While I write this date, I shrink from the thought of how time flies. Before this month is at an end the Holy Week begins, and when it is over, my stay in Rome will be drawing to a close. I now try to reflect whether I have made the best use of my time, and on every side I perceive a deficiency. If I could only compass one of my two symphonies! I must and will reserve the Italian one till I have seen Naples, which must play a part in it, but the other also seems to elude my grasp; the more I try to seize it and the nearer the end of this delightful quiet Roman period approaches, the more am I perplexed, and the less do I seem to succeed. I feel as if it will be long indeed before I can write again as freely as here, and so I am eager to finish what I have to do, but I make no progress. The "Walpurgis Night" alone gets on quickly, and I hope it will soon be accomplished. Besides, I cannot resist every day sketching, that I may carry away with me reminiscences of my favourite haunts. There is still much that I wish to see, so I perfectly well know that this month will suddenly come to an end, and much remain undone; and indeed it is quite too beautiful here.
Rome is considerably changed, and neither so gay nor so cheerful as formerly.[16]Almost all my acquaintances are gone; the promenades and streetsare deserted, the galleries closed, and it is impossible to gain admittance into them. All news from without almost entirely fails us, (for we saw the details about Bologna first in the 'Allgemeine Zeitung' yesterday;) people seldom or never congregate together; in fact, everything has subsided into entire rest; but then the weather is lovely, and no one can deprive us of this warm, balmy atmosphere. Those who are most to be pitied in the present state of affairs are the Vernet ladies, who are unpleasantly situated here. The hatred of the entire Roman populace is, strangely enough, directed against the French Pensionaries, believing that their influence alone could easily effect a revolution. Threatening anonymous letters have been repeatedly sent to Vernet; indeed he one day found an armed Transteverin stationed in front of the windows of his studio, who however took to flight when Vernet fetched his gun: and as the ladies are now entirely alone, and isolated in the villa, their family are naturally very uneasy. Still all continues quiet and serene within the city, and I am quite convinced it will remain so.
The German painters are really more contemptible than I can tell you. Not only have they cut off their whiskers and moustaches, and their long hair and beards, openly declaring that as soon as all danger is at an end they will let them grow again, but these tall stalwart fellows go home as soon as it is dark, lock themselves in, and discuss their fears together. They call Horace Vernet a braggart,and yet he is very different from these miserable creatures, whose conduct makes me cordially despise them. Latterly I occasionally visited some of the modern studios. Thorwaldsen has just finished a statue in clay of Lord Byron. He is seated amidst ancient ruins, his feet resting on the capital of a column, while he is gazing into the distance, evidently about to write something on the tablets he holds in his hand. He is represented not in Roman costume, but in a simple modern dress, and I think it looks well, and does not destroy the general effect. The statue has the natural air and easy pose so remarkable in all this sculptor's works, and yet the poet looks sufficiently gloomy and elegiac, though not affected. I must some day write you a whole letter about the 'Triumph of Alexander,' for never did any piece of sculpture make such an impression on me; I go there every week, and stand gazing at that alone, and enter Babylon along with the Conqueror. I lately called on A——; he has brought with him some admirable pencil sketches from Naples and Sicily, so I should be glad to take some hints from him, but I fear that he is a considerable exaggerator, and does not sketch faithfully. His landscape of the Colosseum, at H. B., is a beautiful romance; for I cannot say that in the original I ever perceived woods of large cypresses and orange-trees, or fountains or thickets in the centre, extending to the ruins. Moreover,hismoustaches have also disappeared.
I have something amusing to tell you in conclusion.I wish, O my Fanny, that as a contrast to your Sunday harmony you had heard the music we perpetrated last Sunday evening. We wished to sing the Psalms of Marcello, being Lent, and the best dilettanti consequently assembled. A Papal singer was in the middle, amaestroat the piano, and we sang. When a soprano solo came, all the ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, so it was executed as atutti. The tenor by my side never alighted on the right note, and rambled about in the most insecure regions. When I chimed in as second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when I tried to assist him, he seemed to think that was my original part, and kept steadily to his own. The Papal singer at one instant sang in the soprano falsetto, and presently took the first bass; soon after he quaked out thealt, and when all that was of no avail, he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and we nodded mysteriously to each other. Themaestro, in striving to set us all right, repeatedly lost his own place, being a bar behind, or one in advance, and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, just as we thought fit. Suddenly came a very solemn solo passage for the bass, whichallattacked valiantly, but at the second bar broke into a chorus of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, so the affair ended in high good-humour. The people who had come as audience talked at the pitch of their voices, and then went out and dispersed. Eynard came in and listened to our music for a time, then made a horrid grimace, and wasseen no more. Farewell! Health and happiness attend you all!
