days
longer, is a very agreeable one, and makes me almost vain, or I
ought rather to say proud, and I do not intend to keep it secret
from you,--Goethe, you must know, sent me a letter yesterday
addressed to an artist here, a painter, which I am to deliver
myself; and Ottilie confided to me that it contains a commission to
take my portrait, as Goethe wishes to place it in a collection of
likenesses he has recently commenced of his friends. This
circumstance gratified me exceedingly; as however I have not yet
seen the complaisant artist who is to accomplish this, nor has he
seen me, it is probable that I shall have to remain here until the
day after to-morrow. I don't in the least regret this, for, as I
have told you, I live a most agreeable life here, and thoroughly
enjoy the society of the old poet. I have dined with him every day,
and am invited again to-day. This evening there is to be a party at
his house, where I am to play. It is quite delightful to hear him
conversing on every subject, and seeking information on all points.

I must however tell you everything regularly and in order, so that
you may know each separate detail.

Early in the day I went to see Ottilie, who, though still delicate,
and often complaining, I thought more cheerful than formerly, and
quite as kind and amiable as ever towards myself. We have been
constantly together since then, and it has been a source of much
pleasure to me to know her more intimately. Ulrike is more
agreeable and charming than formerly; a certain earnestness
pervades her whole nature, and she has now a degree of repose, and
a depth of feeling, that render her one of the most attractive
creatures I have ever met. The two boys, Walter and Wolf, are
lively, studious, cordial lads, and to hear them talking about
"Grandpapa's Faust," is most pleasant.

But to return to my narrative. I sent Zelter's letter at once to
Goethe, who immediately invited me to dinner. I thought him very
little changed in appearance, but at first rather silent and
apathetic; I think he wished to see how I demeaned myself. I was
vexed, and thought that possibly he was always now in this mood.
Happily the conversation turned on the _Frauen-Vereine_ in Weimar,
and on the 'Chaos,' a humorous paper circulated among themselves
by the ladies here, I having soared so high as to be a contributor
to this undertaking. All at once the old man became quite
gay, laughing at the two ladies about their charities and
intellectualism, and their subscriptions and hospital work, which
he seems cordially to detest. He called on me to aid him in his
onslaught, and as I did not require to be asked twice, he speedily
became just what he used to be, and at last more kind and
confidential than I had ever seen him. The assault soon became
general. The 'Robber Bride' of Ries, he said contained all that an
artist in these days required to live happily,--a robber and a
bride; then he attacked the young people of the present day for
their universal tendency to languor and melancholy, and related the
story of a young lady to whom he had once paid court, and who also
felt some interest in him; a discussion on the exhibitions
followed, and a fancy bazaar for the poor, where the ladies of
Weimar were the shopwomen, and where he declared it was impossible
to purchase anything because the young people made a private
agreement among themselves, and hid the different articles till the
proper purchasers appeared.

After dinner he all at once began--"Gute Kinder--huebsche
Kinder--muss immer lustig sein--tolles Volk," etc., his eyes
looking like those of a drowsy old lion. Then he begged me to play
to him, and said it seemed strange that he had heard no music for
so long; that he supposed we had made great progress, but he knew
nothing of it. He wished me to tell him a great deal on the
subject, saying "Do let us have a little rational conversation
together;" and turning to Ottilie, he said, "No doubt you have
already made your own wise arrangements, but they must yield to my
express orders, which are, that you must make tea here this
evening, that we may be all together again." When in return she
asked him if it would not make him too late, as Riemer was coming
to work with him, he replied, "As you gave your children a holiday
from their Latin to-day, that they might hear Felix play, I think
you might also give me one day of relaxation from _my_ work." He
invited me to return to dinner, and I played a great deal to him in
the evening.

My three Welsh pieces, dedicated to three English sisters, have
great success here;[2] and I am trying to rub up my English. As I
had begged Goethe to address me as _thou_, he desired Ottilie to
say to me on the following day, in that case I must remain longer
than the two days I had fixed, otherwise he could not regain the
more familiar habit I wished. He repeated this to me himself,
saying that he did not think I should lose much by staying a little
longer, and invited me always to dine with him when I had no other
engagement. I have consequently been with him every day, and
yesterday I told him a great deal about Scotland, and Hengstenberg,
and Spontini, and Hegel's 'AEsthetics.'[3] He sent me to Tiefurth
with the ladies, but prohibited my driving to Berka, because a very
pretty girl lived there, and he did not wish to plunge me into
misery.

  [2] Three pieces for the piano, composed in 1829 for the album of
  three young English ladies; subsequently published as Opus 16.

  [3] Felix Mendelssohn attended the Berlin University as a
  matriculated student for more than a year; a vast number of
  sheets written by him at this period, during the lectures, are
  still extant.

I thought to myself, this was indeed the Goethe of whom people will
one day say, that he was not one single individual, but consisted
of several little _Goethiden_. I am to play over to him to-day
various pieces of Bach, Haydn, and Mozart, and thus lead him on, as
he said, to the present day.

I should indeed have been very foolish to have regretted my delay;
besides, I am a conscientious traveller, and have seen the Library,
and 'Iphigenia in Aulis.' Hummel has struck out all the octaves,
etc.

        FELIX.


     Weimar, May 25th, 1830.

I have just received your welcome letter, written on Ascension Day.
I cannot help myself, but must still write to you from this place.
I will soon send you, dear Fanny, a copy of my symphony; I am
having it written out here, and mean to forward it to Leipzig
(where perhaps it will be performed), with strict orders to deliver
it into your own hands, as soon as possible. Try to collect
opinions as to the title I ought to select; Reformation Symphony,
Confession Symphony, Symphony for a Church Festival, Juvenile
Symphony, or whatever you like. Write to me on this subject, and
instead of a number of stupid suggestions, send me one clever one;
still, I should rather like to hear some of the nonsensical ones
sure to be devised on the occasion.

Yesterday evening I was at a party at Goethe's, and played alone
the whole evening,--the Concert-Stueck, the Invitation a la Valse,
and Weber's Polonaise in C, my three Welsh pieces, and my Scotch
Sonata. It was over by ten o'clock, but I of course stayed till
twelve o'clock, when we had all sorts of fun, dancing and singing;
so you see I lead a most jovial life here. The old gentleman goes
to his room regularly at nine o'clock, and as soon as he is gone,
we begin our frolics, and never separate before midnight.

To-morrow my portrait is to be finished; a large black-crayon
sketch, and very like; but I look rather sulky. Goethe is so
friendly and kind to me, that I don't know how to thank him
sufficiently, or what to do to deserve it. In the forenoon he likes
me to play to him the compositions of the various great masters, in
chronological order, for an hour, and also tell him the progress
they have made, while he sits in a dark corner, like a _Jupiter
tonans_, his old eyes flashing on me. He did not wish to hear
anything of Beethoven's, but I told him that I could not let him
off, and played the first part of the Symphony in C minor. It
seemed to have a singular effect on him; at first he said, "This
causes no emotion, nothing but astonishment: it is _grandios_." He
continued grumbling in this way, and after a long pause he began
again,--"It is very grand, very wild; it makes one fear that the
house is about to fall down; and what must it be when played by a
number of men together!" During dinner, in the midst of another
subject, he alluded to it again. You know that I dine with him
every day, when he questions me very minutely, and is always so gay
and communicative after dinner, that we generally remain together
alone for an hour while he speaks on uninterruptedly.

I have no greater pleasure than when he brings out engravings, and
explains them to me, or gives his opinion of Ernani, or Lamartine's
Elegies, or the theatre, or pretty girls. He has several times
lately invited people, which he rarely does now, so that most of
the guests had not seen him for a long time. I then play a great
deal, and he compliments me before all these people, and "_ganz
stupend_" is his favourite expression. To-day he has invited a
number of Weimar beauties on my account, because he thinks that I
ought to enjoy the society of young people. If I go up to him on
such occasions, he says, "My young friend, you must join the
ladies, and make yourself agreeable to them." I am not however
devoid of tact, so I contrived to have him asked yesterday whether
I did not come too often; but he growled out to Ottilie, who put
the question to him, that "he must now begin to speak to me in good
earnest, for I had such clear ideas, that he hoped to _learn much
from me_." I became twice as tall in my own estimation, when
Ottilie repeated this to me. He said so to me himself yesterday;
and when he declared that there were many subjects he had at heart
that I must explain to him, I _said_, "Oh, certainly!" but I
_thought_, "This is an honour I can never forget,"--often it is the
very reverse.

        FELIX.


     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 Nuernberg; 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'hote_ 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.


TO FANNY HENSEL.

     Munich, June 14th, 1830.

     My dearest Sister,

I received your letter of the 5th this morning; I see from it that
you are not yet quite well. I wish I were with you, and could see
you, and talk to you; but this is impossible, so I have written a
song for you expressive of my wishes and thoughts. You were in my
mind when I composed it, and I was in a tender mood. There is
indeed nothing very new in it. You know me well, and what I am; in
no respect am I changed, so you may smile at this and rejoice. I
could say and wish many other things for you, but none better; and
this letter too shall contain nothing else. You know that I am
always your own; and may it please God to bestow on you all that I
hope and pray.

  [Music]

  [Music]

  [Music]


     Linz, August 11th, 1830.

     Dearest Mother,

"How a travelling musician bore his bad luck in Salzburg."
A fragment from the unwritten journal of Count F. M. B.
(continuation.) After I had finished my last letter to you, a
regular day of misfortunes commenced for me. I took up my pencil,
and so entirely destroyed two of my pet sketches, taken in the
Bavarian mountains, that I was obliged to tear them from my book,
and to throw them out of the window. This provoked me exceedingly;
so to divert my mind, I went to the Capuchin Hill: of course I
contrived to lose my way, and at the very moment, when I at last
found myself on the summit, it began to rain so furiously that I
was forced to run down again with all speed under the shelter of an
umbrella. Well! I resolved at all events to have a look at the
monastery at the foot of the hill, so I rang the bell, when I
suddenly recollected that I had not sufficient money to give the
monk who was to show the building, and as this is a kind of thing
that they take highly amiss, I hurried away without waiting till
the porter appeared.

I then closed my packet of letters for Leipzig, and took it myself
to the post, but there I was told, that it must first be examined
at the Custom-house; so thither I went. They kept me waiting a
whole hour, till they composed a certificate of three lines, and
behaved so saucily that I was forced to quarrel with them. Hang
Salzburg! thought I; so I ordered horses for Ischl, where I hoped
to escape from all my bad luck. No horses were to be had without a
permission from the police. I went to the police office. "No
permission can be granted till you bring your passport." Why pursue
the subject? After innumerable delays, and running about hither and
thither, the wished-for post-carriage arrived. My dinner was over,
my luggage ready, and I thought that at last all was in good train:
my bill and the servants fees were paid.

Just as I reached the door, I saw two handsome open carriages
approaching at a foot's pace, and the people of the inn hurrying to
receive the travellers, who were following on foot. I however paid
no attention to the new arrivals, but jumped into my carriage. I
observed, that at the same moment, one of the travelling carriages
drew up close to mine, and that a lady was seated in it,--but what
a lady! That you may not instantly jump to the conclusion that I
had suddenly fallen in love, which would have been the crowning
point of my unlucky day, I must tell you that she was an elderly
lady; but she looked very amiable and benevolent; she wore a black
dress, and a massive gold chain, and smiled good-humouredly when
she paid the postilion his fare. Heaven knows why I continued to
arrange my luggage instead of driving off. I did look across
continually at the other carriage, and though the lady was an
entire stranger to me I felt a strong inclination to address her.
It might be mere imagination on my part, but I do think that she
too looked at the dusty traveller in his student's cap. At length
she got out of the carriage, and stood close to the door of my
vehicle, leaning her hand on it, and I required all my knowledge of
the common proprieties of travelling, not to get out myself and say
to her, "Dear lady, what may your name be?" Routine however
conquered, and I called out with an air of dignity, "Postilion! go
on!" on which the lady quickly withdrew her hand, and we set off. I
felt in no very pleasant humour, and while thinking over the events
of the day, I fell asleep.

A carriage with two gentlemen passing us, woke me up, and the
following dialogue ensued between the postilion and myself. _I._
These gentlemen are coming from Ischl, so I shall probably find no
horses there. _He._ Oh! the two carriages that stopped at the Inn
were also from Ischl; still there is no doubt you will get horses.
_I._ Are you sure they came from Ischl? _He._ Quite sure: they go
there every year, and were here last summer also; I drove them. It
is a baroness from Vienna, (Heavens! thought I,) and she is
dreadfully rich, and has such handsome daughters. When they went to
Berchtesgaden to visit the mines, I drove them, and very nice they
looked in their miner's dresses: they have a grand estate, and yet
they speak to us quite familiarly. Halt! cried I; what name?--Don't
know.--Pereira?[4]--Not sure.--Drive back,--said I in a resolute
tone.--If I do, we shall not reach Ischl to-night, and we have got
over the worst hill; you can learn the name at the next stage.--I
hesitated, and we drove on. They did not know the name at the next
stage, nor at the following one either. At length, at the end of
seven long wearisome hours, we arrived, and before I left the
carriage, I said, who were the party who drove to Salzburg this
morning in two carriages? and received the quiet reply,--Baroness
Pereira; she proceeds to Gastein early to-morrow morning, but
returns four or five days hence. Now I had arrived at a certainty,
and I also spoke to her driver, who said that none of the family
were here. The two gentlemen I met in a carriage on the road, were
sons of the Baroness (the very two I had never seen). In addition
to all this, I remembered a wretched portrait that I had once got a
glimpse of at our aunt H----'s, and the lady in the black dress was
Baroness Pereira! Heaven knows when I may have another opportunity
of seeing her! I do not think that she ever could have made a more
pleasing impression on me, and I shall not assuredly soon forget
her attractive appearance, and her kind expression of countenance.

  [4] A relation of the family.

Nothing is more unsatisfactory than a presentiment; we all
experience them, but we never discover till too late, that they
really were presentiments. I would have returned then and there,
and travelled through the night, but I reflected that I should only
overtake her at the very moment of her departure, or that possibly
she might have left Salzburg before my arrival, and that I should
thus frustrate all the plan of my journey to Vienna. At one moment
I thought of going to Gastein, but I could not help feeling that
Salzburg had treated me very badly, so I once more said adieu, and
went to bed very crest-fallen. Next morning I desired that her
empty house should be pointed out to me, and made a sketch of it
for you, dear mother. My bad luck, however, was still growling in
the distance, for I could find no favourable spot to take my sketch
from. Besides, they charged me more than a ducat at the inn for
one night's entertainment, etc., etc. I gave utterance to various
anathemas, both in English and German, and drove away, laying aside
among the things of the past, Ischl, Salzburg, Baroness Pereira,
and the Traunsee; and so I came on here, where I have taken a day's
rest.

To-morrow I intend to pursue my journey, and (D. V.) to sleep in
Vienna the day after. I will write to you further from thence. Thus
ended my day of misfortunes; "truth, and _no_ poetry," not even the
leaning the hand against the door of my carriage is invention; all
is a portrait taken from life. The most incomprehensible thing is
that I should have totally overlooked Flora, who it seems was also
there, for the old lady in a tartan cloak, who went into the inn,
was Frau von W----, and the old gentleman with green spectacles who
followed her, could not well have been Flora? In short, when things
once take a wrong turn, they will have their course. I can write no
more to-day, for my disappointment is still too recent; in my next
letter I will describe the Salzkammergut, and all the beauties of
my journey yesterday. How right Devrient was to advise me to take
this route! The Traunstein also, and the Traun Falls, are
wonderfully fine; and after all, the world is a very pleasant
world, and it is fortunate for me that you are in it, and that I
shall find letters from you the day after to-morrow, and possibly
much that is agreeable besides. Dear Fanny, I mean now to compose
my _Non nobis_, and the symphony in A minor. Dear Rebecca, if you
could hear me singing "Im warmen Thal" in a spasmodic fashion, you
would think it rather deplorable; you could sing it better. Oh,
Paul! can you declare that you understand the Schein Gulden, W. W.
Gulden, heavy Gulden, light Gulden, Conventions Gulden, and the
devil and his grandmother's Gulden? I don't, one bit. I wish
therefore that you were with me, but for many reasons besides this
one. Farewell!


     Presburg, September 27th, 1830.

     Dear Brother,

Peals of bells, drums and music, carriages on carriages, people
hurrying in all directions, everywhere gay crowds, such is the
general aspect around me, for to-morrow is to be the coronation of
the King, which the whole city has been expecting since yesterday,
and are now imploring that the sky may clear up, and wake bright
and cheerful, for the grand ceremony which ought to have taken
place yesterday was obliged to be deferred on account of the
torrents of rain. This afternoon the sky is blue and beautiful, and
the moon is now shining down tranquilly on the tumult of the city.
To-morrow at a very early hour the Crown Prince is to take his
oaths (as King of Hungary) in the large Market-place; he is then to
go to church in grand procession, attended by a whole array of
bishops and nobles of the realm, and afterwards rides up the
Koenigsberg, which lies opposite my windows, in order to wave his
sword towards the banks of the Danube and the four quarters of the
globe, in token that he takes possession of his new realm.

