Rome—St. Peter's.
Lastly we ascended the roof of the church, where one finds in little the plan of a well-built city. Houses and magazines, springs (in appearance at least), churches, and a great temple all in the air, and beautiful walks between. We mounted the dome, and saw glistening before us the regions of the Apennines, Soracte, and towards Tivoli the volcanic hills. Frascati, Castelgandolfo, and the plains, and beyond all the sea. Close at our feet lay the whole city of Rome in its length and breadth, with its mountain palaces, domes, &c. Not a breath of air was moving, and in the upper dome it was (as they say) like being in a hot-house. When we had looked enough at these things, we went down, and they opened for us the doors in the cornices of the dome, the tympanum, and the nave. There is a passage all round, and from above you can take a view of the whole church, and of its several parts. As we stood on the cornices of the tympanum, we saw beneath us the pope passing to his mid-day devotions. Nothing, therefore, was wanting to make our view of St. Peter's perfect. We at last descended to the area, and took in a neighbouring hotel a cheerful but frugal meal, and then set off for St. Cecilia's.
It would take many words to describe the decorations of this church, which was crammed full of people; not a stone of the edifice was to be seen. The pillars were covered with red velvet wound round with gold lace; the capitals were overlaid with embroidered velvet, so as to retain somewhat of the appearance of capitals, and all the cornices and pillars were in like manner covered with hangings. All the entablatures of the walls were also covered with life-like paintings, so that the whole church seemed to be laid out in mosaic. Around the church, and on the high altar more than two hundred wax tapers were burning. It looked like a wall of lights, and the whole nave was perfectly lit up. The aisles and side altars were equally adorned and illuminated. Right opposite the high altar, and under the organ, two scaffolds were erected, which also were covered with velvet, on one of which were placed the singers, and on the other the instruments, which kept up one unbroken strain of music. The church was crammed full.
I have heard an excellent kind of musical accompaniment, just as there are concerts of violins, or of other instruments, so here they had concerts of voices; so that one voice—the soprano for instance—predominates, and sings solo, while from time to time the chorus of other voices falls in, and accompanies it, always of course with the whole orchestra. It has a good effect. I must end, as we in fact ended the day. In the evening we come upon the Opera, where no less a piece than "I Litiganti" was being performed, but we had all the day enjoyed so much of excellence, that we passed by the door.
Rome, Nov.23, 1786.
In order that it may not be the same with my dear incognito as with the ostrich, which thinks itself to be concealed when it has hid its head, so in certain cases I give it up, still maintaining, however, my old thesis. I had without hesitation paid a visit of compliment to the Prince von Lichtenstein, the brother of my much-esteemed friend the Countess Harrach, and occasionally dined with him, and I soon perceived that my good-nature in this instance was likely to lead me much further. They began to feel their way, and to talk to me of the AbbéMonti, and of his tragedy of Aristodemus, which is shortly to be brought out on the stage. The author, it was said, wished above all things to read it to me, and to hear my opinion of it, but I contrived, however, to let the matter drop, without positively refusing; at last, however, I met the poet and some of his friends at the prince's house, and the play was read aloud.
The hero is, as is well known, the King of Sparta, who by various scruples of conscience was driven to commit suicide. Prettily enough they contrived to intimate to me their hope that the author of Werther would not take it ill if he found some of the rare passages of his own work made use of in this drama. And so even before the walls of Sparta I can not escape from this unhappy youth.
The piece has a very simple and calm movement, the sentiments as well as the language are well suited to the subject,—full of energy, and yet of tenderness. The work is a proof of very fair talents.
I failed not, according to my fashion, (not, indeed, after the Italian fashion) to point out, and to dwell upon all the excellencies and merits of the piece, with which, indeed, all present were tolerably satisfied, though still with Southern impatience they seemed to require something more. I even ventured to predict what effect it was to be hoped the piece would have from the public. I excused myself on account of my ignorance of the country, its way of thinking and tastes, but was candid enough to add, that I did not clearly see how the Romans, with their vitiated taste, who were accustomed to see as an interlude either a complete comedy of three acts, or an opera of two, or could not sit out a grand opera, without the intermezzo of wholly foreign ballets, could ever take delight in the calm, noble movement of a regular tragedy. Then, again, the subject of a suicide seemed to me to be altogether out of the pale of an Italian's ideas. That they stabbed men to death, I knew by daily report of such events; but that any one should deprive himself of his own precious existence, or even should hold it possible for another to do so; of that no trace or symptom had ever been brought under my notice.
Rome—Monti's Aristodemus.
However I allowed myself to be circumstantially enlightened as to all that might be urged in answer to my objections, and readily yielded to their plausible arguments. I also assured them I wished for nothing so much as to see the piece acted, and with a band of friends to welcome it with the most downright and loudest applause. This assurance was received in the most friendly manner possible, and I had this time at least no cause to be dissatisfied with my compliance—for indeed Prince Lichstenstein is politeness itself, and found opportunity for my seeing in his company many precious works of art, a sight of which is not easily obtained without special permission, and for which consequently high influence is indispensable. On the other hand, my good humour failed me, when the daughter of the Pretender expressed a wish to see the strange marmoset. I declined the honour, and once more completely shrouded myself beneath my disguise.