Felix.
The letters of introduction that R—— sent me, have been of no use to me here. L—— likewise, to whom I was presented by Bunsen, has not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other way when we meet. I rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. Albani admitted me, so I had the honour of conversing for half an hour with a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, he asked me if I was a pensioner of the King of Hanover. "No," said I. He supposed that I must have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I knew Meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure his music; it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was a German, and the Germans,mon ami, have not the most remote conception of what melody is! "No," said I. "Inmyscores," continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings, and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the double-bass sings too." I was naturally desirous, in all humility, to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in Rome aagreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit to his villa, and I might take as many of my friends with me as I chose. It was near such and such a place. I thanked him very much, and subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any one can go there who chooses. Since that time I have heard no more of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest Roman circles, I resolved not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was satisfied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed out to me on the promenade, where I met them daily.
I think Mizkiewicz very tiresome. He possesses that kind of indifference which bores both himself and others, though the ladies persist in designating it melancholy and lassitude; but this makes it no better in my eyes. If he looks at St. Peter's, he deplores the times of the hierarchy; if the sky is blue and beautiful, he wishes it were dull and gloomy; if it is gloomy, he is freezing; if he sees the Colosseum, he wishes he had lived at that period. I wonder what sort of a figure he would have made in the days of Titus!
You inquire about Horace Vernet, and this is, indeed, a pleasant theme. I believe I may say that I have learned something from him, and every one may do the same. He produces with incredible facility and freshness. When a form meets his eyewhich touches his feelings, he instantly adopts it, and while others are deliberating whether it can be called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he has long completed his work, entirely deranging our æsthetical standard. Though this facility cannot be acquired, still its principle is admirable, and the serenity which springs from it, and the energy it calls forth in working, nothing else can replace.
Among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this season of blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in the midst of the shrubberies and gardens of the Villa Medicis, stands a small house, in which as you approach you invariably hear a tumult,—shouting and wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the barking of dogs; this is Vernet'satelier. The most picturesque disorder everywhere prevails; guns, a hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a couple of dead hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures, finished and unfinished. "The Investiture of the National Cockade" (an eccentric picture which does not please me), portraits recently begun of Thorwaldsen, Eynard, Latour-Maubourg, some horses, a sketch of Judith, and studies for it; the portrait of the Pope, a couple of Moorish heads, bagpipers, Papal soldiers, my unworthy self, Cain and Abel, and last of all a drawing of the interior of the place itself, all hang up in his studio.
Lately his hands were quite full, owing to the number of portraits bespoken from him; but in the street, he saw one of the Campagna peasants, who are armed and mounted by Government, and rideabout Rome. The singular costume caught the artist's eye, and next day he began a picture representing a similar peasant, sitting on his horse in bad weather in the Campagna, and seizing his gun in order to take aim at some one with it; in the distance are visible a small troop of soldiers, and the desolate plain. The minute details of the weapon, where the peasant peeps through the soldier's uniform, the wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the discomfort prevalent throughout, and the Italian phlegm in the bearded fellow, make a charming little picture; and no one can help envying him, who sees the real delight with which his brush traverses the stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a button on the saddle; then lining the soldier's great-coat with green. Numbers of people come to look on: during my first sitting twenty persons, at least, arrived one after the other. Countess E—— asked him to allow her to be present when he was at work; but when he darted on it as a hungry man does on food, her amazement was great. The whole family are, as I told you, good people, and when old Charles talks about his father Joseph, you must feel respect for them, and I maintain that they are noble. Good-bye, for it is late, and I must send my letter to the Post.
Felix.
In the midst of the Holy Week. To-morrow for the first time I am to hear the Miserere, and while you last Sunday performed "The Passion," the Cardinals and all the priesthood here received twisted palms and olive-branches. The Stabat Mater of Palestrina was sung, and there was a grand procession. My work has got on badly during the last few days. Spring is in all her bloom; a genial blue sky without, such as we at most only dream of, and a journey to Naples in my every thought; so even a quiet time to write is not to be found. C——, who is usually a cool fellow, has written me such a glowing letter from Naples! The most prosaic men become poetical when they speak of it. The finest season of the year in Italy, is from the 15th of April to the 15th of May. Who can wonder that I find it impossible to return to my misty Scotch mood? I have therefore laid aside the Scotch symphony for the present, but hope to write out the "Walpurgis Night" here. I shall manage to do so if I work hard to-day and to-morrow, and if we have bad weather, for really a fine day is too great a temptation. As soon as an impediment occurs, I hope to find some resource in the open air, so I go out and think of anything and everything but my composition, and do nothing but lounge about, and when the church bells begin to ring, it is the Ave Maria already. All I want now is a short overture. If I can accomplish this, the thing is complete, and I can write it out in acouple of days. Then I have done with music, and leaving all music-paper here, I shall go off to Naples, where, please God, I mean to do nothing.