This excursion has made me acquainted with a new country; for
Hungary with her magnates, her high dignitaries, her Oriental
luxury, and also her barbarism, is to be seen here, and the streets
offer a spectacle which is to me both novel and striking. We really
seem here to approach closer to the East; the miserably obtuse
peasants or serfs; the troops of gipsies; the equipages and
retainers of the nobles overloaded with gold and gems, (for the
grandees themselves are only visible through the closed windows of
their carriages); then the singularly bold national physiognomy,
the yellow hue, the long moustaches, the soft foreign idiom--all
this makes the most motley impression in the world.

Early yesterday I went alone through the streets. First came a long
array of jovial officers, on spirited little horses; behind them a
crew of gipsies, making music; succeeded by Vienna fashionables,
with eye-glasses and kid gloves, conversing with a Capuchin monk;
then a couple of uncivilized peasants in long white coats, their
hats pressed down on their foreheads, and their straight black hair
cut even all round, (they have reddish-brown complexions, a languid
gait, and an indescribable expression of savage stupidity and
indifference); then came a couple of sharp, acute-looking students
of theology, in their long blue coats, walking arm-in-arm;
Hungarian proprietors in their dark blue national costume; court
servants; and numbers of carriages every moment arriving, covered
with mud. I followed the crowd as they slowly moved on up the hill,
and so at last I arrived at the dilapidated castle, which commands
an extensive view of the whole city and the Danube. People were
looking down on all sides from the ancient white walls, and from
the towers and balconies; in every corner boys were scribbling
their names on the walls for the benefit of posterity; in a small
chamber (perhaps once on a time a chapel, or a sleeping-apartment)
an ox was in the act of being roasted whole, and as it turned on
the spit, the people shouted with delight; a succession of cannons
bristled before the castle, destined to bellow forth their
appropriate thunders at the coronation.

Below, on the Danube, which runs very rapidly here, darting with
the speed of an arrow through the pontoon bridge, lay a new
steamer, that had just arrived, laden with strangers; then the
extensive view of the flat but wooded country, and meadows
overflowed by the Danube; of the embankments and streets swarming
with human beings, and mountains clothed with Hungarian vines--all
this was not a little strange and foreign. Then the pleasant
contrast of living in the same house with the best and most
friendly people in the world, and finding novelty doubly
interesting in their society. These were really among the happy
days, dear brother, that a kind Providence so often and so richly
bestows on me.


     September 28th, one o'clock.

The King is crowned--the ceremony was wonderfully fine. How can I
even try to describe it to you? An hour hence we will all drive
back to Vienna, and thence I pursue my journey. There is a
tremendous uproar under my windows, and the Burgher-guards are
flocking together, but only for the purpose of shouting "_Vivat!_"
I pushed my way through the crowd, while our ladies saw everything
from the windows, and never can I forget the effect of all this
brilliant and almost fabulous magnificence.

In the great square of the Hospitallers the people were closely
packed together, for there the oaths were to be taken on a platform
hung with cloth; and afterwards the people were to be allowed the
privilege of tearing down the cloth for their own use; close by was
a fountain spouting red and white Hungarian wine. The grenadiers
could not keep back the people; one unlucky hackney coach that
stopped for a moment was instantly covered with men, who clambered
on the spokes of the wheels, and on the roof, and on the box,
swarming on it like ants, so that the coachman, unable to drive on
without becoming a murderer, was forced to wait quietly where he
was. When the procession arrived, which was received bare-headed, I
had the utmost difficulty in taking off my hat, and holding it
above my head; an old Hungarian, however, behind me, whose view it
intercepted, quickly devised a remedy, for without ceremony he made
a snatch at my unlucky hat, and in an instant flattened it to the
size of a cap; then they yelled as if they had all been spitted,
and fought for the cloth; in short they were a mob; but my Magyars!
the fellows look as if they were born noblemen, and privileged to
live at ease, looking very melancholy, but riding like the devil.

When the procession descended the hill, first came the court
servants, covered with embroidery, the trumpeters and kettle drums,
the heralds and all that class, and then suddenly galloped along
the street a mad Count, _en pleine carriere_, his horse plunging
and capering, and the caparisons edged with gold; the Count himself
a mass of diamonds, rare herons' plumes, and velvet embroidery
(though he had not yet assumed his state uniform, being bound to
ride so madly--Count Sandor is the name of this furious cavalier.)
He had an ivory sceptre in his hand with which he urged on his
horse, causing it each time to rear, and to make a tremendous bound
forward.

When his wild career was over, a procession of about sixty more
magnates arrived, all in the same fantastic splendour, with
handsome coloured turbans, twisted moustaches, and dark eyes. One
rode a white horse covered with a gold net; another a dark grey,
the bridle and housings studded with diamonds; then came a black
charger with purple cloth caparisons. One magnate was attired from
head to foot in sky blue, thickly embroidered with gold, a white
turban, and a long white dolman; another in cloth of gold, with a
purple dolman; each one more rich and gaudy than the other, and all
riding so boldly and fearlessly, and with such defiant gallantry,
that it was quite a pleasure to look at them. At length came the
Hungarian Guards, with Esterhazy at their head, dazzling in gems
and pearl embroidery. How can I describe the scene? You ought to
have seen the procession deploy and halt in the spacious square,
and all the jewels and bright colours, and the lofty golden mitres
of the bishops, and the crucifixes glittering in the brilliant
sunshine like a thousand stars!

Well, to-morrow, God willing, I proceed on my journey. Now, dear
brother, you have a letter, so pray write soon, and let me hear how
you are getting on. So you have had an _emeute_ in Berlin? and
that, too, an _emeute_ of tailors' apprentices? What did it all
mean? Once more I send you my farewell from Germany, my dear
parents, and brother and sisters. I am leaving Hungary for Italy,
and thence I hope to write to you more frequently and more at
leisure. Be of good cheer, dear Paul, and go forwards in a
confident spirit; rejoice with those that rejoice, and do not
forget the brother who is wandering about the world.

     Yours, FELIX.


     Venice, October 10th, 1830.

Italy at last! and what I have all my life considered as the
greatest possible felicity, is now begun, and I am basking in it.
The day has been so fruitful in enjoyment, that I must, now that it
is evening, endeavour to collect my thoughts a little to write to
you, my dear parents, and to thank you for having bestowed such
happiness on me. You also, my dear brother and sisters, are often
in my thoughts. How much I wish for you, Paul, to be with me here,
once more to enjoy your delight in our rapid travels by sea and by
land; and I should like to prove to you, Hensel, that the
"Assumption of the Blessed Virgin" is the most divine work ever
produced by the hands of man. You are not here, however, so I am
obliged to give vent to my enthusiasm in bad Italian to the
_laquais de place_, who stands still and listens.

I shall however become quite confused, if things are to go on as
they have done on this first day, when every hour brought with it
so much never to be forgotten, that I do not know where to find
sufficient grasp of intellect to comprehend it all properly. I saw
the "Assumption," then a whole gallery of paintings in the Manfrini
Palace; then a church festival in the church where hangs Titian's
St. Peter; afterwards St. Mark's, and in the afternoon I had a row
on the Adriatic, and visited the public gardens, where the people
lie on the grass and eat. I then returned to the Piazza of St.
Mark, where in the twilight there is always an immense crowd and
crush of people; and all this I was obliged to see to-day, because
there is so much that is novel and interesting to be seen
to-morrow.

But I must now relate methodically how I came hither by water,
(for, as Telemachus says, to do so by land would be no easy
matter,) and so I begin my history at Gratz, which is certainly the
most tiresome hole in the world, and where you yawn all day; and
why should I have stayed a single day longer, on account of a (he)
relation? How can a traveller with any experience possibly accept
of a brother, who is also an ensign, in the place of a charming
mother and sister? In short, the man did not know what to do with
me, for which I forgive him freely, and shall not defame him to his
mother, when I perform my promise and write to her; but he took me
to the theatre to see the "Rehbock," the most wretched, silly,
objectionable piece that the late Kotzebue ever wrote; and moreover
he declared it to be very good and very amusing, and this is not to
be forgiven, for this _Rehbock_ has such a _haut gout_ or _fumet_,
that it could not even please a cat: but at all events I have left
Gratz, for here I am in Venice.

My old vetturino woke me up at four o'clock in the dark, and the
horse crawled off with us both. I thought of you, dear father, at
least a hundred times during our journey of two days. You would
certainly have gone wild with impatience, and possibly assaulted
the coachman also, for at every little declivity, he got slowly off
the box, deliberately put on the drag, and crept up the smallest
hill at a snail's pace; then he thought fit to walk beside his
horses for a time, to stretch his legs: every possible conveyance
passed us on the road, even when drawn by dogs or donkeys, and when
at last, at a steep hill, the fellow put on two oxen as leaders,
whose pace exactly corresponded with that of his horse, I had the
greatest difficulty in not belabouring him, indeed I did so more
than once; but he then gravely assured me that we were going at a
capital pace, and I had no means of proving the contrary. Moreover
he always passed the night in the most detestable pot-houses,
starting again at four o'clock in the morning, so on arriving at
Klagenfurt I was fairly worn out; but when in answer to my question
as to the time the Venetian diligence set out, I received the
answer,--in an hour hence,--I seemed to revive. I was promised a
place, and I also got a good supper. The diligence, indeed, did not
arrive for two hours after its time, having been detained by deep
snow on the Soemmering, but still it came at last. Three Italians
were inside, and chattered so that I could scarcely get to sleep,
but my snoring fairly silenced them after a time.

At last morning broke, and as we drove into Resciutta, the driver
said, that on the other side of the bridge there, no one understood
a word of German. I therefore took leave of my mother tongue for a
long time to come, and we drove over the bridge. The style of the
houses immediately beyond was entirely different. The flat roofs
with their convex tiles, the deep windows, the high white walls,
and lofty square towers, all betokened another land. The pale olive
faces of the men, the innumerable beggars who besieged the
carriage, the various small chapels, brightly and carefully painted
on every side with flowers, the nuns, monks, and so forth, were all
symptomatic of Italy. The monotonous character of the whole scenery
however, and of the road we were travelling, passing through bare
white rocks, along the banks of a river with a rough rocky bed, in
summer creeping along in the form of a tiny brook, certainly does
not seem characteristic of Italy. "I purposely made this passage
rather meagre, in order that the _subject_ might be more distinctly
heard," says Abt Vogler; and I almost think that Providence has
done pretty much the same here, for when we had passed Ospedaletto
the _subject_ did come out well, and a fine sight it was. I had
imagined that the first impression of Italy would be like that of a
sudden explosion, violent and startling; I have not hitherto found
this to be the case. The effect produced on me has been rather that
of a genial warmth, mildness and cheerfulness, and an indescribable
sensation of pervading content and satisfaction.

After passing Ospedaletto we entered a plain, leaving the blue
mountains behind us; the sun shone bright and warm through the
foliage of the vines; the road winding through orchards, in which
the trees were connected by trailing boughs. I felt as if I were
at home again, and knew every object, and was once more about to
take possession of it all. The carriage too seemed to _fly_ over
the smooth road, and towards evening we arrived at Udine, where we
passed the night, when for the first time I ordered my supper in
Italian, my tongue skating as if on slippery ice, first gliding
into English, and then stumbling afresh. Moreover next morning I
was famously cheated, but I did not in the least care, and on we
went. It happened to be Sunday, and on every side people were
coming along, in bright southern costumes, and flowers; the women
with roses in their hair. Light single-horse carriages drove past,
and men were riding to church on donkeys; at the inns, groups of
idlers were to be seen in the most picturesque, indolent attitudes:
among others, one man placed his arm quietly round his wife's
waist, and swung round with her and then they went on their way;
this sounds trivial enough, and yet it had a pretty effect.
Venetian villas now were occasionally visible from the road, and by
degrees became more frequent, till at length our way led past
houses, trees, and gardens like a park. The whole country had a gay
festive air, as if a Prince were expected to make his grand entry,
and the vine-branches with their rich purple grapes hanging in
festoons from the trees, made the most lovely of all festive
wreaths. The inhabitants were all gaily dressed and adorned, and a
few scattered cypresses only enhanced the general effect.

In Treviso there was an illumination, paper lanterns suspended in
every part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in
the centre. Some most lovely girls were walking about, in their
long white veils and scarlet petticoats. It was quite dark when we
arrived at Mestre last night, when we got into a boat, and in a
dead calm, gently rowed across to Venice. On our passage thither,
where nothing but water is to be seen, and distant lights, we saw a
small rock which stands in the midst of the sea; on this a lamp was
burning; all the sailors took off their hats as we passed, and one
of them said, this was the "Madonna of Tempests," which are often
most dangerous and violent here. We then glided quietly into the
great city, under innumerable bridges, without sound of post-horns,
or rattling of wheels, or toll-keepers; the passage now became more
thronged, and numbers of ships were lying near; past the theatre,
where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters, just as
our own carriages do at home, then into the great canal, past the
church of St. Mark, the Lions, the palace of the Doges, and the
Bridge of Sighs. The obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on
hearing the familiar names, and seeing the dark outlines.

And so I am actually in Venice! Well, to-day I have seen the finest
pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the
acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto I only knew by
name--I allude to a certain Signor Giorgione, an inimitable
artist--and also to Pordenone, who paints the most noble
portraits, both of himself and many of his simple scholars, in such
a devout, faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse
with him, and to feel an affection for him. Who would not have been
confused by all this? But if I am to speak of Titian, I must do so
in a more reverent mood. Till now, I never knew that he was the
felicitous artist I have this day seen him to be. That he
thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and fulness, the picture
in Paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human sorrow, as
well as the joys of Heaven. His glorious "Entombment," and also the
"Assumption," fully evince this. How Mary floats on the cloud,
while a waving movement seems to pervade the whole picture; how you
see at a glance her very breathing, her awe, and piety, and in
short a thousand feelings,--all words seem poor and commonplace in
comparison! The three angels too, on the right of the picture, are
of the highest order of beauty,--pure, serene loveliness, so
unconscious, so bright and so seraphic. But no more of this! or I
must perforce become poetical, or indeed am so already, and this
does not at all suit me; but I shall certainly see it every day.

I must however say a few words about the "Entombment," as you have
the engraving. Look at it, and think of me. This picture represents
the conclusion of a great tragedy: so still, so grand, and so
acutely painful. Magdalene is supporting Mary, fearing that she
will die of anguish; she endeavours to lead her away, but looks
round herself once more, evidently wishing to imprint this
spectacle indelibly on her heart, thinking that it is for the last
time; it surpasses everything; and then the sorrowing John, who
sympathizes and suffers with Mary; and Joseph, who absorbed in his
piety, and occupied with the tomb, directs and conducts the whole;
and Christ himself, lying there so tranquil, having endured to the
end: then the blaze of brilliant colour, and the gloomy mottled
sky! It is a composition that speaks to my heart and fills me with
enthusiasm, and will never leave my memory.

I believe few things I have yet to see in Italy will affect me so
deeply; but you know that I am devoid of all prejudices, and I give
you a fresh proof of this by telling you that the "Martyrdom of St.
Peter," from which I expected the most, pleased me the least of the
three; it did not strike me as being a complete whole; the
landscape, which is very fine, seemed to me to predominate
too much. Then I was dissatisfied with the disposition in the
picture of _two_ victims and only _one_ murderer; (for the small
figure inthe distant background does not remedy this). I could
not bring myself to consider it a martyrdom. But probably I am
in error, and I intend to study it more carefully to-morrow; my
contemplation of it, besides, was disturbed by some one strumming most
sacrilegiously on the organ, and these sacred forms were forced to
listen to such miserable opera _finales_! But this matters not:
where such pictures are, I require no organist. I play the organ in
my thoughts for myself, and feel as little irritated by such trash
as I should be by an ignorant rabble. Titian, however, was a man
well adapted to improve others; so I shall try to profit by him,
and to rejoice that I am in Italy. At this moment the gondoliers
are shouting to each other, and the lights are reflected in the
depths of the waters; one is playing a guitar, and singing to it.
It is a charming night. Farewell! and think of me in every happy
hour as I do of you.

        FELIX.


TO PROFESSOR ZELTER.[5]

     Venice, October 16th, 1830.

     Dear Professor,

I have entered Italy at last, and I intend this letter to be the
commencement of a regular series of reports, which I purpose
transmitting to you, of all that appears to me particularly worthy
of notice. Though I only now for the first time write to you, I
must beg you to impute the blame to the state of constant
excitement in which I lived, both in Munich and in Vienna. It was
needless for me to describe to you the parties in Munich, which I
attended every evening, and where I played the piano more
unremittingly than I ever did in my life before; one _soiree_
succeeding another so closely, that I really had not a moment to
collect my thoughts. Moreover, it would not have particularly
interested you, for after all, "good society which does not offer
materials for the smallest epigram," is equally vapid in a letter.
I hope that you have not taken amiss my long silence, and that I
may expect a few lines from you, even if they contain nothing save
that you are well and cheerful.

  [5] Mendelssohn's instructor in the theory of music.

The aspect of the world at this moment is very bleak and stormy,
and much that was once thought durable and unchangeable, has been
swept away in the course of a couple of days. It is then doubly
welcome to hear well-known voices, to convince us that there are
certain things which cannot be annihilated or demolished, but
remain firm and steadfast. You must know that I am at this moment
very uneasy at not having received any news from home for some
weeks past. I found no letters from my family, either at Trieste or
here, so a few lines from you, written in your old fashion, would
both cheer and gratify me, especially as it would prove that you
think of me with the same kindness that you have always done from
my childhood to the present time.