But still that is not altogether the right way, and I here feel most sensibly what I have often before observed in life, that the man who makes good his first wish, must be on the alert and active, must oppose himself to very much besides the selfish, the mean, and the bad. It is easy to see this, but is extremely difficult to act in the spirit of it.
Nov.24, 1786.
Of the people I can say nothing more than that they are fine children of nature, who, amidst pomp and honours of all kinds, religion and the arts, are not one jot different from what they would be in caves and forests. What strikes the stranger most, and what to-day is making the whole city to talk, but only totalk, is the common occurrence of assassination. To-day the victim has been an excellent artist—Schwendemann, a Swiss, a medallionist. The particulars of his death greatly resemble those of Windischmann's. The assassin with whom he was struggling gave him twenty stabs, and as the watch came up, the villain stabbed himself. This is not generally the fashion here; the murderer usually makes for the nearest church, and once there, he is quite safe.
And now, in order to shade my picture a little, I might bring into it crimes and disorders, earthquakes and inundations of all kinds, but for an eruption of Vesuvius, which has just broke out, and has set almost all the visitors here in motion; and one must, indeed, possess a rare amount of self-control, not to be carried away by the crowd. Really this phenomenon of nature has in it something of a resemblance to the rattle-snake, for its attraction is irresistible. At this moment it almost seems as if all the treasures of art in Rome were annihilated; every stranger, without exception, has broken off the current of his contemplations, and is hurrying to Naples; I, however, shall stay, in the hope that the mountain will have a little eruption, expressly for my amusement.
Rome, Dec.1, 1786.
Moritz is here, who has made himself famous by his "Anthony the Traveller" (Anton Reiser,) and his "Wanderings in England" (Wanderungen nach England.) He is a right down excellent man, and we have been greatly pleased with him.
Rome, Dec.1, 1786.
Here in Rome, where one sees so many strangers, all of whom do not visit this capital of the world merely for the sake of the fine arts, but also for amusements of every kind, the people are prepared for everything. Accordingly, they have invented and attained great excellence in certain half arts which require for their pursuit little more than manual skill and pleasure in such handiwork, and which consequently attract the interest of ordinary visitors.
Among these is the art of painting in wax. Requiring little more than tolerable skill in water-colouring, it serves as an amusement to employ one's time in preparing and adapting the wax, and then in burning it, and in such like mechanical labours. Skilful artists give lessons in the art, and, under the pretext of showing their pupils how to perform their tasks, do the chief part of the work themselves, so that when at last the figure stands out in bright relief in the gilded frame, the fair disciple is ravished with the proof of her unconscious talent.
Another pretty occupation is, with a very fine clay, to take impressions of cameos cut in deep relief. This is also done in the case of medallions, both sides of which are thus copied at once. More tact, attention, and diligence is required, lastly, for preparation of the glass-paste for mock jewels. For all these things Hofrath Reiffenstein has the necessary workshops and laboratories either in his house, or close at hand.
Dec.2, 1786.
I have accidentally found here Archenholtz's Italy. A work written on the spot, in so contracted and narrow-minded a spirit as this, is just as if one were to lay a book purposely on the coals, in order that it might be browned and blackened, and its leaves curled up and disfigured with smoke.
Rome—Archenholtz's Italy.
No doubt he has seen all that he writes about, but he possesses far too little of real knowledge to support his high pretensions and sneering tone; and whether he praises or blames, he is always in the wrong.
Dec.2, 1786.
Such beautiful warm and quiet weather at the end of November, (which however is often broken by a day's rain,) is quite new to me. We spend the fine days in the open air, the bad in our room; everywhere there is something to learn and to do, something to be delighted with.
On the 28th we paid a second visit to the Sistine Chapel, and had the galleries opened, in order that we might obtain a nearer view of the ceiling. As the galleries are very narrow, it is only with great difficulty that one forces one's way up them, by means of the iron balustrades. There is an appearance of danger about it, on which account those who are liable to get dizzy had better not make the attempt; all the discomfort, however, is fully compensated by the sight of the great masterpiece of art. And at this moment I am so taken with Michael Angelo, that after him I have no taste even for nature herself, especially as I am unable to contemplate her with the same eye of genius that he did. Oh, that there were only some means of fixing such paintings in my soul! At any rate, I shall bring with me every engraving and drawing of his pictures or drawings after him that I can lay hold of.
Then we went to theLoggie, painted by Raffaelle, and scarcely dare I say that we could not endure to look at them. The eye had been so dilated and spoiled by those great forms, and the glorious finish of every part, that it was not able to follow the ingenious windings of the Arabesques; and the Scripture histories, however beautiful they were, did not stand examination after the former. And yet to see these works frequently one after another, and to compare them together at leisure, and without prejudice, must be a source of great pleasure,—for at first all sympathy is more or less exclusive.