Two French friends of mine have tempted me toflânerwith them a good deal of late. When they are together, it is either a perpetual tragedy, or comedy,—as you will. Y—— distorts everything, without a spark of talent, always groping in the dark, but esteeming himself the creator of a new world; writing moreover the most frightful things, and yet dreaming and thinking of nothing but Beethoven, Schiller, and Goethe; a victim at the same time to the most boundless vanity, and looking down condescendingly on Mozart and Haydn, so that all his enthusiasm seems to me very doubtful. Z—— has been toiling for three months at a little rondo on a Portuguese theme; he arranges neatly and brilliantly, and according to rule, and he now intends to set about composing six waltzes, and is in a state of perfect ecstasy if I will only play him over a number of Vienna waltzes. He has a high esteem for Beethoven, but also for Rossini and for Bellini, and no doubt for Auber,—in short, for everybody. Then my turn comes to be praised, who would be only too glad to murder Y——, till he chances to eulogize Gluck, when I can quite agree with him. I like nevertheless to walk about with these two, for they are the only musicians here, and both very pleasant, amiable persons. All this forms an amusing contrast.
You say, dear mother, that Y—— must have afixed aim in his art; but this is far from being my opinion. I believe he wishes to be married, and is in fact worse than the other, because he is by far the most affected of the two. I really cannot stand his obtrusive enthusiasm, and the gloomy despondency he assumes before ladies,—this stereotyped genius in black and white; and if he were not a Frenchman, (and it is always pleasant to associate with them, as they have invariably something interesting to say,) it would be beyond endurance. A week hence, I shall probably write you my last letter from Rome, and then you shall hear of me from Naples. It is still quite uncertain whether I go to Sicily or not; I almost think not, as in any event I must have recourse to a steamboat, and it is not yet settled that one is to go.
In haste, yours,Felix.
The Holy Week is over, and my passport to Naples prepared. My room begins to look empty, and my winter in Rome is now among my reminiscences of the past. I intend to leave this in a few days, and my next letter (D. V.) shall be from Naples. Interesting and amusing as the winter in Rome has been, it has closed with a truly memorable week; for what I have seen and heard far surpassed my expectations, and being the conclusion, I will endeavour in this, my last letter fromRome, to give you a full description of it all. People have often both zealously praised and censured the ceremonies of the Holy Week, and have yet omitted, as is often the case, the chief point, namely its perfection as a complete whole. My father may probably remember the description of Mdlle. de R——, who after all only did what most people do, who write or talk about music and art, when in a hoarse and prosaic voice she attempted at dinner to give us some idea of the fine clear Papal choir. Many others have given the mere music, and been dissatisfied, because external adjuncts are required to produce the full effect. Those persons may be in the right; still so long as these indispensable externals are there, and especially in such entire perfection, so long will it impress others; and just as I feel convinced that place, time, order, the vast crowd of human beings awaiting in the most profound silence the moment for the music to begin, contribute largely to the effect, so do I contemn the idea of deliberately separating what ought in fact to be indivisible, and this for the purpose of exhibiting a certain portion, which may thus be depreciated. That man must be despicable indeed, on whom the devotion and reverence of a vast assemblage did not make a corresponding impression of devotion and reverence, even if they were worshipping the Golden Calf; let him alone destroy this, who can replace it by something better.
Whether one person repeats it from another, whether it comes up to its great reputation, or ismerely the effect of the imagination, is quite the same thing. It suffices that we have a perfect totality, which has exercised the most powerful influence for centuries past, and still exercises it, and therefore I reverence it, as I do every species of real perfection. I leave it to theologians to pronounce on its religious influence, for the various opinions on that point are of no great value. There is more to be considered than the mere ceremonies: for me it is sufficient, as I already said, that in any sphere the object should be fully carried out, so far as ability will permit, with fidelity and conscientiousness, to call forth my respect and sympathy. Thus you must not expect from me a formal critique on the singing, as to whether they intoned correctly or incorrectly, in tune or out of tune, or whether the compositions are fine. I would rather strive to show you, that as a whole the affair cannot fail to make a solemn impression, and that everything contributes to this result, and as last week I enjoyed music, forms, and ceremonies, without severing them, revelling in the perfect whole, so I do not intend to separate them in this letter. The technical part, to which I naturally paid particular attention, I mean to detail more minutely to Zelter.