My family have no doubt told you of the exhilarating impression
made on me by the first sight of the plains of Italy. I hurry from
one enjoyment to another hour by hour, and constantly see something
novel and fresh; but immediately on my arrival I discovered some
masterpieces of art, which I study with deep attention, and
contemplate daily for a couple of hours at least. These are three
pictures by Titian. The "Presentation of Mary as a Child in the
Temple;" the "Assumption of the Virgin;" and the "Entombment of
Christ." There is also a portrait by Giorgione, representing a girl
with a cithern in her hand, plunged in thought, and looking forth
from the picture in serious meditation (she is apparently about to
begin a song, and you feel as if you must do the same): besides
many others.

To see these alone would be worth a journey to Venice; for the
fruitfulness, genius, and devotion of the great men who painted
these pictures, seem to emanate from them afresh as often as you
gaze at their works, and I do not much regret that I have scarcely
heard any music here; for I suppose I must not venture to include
the music of the angels, in the "Assumption," encircling Mary with
joyous shouts of welcome; one gaily beating the tambourine, a
couple of others blowing away on strange crooked flutes, while
another charming group are singing--or the music floating in the
thoughts of the cithern player. I have only once heard anything on
the organ, and miserable it was. I was gazing at Titian's
"Martyrdom of St. Peter" in the Franciscan Church. Divine service
was going on, and nothing inspires me with more solemn awe than
when on the very spot for which they were originally created and
painted, those ancient pictures in all their grandeur, gradually
steal forth out of the darkness in which the long lapse of time has
veiled them.

As I was earnestly contemplating the enchanting evening landscape
with its trees, and angels among the boughs, the organ commenced.
The first sound was quite in harmony with my feelings; but the
second, third, and in fact all the rest, quickly roused me from my
reveries, and sent me straight home, for the man was playing in
church and during divine service, and in the presence of
respectable people, thus:

  [Music]

with the "Martyrdom of St. Peter" actually close beside him! I was
therefore in no great hurry to make the acquaintance of the
organist. There is no regular Opera here at this moment, and the
gondoliers no longer sing, Tasso's stanzas; moreover, what I have
hitherto seen of modern Venetian art, consists of poems framed and
glazed on the subject of Titian's pictures, or Rinaldo and Armida,
by a new Venetian painter, or a St. Cecilia by a ditto, besides
various specimens of architecture in no style at all; as all these
are totally insignificant, I cling to the ancient masters, and
study how they worked. Often, after doing so, I feel a musical
inspiration, and since I came here I have been busily engaged in
composition.

Before I left Vienna, a friend of mine made me a present of
Luther's Hymns, and on reading them over I was again so much struck
by their power, that I intend to compose music for several next
winter. I have nearly completed here the choral "Aus tiefer Noth,"
for four voices _a capella_; and the Christmas hymn, "Vom Himmel
hoch," is already in my head. I wish also to set the following
hymns to music: "Ach Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein," "Wir glauben
all' an einen Gott," "Verleih uns Frieden," "Mitten wir im Leben
sind," and finally "Ein' feste Burg." The latter, however, it is my
intention to compose for a choir and orchestra. Pray write to me
about this project of mine, and say whether you approve of my
retaining the ancient melodies in them all, but not adhering to
them too strictly: for instance, if I were to take the first verse
of "Vom Himmel hoch" as a separate grand chorus. Besides this, I am
hard at work at an orchestral overture, and if an opportunity for
an opera offered it would be most welcome.

I finished two pieces of sacred music in Vienna--a choral in three
movements for chorus and orchestra ("O! Haupt voll Blut und
Wunden") and an Ave Maria for a choir of eight voices, _a capella_.
The people I associated with there were so dissipated and
frivolous, that I became quite spiritually-minded, and conducted
myself like a divine among them. Moreover, not one of the best
pianoforte players there, male or female, ever played a note of
Beethoven, and when I hinted that he and Mozart were not to be
despised, they said, "So you are an admirer of classical
music?"--"Yes," said I.

To-morrow I intend to go to Bologna to have a glance at the St.
Cecilia, and then proceed by Florence to Rome, where I hope (D. V.)
to arrive eight or ten days hence. I will then write to you more
satisfactorily. I only wished to make a beginning to-day, and to
beg you not to forget me, and kindly to accept my heartfelt wishes
for your health and happiness. Your faithful

        FELIX.


     Florence, October 23rd, 1830.

Here am I in Florence, the air warm and the sky bright; everything
is beautiful and glorious, "wo blieb die Erde," as Goethe says. I
have now received your letter of the 3rd, by which I see that you
are all well, that my anxiety was needless, that you are all going
on as usual, and thinking of me; so I feel happy again, and can
now see everything, and enjoy everything, and am able to write to
you; in short, my mind is at rest on the main point. I made my
journey here amid a thousand doubts and fears, quite uncertain
whether to go direct to Rome, because I did not expect any letters
at Florence. Fortunately, however, I decided on coming here, and
now it is of no consequence how the misunderstanding arose, that
caused me to wait for letters in Venice, while you had written to
Florence; all I can promise is to endeavour in future to be less
over-anxious. My driver pointed out a spot between the hills, on
which lay a blue mist, and said "_Ecco Firenze!_" I eagerly looked
towards the place, and saw the round dome looming out of the mist
before me, and the spacious wide valley in which the city is
situated. My love of travel revived when at last Florence appeared.
I looked at some willow-trees (as I thought) beside the road, when
the driver said, "Buon olio," and then I saw that they were hanging
full of olives.

My driver, as a genus, is undoubtedly a most villanous knave,
thief, and impostor; he has cheated me and half-starved me, and yet
I think him almost amiable from his enthusiastic animal nature.
About an hour before we arrived in Florence he said that the
beautiful scenery was now about to commence; and true it is that
the fair land of Italy does first begin then. There are villas on
every height, and decorated old walls, with sloping terraces of
roses and aloes, flowers and grapes and olive leaves, the sharp
points of cypresses, and the flat tops of pines, all sharply
defined against the sky; then handsome square faces, busy life on
the roads on every side, and at a distance in the valley, the blue
city.

So I drove confidently into Florence in my little open carriage,
and though I looked shabby and dusty, like one coming from the
Apennines, I cared little for that. I passed recklessly through all
the smart equipages from which the most refined English ladies
looked at me; while I thought it may one day actually come to pass
that you who are now looking down on the _roturier_, may shake
hands with him, the only difference being a little clean linen and
so forth. By the time that we came to the _battisterio_, I no
longer felt diffident, but gave orders to drive to the Post, and
then I was really happy, for I received three letters,--yours of
the 22nd and the 3rd, and my father's also. I was now quite
delighted, and as we drove along beside the Arno, to Schneider's
celebrated hotel, the world seemed once more a very pleasant world.


     October 24th.

The Apennines are really not so beautiful as I had imagined; for
the name always suggested to me richly wooded, picturesque hills,
covered with vegetation, whereas they are merely a long chain of
melancholy bleak hills; and the little verdure there is, not
gratifying to the eye. There are no dwellings to be seen, no merry
brooks or rills; only an occasional stream, its broad bed dried up,
or a little water-channel. Add to this the shameful roguery of the
inhabitants: really, at last, I became quite confused and
perplexed, by their incessant cheating, and could scarcely discover
for what object they were lying. I therefore, once for all,
invariably protested against every demand they made, and declared
that I would not pay at all if they asked more than I chose to
give; so in this way I managed very tolerably.

Last night I was again in grand quarters: I had made an agreement
with the vetturino for board and lodging, and all I required. The
natural consequence was, that the fellow took me to the most
detestable little inns, and actually starved me. So late yesterday
we arrived at a solitary pothouse, the filth of which no pen can
describe. The stair was strewed with heaps of dead leaves and
firewood; moreover the cold was intense, and they invited me to
warm myself in the kitchen, which I agreed to do. A bench was
placed for me beside the fire; a whole troop of peasants were
standing about, also warming themselves. I looked quite regal from
my bench on the hearth among this rough set of fellows, who, in
their broad-leaved hats, lit up by the fire, and babbling in their
incomprehensible dialect, looked vastly suspicious characters. I
made them prepare my soup under my own eyes, giving moreover good
advice on the subject; but, after all, it was not eatable.

I entered into conversation with my subjects from my throne on the
hearth, and they pointed out to me a little hill in the distance
incessantly vomiting forth flames, which had a singular effect in
the dark ("Raticosa" is the name of the hill), and then I was
conducted to my bed-room. The landlord took hold of the sackcloth
sheets, and said, "Very fine linen!" but I slept as sound as a
bear, and before falling asleep I said to myself, Now you are in
the Apennines: and next morning, after getting no breakfast, my
vetturino civilly asked me how I liked my night's entertainment.
The fellow talked a great deal of nonsense about politics, and the
present state of France, abused his horse in German for being born
in Switzerland, and spoke French to the beggars who swarmed round
the cabriolet, while I corrected many a fault in his pronunciation.


     October 25th.

I now intend to go once more to the Tribune, to be inspired with
feelings of reverence. There is a particular place where I like to
sit, as the little Venus de' Medici is directly opposite, and
above, that of Titian, and by turning rather to the left, I have a
view of the Madonna del Cardello, a favourite picture of mine, and
which invariably reminds me of _la belle Jardiniere_, and seems to
me a kindred creation; and also the Fornarina, which made no great
impression on me from the first, for I know the engraving, which is
very faithful, and the face has, I think, a most disagreeable and
even ordinary expression. In gazing thus, however, at the two
Venuses, their loveliness inspires a feeling of piety; it is as if
the two spirits who could produce such creations, were flying
through the hall and grasping you as they passed.

Titian must have been a marvellous man, and enjoyed his life in his
works; still the fair Medici is not to be slighted, and then the
divine Niobe with all her children: while we gaze at her, we can
find no words. I have not yet been to the Pitti Palace, which
possesses the Saint Ezekiel, and the Madonna della Sedia, of
Raphael. I saw the gardens of the palace yesterday in sunshine;
they are superb, and the thick solid stems of the myrtles and
laurels, and the innumerable cypresses, made a strange exotic
impression on me; but when I declare that I consider beeches,
limes, oaks, and firs, ten times more beautiful and picturesque, I
think I hear Hensel exclaim, "Oh, the northern bear!"


     October 30th.

After the soft rain of yesterday, the air is so mild and genial,
that I am at this moment seated at the open window writing to you;
and indeed it is pleasant enough to see the people going about the
streets, offering the prettiest baskets of flowers, fresh violets,
roses, and pinks. Two days ago, being satiated with all pictures,
statues, vases, and museums, I resolved to take a long walk till
sunset; so after buying a bunch of narcissuses and heliotropes, I
went up the hill through the vineyards. It was one of the most
delightful walks I ever remember; every one must feel revived and
refreshed at the sight of nature in such a garb as this, and a
thousand happy thoughts passed through my mind.

First of all, I went to a villa called Bello Sguardo, whence the
whole of Florence and its spacious valley are to be seen, and I
thoroughly enjoyed the view of the superb city and its massive
towers and palaces. But most of all I admired the countless villas,
covering every hill and every acclivity as far as the eye can
reach, as if the city extended beyond the mountains into the far
distance. And when I took up a telescope and looked down on the
valley through the blue mists, every portion of it seemed thickly
dotted with bright objects and white villas, while such a large
circle of dwellings inspired me with a feeling of home and comfort.

I proceeded far over the hills to the highest point I could see, on
which stood an ancient tower, and when I reached it I found all the
people throughout the building busily engaged in making wine,
drying grapes, and repairing casks. It proved to be Galileo's
tower, from which he used to make his discoveries and observations;
from here also there was a very extensive view, and the girl who
took me to the roof of the tower related a number of stories in her
peculiar dialect, which I scarcely understood at all; but she
afterwards presented me with some of her sweet dried grapes, which
I ate with great gusto. And so I went on to another tower I saw at
a distance, but could not manage to find my way; and examining my
map as I went along, I stumbled on a traveller busily searching
his map also; the only difference between us being, that he was an
old Frenchman with green spectacles, who addressed me thus, "E
questo S. Miniato al Monte, Signor?" With admirable decision I
replied, "Si, Signor;" and it turned out that I was right. A. F----
immediately recurred to my memory, as she had advised me to see
this monastery, which is indeed wonderfully fine.

When I tell you I went from there to the Boboli Gardens, where I
saw the sun set, and at night enjoyed the brightest moonlight, you
may imagine how much I was invigorated by my ramble. I will write
to you about the pictures here some other time, for to-day it is
too late, as I have still to take leave of the Pitti Palace and the
great Gallery, and to gaze once more at my Venus, who is not indeed
mentioned before ladies, but whose beauty is truly divine. The
courier goes at five o'clock, and God willing, I shall be in Rome
the day after to-morrow. From thence you shall hear again.

        FELIX.


     Rome, November 2nd, 1830.

... I refrain from writing longer in this melancholy strain; for
just as your letter, after a lapse of fourteen days, has saddened
me, my answer will have the same effect on you fourteen days hence.
You would write to me in the same style, and so it might go on for
ever. As four weeks must pass before I can receive any answer, I
feel that I ought to restrict myself to relating events past and
present, and not dwell much on the particular frame of my mind at
the moment, which is indeed usually sufficiently manifest in the
narrative given, and the various occurrences described.

I have scarcely yet arrived at the conviction that I am now
actually in Rome; and when yesterday, just as day was breaking, I
drove across a bridge with statues, under a deep blue sky, and in
dazzling white moonlight, and the courier said, "Ponte Molle," it
all seemed to me like a dream, and at the same moment I saw before
me my sick-bed in London a year ago, and my rough Scotch journey,
and Munich, and Vienna, and the pines on these hills. The journey
from Florence to Rome has very few attractions. Siena, which is, I
understand worth seeing, we passed through during the night. It was
unpleasant to see a regular Government courier compelled to take a
military escort, which was doubled at night; still it must be
absolutely necessary, as he is obliged to pay for it. In these days
this ought not to be the case. In the meantime everything
progresses, and there are moments when the bound forwards is
actually visible.

I was still in Florence, waiting for the departure of the post,
reading a French newspaper, when at the very moment the bell
sounded, I read among the advertisements, "Vie de Siebenkaes, par
Jean Paul." Many reflections occurred to me as to so many men of
renown gradually vanishing from our sight, and our great geniuses
having such homage paid to them after their death, and yet during
their _life_, Lafontaine's novels and French vaudevilles alone make
any impression on their fellow-countrymen; while _we_ only strive
to appreciate the very refuse of the French, and neglect
Beaumarchais and Rousseau. However, it matters little after all.

The first thing connected with music that I met with here, was the
"Tod Jesu," by Graun, which an Abbate here, Fortunato Santini, has
translated faithfully and admirably into Italian. It appears that
the music of this heretic has been sent along with the translation
to Naples, where it is to be produced this winter at a great
festival, and I hear that the musical world there are quite
enchanted with it, and are studying the work with infinite love and
enthusiasm. I understand that the Abbate has been long impatiently
expecting me, because he hopes to obtain considerable information
from me about German music, and thinks I may also have the score of
Bach's "Passion." Thus music progresses onwards, as sure to pierce
through as the sun; if mists still prevail, it is merely a sign
that the spring-time has not yet come, but come again it must and
will! Farewell! and from my heart I say,--May a merciful Providence
preserve you all in health and happiness!

        FELIX.


     Rome, November 8th, 1830.

I must now write to you of my first week in Rome; how I have
arranged my time, how I look forward to the winter, and what
impression the glorious objects by which I am surrounded have made
on me; but this is no easy task. I feel as if I were entirely
changed since I came here. Formerly when I wished to check my haste
and impatience to press forward, and to continue my journey more
rapidly, I attributed this eagerness merely to the force of habit,
but I am now fully persuaded that it arose entirely from my anxiety
to reach this goal. Now that I have at last attained it my mood is
so tranquil and joyous, and yet so earnest, that I shall not
attempt to describe it to you. What it is that thus works on me I
cannot exactly define; for the awe-inspiring Coliseum, and the
brilliant Vatican, and the genial air of spring, all contribute to
make me feel thus, and so do the kindly people, my comfortable
apartments, and everything else. At all events I am different from
what I was. I am better in health and happier than I have been for
a long time, and take delight in my work, and feel such an
inclination for it, that I expect to accomplish much more than I
anticipated; indeed, I have already done a good deal. If it pleases
Providence to grant me a continuation of this happy mood, I look
forward to the most delightful and productive winter.

Picture to yourself a small house, with two windows in front, in
the Piazza di Spagna, No. 5 which all day long enjoys the warm
sun, and an apartment on the first floor, where there is a good
Viennese grand piano: on the table are some portraits of
Palestrina, Allegri, etc., along with the scores of their works,
and a Latin psalm-book, from which I am to compose the _Non
Nobis_;--such is my present abode. The Capitol was too far away,
besides I had a great dread of the cold air, which here I have no
cause to guard against; for when I look out of my window in the
morning across the square, I see every object sharply defined in
the sunshine against the blue sky. My landlord was formerly a
captain in the French army, and his daughter has the most splendid
contralto voice I ever heard. Above me lives a Prussian captain,
with whom I talk politics,--in short, the situation is excellent.