From hence, under a sunshine, if anything rather too warm, we proceeded to the Villa Pamphili, whose beautiful gardens are much resorted to for amusement; and there we remained till evening. A large flat meadow, enclosed by long ever green oaks and lofty pines, was sown all over with daisies, which turned their heads to the sun. I now revived my botanical speculations, which I had indulged in the other day during a walk towards Monte Mario, to the Villa Melini, and the Villa Madama. It is very interesting to observe the working of a vigorous unceasing vegetation, which is here unbroken by any severe cold. Here there are no buds: one has actually to learn what a bud is. The strawberry-tree (arbutus unedo) is at this season, for the second time, in blossom, while its last fruits are just ripening. So also the orange-tree may seen in flower, and at the same time bearing partially and fully ripened fruit. (The latter trees, however, if they are not sheltered by standing between buildings, are, at this season, generally covered). As to the cypress, that most "venerable" of trees, when it is old and well grown, it affords matter enough for thought. As soon as possible I shall pay a visit to the Botanical Gardens, and hope to add there much to my experience. Generally, there is nothing to be compared with the new life which the sight of a new country affords to a thoughtful person. Although I am still the same being, I yet think I am changed to the very marrow.
For the present I conclude, and shall perhaps fill the next sheet with murders, disorders, earthquakes, and troubles, in order that at any rate my pictures may not be without their dark shades.
Rome, Dec.3, 1786.
The weather lately has changed almost every six days. Two days quite glorious, then a doubtful one, and after it two or three rainy ones, and then again fine weather. I endeavour to put each day, according to its nature, to the best use.
Rome—The Apollo Belvedere, &c.
And yet these glorious objects are even still like new acquaintances to me. One has not yet lived with them, nor got familiar with their peculiarities. Some of them attract us with irresistible power, so that for a time one feels indifferent, if not unjust, towards all others. Thus, for instance, the Pantheon, the Apollo Belvedere, some colossal heads, and very recently the Sistine Chapel, have by turns so won my whole heart, that I scarcely saw any thing besides them. But, in truth, can man, little as man always is, and accustomed to littleness, ever make himself equal to all that here surrounds him of the noble, the vast, and the refined? Even though he should in any degree adapt himself to it, then how vast is the multitude of objects that immediately press upon him from all sides, and meet him at every turn, of which each demands for itself the tribute of his whole attention. How is one to get out of the difficulty? No other way assuredly than by patiently allowing it to work, becoming industrious, and attending the while to all that others have accomplished for our benefit.
Winckelmann's History of Art, translated by Rea, (the new edition), is a very useful book, which I have just procured, and here on the spot find it to be highly profitable, as I have around me many kind friends, willing to explain and to comment upon it.
Roman antiquities also begin to have a charm for me. History, inscriptions, coins, (of which formerly I knew nothing,) all are pressing upon me. As it happened to me in the case of natural history, so goes it with me here also; for the history of the whole world attaches itself to this spot, and I reckon a new-birth day,—a true new birth from the day that I entered Rome.
December5, 1786.
During the few weeks I have been here, I have already seen many strangers come and go, so that I have often wondered at the levity with which so many treat these precious monuments. God be thanked that hereafter none of those birds of passage will be able to impose upon me. When in the north they shall speak to me of Rome, none of them now will be able to excite my spleen, for I also have seen it, and know too, in some degree, where I have been.
December8, 1786.
We have every now and then the finest days possible. The rain which falls from time to time has made the grass and garden stuffs quite verdant. Evergreens too are to be seen here at different spots, so that one scarcely misses the fallen leaves of the forest trees. In the gardens you may see orange-trees full of fruit, left in the open ground and not under cover.
I had intended to give you a particular account of a very pleasant trip which we took to the sea, and of our fishing exploits, but in the evening poor Moritz, as he was riding home, broke his arm, his horse having slipped on the smooth Roman pavement. This marred all our pleasure, and has plunged our little domestic circle in sad affliction.
Dec.15, 1786.
I am heartily delighted that you have taken my sudden disappearance just as I wished you should. Pray appease for me every one that may have taken offence at it. I never wished to give any one pain, and even now I cannot say anything to excuse myself. God keep me from ever afflicting my friends with the premises which led me to this conclusion.
Here I am gradually recovering from my "salto mortale," and studying rather than enjoying myself. Rome is a world, and one must spend years before one can become at all acquainted with it. How happy do I consider those travellers who can take a look at it and go their way!
Rome—Winckelmann's letters.
Yesterday many of Winckelmann's letters, which he wrote from Italy, fell into my hands. With what emotions did I not begin to read them. About this same season, some one and thirty years ago, he came hither a still poorer simpleton than myself, but then he had such thorough German enthusiasm for all that is sterling and genuine, either in antiquity or art. How bravely and diligently did he not work his way through all difficulties; and what good does it not do me,—the remembrance of such a man in such a place!