The first ceremony was on Palm Sunday, when the concourse of people was so great, that I could not make my way through the crowd to my usual place on what is called the Prelates' Bench, but was forced to remain among the Guard of Honour, where indeed I had a very good view of the solemnities,but could not follow the singing properly, as they pronounced the words very indistinctly, and on that day I had no book. The result was that on this first day, the various antiphons, Gospels, and Psalms, and the mode of chanting, instead of reading, which is employed here in its primitive form, made the most confused and singular impression on me. I had no clear conception what rule they followed with regard to the various cadences. I took considerable pains gradually to discover their method, and succeeded so well, that at the end of the Holy Week I could have sung with them. I thus also escaped the extreme weariness, so universally complained of during the endless Psalms before the Miserere; for I quickly detected any variety in the monotony, and when perfectly assured of any particular cadence, I instantly wrote it down; so I made out by degrees (which indeed I deserved) the melodies of eight Psalms. I also noted down the antiphons, etc., and was thus incessantly occupied and interested.
The first Sunday, however, as I already told you, I could not make it all out satisfactorily: I only knew that the choir sang "Hosanna in excelsis," and intoned various hymns, while twisted palms were offered to the Pope, which he distributed among the Cardinals. These palms are long branches decorated with buttons, crosses, and crowns, all entirely made of dried palm-leaves, which makes them look like gold. The Cardinals, who are seated in the Chapel in the form of a quadrangle, with the abbati at their feet, now advance each in turn to receive theirpalms, with which they return to their places; then come the bishops, monks, abbati, and all the other orders of the priesthood; the Papal singers, the knights, and others, who receive olive-branches entwined with palm-leaves. This makes a long procession, during which the choir continues to sing unremittingly. The abbati hold the long palms of their cardinals like the lances of sentinels, slanting them on the ground before them, and at this moment there is a brilliancy of colour in the chapel that I never before saw at any ceremony. There were the Cardinals in their gold embroidered robes and red caps, and the violet abbati in front of them, with golden palms in their hands, and further in advance, the gaudy servants of the Pope, the Greek priests, the patriarchs in the most gorgeous attire; the Capuchins with long white beards, and all the other religious Orders; then again the Swiss, in their popinjay uniforms, all carrying green olive-branches, while singing is going on the whole time; though certainly it is scarcely possible to distinguish what is being sung, yet the mere sound is sufficient to delight the ear.
The Pope's throne is then carried in, on which he is elevated in all processions, and where I saw Pius VIII. enthroned on the day of my arrival (videthe 'Heliodorus' of Raphael, where he is portrayed). The Cardinals, two and two, with their palms, head the procession, and the folding doors of the chapel being thrown open, it slowly defiles through them. The singing, which has hitherto incessantly prevailed,like an element, becomes fainter and fainter, for the singers also walk in the procession, and at length are only indistinctly heard, the sound dying away in the distance. Then a choir in the chapel bursts forth with a query, to which the distant one breathes a faint response; and so it goes on for a time, till the procession again draws near, and the choirs reunite. Let them sing how or what they please, this cannot fail to produce a fine effect; and though it is quite true that nothing can be more monotonous, and even devoid of form, than the hymnsall' unisono, being without any proper connection, and sungfortissimothroughout, still I appeal to the impression that as awholeit must make on every one. After the procession returns, the Gospel is chanted in the most singular tone, and is succeeded by the Mass. I must not omit here to make mention of my favourite moment; I mean the Credo. The priest takes his place for the first time in the centre, before the altar, and after a short pause, intones in his hoarse old voice the Credo of Sebastian Bach. When he has finished, the priests stand up, the Cardinals leave their seats, and advance into the middle of the chapel, where they form a circle, all repeating the continuation in a loud voice, "Patrem omnipotentem," etc. The choir then chimes in, singing the same words. When I for the first time heard my well-known
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and all the grave monks round me began to recite in loud and eager tones, I felt quite excited, for this is the moment I still like the best of all. After the ceremony, Santini made me a present of his olive-branch, which I carried in my hand the whole day when I was walking about, for the weather was beautiful. The Stabat Mater which succeeds the Credo, made much less effect; they sang it incorrectly and out of tune, and likewise curtailed it considerably. The 'Sing Akademie' executes it infinitely better. There is nothing on Monday or Tuesday; but on Wednesday, at half-past four, the nocturns begin.
