My dear Parents,
It is indeed high time that I should write to you a rational, methodical letter, for I fear that none of those from Naples were worth much. It really seemed as if the atmosphere there deterred every one from serious reflection, at least I very seldom succeeded in collecting my thoughts or ideas; and now I have been scarcely more than a few hours here, when I once more resume that Roman tranquillity,and grave serenity, which I alluded to in my former letters from this place. I cannot express how infinitely better I love Rome than Naples. People allege that Rome is monotonous, of one uniform hue, melancholy, and solitary. It is certainly true that Naples is more like a great European city, more lively and varied, and more cosmopolitan; but I may say to you confidentially, that I begin gradually to feel the most decided hatred of all that is cosmopolitan;—I dislike it, just as I dislikemany-sidedness, which, moreover, I rather think I do not much believe in. Anything that aspires to be distinguished, or beautiful, or really great, must beone-sided; but then thisone sidemust be brought to a state of the most consummate perfection, and no man can deny that such is the case at Rome.
Naples seems to me too small to be called properly a great city; all the life and bustle are confined to two large thoroughfares—the Toledo, and the coast from the harbour to the Chiaja. Naples does not realize to my mind the idea of a centre for a great nation, which London offers in such perfection; chiefly indeed because it is deficient in a people: for the fishermen and lazzaroni I cannot designate as a people, they are more like savages, and their centre is not Naples, but the sea. The middle classes, by which I mean those who pursue various trades, and the working citizens who form the basis of other great towns, are quite subordinate; indeed, I may almost say that such a class is not to be found there. It was this that often mademe feel out of humour during my stay in Naples, much as I loved and enjoyed the scenery; but as a dissatisfied feeling constantly recurred, I think I at last discovered the cause to lie within myself. I cannot say that I was precisely unwell during the incessant sirocco, but it was more disagreeable than an indisposition which passes away in a few days. I felt languid, disinclined for all that was serious,—in fact, lazy. I lounged about the streets all day with a morose face, and would have preferred lying on the ground, without the trouble of thinking, or wishing, or doing anything; then it suddenly occurred to me, that the principal classes in Naples live in reality precisely in the same manner; that consequently the source of my depression did not spring from myself, as I had feared, but from the whole combination of air, climate, etc. The atmosphere is suitable for grandees who rise late, never require to go out on foot, never think (for this is heating), sleep away a couple of hours on a sofa in the afternoon, then eat ice, and drive to the theatre at night, where again they do not find anything to think about, but simply make and receive visits. On the other hand, the climate is equally suitable for a fellow in a shirt, with naked legs and arms, who also has no occasion to move about—begging for a fewgraniwhen he has literally nothing left to live on—taking his afternoon's siesta stretched on the ground, or on the quay, or on the stone pavement (the pedestrians step over him, or shove him aside if he lies right in the middle). He fetches hisfrutti di marehimself out of the sea, sleeps wherever he may chance to find himself at night; in short, he employs every moment in doing exactly what he likes best, just as an animal does.
These are the two principal classes of Naples. By far the largest portion of the population of the Toledo there, consists of gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen, or husbands and wives driving together in handsome equipages, or of those olivesans-culotteswho sometimes carry about fish for sale, brawling in the most stentorian way, or bearing burdens when they have no longer any money left. I believe there are few indeed who have any settled occupation, or follow up any pursuit with zeal and perseverance, or who like work for the sake of working. Goethe says that the misfortune of the North is, that people there always wish to be doing something, and striving after some end; and he goes on to say, that an Italian was right, who advised him not to think so much, for it would only give him a headache. I suspect however that he was merely jesting; at all events, he did not act in this manner himself, but, on the contrary, like a genuine Northman. If however he means that the difference of character is produced by nature, and subservient to her influence, then there is no doubt that he is quite in the right. I can perfectly conceive that it must be so, and why wolves howl; still it is not necessary to howl along with them. The proverb should be exactly reversed. Those who, owing to their position, are obliged to work, and must consequently both think and bestir themselves,treat the matter as a necessary evil, which brings them in money, and when they actually have it, they too live like the great, or the naked, gentlemen. Thus there is no shop where you are not cheated. Natives of Naples, who have been customers for many years, are obliged to bargain, and to be as much on their guard as foreigners; and one of my acquaintances, who had dealt at the same shop for fifteen years, told me that during the whole of that period there had been invariably the same battle about a few scudi, and that nothing could prevent it.
Thence it is that there is so little industry or competition, and that Donizetti finishes an opera in ten days; to be sure, it is sometimes hissed, but that does not matter, for it is paid for all the same, and he can then go about amusing himself. If at last however his reputation becomes endangered, he will in that case be forced really to work, which he would find by no means agreeable. This is why he sometimes writes an opera in three weeks, bestowing considerable pains on a couple of airs in it, so that they may please the public, and then he can afford once more to divert himself, and once more to write trash. Their painters, in the same way, paint the most incredibly bad pictures, far inferior even to their music. Their architects also erect buildings in the worst taste; among others, an imitation, on a small scale, of St. Peter's, in the Chinese style. But what does it matter? the pictures are bright in colour, the music makes plenty of noise, the buildingsgive plenty of shade, and the Neapolitan grandees ask no more.
My physical mood was similar to theirs, everything inspiring me with a wish to be idle, and to lounge about, and sleep; yet I was constantly saying to myself that this was wrong; and striving to occupy myself, and to work, which I could not accomplish. Hence arose the querulous tone of some of the letters I wrote to you, and I could only escape from such a mood by rambling over the hills, where nature is so divine, making every man feel grateful and cheerful. I did not neglect the musicians, and we had a great deal of music, but I cared little in reality for their flattering encomiums. Fodor is hitherto the only genuine artist, male or female, that I have seen in Italy; elsewhere I should probably have found a great many faults with her singing, but I overlooked them all, because when she sings it is real music, and after such a long privation, that was most acceptable.