After the objects of Nature, who in all her parts is true to herself and consistent, nothing speaks so loudly as the remembrance of a good intelligent man,—that genuine art which is no less consistent and harmonious than herself. Here in Rome we feel this right well, where so many an arbitrary caprice has had its day, where so many a folly has immortalized itself by its power and its gold.
The following passage in Winckelmann's letters to Franconia particularly pleased me. "We must look at all the objects in Rome with a certain degree of phlegm, or else one will be taken for a Frenchman. In Rome, I believe, is the high school for all the world, and I also have been purified and tried in it."
This remark applies directly to my mode of visiting the different objects here; and most certain is it, that out of Rome no one can have an idea how one is schooled in Rome. One must, so to speak, be new born, and one looks back on one's earlier notions, as a man does on the little shoes, which fitted him when a child. The most ordinary man learns something here, at least he gains one uncommon idea, even though it never should pass into his whole being.
This letter will reach you in the new year. All good wishes for the beginning; before the end of it we shall see one another again, and that will be no little gratification. The one that is passing away has been the most important of my life. I may now die, or I may tarry a little longer yet; in either case it will be alike well. And now a word or two more for the little ones.
To the children you may either read or tell what follows. Here there are no signs of winter. The gardens are planted with evergreens; the sun shines bright and warm; snow is nowhere to be seen, except on the most distant hills towards the north. The citron trees, which are planted against the garden walls, are now, one after another, covered with reeds, but the oranges are allowed to stand quite open. A hundred of the very finest fruit may be seen hanging on a single tree, which is not, as with us, dwarfed, and planted in a bucket, but stands in the earth free and joyous, amidst a long line of brothers. The oranges are even now very good, but it is thought they will be still finer.
We were lately at the sea, and had a haul of fish, and drew to the light fishes, crabs, and rare univalves of the most wonderful shapes conceivable; also the fish which gives an electric shock to all who touch it.
Rome, Dec.20, 1786.
And yet, after all, it is more trouble and care than enjoyment. The Regenerator, which is changing me within and without, continues to work. I certainly thought that I had something really to learn here; but that I should have to take so low a place in the school, that I must forget so much that I had learnt, or rather absolutely unlearn so much,—that I had never the least idea of. Now, however, that I am once convinced of its necessity, I have devoted myself to the task; and the more I am obliged to renounce my former self, the more delighted I am. I am like an architect who has begun to build a tower, but finds he has laid a bad foundation: he becomes aware of the fact betimes, and willingly goes to work to pull down all that he has raised above the earth; having done so, he proceeds to enlarge his ground plan, and now rejoices to anticipate the undoubted stability of his future building. Heaven grant that, on my return, the moral consequences may be discernible of all that this living in a wider world has effected within me. For, in sooth, the moral sense as well as the artistic is undergoing a great change.
Rome—Dr. Münter.
Dr. Münter is here on his return from his tour in Sicily—an energetic, vehement man. What objects he may have, I cannot tell. He will reach you in May, and has much to tell you. He has been two years travelling in Italy. He is disgusted with the Italians, who have not paid due respect to the weighty letters of recommendation which were to have opened to him many an archive, many a private library; so that he is far from having accomplished his object in coming here.
He has collected some beautiful coins, and possesses, he tells me, a manuscript which reduces numismatics to as precise a system of characteristics as the Linnæan system of botany. Herder, he says, knows still more about it: probably a transcript of it will be permitted. To do something of the kind is certainly possible, and, if well done, it will be truly valuable; and we must sooner or later enter seriously into this branch of learning.
Rome, Dec.25, 1786.
I am now beginning to revisit the principal sights of Rome: in such second views, our first amazement generally dies away into more of sympathy and a purer perception of the true value of the objects. In order to form an idea of the highest achievements of the human mind, the soul must first attain to perfect freedom from prejudice and prepossession.
Marble is a rare material. It is on this account that the Apollo Belvedere in the original is so infinitely ravishing; for that sublime air of youthful freedom and vigour, of never-changing juvenescence, which breathes around the marble, at once vanishes in the best even of plaster casts.
In the Palace Rondanini, which is right opposite to our lodgings, there is a Medusa-mask, above the size of life, in which the attempt to portray a lofty and beautiful countenance in the numbing agony of death has been indescribably successful. I possess an excellent cast of it, but the charm of the marble remains not. The noble semi-transparency of the yellow stone-approaching almost to the hue of flesh—is vanished. Compared with it, the plaster of Paris has a chalky and dead look.
And yet how delightful it is to go to a modeller in gypsum, and to see the noble limbs of a statue come out one by one from the mould, and thereby to acquire wholly new ideas of their shapes. And then, again, by such means all that in Rome is scattered, is brought together, for the purpose of comparison; and this alone is of inestimable service. Accordingly, I could not resist the temptation to procure a cast of the colossal head of Jupiter. It stands right opposite to my bed, in a good light, in order that I may address my morning devotions towards it. With all its grandeur and dignity it has, however, given rise to one of the funniest interludes possible.