The Psalms are sung in alternate verses by two choirs, though invariably by one class of voices, basses or tenors. For an hour and a half, therefore, nothing but the most monotonous music is heard; the Psalms are only once interrupted by the Lamentations, and this is the first moment when, after a long time, a complete chord is given. This chord is very softly intoned, and the whole piece sungpianissimo, while the Psalms are shouted out as much as possible, and always upon one note, and the words uttered with the utmost rapidity, a cadence occurring at the end of each verse, which defines the different characteristics of the various melodies. It is not therefore surprising that the mere soft sound (in G major) of the first Lamentation, should produce so touching an effect. Once more the single tone recommences; a wax light is extinguished at the end of each Psalm, so that in thecourse of an hour and a half the fifteen lights round the altar are all out; six large-sized candles still burn in the vestibule. The whole strength of the choir, with alti and soprani, etc., intonefortissimoandunisono, a new melody, the "Canticum Zachariæ," in D minor, singing it slowly and solemnly in the deepening gloom; the last remaining lights are then extinguished. The Pope leaves his throne, and falls on his knees before the altar, while all around do the same, repeating a paternostersub silentio; that is, a pause ensues, during which you know that each Catholic present says the Lord's Prayer, and immediately afterwards the Miserere beginspianissimothus:—
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This is to me the most sublime moment of the whole. You can easily picture to yourself what follows, but not this commencement. The continuation, which is the Miserere of Allegri, is a simple sequence of chords, grounded either on tradition, or what appears to me much more probable, merely embellishments, introduced by some clevermaestrofor the fine voices at his disposal, and especially for a very high soprano. Theseembellimentialwaysrecur on the same chords, and as they are cleverly constructed, and beautifully adapted for the voice, it is invariably pleasing to hear them repeated. I could not discover anything unearthly or mysterious in the music; indeed, I am perfectly contented that its beauty should be earthly and comprehensible. I refer you, dearest Fanny, to my letter to Zelter. On the first day they sang Baini's Miserere.
On Thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, the solemnities recommenced, and lasted till one o'clock. There was High Mass, and afterwards a procession. The Pope conferred his benediction from the Loggia of the Quirinal, and washed the feet of thirteen priests, who are supposed to represent the pilgrims, and were seated in a row, wearing white gowns and white caps, and who afterwards dine. The crowd of English ladies was extraordinary, and the whole affair repugnant to my feelings. The Psalms began again in the afternoon, and lasted on this occasion till half past seven. Some portions of the Miserere were taken from Baini, but the greater part were Allegri's. It was almost dark in the chapel when the Miserere commenced. I clambered up a tall ladder standing there by chance, and so I had the whole chapel crowded with people, and the kneeling Pope and his Cardinals, and the music, beneath me. It had a splendid effect. On Friday forenoon the chapel was stripped of every decoration, and the Pope and Cardinals in mourning. The history of the Passion, according to St. John, the music by Vittoria, was sung; then the Improperia of Palestrina,during which the Pope and all the others, taking off their shoes, advance to the cross and adore it. In the evening Baini's Miserere was given, which they sang infinitely the best.
Early on Saturday, in the baptistery of the Lateran, Heathens, Jews, and Mahomedans were baptized, all represented by a little child, who screeched the whole time, and subsequently some young priests received consecration for the first time. On Sunday the Pope himself performed High Mass in the Quirinal, and subsequently pronounced his benediction on the people, and then all was over. It is now Saturday, the 9th of April, and to-morrow at an early hour I get into a carriage and set off for Naples, where a new style of beauty awaits me. You will perceive by the end of this letter that I write in haste. This is my last day, and a great deal yet to be done. I do not therefore finish my letter to Zelter, but will send it from Naples. I wish my description to be correct, and my approaching journey distracts my attention sadly. Thus I am off to Naples; the weather is clearing up, and the sun shining, which it has not done for some days past. My passport is prepared, the carriage ordered, and I am looking forward to the months of spring. Adieu!
Felix.
Dear Rebecca,
This must stand in lieu of a birthday letter: may it wear a holiday aspect for you! It arrives late inthe day, but with equally sincere good wishes. Your birthday itself I passed in a singular but delightful manner, though I could not write, having neither pens nor ink; in fact, I was in the very middle of the Pontine Marshes. May the ensuing year bring you every happiness, and may we meet somewhere! If you were thinking of me on that day, our thoughts must have met either on the Brenner or at Inspruck; for I was constantly thinking of you. Even without looking at the date of this letter, you will at once perceive by its tone that I am in Naples. I have not yet been able to compass one serious quiet reflection, there is everywhere such jovial life here, inviting you to do nothing, and to think of nothing, and even the example of so many thousand people has an irresistible influence. I do not indeed intend that this should continue, but I see plainly that it must go on for the first few days. I stand for hours on my balcony, gazing at Vesuvius and the Bay.