Now however I am once more in old Rome, where life is very different. There are processions daily, for last week was the Corpus Domini; and just as I left the city during the celebration of the week following the Holy Week, I now return after the Corpus Christi to find them engaged in the same way. It made a singular impression on me to see that the streets had in the interim assumed such an aspect of summer: on all sides booths with lemons and iced water, the people in light dresses, the windows open, and thejalousiesclosed. You sit at thedoors of coffee-houses, and eatgelatoin quantities; the Corso swarms with equipages, for people no longer walk much, and though in reality I miss no dear friends or relatives, yet I felt quite moved when I once more saw the Piazza di Spagna, and the familiar names written up on the corners of the streets. I shall stay here for about a week, and then proceed northwards.
The Infiorata is on Thursday, but it is not yet quite certain that it will take place, because they have some apprehensions of a revolution; but I hope I shall witness this ceremony. I mean to take advantage of this opportunity to see the hills once more, and then to set off for the north. Wish me a good journey, for I am on the eve of departure. It is a year this very day since I arrived in Munich, heard 'Fidelio,' and wrote to you. We have not met since then; but, please God, we shall see each other again before another year.
Felix.
Dear Professor,
It was my intention some time ago to have written you a description of the music during the Holy Week, but my journey to Naples intervened, and during my stay there, I was so constantly occupied in wandering among the mountains, and in gazing at the sea, that I had not a moment's leisure to write; hence arose the delay for which I now beg toapologize. Since then I have not heard a single note worth remembering; in Naples the music is most inferior. During the last two months, therefore, I have no musical reminiscences to send you, save those of the Holy Week, which however made so indelible an impression on my mind, that they will be always fresh in my memory. I already described to my parents the effect of the whole ceremonies, and they probably sent you the letter.
It was fortunate that I resolved to listen to the various Offices with earnest and close attention, and still more so, that from the very first moment I felt sensations of reverence and piety. I consider such a mood indispensable for the reception of new ideas, and no portion of the general effect escaped me, although I took care to watch each separate detail.
The ceremonies commenced on Wednesday, at half past four o'clock, with the antiphon "Zelus domus tuæ." A little book containing the Offices for the Holy Week explains the sense of the various solemnities. "Each Nocturn contains three Psalms, signifying that Christ died for all, and also symbolical of the three laws, the natural, the written, and the evangelical. The 'Domine labia mea' and the 'Deus in adjutorium' were not sung on this occasion, when the death of our Saviour and Master is deplored, as slain by the hands of wicked godless men. The fifteen lights represent the twelve apostles and the three Marys." (In this manner the book contains much curious information on this subject, so I mean to bring it with me for you.)The Psalms are chantedfortissimoby all the male voices of two choirs. Each verse is divided into two parts, like a question and answer, or rather, classified into A and B; the first chorus sings A, and the second replies with B. All the words, with the exception of the last, are sung with extreme rapidity on one note, but on the last they make a short "melisma," which is different in the first and second verse. The whole Psalm, with all its verses, is sung on this melody, ortonoas they call it, and I wrote down seven of thesetoni, which were employed during the three days. You cannot conceive how tiresome and monotonous the effect is, and how harshly and mechanically they chant through the Psalms. The firsttonuswhich they sang was—
music188a
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music188b
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Thus the whole forty-two verses of the Psalm are sung in precisely the same manner; one half of the verse ending in G, A, G, the other in G, E, G. They sing with the accent of a number of men quarrelling violently, and it sounds as if they were shouting out furiously one against another. The closing words of each Psalm are chanted moreslowly and impressively, a long "triad" being substituted for the "melisma," sungpiano. For instance, this is the first:—
music189a
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An antiphon, and sometimes more than one, serves as an introduction to each Psalm. These are generally sung by two counter-tenor voices, incanto fermo, in harsh, hard tones; the first half of each verse in the same style, and the second responded to by the chorus of male voices that I already described. I have kept the several antiphons that I wrote down, that you may compare them with the book. On the afternoon of Wednesday, the 68th, 69th, and 70th Psalms were sung. (By the bye, this division of the verses of the Psalms sung in turns by each chorus, is one of the innovations that Bunsen has introduced into the Evangelical Church here; he also ushers in each choral by an antiphon, composed by Georg, a musician who resides here, in the style ofcanti fermi, first sung by a few voices, succeeded by a choral, such as "Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott.") After the 70th Psalm comes a paternostersub silentio—that is, all presentstand up, and a short silent inward prayer ensues, and a pause.
Then commences the first Lamentation of Jeremiah, sung in a low subdued tone, in the key of G major, a solemn and fine composition of Palestrina's. The solos are chanted entirely by high tenor voices, swelling and subsiding alternately, in the most delicate gradations, sometimes floating almost inaudibly, and gently blending the various harmonies; being sung without any bass voices, and immediately succeeding the previous harsh intonation of the Psalms, the effect is truly heavenly. It is rather unfortunate however that those very parts which ought to be sung with the deepest emotion and reverence, being evidently those composed with peculiar fervour, should chance to be merely the titles of the chapter or verse,aleph,beth,gimel, etc., and that the beautiful commencement, which sounds as if it came direct from Heaven, should be precisely on these words, "Incipit Lamentatio Jeremiæ Prophetæ Lectio I." This must be not a little repulsive to every Protestant heart, and if there be any design to introduce a similar mode of chanting into our churches, it appears to me that this will always be a stumbling-block; for any one who sings "chapter first" cannot possibly feel any pious emotions, however beautiful the music may be, let him strive as he will.
My little book indeed says, "Vedendo profetizzato il crocifiggimento con gran pietà, si cantano eziandio molto lamentevolmentealeph, e le altre similiparole, che sono le lettere dell' alfabeto Ebreo, perchè erano in costume di porsi in ogni canzone in luogo di lamento, come è questa. Ciascuna lettera ha in se, tutto it sentimento di quel versetto che la segue, ed è come un argomento di esso;" but this explanation is not worth much. After this the 71st, 72nd, and 73rd Psalms are sung in the same manner, with their antiphons. These are apportioned to the various voices. The soprano begins, "In monte Oliveti," on which the bass voices chime inforte, "Oravit ad Patrem: Pater," etc. Then follow the lessons, from the treatise of Saint Augustine on the Psalms. The strange mode in which these are chanted appeared to me very extraordinary when I heard them for the first time on Palm Sunday, without knowing what it meant. A solitary voice is heard reciting on one note, not as in the Psalms, but very slowly and impressively, making the tone ring out clearly.