Our old hostess, when she comes to make my bed, is generally followed by her pet cat. Yesterday I was sitting in the great hall, and could hear the old woman pursue her avocation within. On a sudden, in great haste, and with an excitement quite unusual to her, she opens the door, and calls to me to come quickly and see a wonder. To my question what was the matter, she replied the cat was saying its prayers. Of the animal she had long observed, she told me, that it had as much sense as a Christian—but this was really a great wonder. I hastened to see it with my own eyes; and it was indeed strange enough. The bust stood on a high pedestal, and as there was a good length of the shoulders, the head stood rather high. Now the cat had sprung upon the table, and had placed her fore-feet on the breast of the god, and, stretching her body to its utmost length, just reached with her muzzle his sacred beard, which she was licking most ceremoniously; and neither by the exclamation of the hostess, nor my entrance into the room, was she at all disturbed. I left the good dame to her astonishment; and she afterwards accounted for puss's strange act of devotion, by supposing that this sharp-nosed cat had caught scent of the grease which had probably been transferred from the mould to the deep lines of the beard, and had there remained.
Dec.29, 1786.
Of Tischbein I have much to say and to boast. In the first place, a thorough and original German, he has made himself entirely what he is. In the next place, I must make grateful mention of the friendly attentions he has shewn me throughout the time of his second stay in Rome. For he has had prepared for me a series of copies after the best masters, some in black chalk, others in sepia and water colours; which in Germany, when I shall be at a distance from the originals, will grow in value, and will serve to remind me of all that is rarest and best.
Rome—Portrait by Tischbein.
At the commencement of his career as an artist, when he set up as a portrait painter, Tischbein came in contact, especially in Munich, with distinguished personages, and in his intercourse with them his feeling of art has been strengthened and his views enlarged.
The second part of the "Zerstrente Blatter" (stray leaves) I have brought with me hither, and they are doubly welcome. What good influence this little book has had on me, even on the second perusal, Herder, for his reward, shall be circumstantially informed. Tischbein cannot conceive how anything so excellent could ever have been written by one who has never been in Italy.
Dec.29, 1786.
In this world of artists one lives, as it were, in a mirrored chamber, where, without wishing it, one sees one's own image and those of others continually multiplied. Latterly I have often observed Tischbein attentively regarding me; and now it appears that he has long cherished the idea of painting my portrait. His design is already settled, and the canvass stretched. I am to be drawn of the size of life, enveloped in a white mantle, and sitting on a fallen obelisk, viewing the ruins of the Campagna di Roma, which are to fill up the background of the picture. It will form a beautiful piece, only it mil be rather too large for our northern habitations. I indeed may again crawl into them, but the portrait will never be able to enter their doors.
Dec.29, 1786.
I cannot help observing the great efforts that are constantly being made to draw me from my retirement—how the poets either read or get their pieces read to me; and I should be blind did I not see that it depends only on myself whether I shall play a part or not. All this is amusing enough; for I have long since measured the lengths to which one may go in Rome. The many little coteries here at the feet of the mistress of the world strongly remind one occasionally of an ordinary country town.
In sooth, things here are much like what they are every where else; and whatcould be done with me and through mecauses me ennui long before it is accomplished. Here you must take up with one party or another, and help them to carry on their feuds and cabals; and you must praise these artists and those dilettanti, disparage their rivals, and, above all, be pleased with every thing that the rich and great do. All these little meannesses, then, for the sake of which one is almost ready to leave the world itself,—must I here mix myself up with them, and that too when I have neither interest nor stake in them? No; I shall go no further than is merely necessary to know what is going on, and thus to learn, in private, to be more contented with my lot, and to procure for myself and others all the pleasure possible in the dear wide world. I wish to see Rome in its abiding and permanent features, and not as it passes and changes with every ten years. Had I time, I might wish to employ it better. Above all, one may study history here quite differently from what one can on any other spot. In other places one has, as it were, to read oneself into it from without; here one fancies that he reads from within outwards: all arranges itself around you, and seems to proceed from you. And this holds good not only of Roman history, but also of that of the whole world. From Rome I can accompany the conquerors on their march to the Weser or to the Euphrates; or, if I wish to be a sight-seer, I can wait in the Via Sacra for the triumphant generals, and in the meantime receive for my support the largesses of corn and money; and so take a very comfortable share in all the splendour.
Rome, Jan.2, 1787.
Men may say what they will in favour of a written and oral communication; it is only in a very few cases indeed that it is at all adequate, for it never can convey the true character of any object soever—no, not even of a purely intellectual one. But if one has already enjoyed a sure and steady view of the object, then one may profitably hear or read about it, for then there exists a living impression around which all else may arrange itself in the mind; and then one can think and judge.
You have often laughed at me, and wished to drive me away from the peculiar taste I had for examining stones, plants, or animals, from certain theoretical points of view: now, however, I am directing my attention to architects, statuaries, and painters, and hope to find myself learning something even from them.
Without date.