But I must now endeavour to resume my old descriptive style, or my materials will accumulate so much that I shall become confused, and I fear you may not be able to follow me properly. So much that is novel crowds on me, that a journal would be requisite to detail to you my life and my state of excitement. So I begin by acknowledging that I deeply regretted leaving Rome. My life there was so quiet, and yet so full of interest, having made many kind and friendly acquaintances, with whom I had become so domesticated, that the last days of my stay, with all their discomforts and perpetual running about,seemed doubly odious. The last evening I went to Vernet's to thank him for my portrait, which is now finished, and to take leave of him. We had some music, talked politics, and played chess, and then I went down the Monte Pincio to my own house, packed up my things, and the next morning drove off with my travelling companions. As I gazed out of the cabriolet at the scenery, I could dream to my heart's desire. When we arrived at our night quarters, we all went out walking. The two days glided past more like a pleasure excursion than a journey.
The road from Rome to Naples is indeed the most luxuriant that I know, and the whole mode of travelling most agreeable. You fly through the plain; for a very slight gratuity the postilions gallop their horses like mad, which is very advisable in the Marshes. If you wish to contemplate the scenery, you have only to abstain from offering any gratuity, and you are soon driven slowly enough. The road from Albano, by Ariccia and Genzano, as far as Velletri, runs between hills, and is shaded by trees of every kind; uphill and downhill, through avenues of elms, past monasteries and shrines. On one side is the Campagna, with its heather, and its bright hues; beyond comes the sea, glittering charmingly in the sunshine, and above, the clearest sky; for since Sunday morning the weather has been glorious.
Well! we drove into Velletri, our night quarters, where a great Church festival was going on. Handsome women with primitive faces were pacing thealleys in groups, and men were standing together wrapped in cloaks, in the street. The church was decorated with garlands of green leaves, and as we drove past it we heard the sounds of a double bass and some violins; fireworks were prepared in the square; the sun went down clear and serene, and the Pontine Marshes, with their thousand colours, and the rocks rearing their heads one by one against the horizon, indicated the course we were to pursue on the following day. After supper I resolved to go out again for a short time, and discovered a kind of illumination; the streets were swarming with people, and when I at last came to the spot where the church stood, I saw, on turning the corner, that the whole street had burning torches on each side, and in the middle the people were walking up and down, crowding together, and pleased to see each other so distinctly at night. I cannot tell you what a pretty sight it was. The concourse was greatest before the church; I pressed forward into it along with the rest. The little building was filled with people kneeling, adoring the Host, which was exposed; no one spoke a word, nor was there any music. This stillness, the lighted church, and the many kneeling women with white handkerchiefs on their heads, and white gowns, had a striking effect. When I left the church a shrewd, handsome Italian boy explained the whole festival, assuring me that it would have been far finer had it not been for the recent disturbances, for they had been the cause of depriving the people of the horseraces,and barrels of pitch, etc., and on this account it was unlucky that the Austrians had not come sooner.
The following morning, at six o'clock, we pursued our way through the Pontine Marshes. It is a species of Bergstrasse. You drive through a straight avenue of trees along a plain. On one side of the avenue is a continued chain of hills, on the other the Marshes. They are, however, covered with innumerable flowers, which smell very sweet; but in the long-run this becomes very stupefying, and I distinctly felt the oppression of the atmosphere, in spite of the fine weather. A canal runs along beside thechaussée, constructed by the orders of Pius VI. to form a conduit for the marshes, where we saw a number of buffaloes wallowing, their heads emerging out of the water, and apparently enjoying themselves. The straight, level road has a singular appearance. You see the chain of hills at the end of the avenue when you come to the first station, and again at the second and third, the only difference being that as you advance so many miles nearer, the hills loom gradually larger. Terracina, which is situated exactly at the end of this avenue, is invisible till you come quite close to it. On making a sudden turn to the left, round the corner of a rock, the whole expanse of the sea lies before you. Citron-gardens, and palms, and a variety of plants of Southern growth, clothe the declivity in front of the town; towers appearing above the thickets, and the harbour projecting into the sea.To me, the finest object in nature is, and always will be, the ocean. I love it almost more than the sky. Nothing in Naples made a more enchanting impression on my mind than the sea, and I always feel happy when I see before me the spacious surface of waters.