There are different cadences employed for the different punctuation of the words, to represent a comma, interrogation, and full stop. Perhaps you are already acquainted with these: to me they were a novelty, and appeared very singular. The first, for example, was chanted by a powerful bass voice in G. If a comma occurs, he sings so, on the last word:—
music191a
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an interrogation thus:—
music192a
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a full stop:—
music192b
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For example:—
music192c
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I cannot describe to you how strange the falling cadence from A to C sounds; especially when the bass is followed by a soprano, who begins on D, and makes the same falling cadence from E to G; then an alto does the same in his key; for they sang three different lessons alternately with thecanto fermo. I send you a specimen of the mode in which they render thecanto fermo, regardless both of the words and the sense. The phrase "better he had never been born" was thus sung:—
music192d
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quitefortissimoand monotonously. Then came the Psalms 74, 75, and 76, followed by three lessons, succeeded by the Miserere, sung in the same style as the preceding Psalms, in the followingtonus:—
music193a
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music193b
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It will be long before you can improve on this. Then followed Psalms 8, 62, and 66; "Canticum Moysi" in its own tone. Psalms 148, 149, and 150 came next, and then antiphons. During this time the lights on the altar are all extinguished, save one which is placed behind the altar. Six wax candles still continue to burn high above the entrance, the rest of the space is already dim, and now the whole chorusunisonointone with the full strength of their voices the "Canticum Zachariæ," during which the last remaining lights are extinguished. The mighty swelling chorus in the gloom, and the solemn vibration of so many voices, have a wonderfully fine effect.
The melody (in D minor) is also very beautiful. At the close all is profound darkness. An antiphon begins on the sentence, "Now he that betrayed him gave them a sign," and continues to the words "that same is he, hold him fast." Then all present fall on their knees, and one solitary voice softly sings, "Christus factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad mortem;" on the second day is added, "mortem autem crucis;" and on Good Friday, "propter quod et Deus exaltavit illum, et dedit illi Nomen, quod est super omne nomen." A pause ensues, during which each person repeats the Paternoster to himself. During this silent prayer, a death-like silence prevails in the whole church; presently the Miserere commences, with a chord softly breathed by the voices, and gradually branching off into two choirs. This beginning, and its first harmonious vibration, certainly made the deepest impression on me. For an hour and a half previously, one voice alone had been heard chanting almost without any variety; after the pause came an admirably constructed chord, which has the finest possible effect, causing every one to feel in their hearts the power of music; it is this indeed that is so striking. The best voices are reserved for the Miserere, which is sung with the greatest variety of effect, the voices swelling and dying away, from the softestpianoto the full strength of the choir. No wonder that it should excite deep emotion in every heart. Moreover they do not neglect the power of contrast; verse after verse being chanted by all the malevoices in unison,forte, and harshly. At the beginning of the subsequent verses, the lovely, rich, soft sounds of voices steal on the ear, lasting only for a short space, and succeeded by a chorus of male voices. During the verses sung in monotone, every one knows how beautifully the softer choir are about to uplift their voices; soon they are again heard, again to die away too quickly, and before the thoughts can be collected, the service is over.
On the first day, when the Miserere of Baini was given in the key of B minor, they sang thus:—"Miserere mei Deus" to "misericordiam tuam" from the music, with solo voices, two choirs using the whole strength of voices at their command; then all the bass singers commencedtutti forteby F sharp, chanting on that note "et secundum multitudinem" to "iniquitatem meam," which is immediately succeeded by a soft chord in B minor, and so on, to the last verse of all, which they sing with their entire strength; a second short silent prayer ensues, when all the Cardinals scrape their feet noisily on the pavement, which betokens the close of the ceremony. My little book says, "This noise is symbolical of the tumult made by the Hebrews in seizing Christ." It may be so, but it sounded exactly like the commotion in the pit of a theatre, when the beginning of a play is delayed, or when it is finally condemned. The single taper still burning, is then brought from behind the altar, and all silently disperse by its solitary light.
On leaving the chapel, I must not omit to mention the striking effect of the blazing chandelier lightingup the great vestibule, when the Cardinals and their attendant priests traverse the illuminated Quirinal through ranks of Swiss Guards. The Miserere sung on the first day was Baini's, a composition entirely devoid of life or power, like all his works; still it had chords and music, and so it made a certain impression.
On the second day they gave some pieces by Allegri and Bai. On Good Friday all the music was Bai's. As Allegri composed only one verse, on which the rest are chanted, I heard the three compositions which they gave on that day. It is however quite immaterial which they sing, for theembellimentiare pretty much the same in all three. Each chord has itsembellimento, thus very little of the original composition is to be discovered. How theseembellimentihave crept in they will not say. It is maintained that they are traditional; but this I entirely disbelieve. In the first place no musical tradition is to be relied on; besides, how is it possible to carry down a five-part movement to the present time, from mere hearsay? It does not sound like it. It is evident that they have been more recently added; and it appears to me that the director, having had good high voices at his command, and wishing to employ them during the Holy Week, wrote down for their use ornamental phrases, founded on the simple unadorned chords, to enable them to give full scope and effect to their voices. They certainly are not of ancient date, but are composed with infinite talent and taste, and their effect is admirable; one in particularis often repeated, and makes so deep an impression, that when it begins, an evident excitement pervades all present; indeed, in any discussion as to the mode of executing this music, and when people say that the voices do not seem like the voices of men, but those of angels from on high, and that these sounds can never he heard elsewhere, it is this particularembellimentoto which they invariably allude. For example, in the Miserere, whether that of Bai or Allegri (for they have recourse to the sameembellimentiin both) these are the consecutive chords:—
music197a
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Instead of this, they sing it so:—
music197b
music197b
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The soprano intones the high C in a pure soft voice, allowing it to vibrate for a time, and slowly gliding down, while the alto holds the C steadily, so that at first I was under the delusion that the high C was still held by the soprano; the skill, too, with which the harmony is gradually developed is truly admirable. The otherembellimentiare adapted in the same way to the consecutive chords: but the first one is by far the most beautiful. I can give no opinion as to the particular mode of executing the music; but what I once read, that some particular acoustic contrivance caused the continued vibration of the sounds, is an entire fable, quite as much so as the assertion that they sing from tradition, and without any fixed time, one voice simply following the other; for I saw plainly enough the shadow of Baini's long arm moving up and down; indeed, he sometimes struck his music-desk quite audibly. There is no lack of mystery too, on the part of the singers and others: for example, they never say beforehand what particular Miserere they intend to sing, but that it will be decided at the moment, etc., etc. The key in which they sing, depends on the purityof the voices. The first day it was in B minor, the second and third in E minor, but each time they finished almost in B flat minor.