After all this I must further speak to you of the state of indecision I am in with regard to my stay in Italy. In my last letter I wrote you that it was my purpose immediately after Easter to leave Rome, and return home. Until then I shall yet gather a few more shells from the shore of the great ocean, and so my most urgent needs will have been appeased. I am now cured of a violent passion and disease, and restored to the enjoyment of life, to the enjoyment of history, poetry, and of antiquities, and have treasures which it will take me many a long year to polish and to finish.
Rome—My plans for the future.
Recently, however, friendly voices have reached me to the effect that I ought not to be in a hurry, but to wait till I can return home with still richer gains. From the Duke, too, I have received a very kind and considerate letter, in which he excuses me from my duties for an indefinite period, and sets me quite at ease with respect to my absence. My mind therefore turns to the vast field which I must otherwise have left untrodden. For instance, in the case of coins and cameos, I have as yet been able to do nothing. I have indeed begun to read Winckelmann's History of Art, but have passed over Egypt; for, I feel once again, that I must look out before me; and I have done so with regard to Egyptian matters. The more we look, the more distant becomes the horizon of art; and he who would step surely, must step slowly.
I intend to stay here till the Carnival; and, in the first week of Lent shall set off for Naples, taking Tischbein with me, both because it will be a treat to him, and because, in his society, all my enjoyments are more than doubled. I purpose to return hither before Easter, for the sake of the solemnities of Passion week. But there Sicily lies—there below. A journey thither requires more preparation, and ought to be taken too in the autumn: it must not be merely a ride round it and across it, which is soon done, but from which one brings away with us in return for our fatigue and money nothing but a simple—I have seen it.The best way is to take up one's quarters, first of all, in Palermo, and afterwards in Catania; and then from those points to make fixed and profitable excursions, having previously, however, well studiedRiedeseland others on the locality.
If, then, I spend the summer in Rome, I shall set to work to study, and to prepare myself for visiting Sicily. As I cannot well go there before November, and must stay there till over December, it will be the spring of 1788 before I can hope to get home again. Then, again, I have had before my mind amedius terminus.Giving up the idea of visiting Sicily, I have thought of spending a part of the summer at Rome, and then, after paying a second visit to Florence, getting home by the autumn.
But all these plans have been much perplexed by the news of the Duke's misfortune. Since the letters which informed me of this event I have had no rest, and would most like to set off at Easter, laden with the fragments of my conquests, and, passing quickly through Upper Italy, be in Weimar again by June.
I am too much alone here to decide; and I write you this long story of my whole position, that you may be good enough to summon a council of those who love me, and who, being on the spot, know the circumstances better than I do. Let them, therefore, determine the proper course for me to take, on the supposition of what, I assure you, is the fact, that I am myself more disposed to return than to stay. The strongest tie that holds me in Italy is Tischbein. I should never, even should it be my happy lot to return a second time to this beautiful land, learn so much in so short a time as I have now done in the society of this well-educated, highly refined, and most upright man who is devoted to me both body and soul. I cannot now tell you how thickly the scales are falling from off my eyes. He who travels by night, takes the dawn for day, and a murky day for brightness: what will he think, then, when he shall see the sun ascending the mid-heaven? For I have hitherto kept myself from all the world, which yet is yearning to catch me by degrees, and which I, for my part, was not unwilling to watch and observe with stealthy glances.
I have written to Fritz a joking account of my reception into theArcadia; and indeed it is only a subject of joke, for the Institute is really sunk into miserable insignificance.
Next Monday week Monti's tragedy is to be acted. He is extremely anxious, and not without cause. He has a very troublesome public, which requires to be amused from moment to moment; and his piece has no brilliant passages in it. He has asked me to go with him to his box, and to stand by him as confessor in this critical moment. Another is ready to translate my "Iphigenia;" another—to do I know not what, in honour of me. They are all so divided into parties, and so bitter against each other. But my countrymen are so unanimous in my favour, that if I gave them any encouragement, and yielded to them in the very least, they would try a hundred follies with me, and end with crowning me on the Capitol, of which they have already seriously thought—so foolish is it to have a stranger and a Protestant to play the first part in a comedy. What connexion there is in all this, and how great a fool I was to think that it was all intended for my honour,—of all this we will talk together one day.
January6, 1787.
I have just come from Moritz, whose arm is healed, and loosed from its bandages. It is well set, firm, and he can move it quite freely. What during these last forty days I have experienced and learned, as nurse, confessor, and private secretary to this patient, may prove of benefit to us hereafter. The most painful sufferings and the noblest enjoyments went side by side throughout this whole period.
Rome—Colossal head of Juno.
To refresh me, I yesterday had set up in our sitting-room a cast of a colossal head of Juno, of which the original is in the Villa Ludovisi. This was my first love in Rome; and now I have gained the object of my wishes. No words can give the remotest idea of it. It is like one of Homer's songs.
I have, however, deserved the neighbourhood of such good society for the future, for I can now tell you that Iphigenia is at last finished—i.e.that it lies before me on the table in two tolerably concordant copies, of which one will very soon begin its pilgrimage towards yourself. Receive it with all indulgence, for, to speak the truth, what stands on the paper is not exactly what I intended; but still it will convey an idea of what was in my mind.