The South, properly speaking, begins at Terracina. This is another land, and every plant and every bush reminds you of it. Above all, the two mighty ridges of hills delighted me, between which the road runs; they were totally devoid of bushes or trees, but clothed entirely with masses of golden wall-flowers, so that they had a bright yellow hue, and the fragrance was almost too strong. There is a great want of grass and large trees. The old robbers' nests of Fondi and Itri looked very piratical and gloomy. The houses are built against the walls of the rocks, and there are likewise some large towers of the date of the Middle Ages. Many sentinels and posts were stationed on the tops of the hills; but we made out our journey without any adventure. We remained all night in Mola di Gaeta; there we saw the renowned balcony whence you look over orange and citron groves to the blue sea, with Vesuvius and the islands in the far distance. This was on the 11th of April. As I had been celebrating your birthday all day long in my own thoughts, I could not in the evening resist informing my companions that it was your birthday; so your health was drunk again and again. An old Englishman, who was of the party, wished me a "happy return to my sister." I emptiedthe glass to your health, and thought of you. Remain unchanged till we meet again.
With such thoughts in my head, I went in the evening to the citron-garden, close to the sea-shore, and listened to the waves rolling in from afar, and breaking on the shore, and sometimes gently rippling and splashing. It was indeed a heavenly night. Among a thousand other thoughts, Grillparzer's poem recurred to my memory, which it is almost impossible to set to music; for which reason, I suppose, Fanny has composed a charming melody on it; but I do not jest when I say that I sang the song over repeatedly to myself, for I was standing on the very spot he describes. The sea had subsided, and was now calm, and at rest; this was the first song. The second followed next day, for the sea was like a meadow or pure ether as you gazed at it, and pretty women nodded their heads, and so did olives and cypresses; but they were all equally brown, so I remained in a poetic mood.
What is it that shines through the leaves, and glitters like gold? Only cartridges and sabres; for the King had been reviewing some troops in Sant' Agata, and soldiers defiled on both sides of the path, who had the more merit in my eyes because they resembled the Prussians, and for a long time past I have seen only Papal soldiers. Some carried dark-lanterns on their muskets, as they had been marching all night. The whole effect was bold and gay. We now came to a short rocky pass, from which you descend into the valley of Campana, themost enchanting spot I have ever seen; it is like a boundless garden, covered entirely with plants and vegetation as far as the eye can reach. On one side are the blue outlines of the sea, on the other an undulating range of hills above which snowy peaks project; and at a great distance Vesuvius and the islands, bathed in blue vapours, start up on the level surface; large avenues of trees intersect the vast space, and a verdant growth forces its way from under every stone. Everywhere you see grotesque aloes and cactuses, and the fragrance and vegetation are quite unparalleled.
The pleasure we enjoy in England through men, we here enjoy through nature; and as there is no corner there, however small, of which some one has not taken possession in order to cultivate and adorn it, so here there is no spot which Nature has not appropriated, bringing forth on it flowers and herbs, and all that is beautiful. The Campana valley is fruitfulness itself. On the whole of the vast immeasurable surface bounded in the far distance by blue hills and a blue sea, nothing but green meets the eye. At last you come to Capua. I cannot blame Hannibal for remaining too long there. From Capua to Naples the road runs uninterruptedly between trees, with hanging vines, till at the end of the avenue, Vesuvius, and the sea, with Capri, and a mass of houses, lie before you. I am living here in St. Lucia as if in heaven; for in the first place I see before me Vesuvius, and the hills as far as Castellamare, and the bay, and in the second place, Iam living up three stories high. Unfortunately that traitor Vesuvius does not smoke at all, and looks precisely like any other fine mountain; but at night the people float in lighted boats on the Bay, to catch sword-fish. This has a pretty enough effect. Farewell!
Felix.
We are so accustomed to find that everything turns out quite differently from what we expected and calculated, that you will feel no surprise when instead of a letter like a journal, you receive a very short one, merely saying that I am quite well, and little else.