When I come into the room early in the morning, and see the sun
shining so brightly on the breakfast-table (you see I am marred as
a poet), I feel so cheerful and comfortable, for it is now far on
in the autumn, and who in our country at this season looks for
warmth, or a bright sky, or grapes and flowers? After breakfast I
begin my work, and play, and sing, and compose till near noon. Then
Rome in all her vast dimensions lies before me like an interesting
problem to enjoy; but I go deliberately to work, daily selecting
some different object appertaining to history. One day I visit the
ruins of the ancient city; another I go to the Borghese gallery, or
to the Capitol, or St. Peter's, or the Vatican. Each day is thus
made memorable, and as I take my time, each object becomes firmly
and indelibly impressed on me. When I am occupied in the forenoon I
am willing to leave off, and should like to continue my writing,
but I say to myself that I must see the Vatican, and when I am
actually there, I equally dislike leaving it; thus each of my
occupations causes me the most genuine pleasure, and one enjoyment
follows another.

Just as Venice, with her past, reminded me of a vast monument: her
crumbling modern palaces, and the perpetual remembrance of former
splendour, causing sad and discordant sensations; so does the past
of Rome suggest the impersonation of history; her monuments elevate
the soul, inspiring solemn yet serene feelings, and it is a thought
fraught with exultation that man is capable of producing creations,
which, after the lapse of a thousand years, still renovate and
animate others. When I have fairly imprinted an object like this on
my mind, and each day a fresh one, twilight has usually arrived and
the day is over.

I then visit my friends and acquaintances, when we mutually
communicate what each has done, which means _enjoyed_ here, and are
reciprocally pleased. I have been most evenings at Bendemann's and
Huebner's, where German artists usually assemble, and I sometimes go
to Schadow's. The Abbate Santini is a valuable acquaintance for me,
as he has a very complete library of ancient Italian music, and he
kindly gives or lends me anything I like, for no one can be more
obliging. At night he makes either Ahlborn or me accompany him
home, as an Abbate being seen alone at night in the streets would
bring him into evil repute. That such youngsters as Ahlborn and I
should act as duennas to a priest of sixty is diverting enough.

The Duchess of ---- gave me a list of old music which she was
anxious to procure copies of if possible. Santini's collection
contains all this, and I am much obliged to him for having
furnished me with copies, for I am now looking through them all,
and becoming acquainted with them. I beg you will send me for him,
as a token of my gratitude, the six cantatas of Sebastian Bach,
published by Marx at Simrock's, or some of his pieces for the
organ. I should however prefer the cantatas: he already has the
"Magnificat" and the Motets, and others. He has translated the
"Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied," and intends it to be executed at
Naples, for which he deserves a reward. I am writing to Zelter all
particulars about the Papal singers, whom I have heard three
times,--in the Quirinal, in the Monte Cavallo, and once in San
Carlo.

I look forward with delight to seeing Bunsen, we shall have much to
discuss together, and I have likewise an idea that he has got some
work for me; if I can conscientiously undertake it, I will do so
gladly, and render it all the justice in my power. Among my home
pleasures I include that of reading for the first time Goethe's
Journey to Italy; and I must avow that it is a source of great
satisfaction to me to find that he arrived in Rome the very same
day that I did; that he also went first to the Quirinal, and heard
a Requiem there; that he was seized with the same fit of impatience
in Florence and Bologna; and felt the same tranquil, or as he calls
it, solid spirit here: indeed, everything that he describes, I
exactly experience myself, so I am pleased.

He speaks in detail of a large picture of Titian's in the Vatican,
and declares that its meaning is not to be devised; only a number
of figures standing beautifully grouped together. I fancy, however,
that I have discovered a very deep sense in it, and I believe that
whoever finds the most beauties in Titian, is sure to be most in
the right, for he was a glorious man. Though he has not had the
opportunity of displaying and diffusing his genius here, as Raphael
has done in the Vatican, still I can never forget his three
pictures in Venice, and to these I may add the one in the Vatican,
which I saw for the first time this morning. If any one could come
into the world with full consciousness, every object around would
smile on him with the same vivid life and animation, that these
pictures do on us. "The School of Athens," and the "Disputa," and
the "Peter," stand before us precisely as they were created; and
then the entrance through splendid open arches, whence you can see
the Piazza of St. Peter's, and Rome, and the blue Alban hills; and
above our heads figures from the Old Testament, and a thousand
bright little angels, and arabesques of fruit, and garlands of
flowers; and then on to the gallery!

You may well be proud, dear Hensel, for your copy of the
"Transfiguration" is superb! The pleasing emotion which seizes me,
when I see for the first time some immortal work, and the pervading
idea and chief impression it inspires, I did not experience on this
occasion from the original, but from _your_ copy. The first effect
of this picture to-day, was precisely the same that yours had
previously made on me; and it was not till after considerable
research and contemplation that I succeeded in finding out anything
new to me. On the other hand, the Madonna di Foligno dawned on me
in the whole splendour of her loveliness. I have passed a happy
morning in the midst of all these glorious works; as yet I have not
visited the statues, but have reserved my first impression of them
for another day.


     November 9th, morning.

Thus every morning brings me fresh anticipations, and every day
fulfils them. The sun is again shining on my breakfast-table and I
am now going to my daily work. I will send you, dear Fanny, by the
first opportunity, what I composed in Vienna, and anything else
that may be finished, and my sketch-book to Rebecca; but I am far
from being pleased with it this time, so I intend to study
attentively the sketches of the landscape painters here, in order
to acquire if possible a new manner. I tried to produce one of my
own, but it would not do!

To-day I am going to the Lateran, and the ruins of ancient Rome;
and in the evening to a kind English family, whose acquaintance I
made here. Pray send me a good many letters of introduction. I am
exceedingly anxious to know numbers of people, especially Italians.
So I live on happily, and think of you in every pleasant moment.
May you also be happy, and rejoice with me at the prospect which
lies before me here!

        FELIX M. B.


     Rome, November 16th, 1830.

     Dear Fanny,

No post left this the day before yesterday, and I could not talk to
you, so when I remembered that my letter must necessarily remain
two days before it left Rome, I felt it impossible to write; but I
thought of you times without number, and wished you every
happiness, and congratulated myself that you were born a certain
number of years ago. It is, indeed, cheering to think what
charming, rational beings, are to be found in the world; and you
are certainly one of these. Continue cheerful, bright, and well,
and make no great change in yourself. I don't think you require to
be much better; may good fortune ever abide with you!

And now I think these are all my birthday good wishes; for really
it is not fair to expect that a man of my _calibre_ should wish you
also a fresh stock of musical ideas; besides you are very
unreasonable in complaining of any deficiency in that respect. _Per
Bacco!_ if you had the inclination, you certainly have sufficient
genius to compose, and if you have no desire to do so, why grumble
so much? If I had a baby to nurse, I certainly should not write any
scores, and as I have to compose _Non Nobis_, I cannot unluckily
carry my nephew about in my arms. But to speak seriously, your
child is scarcely six months old yet, and you can think of anything
but Sebastian?[6] (not Bach!) Be thankful that you have him. Music
only retreats when there is no longer a place for her, and I am not
surprised that you are not an unnatural mother. However, you have
my best wishes on your birthday, for all that your heart desires;
so I may as well wish you half-a-dozen melodies into the bargain;
not that this will be of much use.

  [6] The name of the child.

In Rome here, we celebrated the 14th of November by the sky
shining, in blue and festive array, and breathing on us warm genial
air. So I went on pleasantly towards the Capitol and into church,
where I heard a miserable sermon from ----, who is no doubt a very
good man, but to my mind has a most morose style of preaching; and
any one who could irritate me on _such_ a day, in the Capitol, and
in church, must have an especial talent for so doing. I afterwards
went to call on Bunsen, who had just arrived. He and his wife
received me most kindly, and we conversed on much that was
interesting, including politics and regrets for your absence.
_Apropos_, my favourite work that I am now studying is Goethe's
'Lili's Park,' especially three portions: "Kehr' ich mich um, und
brumm:" then, "Eh la menotte;" and best of all, "Die ganze Luft ist
warm, ist bluethevoll," where decidedly clarionets must be
introduced. I mean to make it the subject of a scherzo for a
symphony.

Yesterday, at dinner at Bunsen's, we had among others a German
musician. Oh, heavens! I wish I were a Frenchman! The man said to
me, "Music must be _handled_ every day." "Why?" replied I, which
rather embarrassed him. He also spoke of earnest purpose; and said
that Spohr had no earnest purpose, but that he had distinctly
discerned gleams of an earnest purpose in my _Tu es Petrus_. The
fellow, however, has a small property at Frascati, and is about to
_lay down_ the profession of music. We have not got so far as that
yet!

After dinner came Catel, Eggers, Senf, Wolf, then a painter, and
then two more, and others. I played the piano, and they asked for
pieces by Sebastian Bach, so I played numbers of his compositions,
which were much admired. I also explained clearly to them the mode
in which the "Passion" is executed; for they seemed scarcely to
believe it. Bunsen possesses it, arranged for the piano; he showed
it to the Papal singers, and they said before witnesses, that such
music could not possibly be executed by human voices. I think the
contrary. It seems, however, that Trautwein is about to publish
the score of the Passion of St. John. I suppose I must order a set
of studs for Paris, _a la Back_.

To-day Bunsen is to take me to Baini's, whom he has not seen for a
year as he never goes out except to hear confessions. I am glad to
know him, and shall endeavour to improve my intimacy with him, for
he can solve many an enigma for me. Old Santini continues as kind
as ever. When we are together in society, if I praise any
particular piece or am not acquainted with it, next morning he is
sure to knock gently at my door, and to bring me the piece in
question carefully wrapped up in a blue pocket-handkerchief; I, in
return, accompany him home every evening; and we have a great
regard for each other. He also brought me his _Te Deum_, written in
eight parts, requesting me to correct some of the modulations, as G
major predominates too much; so I mean to try if I cannot introduce
some A minor or E minor.

I am now very anxious to become acquainted with a good many
Italians. I visit at the house of a certain Maestro di San Giovanni
Laterano, whose daughters are musical, but not pretty, so this does
not count for much. If therefore you can send me letters, pray do
so. I work in the morning; at noon I see and admire, and thus the
day glides away till sunset: but I should like in the evening to
associate with the Roman world. My kind English friends have
arrived from Venice; Lord Harrowby and his family are to pass the
winter here. Schadow, Bendeman, Bunsen, Tippelskirch, all receive
every evening; in short I have no lack of acquaintances, but I
should like to know some Italians also.

The present, dear Fanny, that I have prepared for your birthday, is
a psalm, for chorus and orchestra, _Non nobis, Domine_. You know
the melody well; there is an air in it which has a good ending, and
the last chorus will I hope please you. I hear that next week I
shall have an opportunity of sending it to you, along with a
quantity of new music. I intend now to finish my overture, and then
(D.V.) to proceed with my symphony. A pianoforte concerto, too,
that I wish to write for Paris, begins to float in my head. If
Providence kindly bestows on me success and bright days, I hope we
shall enjoy them together. Farewell! May you be happy!

        FELIX.


     Rome, November 22nd, 1830.

     My dear Brother and Sisters,

You know how much I dislike, at a distance of two hundred miles,
and fourteen days' journey from you, to offer good advice. I mean
to do so, however, for once. Let me tell you therefore of a mistake
in your conduct, and in truth the same that I once made myself. I
do assure you that never in my life have I known my father write in
so irritable a strain as since I came to Rome, and so I wish to
ask you if you cannot devise some domestic recipe to cheer him a
little? I mean by forbearance and yielding to his wishes, and in
this manner, by allowing my father's view of any subject to
predominate over your own; then, not to speak at all on topics that
irritate him; and instead of saying shameful, say unpleasant; or
instead of superb, very fair. This method has often a wonderfully
good effect; and I put it, with all submission to yourselves,
whether it might not be equally successful in this case? For, with
the exception of the great events of the world, ill-humour often
seems to me to proceed from the same cause that my father's did
when I chose to pursue my own path in my musical studies. He was
then in a constant state of irritation, incessantly abusing
Beethoven and all visionaries; and this often vexed me very much,
and made me sometimes very unamiable. At that very time something
new came out, which put my father out of sorts, and made him I
believe not a little uneasy. So long therefore as I persisted in
extolling and exalting my Beethoven, the evil became daily worse;
and one day, if I remember rightly, I was even sent out of the
room. At last, however, it occurred to me that I might speak a
great deal of truth, and yet avoid the particular truth obnoxious
to my father; so the aspect of affairs speedily began to improve,
and soon all went well.

Perhaps you may have in some degree forgotten that you ought now
and then to be forbearing, and not aggressive. My father considers
himself both much older and more irritable than, thank God, he
really is; but it is our duty always to submit our opinion to his,
even if the truth be as much on our side, as it often is on his,
when opposed to us. Strive, then, to praise what he likes, and do
not attack what is implanted in his heart, more especially ancient
established ideas. Do not commend what is new till it has made some
progress in the world, and acquired a name, for till then it is a
mere matter of taste. Try to draw my father into your circle, and
be playful and kind to him. In short, try to smooth and to equalize
things; and remember that I, who am now an experienced man of the
world, never yet knew any family, taking into due consideration all
defects and failings, who have hitherto lived so happily together
as ours.

Do not send me any answer to this, for you will not receive it for
a month, and by that time no doubt some fresh topic will have
arisen; besides, if I have spoken nonsense, I do not wish to be
scolded by you; and if I have spoken properly, I hope you will
follow my good advice.


     November 23rd.

Just as I was going to set to work at the "Hebrides," arrived Herr
B----, a musical professor from Magdeburg. He played me over a
whole book of songs, and an Ave Maria, and begged to have the
benefit of my opinion. I seemed in the position of a juvenile
Nestor, and made him some insipid speeches, but this caused me the
loss of a morning in Rome, which is a pity. The Choral, "Mitten wir
im Leben sind," is finished, and is certainly one of the best
sacred pieces that I have yet composed. After I have completed the
Hebrides, I think of arranging Haendel's Solomon for future
performance, with proper curtailments, etc. I then purpose writing
the Christmas music of "Vom Himmel hoch," and the symphony in A
minor; perhaps also some pieces for the piano, and a concerto,
etc., just as they come into my head.

I own I do sadly miss some friend to whom I could communicate my
new works, and who could examine the score along with me, and play
a bass or a flute; whereas now when a piece is finished I must lay
it aside in my desk without its giving pleasure to any one. London
spoiled me in this respect. I can never again expect to meet all
together such friends as I had there. Here I can only say the half
of what I think, and leave the best half unspoken; whereas there it
was not necessary to say more than the half, because the other half
was a mere matter of course, and already understood. Still, this is
a most delightful place.

We young people went lately to Albano, and set off in the most
lovely weather. The road to Frascati passed under the great
aqueduct, its dark brown outlines standing out sharply defined
against the clear blue sky; thence we proceeded to the monastery at
Grotta Ferrata, where there are some beautiful frescoes by
Domenichino; then to Marino, very picturesquely situated on a
hill, and proceeding along the margin of the lake we reached Castel
Gandolfo. The scenery, like my first impression of Italy, is by no
means so striking or so wonderfully beautiful as is generally
supposed, but most pleasing and gratifying to the eye, and the
outlines undulating and picturesque, forming a perfect whole, with
its _entourage_ and distribution of light.

Here I must deliver a eulogy on monks; they finish a picture at
once, giving it tone and colour, with their wide loose gowns, their
pious meditative, gait, and their dark aspect. A beautiful shady
avenue of evergreen oaks runs along the lake from Castel Gandolfo
to Albano, where monks of every order are swarming, animating the
scenery and yet marking its solitude. Near the city a couple of
begging monks were walking together; further on, a whole troop of
young Jesuits; then we saw an elegant young priest in a thicket
reading; beyond this two more were standing in the wood with their
guns, watching for birds. Then we came to a monastery, encircled by
a number of small chapels. At last all was solitude; but at that
moment appeared a dirty, stupid-looking Capuchin, laden with huge
nosegays, which he placed before the various shrines, kneeling down
in front of them before proceeding to decorate them.

As we passed on, we met two old prelates engaged in eager
conversation. The bell for vespers was ringing in the monastery of
Albano, and even on the summit of the highest hill stands a
Passionist convent, where they are only permitted to speak for a
single hour daily, and occupy themselves solely in reading the
history of the passion of Christ. In Albano, among girls with
pitchers on their heads, vendors of flowers and vegetables, and all
the crowd and tumult, we saw a coal-black dumb monk, returning to
Monte Cavo, who formed a singular contrast to the rest of the
scene. They seem to have taken entire possession of all this
splendid country, and form a strange melancholy ground-tone for all
that is lively, gay, and free, and the ever-living cheerfulness
bestowed by nature. It is as if men, on that very account, required
a counterpoise. This is not however my case, and I need no contrast
to enable me to enjoy what I see.

I am often with Bunsen, and as he likes to turn the conversation on
the subject of his Liturgy and its musical portions, which I
consider very deficient, I am perfectly plain-spoken, and give him
a straight-forward opinion; and I believe this is the only way to
establish a mutual understanding. We have had several long, serious
discussions, and I hope we shall eventually know each other better.
Yesterday Palestrina's music was performed at Bunsen's house (as on
every Monday), and then for the first time I played before the
Roman musicians _in corpore_. I am quite aware of the necessity in
every foreign city of playing so as to make myself understood by
the audience. This makes me usually feel rather embarrassed, and
such was the case with me yesterday. After the Papal singers
finished Palestrina's music, it was my turn to play something. A
brilliant piece would have been unsuitable, and there had been more
than enough of serious music; I therefore begged Astolfi, the
Director, to give me a theme, so he lightly touched the notes with
one finger thus:--

  [Music]

smiling as he did so. The black-frocked Abbati pressed round me and
seemed highly delighted. I observed this, and it inspirited me so
much that towards the end I succeeded famously; they clapped their
hands like mad, and Bunsen declared that I had astounded the
clergy; in short, the affair went off well. There is no encouraging
prospect of any public performance here, so society is the only
resource, which is fishing in troubled waters.