You complain occasionally of some obscure passages in my letters, which allude to the oppression, which I suffer in the midst of the most glorious objects in the world. With all this my fellow traveller, this Grecian princess, has had a great deal to do, for she has kept me close at work when I wished to be seeing sights.
I often think of our worthy friend, who had long determined upon a grand tour, which one might well term a voyage of discovery. After he had studied and economized several years, with a view to this object, he took it in his head to carry away with him the daughter of a noble house, thinking it was all one still.
With no less of caprice, I determined to take Iphigenia with me to Carlsbad. I will now briefly enumerate the places where I held special converse with her.
When I had left behind me the Brenner, I took her out of my large portmanteau, and placed her by my side. At the Lago di Garda, while the strong south wind drove the waves on the beach, and where I was at least as much alone as my heroine on the coast of Tauris, I drew the first outlines, which afterwards I filled up at Verona, Vicenza, and Padua; but above all, and most diligently at Venice. After this, however, the work came to a stand-still, for I hit upon a new design, viz., of writing an Iphigenia at Delphi, which I should have immediately carried into execution, but for the distractions of my young, and for a feeling of duty towards the older piece.
In Rome, however, I went on with it, and proceeded with tolerable steadiness. Every evening before I went to sleep I prepared myself for my morning's task, which was resumed immediately I awoke. My way of proceeding was quite simple. I calmly wrote down the piece, and tried the melody line by line, and period by period. What has been thus produced, you shall soon judge of. For my part, doing this work, I have learnt more than I have done. With the piece itself there shall follow some further remarks.
Jan.6, 1787.
To speak again of church matters, I must tell you that on the night of Christmas-day we wandered about in troops, and visited all the churches where solemn services were being performed; one especially was visited, because of its organ and music. The latter was so arranged, that in its tones nothing belonging to pastoral music was wanting—neither the singing of the shepherds, nor the twittering of birds, nor the bleating of sheep.
Rome—Christmas-day.
On Christmas-day I saw the Pope and the whole consistory in S. Peter's, where he celebrated high mass partly before and partly from his throne. It is of its kind an unequalled sight, splendid and dignified enough, but I have grown so old in my Protestant Diogenism, that this pomp and splendour revolt more than they attract me. I, like my pious forefathers, am disposed to say to these spiritual conquerors of the world, "Hide not from me the sun of higher art and purer humanity."
Yesterday, which was the Feast of Epiphany, I saw and heard mass celebrated after the Greek rite. The ceremonies appeared to me more solemn, more severe, more suggestive, and yet more popular than the Latin.
But there, too, I also felt again that I am too old for anything, except for truth alone. Their ceremonies and operatic music, their gyrations and ballet-like movements—it all passes off from me like water from an oilskin cloak. A work of nature, however, like that of a Sunset seen from the Villa Madonna—a work of art, like my much honoured Juno, makes a deep and vivid impression on me.
And now I must ask you to congratulate me with regard to theatrical matters. Next week seven theatres will be opened. Anfossi himself is here, and will act "Alexander in India." A Cyrus also will be represented, and the "Taking of Troy" as a ballet. That assuredly must be something for the children!
Rome, Jan.10, 1787.
Here, then, comes the "child of sorrows," for this surname is due to "Iphigenia" in more than one sense. On the occasion of my reading it out to our artists, I put a mark against several lines, some of which I have in my opinion improved, but others I have allowed to stand—perhaps Herder will cross a few of them with his pen.
The true cause of my having for many years preferred prose for my works, is the great uncertainty in which our prosody fluctuates, in consequence of which many of my judicious, learned friends and fellow artists have left many things to taste, a course, however, which was little favourable to the establishing of any certain standard.
I should never have attempted to translate "Iphigenia" into iambics, had not Moritz's prosody shone upon me like a star of light. My conversation with its author, especially during his confinement from his accident, has still more enlightened me on the subject, and I would recommend my friends to think favourably of it.
It is somewhat singular, that in our language we have but very few syllables which are decidedly long or short. With all the others, one proceeds as taste or caprice may dictate. Now Moritz, after much thought, has hit upon the idea that there is a certain order of rank among our syllables, and that the one which in sense is more emphatic is long as compared with the less significant, and makes the latter short, but on the other hand, it does in its turn become short, whenever it comes into the neighbourhood of another which possesses greater weight and emphasis than itself. Here, then, is at least a rule to go by: and even though it does not decide the whole matter, still it opens out a path by which one may hope to get a little further. I have often allowed myself to be influenced by these rules, and generally have found my ear agreeing with them.