The chief soprano, Mariano, came from the mountains to Rome expressly to sing on this occasion, and it is to him I owe hearing theembellimentiwith their highest notes. However careful and attentive the singers may be, still the negligence and bad habits of the whole previous year have their revenge, consequently the most fearful dissonance sometimes occurs.
I must not forget to tell you that on the Thursday, when the Miserere was about to begin, I clambered up a ladder leaning against the wall, and was thus placed close to the roof of the chapel, so that I had the music, the priests, and the people far beneath me in gloom and shadow. Seated thus alone without the vicinity of any obtrusive stranger, the impression made on me was very profound. But to proceed: you must have had more than enough of Misereres in these pages, and I intend to bring you more particular details, both verbal and written.
On Thursday, at half-past ten o'clock, high Mass was celebrated. They sang an eight-part composition of Fazzini's, in no way remarkable. I reserve for you somecanti fermiand antiphons, which I wrote down at the time, and my little book describes the order of the various services and the meaning of the different ceremonies. At the "Gloria in Excelsis" all the bells in Rome peal forth, and are not rung again till after Good Friday. The hours aremarked in the churches by wooden clappers. The words of the "Gloria," the signal for all the strange tumult of bells, were chanted from the altar by old Cardinal Pacca, in a feeble trembling voice; this being succeeded by the choirs and all the bells, had a striking effect. After the "Credo" they sang the "Fratres ego enim" of Palestrina, but in the most unfinished and careless manner. The washing of the pilgrims' feet followed, and a procession in which all the singers join; Baini beating time from a large book carried before him, making signs first to one, and then to another, while the singers pressed forward to look at the music, counting the time as they walked, and then chiming in,—the Pope being borne aloft in his state chair. All this I have already described to my parents.
In the evening there were Psalms, Lamentations, Lessons, and the Miserere again, scarcely differing from those of the previous day. One lesson was chanted by a soprano solo on a peculiar melody, that I mean to bring home with me. It is an adagio, in long-drawn notes, and lasts a quarter of an hour at least. There is no pause in the music, and the melody lies very high, and yet it was executed with the most pure, clear, and even intonation. The singer did not drop his tone so much as a single comma, the very last notes swelling and dying away as even and full as at the beginning; it was, indeed, a masterly performance. I was struck with the meaning they attach to the wordappoggiatura. If the melody goes from C to D, or from C to E, they sing thus:—
music201a
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music201d
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music201e
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and this they call anappoggiatura. Whatever they may choose to designate it, the effect is most disagreeable, and it must require long habit not to be discomposed by this strange practice, which reminds me very much of our old women at home in church; moreover the effect is the same. I saw in my book that the "Tenebræ" was to be sung, and thinking that it would interest you to know how it is given in the Papal chapel, I was on the watch with a sharp-pointed pencil when it commenced, and send you herewith the principal parts. It was sung very quick, andfortethroughout, without exception. The beginning was:—
[Listen]
Then
[Listen]
I cannot help it, but I own it does irritate me to hear such holy and touching words sung to such dull, drawling music. They say it iscanto fermo,Gregorian, etc.; no matter. If at that period there was neither the feeling nor the capability to write in a different style, at all events we have now the power to do so, and certainly this mechanical monotony is not to be found in the scriptural words; they are all truth and freshness, and moreover expressed in the most simple and natural manner. Why then make them sound like a mere formula? and, in truth, such singing as this is nothing more! The word "Pater" with a little flourish, the "meum" with a little shake, the "ut quid me"—can this be called sacred music? There is certainly no false expression in it, because there isnoneof any kind; but does not this very fact prove the desecration of the words? A hundred times during the ceremony I was driven wild by such things as these; and then came people in a state of ecstasy, saying how splendid it had all been. This sounded to me like a bad joke, and yet they were quite in earnest!
At Mass early on Friday morning, the chapel is stripped of all its decorations, the altar uncovered, and the Pope and Cardinals in mourning. The "Passion," from St. John, was sung, composed by Vittoria, but the words of the people in the chorus alone are his, the rest are chanted according to an established formula: but more of this hereafter. The whole appeared to me too trivial and monotonous, I was quite out of humour, and, in fact, dissatisfied with the affair altogether. One of the two following modes ought to be adopted. The "Passion" ought either to be recited quietly by the priest, as St.John relates it, in which case there is no occasion for the chorus to sing "Crucifige eum," nor for the alto to represent Pilate—or else the scene should be so thoroughly realized, that it ought to make me feel as if I were actually present, and saw it all myself. In that event, Pilate ought to sing just as he would have spoken, the chorus shout out "Crucifige" in a tone anything but sacred; and then, through the impress of entire truth, and the dignity of the object represented, the singing would become sacred church music.