         Yours, FELIX.


     Rome, November 30th, 1830.

To come home from Bunsen's by moonlight, with your letter in my
pocket, and then to read it through leisurely at night,--this is a
degree of pleasure I wish many may enjoy. In all probability I
shall stay here the whole winter, and not go to Naples till April.
It is so delightful to look round on every side, and to appreciate
it all properly. There is much that must be thought over, in order
to receive a due impression from it. I have also within myself so
much work requiring both quiet and industry, that I feel anything
like haste would be utter destruction; and though I adhere
faithfully to my system, to receive each day only one fresh image
into my mind, still I am sometimes compelled even then to give
myself a day of rest, that I may not become confused. I write you a
short letter to-day, because I must for the present adhere to my
work; and yet I cannot refrain from culling all the beauty that
lies at my feet. The weather, too, is _brutto_ and cold, so that I
am not in a very communicative mood. The Pope is dying, or possibly
dead by this time. "We shall soon get a new one," say the Italians,
coolly. His death will not affect the Carnival, nor the church
festivals, with their pomps and processions, and fine music; and as
there will be in addition to these, solemn requiems, and the
lying-in-state at St. Peter's, they care little about it, provided
it does not occur in February.

I am delighted to hear that Mantius sings my songs, and likes them.
Give him my kind regards, and ask him why he does not perform his
promise, and write to me. I have written to him repeatedly in the
shape of music. In the "Ave Maria," and in the choral "Aus tiefer
Noth," some passages are composed expressly for him, and he will
sing them charmingly. In the "Ave," which is a salutation, a tenor
solo takes the lead of the choir (I thought of a disciple all the
time). As the piece is in A major, and goes rather high at the
words _Benedicta tu_, he must prepare his high A; it will vibrate
well. Ask him to sing you a song I sent to Devrient from Venice,
"Von schlechtem Lebenswandel." It is expressive of mingled joy and
despair; no doubt he will sing it well. Show it to no one, but
confine it solely to forty eyes. Ritz[7] too never writes, and yet
I am constantly longing for his violin and his depth of feeling
when he plays, which all recurs to my mind when I see his welcome
writing. I am now working daily at the "Hebrides," and will send it
to Ritz as soon as it is finished. It is quite a piece to suit
him--so very singular.

  [7] The violin player, Edward Ritz, an intimate friend of
  Mendelssohn's.

Next time I write I will tell you more of myself. I work hard, and
lead a pleasant, happy life; my mirror is stuck full of Italian,
German, and English visiting-cards, and I spend every evening with
one of my acquaintances. There is a truly Babylonian confusion of
tongues in my head, for English, Italian, German and French are all
mixed up together in it. Two days ago I again extemporized before
the Papal singers. The fellows had contrived to get hold of the
most strange, quaint theme for me, wishing to put my powers to the
test. They call me, however, _l'insuperabile professorone_, and are
particularly kind and friendly. I much wished to have described to
you the Sunday music in the Sistina, a _soiree_ at Torlonia's, the
Vatican, St. Onofrio, Guido's Aurora, and other small matters, but
I reserve them for my next letter. The post is about to set off,
and this letter with it. My good wishes are always with you, to-day
and ever.

          Yours, FELIX.


     Rome, December 7th, 1830.

I cannot even to-day manage to write to you as fully as I wish.
Heaven knows how time flies here! I was introduced this week to
several agreeable English families, and so I have the prospect of
many pleasant evenings this winter. I am much with Bunsen. I intend
also to cultivate Baini. I think he conceives me to be only a
_brutissimo Tedesco_, so that I have a famous opportunity of
becoming well acquainted with him. His compositions are certainly
of no great value, and the same may be said of the whole music
here. The wish is not wanting, but the means do not exist. The
orchestra is below contempt. Mdlle. Carl,[8] (who is engaged as
_prima donna assoluta_ for the season, at both the principal
theatres here,) is now arrived, and begins to make _la pluie et le
beau temps_. The Papal singers even are becoming old; they are
almost all unmusical, and do not execute even the most established
pieces in tune. The whole choir consists of thirty-two singers,
but that number are rarely together. Concerts are given by the
so-called Philharmonic Society, but only with the piano. There is
no orchestra, and when recently they wished to perform Haydn's
"Creation," the instrumentalists declared it was impossible to play
it. The sounds they bring out of their wind instruments, are such
as in Germany we have no conception of.

  [8] Formerly a singer in the Royal Theatre at Berlin.

The Pope is dead, and the Conclave assembles on the 14th. A great
part of the winter will be occupied with the ceremonies of his
funeral, and the enthronement of the new Pope. All music therefore
and large parties must be at an end, so I very much doubt whether I
shall be able to undertake any public performance during my stay
here; but I do not regret this, for there are so many varied
objects to enjoy inwardly, that my dwelling on these and meditating
on them is no disadvantage. The performance of Graun's "Passion" in
Naples, and more especially the translation of Sebastian Bach's,
prove that the good cause is sure eventually to make its way,
though it will neither kindle enthusiasm, nor will it be
appreciated. It is no worse however with regard to music--in fact,
rather better--than with their estimate of every other branch of
the fine arts; for when some of Raphael's Loggie are with
inconceivable recklessness and disgraceful barbarism actually
defaced, to give place to inscriptions in pencil; when the lower
parts of the arabesques are totally destroyed, because Italians
with knives, and Heaven knows what else besides, inscribe their
insignificant names there; when one person painted in large
letters under the Apollo Belvedere, 'Christ;' when an altar has
been erected in front of Michael Angelo's "Last Judgment," so large
that it hides the centre of the picture, thus destroying the whole
effect; when cattle are driven through the splendid saloons of the
Villa Madama, the walls of which are painted by Giulio Romano, and
fodder is stored in them, simply from indifference towards the
beautiful,--all this is certainly much worse than a bad orchestra,
and painters must be even more distressed by such things than I am
by their miserable music.

The fact is, that the people are mentally enervated and apathetic.
They have a religion, but they do not believe in it; they have a
Pope and a Government, but they turn them into ridicule; they can
recall a brilliant and heroic past, but they do not value it. It is
thus no marvel that they do not delight in Art, for they are
indifferent to all that is earnest. It is really quite revolting to
see their unconcern about the death of the Pope, and their unseemly
merriment during the ceremonies. I myself saw the corpse lying in
state, and the priests standing round incessantly whispering and
laughing; and at this moment, when masses are being said for his
soul, they are in the very same church hammering away at the
scaffolding of the catafalque, so that the strokes of the hammers
and the noise of the workpeople entirely prevent any one hearing
the religious services. As soon as the Cardinals assemble in
conclave, satires appear against them, where, for instance, they
parody the Litanies, and instead of praying to be delivered from
each particular sin, they name the bad qualities of each well-known
cardinal; or, again, they perform an entire opera, where all the
characters are Cardinals, one being the _primo amoroso_, another
the _tiranno assoluto_, a third, stage candle-snuffer, etc. This
could not be the case where the people took any pleasure in Art.
Formerly it was no better, but they had faith then; and it is this
which makes the difference. Nature, however, and the genial
December atmosphere, and the outlines of the Alban hills,
stretching as far as the sea, all remain unchanged. There they can
scribble no names, or compose no inscriptions. These every one can
still individually enjoy in all their freshness, and to these I
cling. I feel much the want of a _friend_ here, to whom I could
freely unbosom myself; who could read my music as I write it, thus
making it doubly precious in my eyes; in whose society I could feel
an interest, and enjoy repose; and honestly learn from him, (it
would not require a very wise man for this purpose.) But just as
trees are not ordained to grow up into the sky, so probably such a
man is not likely to be found here; and the good fortune I have
hitherto so richly enjoyed elsewhere, is not to fall to my share at
present; so I must hum over my melodies to myself, and I dare say I
shall do well enough.

        FELIX.


     Rome, December 10th, 1830.

     Dear Father,

It is a year this very day since we kept your birthday at Hensel's,
and now let me give you some account of Rome, as I did at that time
of London. I intend to finish my Overture to the "Einsame Insel"[9]
as a present to you, and if I write under it the 11th December,
when I take up the sheets I shall feel as if I were about to place
them in your hands. You would probably say that you could not read
them, but still I should have offered you the best it was in my
power to give; and though I desire to do this every day, still
there is a peculiar feeling connected with a birthday. Would I were
with you! I need not offer you my good wishes, for you know them
all already, and the deep interest I, and all of us, take in your
happiness and welfare, and that we cannot wish any good for you,
that is not reflected doubly on ourselves. To-day is a holiday. I
rejoice in thinking how cheerful you are at home; and when I repeat
to you how happily I live here, I feel as if this were also a
felicitation. A period like this, when serious thought and
enjoyment are combined, is indeed most cheering and invigorating.
Every time I enter my room I rejoice that I am not obliged to
pursue my journey on the following day, and that I may quietly
postpone many things till the morrow--that I am in Rome! Hitherto
much that passed through my brain was swept away by fresh ideas,
each new impression chasing away the previous one, while here, on
the contrary, they are all in turn properly developed. I never
remember having worked with so much zeal, and if I am to complete
all that I have projected, I must be very industrious during the
winter. I am indeed deprived of the great delight of showing my
finished compositions to one who could take pleasure in them, and
enter into them along with me; but this impels me to return to my
labours, which please me most when I am fairly in the midst of
them. And now this must be combined with the various solemnities,
and festivals of every kind, which are to supplant my work for a
few days; and as I have resolved to see and to enjoy all I possibly
can, I do not allow my occupation to prevent this, and shall then
return with fresh zeal to my composition.

  [9] Afterwards published under the name of "Overture to the
  Hebrides."

This is indeed a delightful existence! My health is as good as
possible, though the hot wind, called here the _sirocco_, rather
attacks my nerves, and I find I must beware of playing the piano
much, or at night; besides it is easy for me to refrain from doing
so for a few days, as for some weeks past I have been playing
almost every evening. Bunsen, who often warns me against playing
if I find it prejudicial, gave a large party yesterday, where
nevertheless I was obliged to play; but it was a pleasure
to me, for I had the opportunity of making so many agreeable
acquaintances. Thorwaldsen, in particular, expressed himself in so
gratifying a manner with regard to me, that I felt quite proud, for
I honor him as one of the greatest of men, and always have revered
him. He looks like a lion, and the very sight of his face is
invigorating. You feel at once that he must be a noble artist; his
eyes look so clear, as if with him every object must assume a
definite form and image. Moreover he is very gentle, and kind, and
mild, because his nature is so superior; and yet he seems to be
able to enjoy every trifle. It is a real source of pleasure to see
a great man, and to know that the creator of works that will endure
for ever stands before you in person; a living being with all his
attributes, and individuality, and genius, and yet a man like
others.


     December 11th, morning.

Now your actual birthday is arrived! A few lines of music suggested
themselves to me on the occasion, and though they may not be worth
much, the congratulations I have been in the habit of offering,
were of quite as little value. Fanny may add the second part. I
have only written what occurred to my mind as I entered the room,
the sun shining, on your birthday:--

  [Music]

  [Music]

  [Music]

Bunsen has just been here, and begs me to send you his best regards
and congratulations. He is all kindness and courtesy towards me,
and as you wish to know, I think I may say that we suit each other
remarkably well. The few words you wrote about P---- recalled him
to my memory in all his offensiveness. The Abbate Santini ought to
be an obscure man compared with him, for he never attempts to
magnify his own importance by impertinence or self-sufficiency.
P---- is one of those collectors who make learning and libraries
distasteful to others by their narrow-mindedness, whereas Santini
is a genuine collector, in the best sense of the word, caring
little whether his collection be of much value in a pecuniary point
of view. He therefore gives everything away indiscriminately, and
is only anxious to procure something new, for his chief object is
the diffusion and universal knowledge of ancient music. I have not
seen him lately, as every morning now he figures, _ex officio_, in
his violet gown at St. Peter's; but if he has made use of some
ancient text, he will say so without scruple, as he has no wish to
be thought the first discoverer. He is, in fact, a man of limited
capacity; and this I consider great praise in a certain sense, for
though he is neither a musical nor any other luminary, and even
bears some resemblance to Lessing's inquisitive friar, still he
knows how to confine himself within his own sphere. Music itself
does not interest him much, if he can only have it on his shelves;
and he is, and esteems himself to be, simply a quiet, zealous
collector. I must admit that he is fatiguing, and not altogether
free from irritability; still I love any one who adopts and
perseveres in some particular pursuit, prosecuting it to the best
of his ability, and endeavouring to perfect it for the benefit of
mankind, and I think every one ought to esteem him just the same,
whether he chance to be tiresome or agreeable.

I wish you would read this aloud to P----. It always makes me
furious when men who have no pursuit, presume to criticize those
who wish to effect something, even on a small scale; so on this
very account I took the liberty of rebuking lately a certain
musician in society here. He began to speak of Mozart, and as
Bunsen and his sister love Palestrina, he tried to flatter their
tastes by asking me, for instance, what I thought of the worthy
Mozart, and all his sins. I however replied, that so far as I was
concerned, I should feel only too happy to renounce all _my_
virtues in exchange for Mozart's sins: but that of course I could
not venture to pronounce on the extent of _his_ virtues. The people
all laughed, and were highly amused. How strange it is that such
persons should feel no awe of so great a name!

It is some consolation, however, that it is the same in every
sphere of art, as the painters here are quite as bad. They are most
formidable to look at, sitting in their _Cafe Greco_. I scarcely
ever go there, for I dislike both them and their favourite places
of resort. It is a small dark room, about eight feet square, where
on one side you may smoke, but not on the other; so they sit round
on benches, with their broad-leaved hats on their heads, and their
huge mastiffs beside them; their cheeks and throats, and the whole
of their faces covered with hair, puffing forth clouds of smoke
(only on one side of the room), and saying rude things to each
other, while the mastiffs swarm with vermin. A neckcloth or a coat
would be quite innovations. Any portion of the face visible through
the beard, is hid by spectacles; so they drink coffee, and speak of
Titian and Pordenone, just as if they were sitting beside them, and
also wore beards and wide-awakes! Moreover, they paint such sickly
Madonnas and feeble saints, and such milk-sop heroes, that I feel
the strongest inclination to knock them down. These infernal
critics do not even shrink from discussing Titian's picture in the
Vatican, about which you asked me; they say that it has neither
subject nor meaning; yet it never seems to occur to them, that a
master who had so long studied a picture with due love and
reverence, must have had quite as deep an insight into the subject
as they are likely to have, even with their coloured spectacles.
And if in the course of my life I accomplish nothing but this, I am
at all events determined to say the most harsh and cutting things
to those who show no reverence towards their masters, and then I
shall at least have performed one good work. But there they stand,
and see all the splendour of those creations, so far transcending
their own conceptions, and yet dare to criticize them.

In this picture there are three stages, or whatever they are
called the same as in the "Transfiguration." Below, saints and
martyrs are represented in suffering and abasement; on every face
is depicted sadness, nay almost impatience; one figure in rich
episcopal robes looks upwards, with the most eager and agonized
longing, as if weeping, but he cannot see all that is floating
above his head, but which _we_ see, standing in front of the
picture. Above, Mary and her Child are in a cloud, radiant with
joy, and surrounded by angels, who have woven many garlands; the
Holy Child holds one of these, and seems as if about to crown the
saints beneath, but his Mother withholds his hand for the moment.
The contrast between the pain and suffering below, whence St.
Sebastian looks forth out of the picture with such gloom and almost
apathy, and the lofty unalloyed exultation in the clouds above,
where crowns and palms are already awaiting him, is truly
admirable. High above the group of Mary, hovers the Holy Spirit,
from whom emanates a bright streaming light, thus forming the apex
of the whole composition. I have just remembered that Goethe, at
the beginning of his first visit to Rome, describes and admires
this picture; but I no longer have the book to enable me to read it
over, and to compare my description with his. He speaks of it in
considerable detail. It was at that time in the Quirinal, and
subsequently transferred to the Vatican; whether it was painted on
a given subject, as some allege, or not, is of no moment. Titian
has imbued it with his genius and his poetical feeling, and has
thus made it his own. I like Schadow much, and am often with him;
on every occasion, and especially in his own department, he is mild
and clear-judging, doing justice with due modesty to all that is
truly great; he recently said that Titian had never painted an
indifferent or an uninteresting picture, and I believe he is right;
for life and enthusiasm and the soundest vigour are displayed in
all his productions, and where these are, it is good to be also.
There is one singular and fortunate peculiarity here: though all
the objects have been, a thousand times over, described, discussed,
copied, and criticized, in praise or blame, by the greatest
masters, and the most insignificant scholars, cleverly or stupidly,
still they never fail to make a fresh and sublime impression on
all, affecting each person according to his own individuality. Here
we can take refuge from man in all that surrounds us; in Berlin it
is often exactly the reverse.