As I formerly spoke of a public reading, I must quietly tell you how it passed off. These young men accustomed to those earlier vehement and impetuous pieces, expected something after the fashion of Berlichingen, and could not so well make out the calm movement of "Iphigenia," and yet the nobler and purer passages did not fail of effect, Tischbein, who also could hardly reconcile himself to this entire absence of passion, produced a pretty illustration or symbol of the work. He illustrated it by a sacrifice, of which the smoke, borne down by a light breeze, descends to the earth, while the freer flame strives to ascend on high. The drawing was very pretty and significant. I have the sketch still by me. And thus the work, which I thought to despatch in no time, has employed, hindered, occupied, and tortured me a full quarter of a year. This is not the first time that I have made an important task a mere by-work; but we will on that subject no longer indulge in fancies and disputes.
I inclose a beautiful cameo,—a lion with a gad-fly buzzing at his nose; this seems to have been a favourite subject with the ancients, for they have repeated it very often. I should like you from this time forward to seal your letters with it, in order that through this (little) trifle an echo of art may, as it were, reverberate from you to me.
Rome, Jan.13, 1787.
How much have I to say each day, and how sadly am I prevented, either by amusement or occupation, from committing to paper a single sage remark! And then again, the fine days when it is better to be anywhere rather than in one's room, which, without stove or chimney, receive us only to sleep or to discomfort! Some of the incidents of the last week, however, must not be left unrecorded.
In the Palace Giustiniani there is a Minerva, which claims my undivided homage. Winckelmann scarcely mentions it, and, at any rate, not in the right place; and I feel myself quite unworthy to say anything about it. As we contemplated the image, and stood gazing at it a long time, the wife of the keeper of the collection said—This must have once been a holy image; and the English, who happen to be of this religion, are still accustomed to pay worship to it by kissing this hand of it, (which in truth was quite white, while the rest of the statue was brownish). She further told us, that a lady ofthisreligion had been there not long before, and, throwing herself on her knees before the statue, had regularly offered prayer to it; and I, she said, as a Christian, could not help smiling at so strange an action, and was obliged to run out of the room, lest I should burst out into a loud laugh before her face. As I was unwilling to move from the statue, she asked me if my beloved was at all like the statue that it charmed me so much. The good dame knew of nothing besides devotion or love; but of the pure admiration for a glorious piece of man's handiwork,—of a mere sympathetic veneration for the creation of the human intellect, she could form no idea. We rejoiced in that noble Englishwoman, and went away with a longing to turn our steps back again, and I shall certainly soon go once more thither. If my friends wish for a more particular description, let them read what Winckelmann says of the high style of art among the Greeks; unfortunately, however, he does not adduce this Minerva as an illustration. But if I do not greatly err, it is, nevertheless, of this high and severe style, since it passes into the beautiful,—it is, as it were, a bud that opens,—and so a Minerva, whose character this idea of transition so well suits.
Now for a spectacle of a different kind. On the feast of the Three Kings, or the Commemoration of Christ's manifestation to the Gentiles, we paid a visit to the Propaganda. There, in the presence of three cardinals and a large audience, an essay was first of all delivered, which treated of the place in which the Virgin Mary received the three Magi,—in the stable,—or if not, where? Next, some Latin verses were read on similar subjects, and after this a series of about thirty scholars came forward, one by one, and read a little piece of poetry in their native tongues; Malabar, Epirotic, Turkish, Moldavian, Hellenic, Persian, Colchian, Hebrew, Arabic, Syrian, Coptic, Saracenic, Armenian, Erse, Madagassic, Icelandic, Bohemian, Greek, Isaurian, Æthiopic, &c. The poems seemed for the most part to be composed in the national syllabic measure, and to be delivered with the vernacular declamation, for most barbaric rhythms and tones occurred. Among them the Greek sounded like a star in the night. The auditory laughed most unmercifully at the strange sounds; and so this representation also became a farce.
And now (before concluding) a little anecdote, to show with what levity holy things are treated in Holy Home. The deceased cardinal, Albani, was once present at one of those festal meetings which. I have just been describing. One of the scholars, with his face turned towards the Cardinals, began in a strange pronunciation,Gnaja! Gnaja!so that it sounded something likecanaglia! canaglia!The Cardinal turned to his brothers with a whisper, "He knows us at any rate."
January13, 1787.
How much has Winckelmann done, and yet how much reason has he left us to wish that he had done still more. With the materials which he had collected he built quickly, in order to reach the roof. Were he still living, he would be the first to give us a re-cast of his great work. What further observations, what corrections would he not have made—to what good use would he not have put all that others, following his own principles, have observed and effected. And, besides, Cardinal Albani is dead, out of respect to whom he has written much; and, perhaps, concealed much.
January15, 1787.
And so then, "Aristodemo" has at last been acted, and with good success too, and the greatest applause; as the Abbate Monti is related to the house of the Nepoté, and is highly esteemed among the higher orders: from these, therefore, all was to be hoped for. The boxes indeed were but sparing in their plaudits; as for the pit, it was won from the very first, by the beautiful language of the poet and the appropriate recitation of the actors, and it omitted no opportunity of testifying its approbation. The bench of the German artists distinguished itself not a little; and this time they were quite in place, though it is at all times a little overloud.