I require no under-current of thought when I hear music, which is not to me "a mere medium to elevate the mind to piety," as they say here, but a distinct language speaking plainly to me; for though the sense isexpressedby the words, it is equally contained in the music. This is the case with the "Passion" of Sebastian Bach; but as they sing it here, it is very imperfect, being neither a simple narrative, nor yet a grand solemn dramatic truth. The chorus sings "Barabbam" to the same sacred chords as "et in terra pax." Pilate speaks exactly in the same manner as the Evangelist. The voice that represents our blessed Saviour commences alwayspiano, in order to have one definite distinction, but when the chorus breaks loose, shouting out their sacred chords, it seems entirely devoid of meaning. Pray forgive these strictures. I now proceed to simple narration again. The Evangelist is a tenor, and the mode of chanting, the same as that of the Lessons, with a peculiar falling cadenceat the comma, interrogation, and full stop. The Evangelist intones on D, and sings thus at a full stop:—
music205a
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at a comma:—
music052b
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and at the conclusion, when another personage enters, so:—
music205c
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Christ is represented by a bass, and commences always thus:—
music205d
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I could not catch the formula, though I noted down several parts, which I can show you when I return: among others, the words spoken on the Cross. All the other personages,—Pilate, Peter, the Maid, and the High Priest,—are altos, and sing this melody only:—
music205e
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The chorus sings the words of the people from their places above, while everything else is sung from the altar. I must really mark down here as a curiosity the "Crucifige," just as I noted it at the time:—
music206
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The "Barabbam" too is most singular;—very tame Jews indeed! But my letter is already too long, so I shall discuss the subject no further. Prayers are then offered up for all nations and institutions, each separately designated. When the prayer for the Jews is uttered, no one kneels, as they do at all the others, nor is Amen said. They praypro perfidis Judæis, and the author of my book discovers an explanation of this also. Then follows the Adoration of the Cross; a small crucifixis placed in the centre of the chapel, and all approach barefooted (without shoes), fall down before it and kiss it; during this time the "Improperia" are sung. I have only once heard this composition, but it seems to me to be one of Palestrina's finest works, and they sing it with remarkable enthusiasm. There is surprising delicacy and harmony in its execution by the choir; they are careful to place every passage in its proper light, and to render it sufficiently prominent without making it too conspicuous—one chord blending softly with the other. Moreover, the ceremony is very solemn and dignified, and the most profound silence reigns in the chapel.
They sing the oft-recurring Greek "Holy" in the most admirable manner, each time with the sane smoothness and expression. You will be not a little surprised, however, when you see it written down, for they sing as follows:—
music207
music207
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Such passages as that at the commencement, where all the voices sing the very same embellishment, repeatedly occur, and the ear becomes accustomed to them. The effect of the whole is undoubtedly superb. I only wish you could hear the tenors in the first chorus, and the mode in which they take the high A on the word "Theos;" the note is so long-drawn and ringing, though softly breathed, that it sounds most touching. This is repeated again and again till all in the chapel have performed the Adoration of the Cross; but as on this occasion the crowd was not very great, I unluckily had not the opportunity of hearing it as often as I could have wished.
I quite understand why the "Improperias" produced the strongest effect on Goethe, for they are nearly the most faultless of all, as both music and ceremonies, and everything connected with them, are in the most entire harmony. A procession follows to fetch the Host, which had been exposed andadored on the previous evening in another chapel of the Quirinal, lighted up by many hundred wax-lights. The morning service closed at half-past one with a hymn incanto fermo. At half-past three in the afternoon the first nocturn began, with the Psalms, Lessons, etc. I corrected what I had written down, heard the Miserere of Baini, and about seven o'clock followed the Cardinals home through the illuminated vestibule—so all was now seen, and all was now over.
I was anxious, dear Professor, to describe the Holy Week to you minutely, as they were memorable days to me, every hour bringing with it something interesting and long anticipated. I also particularly rejoiced in feeling that, in spite of the excitement and the numerous discussions in praise or blame, the solemnities made as vivid an impression on me, as if I had been quite free from all previous prejudice or prepossession. I thus saw the truth confirmed, that perfection, even in a sphere the most foreign to us, leaves its own stamp on the mind. May you read this long letter with even half the pleasure I feel in recalling the period of the Holy Week at Rome.
Yours faithfully,Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy
Dear Sisters,
On such a day as this my paternal home and those I love are much in my thoughts; my feelings on this point are rather singular. If I feel at any time unwell, or fatigued, or out of humour, I have no particular longing for my own home or for my family; but when brighter days ensue, when every hour makes an indelible impression, and every moment brings with it glad and pleasant sensations then I ardently wish that I were with you, or you with me; and no minute passes without my thinking of one or other of you, to whom I have something particular to say.
I have to-day passed the whole forenoon, from ten till three, in the gallery; it was glorious! Besides all the beautiful work I saw, from which so much fresh benefit is always to be derived, I wandered about among the pictures, feeling so much sympathy, and such kindly emotions in gazing at them. I now first thoroughly realized the great charm of a large collection of the highest works of art. You pass from one to the other, sitting and dreaming for an hour before some picture, and then on to the next.
Yesterday was a holiday here, so to-day the Palazzo degli Uffizi was crowded with people who had come into the city to see the races, and to visit the far-famed gallery; chiefly peasants, male and female, in their country costumes. All the apartments were thrown open, and as I was about to contemplatethem for the last time. I contrived to slip quietly through the crowd, and to remain quite solitary, for I knew that I had not one acquaintance among them.
The busts of the various princes who founded and enriched this collection, are placed near the entrance, at the top of the staircase. I suppose I must have been peculiarly susceptible to-day, for the faces of the Medici interested me exceedingly; they looked so noble and refined, so proud and so dignified. I stood looking at them for a long time, and imprinted on my memory those countenances of world-wide renown.
I then went to the Tribune. This room is so delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, and yet it contains a world of art. I again sought out my favourite armchair, which stands under the statue of the "Slave Whetting his Knife" (L'Arrotino), and taking possession of it, I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for here, at one glance, I had the "Madonna del Cardellino," "Pope Julius II.," a female portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family, by Perugino; and so close to me that I could have touched the statue with my hand, the Venus de' Medici; beyond, that of Titian; on the other side, the "Apollino" and the "Wrestlers" (Lottatori); in front of the Raphael, the merry Greek Dancing Faun, who seems to feel an uncouth delight in discordant music, for the fellow has just struck two cymbals together, and is listening to the sound, while treading with his foot on a kind ofPan's pipes, as an accompaniment: what a clown he is! The space between is occupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a Domenichino, etc., and all these within the circumference of a small semicircle, no larger than one of your own rooms. This is a spot where a man feels his own insignificance, and may well learn to be humble.