I have this moment received your letter of the 27th, and am pleased
to find that I have already answered many of the questions it
contains. There is no hurry about the letters I asked for, as I
have now made almost more acquaintances than I wish; besides, late
hours, and playing so much, do not suit me in Rome, so I can await
the arrival of these letters very patiently: it was not so at the
time I urged you to send them. I cannot however understand what you
mean by your allusion to _coteries_ which I ought to have outgrown,
for I know that I, and all of us, invariably dreaded and detested
what is usually so called,--that is, a frivolous, exclusive circle
of society, clinging to empty outward forms. Among persons,
however, who daily meet, while their mutual objects of interest
remain the same, who have no sympathy with public life (and this is
certainly the case in Berlin, with the exception of the theatre),
it is not unnatural that they should form for themselves a gay,
cheerful, and original mode of treating passing events, and that
this should give rise to a peculiar, and perhaps monotonous style
of conversation; but this by no means constitutes a _coterie_. I
feel convinced that I shall never belong to one, whether I am in
Rome or Wittenberg. I am glad that the last words I was writing
when your letter arrived, chanced to be that in Berlin you must
take refuge in society from all that surrounds you; thus proving
that I had no spirit of _coterie_, which invariably estranges men
from each other. I should deeply regret your observing anything of
the kind in me or in any of us, except indeed for the moment.
Forgive me, my dear father, for defending myself so warmly, but
this word is most repugnant to my feelings, and you say in your
letters that I am always to speak out what I think in a
straightforward manner, so pray do not take this amiss.

I was in St. Peter's to-day, where the grand solemnities called the
absolutions have begun for the Pope, and which last till Tuesday,
when the Cardinals assemble in conclave. The building surpasses all
powers of description. It appears to me like some great work of
nature, a forest, a mass of rocks, or something similar; for I
never can realize the idea that it is the work of man. You strive
to distinguish the ceiling as little as the canopy of heaven. You
lose your way in St. Peter's, you take a walk in it, and ramble
till you are quite tired; when divine service is performed and
chanted there, you are not aware of it till you come quite close.
The angels in the Baptistery are monstrous giants; the doves,
colossal birds of prey; you lose all idea of measurement with the
eye, or proportion; and yet who does not feel his heart expand,
when standing under the dome, and gazing up at it? At present a
monstrous catafalque has been erected in the nave in this
shape.[10] The coffin is placed in the centre under the pillars;
the thing is totally devoid of taste, and yet it has a wondrous
effect. The upper circle is thickly studded with lights, so are all
the ornaments; the lower circle is lighted in the same way, and
over the coffin hangs a burning lamp, and innumerable lights are
blazing under the statues. The whole structure is more than a
hundred feet high, and stands exactly opposite the entrance. The
guards of honour, and the Swiss, march about in the quadrangle; in
every corner sits a Cardinal in deep mourning, attended by his
servants, who hold large burning torches, and then the singing
commences with responses, in the simple and monotonous tone you no
doubt remember. It is the only occasion when there is any singing
in the middle of the church, and the effect is wonderful. Those who
place themselves among the singers (as I do) and watch them, are
forcibly impressed by the scene: for they all stand round a
colossal book from which they sing, and this book is in turn lit up
by a colossal torch that burns before it; while the choir are
eagerly pressing forward in their vestments, in order to see and to
sing properly: and Baini with his monk's face, marking time with
his hand, and occasionally joining in the chant with a stentorian
voice. To watch all these different Italian faces, was most
interesting; one enjoyment quickly succeeds another here, and it is
the same in their churches, especially in St. Peter's, where by
moving a few steps the whole scene is changed. I went to the very
furthest end, whence there was indeed a wonderful _coup d'oeil_.
Through the spiral columns of the high altar, which is confessedly
as high as the palace in Berlin, far beyond the space of the
cupola, the whole mass of the catafalque was seen in diminished
perspective, with its rows of lights, and numbers of small human
beings crowding round it. When the music commences, the sounds do
not reach the other end for a long time, but echo and float in the
vast space, so that the most singular and vague harmonies are borne
towards you. If you change your position, and place yourself right
in front of the catafalque, beyond the blaze of light and the
brilliant pageantry, you have the dusky cupola replete with blue
vapour; all this is quite indescribable. Such is Rome!

  [10] A little sketch of the catafalque was enclosed in the
  letter.

This has become a long letter, so I must conclude; it will reach
you on Christmas-day. May you all enjoy it happily! I send each of
you presents, which are to be dispatched two days hence, and will
arrive in time for the anniversary of your silver wedding-day. Many
glad festivals are thus crowded together, and I scarcely know
whether to imagine myself with you to-day, and to wish you, dear
father, all possible happiness, or to arrive with my letter at
Christmas, and not to be allowed by my mother to pass through the
room with the Christmas-tree. I am afraid I must be contented with
thinking of you.--Farewell all! May you be happy!

        FELIX.

I have just received your letter, which brings me the intelligence
of Goethe's illness. What I personally feel at this news I cannot
express. This whole evening his words, "I must try to keep all
right till your return," have sounded continually in my ears, to
the exclusion of every other thought: when he is gone, Germany will
assume a very different aspect for artists. I have never thought of
Germany without feeling heartfelt joy and pride that Goethe lived
there; and the rising generation seem for the most part so weakly
and feeble, that it makes my heart sink within me. He is the last;
and with him closes a happy prosperous period for us! This year
ends in solemn sadness.


     Rome, December 20th, 1830.

In my former letter I told you of the more serious aspect of Roman
life; but as I wish to describe to you how I live, I must now tell
you of the gayeties that have prevailed during this week.

To-day we have the most genial sunshine, a blue sky, and a
transparent atmosphere, and on such days I have my own mode of
passing my time. I work hard till eleven o'clock, and from that
hour till dark, I do nothing but breathe the air. For the first
time, for some days past, we yesterday had fine weather. After
therefore working for a time in the morning at "Solomon," I went to
the Monte Pincio, where I rambled about the whole day. The effect
of this exhilarating air is quite magical; and when I arose to-day,
and again saw bright sunshine, I exulted in the thoughts of the
entire idleness I was again about to indulge in. The whole world is
on foot, revelling in a December spring. Every moment you meet some
acquaintance, with whom you lounge about for a time, then leave
him, and once more enjoy your solitary revery. There are swarms of
handsome faces to be seen. As the sun declines, the appearance of
the whole landscape, and every hue, undergo a change. When the Ave
Maria sounds, it is time to go to the church of Trinita de' Monti,
where French nuns sing; and it is charming to hear them. I declare
to heaven that I am become quite tolerant, and listen to bad music
with edification; but what can I do? the composition is positively
ridiculous; the organ playing even more absurd. But it is
twilight, and the whole of the small bright church is filled with
persons kneeling, lit up by the sinking sun each time that the door
is opened; both the singing nuns have the sweetest voices in the
world, quite tender and touching, more especially when one of them
sings the responses in her melodious voice, which we are accustomed
to hear chanted by priests in a loud, harsh, monotonous tone. The
impression is very singular; moreover, it is well known that no one
is permitted to see the fair singers,--so this caused me to form a
strange resolution. I have composed something to suit their voices,
which I observed very minutely, and I mean to send it to
them,--there are several modes to which I can have recourse to
accomplish this. That they will sing it, I feel quite assured; and
it will be pleasant for me to hear my chant performed by persons
whom I never saw, especially as they must in turn sing it to the
_barbaro Tedesco_, whom they also never beheld. I am charmed with
this idea. The text is in Latin,--a Prayer to Mary. Does not this
notion please you?[11]

  [11] This piece appeared afterwards as Opus 39.

After church I walk again on the hill until it is quite dark, when
Madame Vernet and her daughter, and pretty Madame V---- (for whose
acquaintance I have to thank Roesel), are much admired by us
Germans, and we form groups round them, or follow, or walk beside
them. The background is formed by haggard painters with terrific
beards; they smoke tobacco on the Monte Pincio, whistle to their
huge dogs, and enjoy the sunset in their own way.

As I am in a frivolous mood to-day, I must relate to you, dear
sisters, every particular of a ball I lately attended, and where I
danced with a degree of zeal I never did before. I had spoken a few
fair words to the _maitre de danse_ (who stands in the middle here,
and regulates everything), consequently he allowed the galop to
continue for more than half an hour, so I was in my element, and
pleasantly conscious that I was dancing in the Palazzo Albani, in
Rome, and also with the prettiest girl in it, according to the
verdict of the competent judges (Thorwaldsen, Vernet, etc.) The way
in which I became acquainted with her is also an anecdote of Rome.
I was at Torlonia's first ball, though not dancing, as I knew none
of the ladies present, but merely looking at the people. Suddenly
some one tapped me on the shoulder, saying, "So you also are
admiring the English beauty; I am quite dazzled." It was
Thorwaldsen himself standing at the door, lost in admiration;
scarcely had he said this, when we heard a torrent of words behind
us,--"Mais ou est-elle donc, cette petite Anglaise? Ma femme m'a
envoye pour la regarder. Per Bacco!" It was quite clear that this
little thin Frenchman, with stiff, grey hair, and the ribbon of the
Legion of Honour, must be Horace Vernet. He now discussed the
youthful beauty with Thorwaldsen, in the most earnest and
scientific manner; and it was quite a pleasure to me to see these
two old masters admiring the young girl together, while she was
dancing away, quite unconcerned. They were then presented to her
parents, but I felt very insignificant, as I could not join in the
conversation. A few days afterwards, however, I was with some
acquaintances whom I knew through the Attwoods, at Venice, they
having invited me for the purpose of presenting me to some of their
friends; and these friends turned out to be the very persons I have
been speaking of; so your son and brother was highly delighted.

My pianoforte playing is a source of great gratification to me
here. You know how Thorwaldsen loves music, and I sometimes play to
him in the morning while he is at work. He has an excellent
instrument in his studio, and when I look at the old gentleman and
see him kneading his brown clay, and delicately fining off an arm,
or a fold of drapery,--in short, when he is creating what we must
all admire when completed, as an enduring work,--then I do indeed
rejoice that I have the means of bestowing any enjoyment on him.
Nevertheless, I have not fallen into arrear with my own tasks. The
"Hebrides" is completed at last, and a strange production it is.
The chant for the nuns is in my head; and I think of composing
Luther's choral for Christmas, but on this occasion I must do so
quite alone; and it will be a more serious affair this time, and so
will the anniversary of your silver wedding-day, when I intend to
have a great many lights, and to sing my "Liederspiel," and to have
a peep at my English _baton_. After the new year, I intend to
resume instrumental music, and to write several things for the
piano, and probably a symphony of some kind, for two have been
haunting my brain.

I have lately frequented a most delightful spot,--the tomb of
Cecilia Metella. The Sabine hills had a sprinkling of snow, but it
was glorious sunshine; the Alban hills were like a dream or a
vision. There is no such thing as distance in Italy, for all the
houses on the hills can be counted, with their roofs and windows. I
have thus inhaled this air to satiety; and to-morrow in all
probability, more serious occupations will be resumed, for the sky
is cloudy, and it is raining hard, but what a spring this will be!


     December 21st.

This is the shortest day, and very gloomy, as might have been
anticipated; so to-day nothing can be thought of but fugues,
chorals, balls, etc. But I must say a few words about Guido's
"Aurora," which I often visit; it is a picture the very type of
haste and impetus; for surely no man ever imagined such hurry and
tumult, such sounding and clashing. Painters maintain that it is
lighted from two sides,--they have my full permission to light
_theirs_ from three if it will improve them,--but the difference
lies elsewhere.

I really cannot compose a tolerable song here, for who is there to
sing it to me? But I am writing a grand fugue, "Wir glauben all,"
and sing it to myself in such a fashion that my friend the Captain
rushes downstairs in alarm, puts in his head, and asks what I want.
I answer--a counter theme. But how much I do really want; and yet
how much I have got! Thus life passes onwards.

        FELIX.


     Rome, December 28th, 1830.

Rome in wet weather is the most odious, uncomfortable place
imaginable. For some days past we have had incessant storms and
cold, and streams of water from the sky; and I can scarcely
comprehend how, only one week ago, I could write you a letter full
of rambles and orange-trees and all that is beautiful: in such
weather as this everything becomes ugly. Still, I must write to you
about it, otherwise my previous letter would not have the advantage
of contrast, and of that there is no lack. If in Germany we can
form no conception of the bright winter days here, quite as little
can we realize a really wet winter day in Rome; everything is
arranged for fine weather, so the bad is borne like a public
calamity, and in the hope of better times. There is no shelter
anywhere; in my room, which is usually so comfortable, the water
pours in through the windows, which will not shut fast; the wind
whistles through the doors, which will not close; the stone floor
chills you in spite of double mattings, and the smoke from the
chimney is driven into the room, because the fire will not burn;
foreigners shiver and freeze here like tailors.

All this is, however, actual luxury when compared with the streets;
and when I am obliged to go out, I consider it a positive
misfortune. Rome, as every one knows, is built on seven large
hills; but there are a number of smaller ones besides, and all the
streets are sloping, so the water pours down them, and rushes
towards you; nowhere is there a raised footpath, or a _trottoir_;
at the stair of the Piazza di Spagna, there is a flood like the
great water-works in Wilhelms-Hoehe; the Tiber has overflowed its
banks, and inundated the adjacent streets: this, then, is the water
from below. From above come violent showers of rain, but that is
the least part. The houses have no water-spouts, and the long roofs
slant precipitously, but, being of different lengths, this causes
an incessant violent inundation on both sides of the street, so
that go where you will, close to the houses, or in the middle of
the streets, beside a barber's shop or a palace, you are sure to be
deluged, and, quite unawares, you find yourself standing under a
tremendous shower-bath, the water pelting on your umbrella, while a
stream is running before you that you cannot jump over, so you are
obliged to return the way you came: this is the water overhead.
Then the carriages drive as rapidly as possible, and close to the
houses, so that you must retreat into the doorways till they are
past; they not only splash men and houses, but each other, so that
when two meet, one must drive into the gutter, which, being a rapid
current, the consequences are lamentable. Lately I saw an Abbate
hurrying along, whose umbrella chancing to knock off the
broad-brimmed hat of a peasant, it fell with the crown exposed to
one of these deluges, and when the man went to pick it up, it was
quite filled with water. "Scusi," said the Abbate. "Padrone,"
replied the peasant. The hackney coaches moreover only ply till
five o'clock, so if you go to a party at night, it costs you a
scudo. _Fiat justitia et pereat mundus_--Rome in rainy weather is
vastly disagreeable.

I see by a letter of Devrient's, that one I wrote to him from
Venice, and which I took to the post myself on the 17th of October,
had not reached him on the 19th of November. It would appear also,
that another which I sent the same day to Munich had not arrived;
both these letters contained music, and this accounts for the loss.
At that very time in Venice they carried off all my manuscripts to
the Custom-house, after visiting my effects at night, shortly
before the departure of the post, and I only received them again
here, after much worry and writing backwards and forwards. Every
one assured me that the cause of this was a secret correspondence
being suspected in cipher in the manuscript music. I could scarcely
credit such intolerable stupidity; but as my two letters from
Venice containing music have not arrived, and these only, the
thing is clear enough. I intend to complain of this to the Austrian
ambassador here, but it will do no good, and the letters are lost,
which I much regret. Farewell!

        FELIX.


     Rome, January 17th, 1831.

For a week past we have had the most lovely spring weather. Young
girls are carrying about nosegays of violets and anemones, which
they gather early in the morning at the Villa Pamfili. The streets
and squares swarm with gaily attired pedestrians; the Ave Maria has
already been advanced twenty minutes, but what is become of the
winter? Some little time ago it indeed reminded me of my work, to
which I now mean to apply steadily, for I own that during the gay
social life of the previous weeks, I had rather neglected it. I
have nearly completed the arrangement of "Solomon," and also my
Christmas anthem, which consists of five numbers; the two
symphonies also begin to assume a more definite form, and I
particularly wish to finish them here. Probably I shall be able to
accomplish this during Lent, when parties cease (especially balls)
and spring begins, and then I shall have both time and inclination
to compose, in which case I hope to have a good store of new
works. Any performance of them here is quite out of the question.
The orchestras are worse than any one could believe; both
musicians, and a right feeling for music, are wanting. The two or
three violin performers play just as they choose, and join in when
they please; the wind instruments are tuned either too high or too
low; and they execute flourishes like those we are accustomed to
hear in farm-yards, but hardly so good; in short the whole forms a
Dutch concert, and this applies even to compositions with which
they are familiar.

The question is, whether all this could be radically reformed by
introducing other people into the orchestra, by teaching the
musicians time, and by instructing them in first principles. I
think in that case the people would no doubt take pleasure in it;
so long, however, as this is not done, no improvement can be hoped
for, and every one seems so indifferent on the subject, that there
is not the slightest prospect of such a thing. I heard a solo on
the flute, where the flute was more than a quarter of a tone too
high; it set my teeth on edge, but no one remarked it, and when at
the end a shake came, they applauded mechanically. If it were even
a shade better with regard to singing! The great singers have left
the country. Lablache, David, Lalande, Pisaroni, etc., sing in
Paris, and the minor ones who remain, copy their inspired moments,
which they caricature in the most insupportable manner.