I occasionally walked through the other rooms, where a large picture by Leonardo da Vinci, only commenced and sketched in, with all its wild dashes and strokes, is very suggestive. I was especially struck with the genius of the monk Fra Bartolommeo, who must have been a man of the most devout, tender, and earnest spirit. There is a small picture of his here, which I discovered for myself. It is about the size of this sheet of paper, in two divisions, and represents the "Adoration" and the "Presentation in the Temple." The figures are about two-thirds of a finger-length in size, but finished in the most exquisite and consummate manner, with the most brilliant colouring, the brightest decorations, and in the most genial sunshine. You can see in the picture itself, that the piousmaestrohas taken delight in painting it, and in finishing the most minute details; probably with the view of giving it away, to gratify some friend. We feel as if the painter belonged to it, and still ought to be sitting before his work, or had only this moment left it. I felt the same with regard to many pictures to-day, especially that of the "Madonna del Cardellino," which Raphael painted as a wedding-gift, and a surprisefor his friend. I could not help meditating on all these great men, so long passed away from earth, though their whole inner soul is still displayed in such lustre to us, and to all the world.
While reflecting on these things, I came by chance into the room containing the portraits of great painters. I formerly merely regarded them in the light of valuable curiosities, for there are more than three hundred portraits, chiefly painted by the masters themselves, so that you see at the same moment the man and his work; but to-day a fresh idea dawned on me with regard to them,—that each painter resembles his own productions, and that each while painting his own likeness, has been careful to represent himself just as he really was. In this way you become personally acquainted with all these great men, and thus a new light is shed on many things. I will discuss this point more minutely with you when we meet; but I must not omit to say, that the portrait of Raphael is almost the most touching likeness I have yet seen of him. In the centre of a large rich screen, entirely covered with portraits, hangs a small solitary picture, without any particular designation, but the eye is instantly arrested by it; this is Raphael—youthful, very pale and delicate, and with such onward aspirations, such longing and wistfulness in the mouth and eyes, that it is as if you could see into his very soul. That he cannot succeed in expressing all that he sees and feels, and is thus impelled to go forward, and that he must die an early death,—all this iswritten on his mournful, suffering, yet fervid countenance, and when looking at his dark eyes, which glance at you out of the very depths of his soul, and at the pained and contracted mouth, you cannot resist a feeling of awe.
How I wish you could see the portrait that hangs above it; that of Michael Angelo, an ugly, muscular, savage, rugged fellow, in all the vigour of life, looking gruff and morose; and on the other side a wise, grave man, with the aspect of a lion, Leonardo da Vinci; but you cannot see this portrait, and I will not describe it in writing, but tell you of it when we meet. Believe me, however, it is truly glorious. Then I passed on to the Niobe, which of all statues makes the greatest impression on me; and back again to my painters, and to the Tribune, and through the Corridors, where the Roman Emperors, with their dignified yet knavish physiognomies, stare you in the face; and last of all I took a final leave of the Medici family.
It was indeed a morning never to be forgotten.
Do not suppose however that I mean to assert that all days are spent thus. You must battle your way through the present living mob, before you can arrive at the nobility, long since dead, and those who have not a strong arm are sure to come badly off in the conflict. Such a journey as mine from Rome to Perugia, and on here, is no joke. Jean Paul says that the presence of a person who openlyhates you is most painful and oppressive. Such a being is the Romanvetturino: he grants you no sleep; exposes you to hunger and thirst; at night, when he is bound to provide you with yourpranzo, he contrives that you shall not arrive till midnight, when every one is of course asleep, and you are only too thankful to get a bed. In the morning he sets off before four o'clock, and rests his horses at noon for five hours, but invariably in some solitary little wayside inn, where nothing is to be had. Each day he makes out about six German miles, and drivespiano, while the sun burnsfortissimo.
I was very badly off owing to all this, for my fellow-travellers were far from being congenial; three Jesuits inside, and in the cabriolet, where I particularly desired to sit, a most disagreeable Venetian lady. If I wished to escape from her, I was obliged to go inside, and listen to the praises of Charles X., and to hear that Ariosto ought to have been burnt as a corrupt writer, subversive of all morality. It was still worse outside, and we never seemed to get on. The first day, after a journey of four hours, the axletree broke, and we were obliged to remain for nine hours in the same house in the Campagna where we chanced to be, and at last to stay all night. If there was a church on the road that we had an opportunity of visiting, the most beautiful and devotional creations of Perugino, or Giotto, or Cimabue, enchanted our eyes; and so we passed from irritation to delight, and then to irritation again. This was a wretched state to be in. Iwas not in the least amused by it all; and if Nature had not bestowed on us bright moonshine at the Lake of Thrasymene, and if the scenery had not been so wonderfully fine, and if in every town we had not seen a superb church, and if we had not passed through a large city each day as we journeyed on, and if—but you see I am not easily satisfied.
The route however was beautiful, and I must now describe my arrival in Florence, which also includes my whole Italian life of the previous days. At Incisa, half a day's journey from Florence, myvetturinobecame so intolerable from his insolence and abuse, that I found it necessary to take out my luggage, and to tell him to drive to the devil,—which he accordingly did, rather against his will.
It was Midsummer's day, and a celebrated fête was to take place in Florence the same evening, which I would on no account whatever have missed. This is just the kind of thing that the Italians take advantage of, so the landlady at Incisa offered me a carriage at four times the proper fare. When I refused to take it, she said I might try to procure another; and so I accordingly did, but found that no carriages for hire were to be had, only post-horses. I went to the Post, and was there told, to my disgust, that they were at my landlady's, and that she had wished to make me pay an exorbitant price for them. I went back and demanded horses. She said, if I did not choose to pay what she asked, I should have none. I desired to see the regulations, which they are all obliged to have. She said therewas no occasion to show them, and turned her back on me. The use of physical strength, which plays a great part here, was resorted to by me on this occasion, for I seized her and pushed her back into a room (for we were standing in the passage) and then hurried down the street to the Podestà. It turned out however that there was no such person in the town, but that he lived four miles off. The affair became every instant more disagreeable, the crowd of boys at my heels increasing at every step. Fortunately a decent-looking man came up, to whom the mob seemed to show some respect; so I accosted him, and explained all that had occurred. He sympathized with me, and took me to a vine-dresser's who had a little carriage for hire.