We in Germany may perhaps wish to accomplish something false or
impossible, but it is, and always will be, quite _dissimilar_; and
just as a _cicisbeo_ will for ever be odious and repulsive to my
feelings, so is it also with Italian music. I may be too obtuse to
comprehend either; but I shall never feel otherwise; and recently,
at the Philharmonic, after the music of Pacini and Bellini, when
the Cavaliere Ricci begged me to accompany him in "Non piu andrai,"
the very first notes were so utterly different and so infinitely
remote from all the previous music, that the matter was clear to me
then, and never will it be equalized, so long as there is such a
blue sky, and such a charming winter as the present. In the same
way the Swiss can paint no beautiful scenery, precisely because
they have it the whole day before their eyes. "Les Allemands
traitent la musique comme une affaire d'etat," says Spontini, and I
accept the axiom. I lately heard some musicians here talking of
their composers, and I listened in silence. One quoted ----, but
the others interrupted him, saying he could not be considered an
Italian, for the German school still clung to him, and he had never
been able to get rid of it; consequently he had never been at home
in Italy: we Germans say precisely the reverse of him, and it must
be not a little trying to find yourself so _entre deux_, and
without any fatherland. So far as I am concerned I stick to my own
colours, which are quite honourable enough for me.

Last night a theatre that Torlonia has undertaken and organized,
was opened with a new opera of Pacini's. The crowd was great, and
every box filled with handsome, well-dressed people; young Torlonia
appeared in a stage-box with his mother, the old Duchess, and they
were immensely applauded. The audience called out _Bravo, Torlonia,
grazie, grazie!_ Opposite to him was Jerome, with his suite, and
covered with orders: in the next box Countess Samoilow, etc. Over
the orchestra is a picture of Time pointing to the dial of the
clock, which revolves slowly, and is enough to make any one
melancholy. Pacini then appeared at the piano, and was kindly
welcomed. He had prepared no overture, so the opera began with a
chorus, accompanied by strokes on an anvil tuned in the proper key.
The Corsair came forward, sang his _aria_, and was applauded, on
which the Corsair above, and the Maestro below, bowed (this pirate
is a contralto, and sung by Mademoiselle Mariani); a variety of
airs followed, and the piece became very tiresome. This seemed to
be also the opinion of the public, for when Pacini's grand _finale_
began, the whole pit stood up, talking to each other as loud as
they could, laughing and turning their backs on the stage. Madame
Samoilow fainted in her box, and was carried out. Pacini glided
away from the piano, and at the end of the act, the curtain fell in
the midst of a great tumult. Then came the grand ballet of _Barbe
Bleue_, followed by the last act of the opera. As the audience were
now in a mood for it, they hissed the whole ballet from the very
beginning, and accompanied the second act also with hooting and
laughter. At the close Torlonia was called for, but he would not
appear.

This is the matter-of-fact narrative of a first performance at the
opening of a theatre in Rome. I had anticipated much amusement, so
I came away considerably out of humour; still, if the music had
made _furore_, I should have been very indignant, for it is so
wretched that it really is beneath all criticism. But that they
should turn their backs on their favourite Pacini, whom they wished
to crown in the Capitol, parody his melodies, and sing them in a
ludicrous style, this does, I confess, provoke me not a little, and
is likewise a proof of how low such a musician stands in the public
opinion. Another time they will carry him home on their shoulders;
but this is no compensation. They would not act thus in France with
regard to Boieldieu; independent of all love of art, a sense of
propriety would prevent their doing so: but enough of this subject,
for it is too vexatious.

Why should Italy still insist on being the land of Art, while it is
in reality the Land of Nature, thus delighting every heart! I have
already described to you my walks to the Monte Pincio. I continue
them daily. I went lately with the Vollards to Ponte Nomentano, a
solitary dilapidated bridge in the spacious green Campagna. Many
ruins from the days of ancient Rome, and many watch-towers from the
Middle Ages, are scattered over this long succession of meadows;
chains of hills rise towards the horizon, now partially covered
with snow, and fantastically varied in form and colour by the
shadows of the clouds. And there is also the enchanting, vapoury
vision of the Alban hills, which change their hues like a
chameleon, as you gaze at them,--where you can see for miles little
white chapels glittering on the dark ground of the hills, as far as
the Passionist Convent on the summit, and whence you can trace the
road winding through thickets, and the hills sloping downwards to
the Lake of Albano, while a hermitage peeps through the trees. The
distance is equal to that from Berlin to Potsdam, say I as a good
Berliner; but that it is a lovely vision, I say in earnest. No lack
of music _there_; it echoes and vibrates _there_ on every side; not
in the vapid, tasteless theatres. So we rambled about, chasing each
other in the Campagna, and jumping over the fences, and when the
sun went down we drove home, feeling so weary, and yet so
self-satisfied and pleased, as if we had done great things; and so
we have, if we _rightly appreciated_ it all.

I have now applied myself again to drawing, and have latterly put
in some tints, as I should be glad to be able to recall some of
these bright hues, and practice quickens the perceptions. I must
now tell you, dear mother, of a great, very great pleasure I
recently enjoyed, because you will rejoice with me. Two days ago I
was for the first time in a small circle with Horace Vernet, and
played there. He had previously told me that his most favourite and
esteemed music was "Don Juan," especially the Duet and the
Commendatore at the end; and as I highly approved of such
sentiments on his part, the result was, that while playing a
prelude to Weber's _Concert-Stueck_, I imperceptibly glided further
into extemporizing--thought I would please him by taking these
themes, and so I worked them up fancifully for some time. This
caused him a degree of delight far beyond what I ever knew my music
produce in any one, and we became at once more intimate. Afterwards
he suddenly came up to me, and whispered that we must make an
exchange, for that he also was an improvisatore; and when I was
naturally curious to know what he meant, he said it was his secret.
He is however like a little child, and could not conceal it for
more than a quarter of an hour, when he came in again, and taking
me into the next room, he asked me if I had any time to spare, as
he had stretched and prepared a canvas, and proposed painting my
portrait on it, which I was to keep in memory of this day, or roll
it up and send it to you, or take it with me, just as I chose. He
said he should have no easy task with his improvisation, but at all
events he would attempt it. I was only too glad to give my consent,
and cannot tell you how much I was enchanted with the delight and
enthusiasm he evidently felt in my playing.

It was in every respect a happy evening; as I ascended the hill
with him, all was so still and peaceful, and only one window lit up
in the large dark villa.[12] Fragments of music floated on the
air, and its echoes in the dark night, mingled with the murmuring
of fountains, were sweeter than I can describe. Two young students
were drilling in the anteroom, while the third acted the part of
lieutenant, and commanded in good form. In another room my friend
Montfort, who gained the prize for music in the Conservatorium, was
seated at a piano, and others were standing round, singing a
chorus; but it went very badly. They urged another young man to
join them, and when he said that he did not know how to sing, his
friend rejoined, "Qu'est-ce que ca fait? c'est toujours une voix de
plus!" I helped them as I best could, and we were well amused.
Afterwards we danced, and I wish you could have seen Louisa Vernet
dancing the Saltarella with her father. When at length she was
forced to stop for a few moments, and snatched up a tambourine,
playing with the utmost spirit, and relieving us, who could really
scarcely any longer move our hands, I wished I had been a painter,
for what a superb picture she would have made! Her mother is the
kindest creature in the world, and the grandfather, Charles Vernet
(who paints such splendid horses), danced a quadrille the same
evening with so much ease, making so many _entrechats_, and varying
his steps so gracefully, that it is a sad pity he should actually
be seventy-two years of age. Every day he rides, and tires out two
horses, paints and draws a little, and spends the evening in
society.

  [12] Vernet lived in the Villa Medici.

In my next letter I must tell you of my acquaintance with Robert,
who has just finished an admirable picture, "The Harvest," and also
describe my recent visits with Bunsen to the studios of Cornelius,
Koch, Overbeck, etc. My time is fully occupied, for there is plenty
to do and to see; unluckily I cannot make time elastic, however
much I may strive to extend it. I have as yet said nothing of
Raphael's portrait as a child, and Titian's "Nymphs Bathing," who
in a piquant enough fashion are designated "Sacred and Profane
Love," one being in full gala costume, while the other is devoid of
all drapery,[13] or of my exquisite "Madonna di Foligno," or of
Francesco Francia, the most guileless and devout painter in the
world; or of poor Guido Reni, whom the bearded painters of the
present day treat with such contempt, and yet he painted a certain
Aurora, and many other splendid objects besides; but what avails
description? It is well for me that I can revel in the sight of
them. When we meet, I may perhaps be able to give you a better idea
of them.

         Your FELIX.

  [13] This picture is in the Borghese Gallery.

     Rome, February 1st, 1831.

I intended not to write to you till my birthday, but possibly two
days hence I may not be in a writing mood, and must drive all
fancies away by hard work. It does not seem probable that the Papal
military band will surprise me in the morning,[14] and as I have
told all my acquaintances that I was born on the 25th, I think the
day will glide quietly by; I prefer this to a trivial half-and-half
celebration. I will place your portrait before me in the morning,
and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of you. I shall
then play over my military overture, and select my favourite dish
for dinner, from the _carte_ at the _Lepre_. It is not unprofitable
to be obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birthdays and
other days. I feel isolated enough, and am rather partial to the
other extreme. At night the Torlonias are so obliging as to give a
ball to eight hundred persons; on Wednesday, the day before, and
on Friday, the day after my birthday, I am invited to the house
of some English friends. During the previous week, I have been
busily engaged in sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known
objects;--thus I was in the Vatican, the Farnesina, Corsini, the
Villa Lante, Borghese, etc. Two days ago I saw the frescoes for the
first time in Bartholdy's house;[15] inasmuch as the English ladies
who reside there, and who have transformed the painted saloon into
a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, would never hitherto
permit me to enter it. So this was my first visit to my uncle's
house, where at last I saw his pictures, and the view of the city.
It was a noble, regal idea to have these frescoes; and the
execution of such a sublime thought, in spite of every kind of
impediment and annoyance, simply in order that the design should be
carried out, seems to me very charming.

  [14] On the 3rd of February, 1830, the bands of some regiments in
  Berlin gave Mendelssohn a serenade in honour of his birthday.

  [15] The Prussian Consul-General Bartholdy, who died in Rome, and
  was an uncle of Felix Mendelssohn's.

But to turn to an entirely different subject. In many circles here,
it is the fashion to consider piety and dulness synonymous, and yet
they are very different; our German clergyman here is not
behindhand in this respect. There are men in Rome with an amount of
fanaticism credible in the sixteenth century, but quite monstrous
in the present day; they all wish to make converts, abusing each
other in a Christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief of his
neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. As if to have
simplicity, and to be simple, were the same thing! Unfortunately I
must here retract my favourite axiom, that _goodwill_ can effect
all things, _ability_ must accompany it; but I am soaring too high,
and my father will lecture me. I wish this letter were better, but
we have snow on the ground; the roofs in the Piazza di Spagna are
quite white, and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing can be
more odious to us Southerners, and we are freezing. The Monte
Pincio is a mass of ice. Your Northern Lights have their revenge on
us. Who can write or think with any degree of warmth? I was so
pleased at the idea of being a whole winter without snow, but now I
must give up that notion. The Italians say that spring breezes will
come in a few days; then gay life, and gay letters, will be
resumed. Farewell! may you enjoy every good, and think of me.

        FELIX.


     Rome, February 8th, 1831.

The Pope is elected: the Pope is crowned. He performed mass in St.
Peter's on Sunday, and conferred his benediction; in the evening
the dome was illuminated, succeeded by the Girandola; the Carnival
began on Saturday, and pursues its headlong course in the most
motley forms. The city has been illuminated each evening. Last
night there was a ball at the French Embassy; to-day the Spanish
Ambassador gives a grand entertainment. Next door to me they sell
_confetti_, and how they do shout! And now I might as well stop,
for why attempt to describe what is, in fact, indescribable? You
ought to make Hensel tell you of these splendid _fetes_, which in
pomp, brilliancy, and animation, surpass all the imagination can
conceive, for my sober pen is not equal to the task. What a
different aspect everything has assumed during the last eight days,
for now the mildest and most genial sun is shining, and we remain
in the balcony enjoying the air till after sunset. Oh, that I could
enclose for you, in this letter, only one quarter of an hour of all
this pleasure, or tell you how life actually flies in Rome, every
minute bringing its own memorable delights! It is not difficult to
give _fetes_ here; if the simple architectural outlines are lighted
up, the dome of St. Peter's blazes forth in the dark purple
atmosphere, calmly shining. If there are fireworks, they brighten
the gloomy solid walls of the Castle of St. Angelo, and fall into
the Tiber; when they commence their fantastic _fetes_ in February,
the most lustrous sun shines down on them and beautifies them. It
is a wondrous land.

But I must not forget to tell you that I spent my birthday very
differently from what I expected. I must however be brief, for an
hour hence I go to join the Carnival in the Corso. My birthday had
three celebrations--the eve, the birthday itself, and the day
after. On the 2nd of February, Santini was sitting in my room in
the morning, and in answer to my impatient questions about the
Conclave, he replied with a diplomatic air, that there was little
chance of a Pope being elected before Easter. Herr Brisbane also
called, and told me that after leaving Berlin, he had been in
Constantinople, and Smyrna, etc., and inquired after all his
acquaintances in Berlin, when suddenly the report of a cannon was
heard, and then another, and the people rushed across the Piazza di
Spagna, shouting with all their might. We three started off, Heaven
knows how, and ran breathlessly to the Quirinal, where the man was
just retreating, who had shouted through a broken window--"Annuncio
vobis gaudium magnum; habemus Papam R. E. dominum Capellari, qui
nomen assumsit Gregorius XVI." All the Cardinals now crowded into
the balcony, to breathe fresh air, and laughed, and talked together
It was the first time they had been in the open air for fifty
days, and yet they looked so gay, their red caps shining brightly
in the sun; the whole Piazza was filled with people, who clambered
on the obelisk, and on the horses of Phidias, and the statues
projected far above in the air. Carriage after carriage drove up,
amid jostling and shouting. Then the new Pope appeared, and before
him was borne the golden cross, and he blessed the crowd for the
first time, while the people at the same moment prayed, and cried
"Hurrah!" All the bells in Rome were ringing, and there was firing
of cannons, and flourishes of trumpets, and military music. This
was the _eve_ of my birthday.

Next morning I followed the crowd down the long street to the
Piazza of St. Peter's, which looked finer than I had ever seen it,
lit up brightly by the sun, and swarming with carriages; the
Cardinals in their red coaches, driving in state to the sacristy,
with servants in embroidered liveries, and people innumerable, of
every nation, rank, and condition; and high above them the dome and
the church seeming to float in blue vapour, for there was
considerable mist in the morning air. And I thought that Capellari
would probably appropriate all this to himself when he saw it; but
I knew better. It was all to celebrate my birthday; and the
election of the Pope, and the homage, a mere spectacle in honour of
me; but it was well and naturally performed; and so long as I live.
I shall never forget it.

The Church of St. Peter's was crowded to the door. The Pope was
borne in on his throne, and fans of peacocks' feathers carried
before him, and then set down on the High Altar, when the Papal
singers intoned, "_Tu es sacerdos magnus_." I only heard two or
three chords, but it required no more; the sound was enough. Then
one Cardinal succeeded another, kissing the Pope's foot and his
hands, when he in turn embraced them. After surveying all this for
a time, standing closely pressed by a crowd, and unable to move, to
look suddenly aloft to the dome, as far as the lantern, inspires a
singular sensation. I was with Diodati, among a throng of
Capuchins; these saintly men are far from being devotional on an
occasion of this kind, and by no means cleanly. But I must hasten
on; the Carnival is beginning, and I must not lose any portion of
it.

At night, (in honour of my birthday,) barrels of pitch were burned
in all the streets, and the Propaganda illuminated. The people
thought this was owing to its being the former residence of the
Pope, but _I_ knew it was because I lived exactly opposite, and I
had only to lean out of my window to enjoy it all. Then came
Torlonia's ball, and in every corner were seen glimpses of red caps
above, and red stockings below. The following day they worked very
hard at scaffoldings, platforms, and stages for the Carnival;
edicts were posted up about horse-racing, and specimens of masks
were displayed at the windows, and (in celebration of the day
following my birthday) the illumination of the dome, and the
Girandola were fixed for Sunday. On Saturday all the world went to
the Capitol, to witness the form of the Jews' supplications to be
suffered to remain in the Sacred City for another year; a request
which is refused at the foot of the hill, but after repeated
entreaties, granted on the summit, and the Ghetto is assigned to
them. It was a tiresome affair; we waited two hours, and after all,
understood the oration of the Jews as little as the answer of the
Christians. I came down again in very bad humour, and thought that
the Carnival had commenced rather unpropitiously. So I arrived in
the Corso and was driving along, thinking no evil, when I was
suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I looked up; they
had been flung by some young ladies whom I had seen occasionally at
balls, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarrassment I took off
my hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. Their
carriage drove on, and in the next was Miss T----, a delicate young
Englishwoman. I tried to bow to her, but she pelted me too, so I
became quite desperate, and clutching the _confetti_, I flung them
back bravely; there were swarms of my acquaintances, and my blue
coat was soon as white as that of a miller. The B----s were
standing on a balcony, flinging _confetti_ like hail at my head;
and thus pelting and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers, and
the most extravagant masks, the day ended with races.