The whole crowd now congregated before his door, many pressing forward into the house after me, and shouting that I was mad; but the carriage drove up, and I threw a few scudi to an old beggar, on which they all called out that I was abravo Signore, and wished mebuon viaggio. The moderate price the man demanded more fully showed me the abominable overcharge of the landlady. The carriage was easy, and the horses went on at a good pace, and so we travelled across the hills to Florence. In the course of half an hour we overtook my lazy vetturino. I put up my umbrella to defend me from the sun, and I scarcely ever travelled so pleasantly and so comfortably as during those few hours, having left all annoyances behind me, and before me the prospect of the beautiful fête.
Very soon the Duomo, and the hundreds of villas scattered through the valleys, were visible. Once more we passed by decorated terraces, and the tops of trees seen over them; the Arno valley looking lovelier than ever. And so I arrived here in good spirits and dined; and even while doing so I heard a tumult, and looking out of the window I saw crowds, both young and old, all hurrying in their holiday costumes across the bridges.
I followed them to the Corso, and then to the races; afterwards to the illuminated Pergola, and last of all to a masked ball in the Goldoni Theatre. At one o'clock in the morning I went towards home, thinking that the whole affair was over; but the Arno was still covered with gondolas, illuminated by coloured lamps, and crossing each other in every direction. Under the bridge a large ship was passing, hung with green lanterns; the water shone brightly as it rippled along, while a still brighter moon looked down on the whole scene. I recalled to myself the various occurrences of the day, and the thoughts that had chased each other through my mind, and resolved to write them all to you. It is in fact a reminiscence for myself, for it may not be so suggestive to you, but it will one day be of service to me, enabling me to recall various scenes connected with fair Italy.
Extract from a Letter to Frau von Pereira, in Vienna.
At first I resolved not to answer your letter until I had fulfilled your injunctions, and composed "Napoleon's Midnight Review;" and now I have to ask your forgiveness for not having done so, but there is a peculiarity in this matter. I take music in a very serious light, and I consider it quite inadmissible to compose anything that I do not thoroughly feel. It is just as if I were to utter a falsehood; for notes have as distinct a meaning as words, perhaps even a more definite sense. Now it appears to me almost impossible to compose for a descriptive poem. The mass of compositions of this nature do not militate against this opinion, but rather prove its truth; for I am not acquainted with one single work of the kind that has been successful. You are placed between a dramatic conception or a mere narrative; the one, in the "Erl König," causes the willows to rustle, the child to shriek, and the horse to gallop. The other imagines a ballad singer, calmly narrating the horrible tale, as you would a ghost story, and this is the most accurate view of the two; Reichardt almost invariably adopted this reading, but it does not suit me; the music stands in my way. I feel in a far more spectral spirit when I read such a poem quietly to myself, and imagine the rest, than when it is depicted, or related to me.
It does not answer to look on "Napoleon's MidnightReview" as a narrative, inasmuch as no particular person speaks, and the poem is not written in the style of a ballad. It seems to me more like a clever conception than a poem; it strikes me that the poet himself placed no great faith in his misty forms.
I could indeed have composed music for it in the same descriptive style, as Neukomm and Fischhof, in Vienna. I might have introduced a very novel rolling of drums in the bass, and blasts of trumpets in the treble, and have brought in all sorts of hobgoblins. But I love my serious elements of sound too well to do anything of the sort; for this kind of thing always appears to me a joke; somewhat like the painting's in juvenile spelling-books, where the roofs are coloured bright red, to make the children aware they are intended for roofs; and I should have been most reluctant to write out and send you anything incomplete, or that did not entirely please myself, because I always wish you to have the best I can accomplish.
Felix.
This letter will probably be the last (D.V.) that I shall write to you from an Italian city; I may possibly send you another from the Borromean Islands, which I intend to visit in a few days, but do not rely on this.
My week here has been one of the most agreeable and amusing that I have passed in Italy; and how this could be the case in Milan, hitherto utterly unknown to me, I shall now proceed to relate. In the first place, I immediately secured a small piano, and attacked withrabbiathat endless "Walpurgis Night," to finish the thing at last; and to-morrow morning it will be completed, except the overture; for as yet I have not quite made up my mind whether it shall be a grand symphony, or a short introduction breathing of spring. I should like to take the opinion of some adept on this point. I must say the conclusion has turned out better than I myself expected. The hobgoblins and the bearded Druid, with the trombones sounding behind him, diverted me immensely, and so I passed two forenoons very happily.
'Tasso' also contributed to my pleasure, which I have now for the first time been able to read with facility; it is a splendid poem. I was glad to be already well acquainted with Goethe's 'Tasso;' being constantly reminded of it by the principal passages of the Italian poet, whose verse, like that of Goethe, is so dreamy, harmonious, and tender, its sweet melody delighting the ear. Your favourite passage, dear father, "Era la notte allor," struck me as very beautiful, but the stanzas that I admire most, are those descriptive of Clorinda's death; they are so wonderfully imaginative, and fine. The close however does not quite please me. Tancred's 'Lamentations' are, I think, more charmingly composedthan true to nature; they contain too many clever ideas and antitheses; and even the words of the hermit, which soothe him, sound more like a censure on the hermit himself. I should infallibly have killed him on the spot, if he had talked to me in such a strain.
Recently I was reading the episode of 'Armida' in a carriage, surrounded by a company of Italian actors, who were incessantly singing Rossini's "Ma trema, trema," when suddenly there recurred to my thoughts Gluck's "Vous m'allez quitter," and Rinaldo's falling asleep, and the voyage in the air—and I felt in a most melting mood. This is genuine music; thus have men felt, and thus have men spoken, and such strains can never die. I do cordially hate the present licentious style. Do not take it amiss; your motto is, Without hatred, no love,—and I did feel so moved when I thought of Gluck, and his grand embodiments.
Every evening I was in society, owing to a mad prank, which however proved very successful. I think I have invented this kind of eccentric proceeding, and may take out a patent for it, as I have already made my most agreeable acquaintancesex abrupto, without letters or introductions of any kind.
I asked by chance on my arrival at Milan the name of the Commandant, and thelaquais de placenamed General Ertmann. I instantly thought of Beethoven's Sonata in A major, and its dedication; and as I had heard all that was good of MadameErtmann, from those who knew her; that she was so kind, and had bestowed such loving care on Beethoven, and played herself so beautifully, I, next morning, at a suitable hour for a visit, put on a black coat, desired that the Government-house should be pointed out to me, and occupied myself on the way thither by composing some pretty speeches for the General's lady, and went on boldly.
I cannot however deny that I felt rather dismayed when I was told that the General lived in the first story, facing the street; and when I was fairly in the splendid vaulted hall, I was seized with a sudden panic, and would fain have turned back: but I could not help thinking that it was vastly provincial on my part to take fright at a vaulted hall, so I went straight up to a group of soldiers standing near, and asked an old man in a short nankeen jacket, if General Ertmann lived there, intending then to send in my name to the lady. Unluckily the man replied, "I am General Ertmann: what is your pleasure?" This was unpleasant, as I was forced to have recourse to the speech I had prepared. The General, however, did not seem particularly edified by my statement, and wished to know whom he had the honour of addressing. This also was far from agreeable, but fortunately he was acquainted with my name, and became very polite: his wife, he said was not at home, but I should find her at two o'clock, or any hour after that which might suit me.
I was glad that all had gone off so well, and inthe meantime went to the Brera, where I passed the time in studying the 'Sposalizio' of Raphael, and at two o'clock I presented myself to Freifrau Dorothea von Ertmann. She received me with much courtesy, and was most obliging, playing me Beethoven's Sonata in C sharp minor, and the one in D minor. The old General, who now appeared in his handsome grey uniform, covered with orders, was quite enchanted, and had tears of delight in his eyes, because it was so long since he had heard his wife play; he said there was not a person in Milan who cared to hear what I had heard. She mentioned the trio in B major, but said she could not remember it. I played it, and sang the other parts: this enchanted the old couple, and so their acquaintance was soon made.
Since then their kindness to me is so great that it quite overwhelms me. The old General shows me all the remarkable objects in Milan; in the afternoon his lady takes me in her carriage to drive on the Corso, and at night we have music till one o'clock in the morning. Yesterday at an early hour they drove with me in the environs; at noon I dined with them, and in the evening there was a party. They are the most agreeable and cultivated couple you can imagine, and both as much in love with each other as if they were a newly wedded pair,—and yet they have been married for four-and-thirty years. Yesterday he spoke of his profession, of military life, of personal courage, and similar subjects, with a degree of lucidity, and liberality of feeling, thatI scarcely ever met with, except in my father. The General has been now an officer for six-and-forty years, and you should really see him galloping beside his wife's carriage in the park,—the old gentleman looking so dignified and animated!
She plays Beethoven's works admirably, though it is so long since she studied them; she sometimes rather exaggerates the expression, dwelling too long on one passage, and then hurrying the next; but there are many parts that she plays splendidly, and I think I have learned something from her. When sometimes she can bring no more tone out of the instrument, and begins to sing in a voice that emanates from the very depths of her soul, she reminds me of you, dear Fanny, though you are infinitely her superior. When I was approaching the end of the adagio in the B major trio, she exclaimed, "The amount of expression here is beyond any one's playing;" and it is quite true of this passage.
The following day, when I went there again to play her the symphony in C minor, she insisted on my taking off my coat, as the day was so hot. In the intervals of our music she related the most interesting anecdotes of Beethoven, and that when she was playing to him in the evening he not unfrequently used the snuffers as a tooth-pick! She told me that when she lost her last child, Beethoven at first shrank from coming to her house; but at length he invited her to visit him, and when she arrived, she found him seated at the piano, and simply saying, "Let us speak to each other by music," heplayed on for more than an hour, and, as she expressed it, "he said much to me, and at last gave me consolation." In short I am now in the most genial mood, and quite at my ease, having no occasion to resort to any disguise, or to be silent, for we understand each other admirably on all points. She played the Kreutzer Sonata yesterday with violin accompaniment, and when the violin-player (an Austrian cavalry officer) made a long flourish,à laPaganini, at the beginning of the adagio, the old General made such a desperate grimace, that I nearly fell off my chair from laughing.
I called on Teschner, as you, dear mother, desired me to do so; such a musician however is as depressing as a thick fog. Madame Ertmann has more soul in her little finger than that fellow has in his whole body, with his formidable moustaches, behind which he seems to lie in ambush. There is no public music in Milan; they still speak with enthusiasm of last winter, when Pasta and Rubini sang here, but say that they were miserably supported, and the orchestra and choruses bad. I however heard Pasta six years ago in Paris, and I can do the same every year, with the addition of a good orchestra and a good chorus, and many other advantages; so it is evident that if I wish to hear Italian music, I must go to Paris or to England. The Germans however take it amiss when you say this, and persistpar forcein singing, playing, and acquiring new ideas here, declaring this is the land of inspiration;while I maintain that inspiration is peculiar to no country, but floats about in the air.
Two days ago I was in the morning theatre here, and was amused. There you can see more of the life of the people than in any other part of Italy. It is a large theatre with boxes, the pit filled with wooden benches, on which you can find places if you come early; the stage is like every other stage, but there is no roof either over the pit or boxes, so that the bright sun shines into the theatre and into the eyes of the actors. Moreover, the piece they gave was in the Milanese dialect. You feel as if you were secretly watching all these complicated and diverting situations, and might take part in them if necessary, and thus the most familiar comic dilemmas become novel and interesting; and the public seem to feel the most lively interest in them. And now, good night. I wished to talk to you a little before going to bed, and so it has become a letter.
Felix.
Extracts from two Letters to Edward Devrient.