The following day there was no carnival, but as a compensation, the
Pope conferred his benediction from the Loggia, in the Piazza of
St. Peter's; he was consecrated as Bishop in the Church, and at
night the dome was lighted up. The sudden, nay _instantaneous_
change the illumination of the building effects, you must ask
Hensel to paint or to describe, whichever he prefers. Nothing can
be more startling than the sudden and surprising vision, of so
many hundred human beings, previously invisible, now revealed as
it were in the air, working and moving about--and the glorious
Girandola,--but who can conceive it! Now the gaieties recommence.
Farewell! in my next letter I mean to continue my description.
Yesterday, at the Carnival, flowers and _bonbons_ were indiscriminately
thrown, and a mask gave me a bouquet, which I have dried, and mean
to bring home for you. All idea of occupation is out of the question
at present; I have only composed one little song; but when Lent comes,
I intend to be more industrious. Who can at such a moment think either
of writing or music? I must go out, so farewell, dear ones.

        FELIX.


     Rome, February 22nd, 1831.

A thousand thanks for your letter of the 8th, which I received
yesterday, on my return from Tivoli. I cannot tell you, dear Fanny,
how much I am delighted with your plan about the Sunday music. This
idea of yours is most brilliant, and I do entreat of you, for
Heaven's sake, not to let it die away again; on the contrary, pray
give your travelling brother a commission to write something new
for you. He will gladly do so, for he is quite charmed with you,
and with your project. You must let me know what voices you have,
and also take counsel with your subjects as to what they like best
(for the people, O Fanny, have rights). I think it would be a good
plan to place before them something easy, interesting and
pleasing,--for instance, the Litany of Sebastian Bach. But to speak
seriously, I recommend the "Shepherd of Israel," or the "Dixit
Dominus," of Haendel.

Do you mean to play something during the intervals to these people?
I think this would not be unprofitable to either party, for they
must have time to take breath, and you must study the piano, and
thus it would become a vocal and instrumental concert. I wish so
much that I could be one of the audience, and compliment you
afterwards. Be discreet and indulgent, and avoid fatiguing either
yourself or the voices of your singers. Do not be irritable when
things go badly; say very little on the subject to any one. Lastly,
above all, endeavour to prevent the choir feeling any tedium, for
this is the principal point. One of my pieces certainly owes its
birth to this Sunday music. When you wrote to me about it lately, I
reflected whether there was anything I could send you, thus
reviving an old favourite scheme of mine, which has however now
assumed such vast proportions, that I cannot let you have any part
of it by E----, but you shall have it at some future time.

Listen and wonder! Since I left Vienna I have partly composed
Goethe's first "Walpurgis Night," but have not yet had courage to
write it down. The composition has now assumed a form, and become a
grand Cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. At the
opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty of others of
the same kind. Afterwards, when the watchmen with their "Gabeln,
und Zacken, und Eulen," make a great noise, the fairy frolics
begin, and you know that I have a particular foible for them; the
sacrificial Druids then appear, with their trombones in C major,
when the watchmen come in again in alarm, and here I mean to
introduce a light mysterious tripping chorus; and lastly to
conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. Do you not think that this
might develop into a new style of Cantata? I have an instrumental
introduction, as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is
very spirited. I hope it will soon be finished. I have once more
begun to compose with fresh vigour, and the Italian symphony makes
rapid progress; it will be the most sportive piece I have yet
composed, especially the last movement. I have not yet decided on
the _adagio_, and think I shall reserve it for Naples. "Verleih uns
Frieden" is completed, and "Wir glauben all" will also be ready in
a few days. The Scotch symphony alone is not yet quite to my
liking; if any brilliant idea occurs to me, I will seize it at
once, quickly write it down, and finish it at last.

        FELIX.


     Rome, March 1st, 1831.

While I write this date, I shrink from the thought of how time
flies. Before this month is at an end the Holy Week begins, and
when it is over, my stay in Rome will be drawing to a close. I now
try to reflect whether I have made the best use of my time, and on
every side I perceive a deficiency. If I could only compass one of
my two symphonies! I must and will reserve the Italian one till I
have seen Naples, which must play a part in it, but the other also
seems to elude my grasp; the more I try to seize it and the nearer
the end of this delightful quiet Roman period approaches, the more
am I perplexed, and the less do I seem to succeed. I feel as if it
will be long indeed before I can write again as freely as here, and
so I am eager to finish what I have to do, but I make no progress.
The "Walpurgis Night" alone gets on quickly, and I hope it will
soon be accomplished. Besides, I cannot resist every day sketching,
that I may carry away with me reminiscences of my favourite haunts.
There is still much that I wish to see, so I perfectly well know
that this month will suddenly come to an end, and much remain
undone; and indeed it is quite too beautiful here.

Rome is considerably changed, and neither so gay nor so cheerful as
formerly.[16] Almost all my acquaintances are gone; the promenades
and streets are deserted, the galleries closed, and it is
impossible to gain admittance into them. All news from without
almost entirely fails us, (for we saw the details about Bologna
first in the 'Allgemeine Zeitung' yesterday;) people seldom or
never congregate together; in fact, everything has subsided into
entire rest; but then the weather is lovely, and no one can deprive
us of this warm, balmy atmosphere. Those who are most to be pitied
in the present state of affairs are the Vernet ladies, who are
unpleasantly situated here. The hatred of the entire Roman populace
is, strangely enough, directed against the French Pensionaries,
believing that their influence alone could easily effect a
revolution. Threatening anonymous letters have been repeatedly sent
to Vernet; indeed he one day found an armed Transteverin stationed
in front of the windows of his studio, who however took to flight
when Vernet fetched his gun: and as the ladies are now entirely
alone, and isolated in the villa, their family are naturally very
uneasy. Still all continues quiet and serene within the city, and I
am quite convinced it will remain so.

  [16] Some disturbances had in the meantime broken out in the
  Ecclesiastical States, at Bologna.

The German painters are really more contemptible than I can tell
you. Not only have they cut off their whiskers and moustaches, and
their long hair and beards, openly declaring that as soon as all
danger is at an end they will let them grow again, but these tall
stalwart fellows go home as soon as it is dark, lock themselves in,
and discuss their fears together. They call Horace Vernet a
braggart, and yet he is very different from these miserable
creatures, whose conduct makes me cordially despise them. Latterly
I occasionally visited some of the modern studios. Thorwaldsen has
just finished a statue in clay of Lord Byron. He is seated amidst
ancient ruins, his feet resting on the capital of a column, while
he is gazing into the distance, evidently about to write something
on the tablets he holds in his hand. He is represented not in Roman
costume, but in a simple modern dress, and I think it looks well,
and does not destroy the general effect. The statue has the natural
air and easy pose so remarkable in all this sculptor's works, and
yet the poet looks sufficiently gloomy and elegiac, though not
affected. I must some day write you a whole letter about the
'Triumph of Alexander,' for never did any piece of sculpture make
such an impression on me; I go there every week, and stand gazing
at that alone, and enter Babylon along with the Conqueror. I lately
called on A----; he has brought with him some admirable pencil
sketches from Naples and Sicily, so I should be glad to take some
hints from him, but I fear that he is a considerable exaggerator,
and does not sketch faithfully. His landscape of the Colosseum,
at H. B., is a beautiful romance; for I cannot say that in
the original I ever perceived woods of large cypresses and
orange-trees, or fountains or thickets in the centre, extending to
the ruins. Moreover, _his_ moustaches have also disappeared.

I have something amusing to tell you in conclusion. I wish, O my
Fanny, that as a contrast to your Sunday harmony you had heard the
music we perpetrated last Sunday evening. We wished to sing the
Psalms of Marcello, being Lent, and the best dilettanti
consequently assembled. A Papal singer was in the middle, a
_maestro_ at the piano, and we sang. When a soprano solo came, all
the ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, so it was
executed as a _tutti_. The tenor by my side never alighted on the
right note, and rambled about in the most insecure regions. When I
chimed in as second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when I
tried to assist him, he seemed to think that was my original part,
and kept steadily to his own. The Papal singer at one instant sang
in the soprano falsetto, and presently took the first bass; soon
after he quaked out the _alt_, and when all that was of no avail,
he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and we nodded mysteriously to
each other. The _maestro_, in striving to set us all right,
repeatedly lost his own place, being a bar behind, or one in
advance, and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, just as
we thought fit. Suddenly came a very solemn solo passage for the
bass, which _all_ attacked valiantly, but at the second bar broke
into a chorus of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, so
the affair ended in high good-humour. The people who had come as
audience talked at the pitch of their voices, and then went out and
dispersed. Eynard came in and listened to our music for a time,
then made a horrid grimace, and was seen no more. Farewell! Health
and happiness attend you all!

        FELIX.


     Rome, March 15th, 1831.

The letters of introduction that R---- sent me, have been of no use
to me here. L---- likewise, to whom I was presented by Bunsen, has
not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other
way when we meet. I rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. Albani
admitted me, so I had the honour of conversing for half an hour
with a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, he asked me
if I was a pensioner of the King of Hanover. "No," said I. He
supposed that I must have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I
knew Meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure his music;
it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so
learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was
a German, and the Germans, _mon ami_, have not the most remote
conception of what melody is! "No," said I. "In _my_ scores,"
continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the
first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings,
and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the
double-bass sings too." I was naturally desirous, in all humility,
to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me
nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in Rome a
agreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit to his villa,
and I might take as many of my friends with me as I chose. It was
near such and such a place. I thanked him very much, and
subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but
presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any
one can go there who chooses. Since that time I have heard no more
of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with
respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest Roman circles,
I resolved not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was
satisfied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed out to me on
the promenade, where I met them daily.

I think Mizkiewicz very tiresome. He possesses that kind of
indifference which bores both himself and others, though the ladies
persist in designating it melancholy and lassitude; but this makes
it no better in my eyes. If he looks at St. Peter's, he deplores
the times of the hierarchy; if the sky is blue and beautiful, he
wishes it were dull and gloomy; if it is gloomy, he is freezing; if
he sees the Colosseum, he wishes he had lived at that period. I
wonder what sort of a figure he would have made in the days of
Titus!

You inquire about Horace Vernet, and this is, indeed, a pleasant
theme. I believe I may say that I have learned something from him,
and every one may do the same. He produces with incredible facility
and freshness. When a form meets his eye which touches his
feelings, he instantly adopts it, and while others are deliberating
whether it can be called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he
has long completed his work, entirely deranging our aesthetical
standard. Though this facility cannot be acquired, still its
principle is admirable, and the serenity which springs from it, and
the energy it calls forth in working, nothing else can replace.

Among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this season of
blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in the midst of the
shrubberies and gardens of the Villa Medicis, stands a small house,
in which as you approach you invariably hear a tumult,--shouting
and wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the barking of
dogs; this is Vernet's _atelier_. The most picturesque disorder
everywhere prevails; guns, a hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a
couple of dead hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures,
finished and unfinished. "The Investiture of the National Cockade"
(an eccentric picture which does not please me), portraits recently
begun of Thorwaldsen, Eynard, Latour-Maubourg, some horses, a
sketch of Judith, and studies for it; the portrait of the Pope, a
couple of Moorish heads, bagpipers, Papal soldiers, my unworthy
self, Cain and Abel, and last of all a drawing of the interior of
the place itself, all hang up in his studio.

Lately his hands were quite full, owing to the number of portraits
bespoken from him; but in the street, he saw one of the Campagna
peasants, who are armed and mounted by Government, and ride about
Rome. The singular costume caught the artist's eye, and next day he
began a picture representing a similar peasant, sitting on his
horse in bad weather in the Campagna, and seizing his gun in order
to take aim at some one with it; in the distance are visible a
small troop of soldiers, and the desolate plain. The minute details
of the weapon, where the peasant peeps through the soldier's
uniform, the wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the
discomfort prevalent throughout, and the Italian phlegm in the
bearded fellow, make a charming little picture; and no one can help
envying him, who sees the real delight with which his brush
traverses the stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little
rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a button on the saddle; then
lining the soldier's great-coat with green. Numbers of people come
to look on: during my first sitting twenty persons, at least,
arrived one after the other. Countess E---- asked him to allow her
to be present when he was at work; but when he darted on it as a
hungry man does on food, her amazement was great. The whole family
are, as I told you, good people, and when old Charles talks about
his father Joseph, you must feel respect for them, and I maintain
that they are noble. Good-bye, for it is late, and I must send my
letter to the Post.

        FELIX.


     Rome, March 29th, 1831.

In the midst of the Holy Week. To-morrow for the first time I am to
hear the Miserere, and while you last Sunday performed "The
Passion," the Cardinals and all the priesthood here received
twisted palms and olive-branches. The Stabat Mater of Palestrina
was sung, and there was a grand procession. My work has got on
badly during the last few days. Spring is in all her bloom; a
genial blue sky without, such as we at most only dream of, and a
journey to Naples in my every thought; so even a quiet time to
write is not to be found. C----, who is usually a cool fellow, has
written me such a glowing letter from Naples! The most prosaic men
become poetical when they speak of it. The finest season of the
year in Italy, is from the 15th of April to the 15th of May. Who
can wonder that I find it impossible to return to my misty Scotch
mood? I have therefore laid aside the Scotch symphony for the
present, but hope to write out the "Walpurgis Night" here. I shall
manage to do so if I work hard to-day and to-morrow, and if we have
bad weather, for really a fine day is too great a temptation. As
soon as an impediment occurs, I hope to find some resource in the
open air, so I go out and think of anything and everything but my
composition, and do nothing but lounge about, and when the church
bells begin to ring, it is the Ave Maria already. All I want now is
a short overture. If I can accomplish this, the thing is complete,
and I can write it out in a couple of days. Then I have done with
music, and leaving all music-paper here, I shall go off to Naples,
where, please God, I mean to do nothing.

Two French friends of mine have tempted me to _flaner_ with them a
good deal of late. When they are together, it is either a perpetual
tragedy, or comedy,--as you will. Y---- distorts everything,
without a spark of talent, always groping in the dark, but
esteeming himself the creator of a new world; writing moreover the
most frightful things, and yet dreaming and thinking of nothing but
Beethoven, Schiller, and Goethe; a victim at the same time to the
most boundless vanity, and looking down condescendingly on Mozart
and Haydn, so that all his enthusiasm seems to me very doubtful.
Z---- has been toiling for three months at a little rondo on a
Portuguese theme; he arranges neatly and brilliantly, and according
to rule, and he now intends to set about composing six waltzes, and
is in a state of perfect ecstasy if I will only play him over a
number of Vienna waltzes. He has a high esteem for Beethoven, but
also for Rossini and for Bellini, and no doubt for Auber,--in
short, for everybody. Then my turn comes to be praised, who would
be only too glad to murder Y----, till he chances to eulogize
Gluck, when I can quite agree with him. I like nevertheless to walk
about with these two, for they are the only musicians here, and
both very pleasant, amiable persons. All this forms an amusing
contrast.

You say, dear mother, that Y---- must have a fixed aim in his art;
but this is far from being my opinion. I believe he wishes to be
married, and is in fact worse than the other, because he is by far
the most affected of the two. I really cannot stand his obtrusive
enthusiasm, and the gloomy despondency he assumes before
ladies,--this stereotyped genius in black and white; and if he were
not a Frenchman, (and it is always pleasant to associate with them,
as they have invariably something interesting to say,) it would be
beyond endurance. A week hence, I shall probably write you my last
letter from Rome, and then you shall hear of me from Naples. It is
still quite uncertain whether I go to Sicily or not; I almost think
not, as in any event I must have recourse to a steamboat, and it is
not yet settled that one is to go.

         In haste, yours, FELIX.


     Rome, April 4th, 1831.

The Holy Week is over, and my passport to Naples prepared. My room
begins to look empty, and my winter in Rome is now among my
reminiscences of the past. I intend to leave this in a few days,
and my next letter (D. V.) shall be from Naples. Interesting and
amusing as the winter in Rome has been, it has closed with a truly
memorable week; for what I have seen and heard far surpassed my
expectations, and being the conclusion, I will endeavour in this,
my last letter from Rome, to give you a full description of it
all. People have often both zealously praised and censured the
ceremonies of the Holy Week, and have yet omitted, as is often the
case, the chief point, namely its perfection as a complete whole.
My father may probably remember the description of Mdlle. de R----,
who after all only did what most people do, who write or talk about
music and art, when in a hoarse and prosaic voice she attempted at
dinner to give us some idea of the fine clear Papal choir. Many
others have given the mere music, and been dissatisfied, because
external adjuncts are required to produce the full effect. Those
persons may be in the right; still so long as these indispensable
externals are there, and especially in such entire perfection, so
long will it impress others; and just as I feel convinced that
place, time, order, the vast crowd of human beings awaiting in the
most profound silence the moment for the music to begin, contribute
largely to the effect, so do I contemn the idea of deliberately
separating what ought in fact to be indivisible, and this for the
purpose of exhibiting a certain portion, which may thus be
depreciated. That man must be despicable indeed, on whom the
devotion and reverence of a vast assemblage did not make a
corresponding impression of devotion and reverence, even if they
were worshipping the Golden Calf; let him alone destroy this, who
can replace it by something better.

Whether one person repeats it from another, whether it comes up to
its great reputation, or is merely the effect of the imagination,
is quite the same thing. It suffices that we have a perfect
totality, which has exercised the most powerful influence for
centuries past, and still exercises it, and therefore I reverence
it, as I do every species of real perfection. I leave it to
theologians to pronounce on its religious influence, for the
various opinions on that point are of no great value. There is more
to be considered than the mere ceremonies: for me it is sufficient,
as I already said, that in any sphere the object should be fully
c

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