As for the scenery, I cannot describe it, and if you have no conception of what it really is, after all that has been said and written on the subject, there is little chance of my enlightening you; for what makes it so indescribably beautiful, is precisely that it is not of a nature to admit of description. Any other detail I could send you would be about my life here; but it is so simple, that a very few words suffice to depict it. I do not wish to make any acquaintances, for I am resolved not to remain here longer than a few weeks. I intend to make various excursions to see the country, and all I desire here, is to become thoroughly intimate with nature: so I go to bed at nine o'clock, and rise at five, to refresh myself by gazing from my balcony at Vesuvius, thesea, and the coast of Sorrento, in the bright morning light. I have also taken very long solitary rambles, discovering beautiful views for myself, and I have infinite satisfaction in finding that what I consider the loveliest spot of all is almost entirely unknown to the Neapolitans. During these excursions I sought out some house on a height, to which I scrambled up; or else merely followed any path I fancied, allowing myself to be surprised by night and moonshine, and making acquaintance with vine-dressers, in order to learn my way back; arriving at last at home about nine o'clock, very tired, through the Villa Reale. The view from this villa, of the sea and the enchanting Capri by moonlight, is truly charming, and so is the almost overpowering fragrance of the acacias in full bloom, and the fruit-trees scattered all over with rose-coloured blossoms, looking like trees with pink foliage,—all this is indeed quite indescribable.
As I live chiefly with and in nature, I can write less than usual; perhaps we may talk it over when we meet, and the sketches in our sitting-room at home will furnish materials and reminiscences for conversation. One thing I must not however omit, dear Fanny, which is, that I quite approve of your taste when I recall what you told me years ago that your favorite spot was the island of Nisida. Perhaps you may have forgotten this, but I have not. It looks as if it were made expressly for pleasure-grounds. On emerging from the thicket of Bagnuolo, Nisida has quite a startling effect, rising out of thesea, so near, so large and so green; while the other islands, Procida, Ischia, and Capri, stand afar off, and indistinct in their blue tints. After the murder of Cæsar, Brutus took refuge in this island, and Cicero visited him there; the sea lay between them then, and the rocks, covered with vegetation, bent over the sea, just as they do now.Theseare the antiquities that interest me, and are infinitely more suggestive than crumbling mason-work. There is a degree of innate superstition and dishonesty among the people here that is totally inconceivable, and this has often even marred my pleasure in nature; for the Swiss, of whom my father complained so much, are positively guileless, primitive beings, compared with the Neapolitans. My landlord invariably gives me too little change for a piastre, and when I tell him of it, he coolly fetches the remainder. The only acquaintances I intend to make here are musical ones, that I may leave nothing incomplete,—for instance Fodor, who does not sing in public, Donizetti, Coccia, etc.
I now conclude by a few words to you, dear Father. You write to me that you disapprove of my going to Sicily; I have consequently given up this plan, though I cannot deny that I do so with great reluctance, for it was really more than a merewhimon my part. There is no danger to be apprehended, and, as if on purpose to vex me, a steamer leaves this city on the 4th of May, which is to make the entire tour; and a good many Germans, and probably the minister here, are to take advantage of it.I should have liked to see a mountain vomiting forth flames, as Vesuvius has been hitherto so unkind as not even to smoke. Your instructions however have till now so entirely coincided with my own inclinations, that I cannot allow the first opportunity I have of showing my obedience to your wishes (even when opposed to my own), to pass without complying with them, so I have effaced Sicily from my travelling route. Perhaps we may meet sooner in consequence of this; and now farewell, for I am going to walk to Capo di Monte.
Felix.
It is now nearly a fortnight since I have heard from you. I do earnestly hope that nothing unpleasant has occurred, and every day I expect the post will bring me tidings of you all. My letters from Naples are of little value, for I am too deeply absorbed here to be able easily to extricate myself, and to write descriptive letters. Besides, when we had bad weather lately, I took advantage of it to resume my labours, and zealously applied myself to my "Walpurgis Night," which daily increases in interest for me, so I employ every spare moment in completing it. I hope to finish it in a few days, and I think it will turn out well. If I continue in my present mood, I shall finish my Italian symphony also in Italy, in which case I shall have a famousstore to bring home with me, the fruits of this winter. Moreover every day I have something new to see. I generally make my excursions with the Schadows.
Yesterday we went to Pompeii. It looks as if it had been burnt down, or like a recently deserted city. As both of these always seem to me deeply affecting, the impression made on me was the most melancholy that I have yet experienced in Italy. It is as if the inhabitants had just gone out, and yet almost every object tells of another religion and another life; in short, of seventeen hundred years ago; and the French and English ladies scramble about as gaily as possible, and sketch it all. It is the old tragedy of the Past and the Present, a problem I never can solve. Lively Naples is indeed a pleasant contrast; but it is painful to see the crowd of wretched beggars who waylay you in every street and path, swarming round the carriage the instant it stops. The old white-haired men particularly distress me, and such a mass of misery exceeds all belief. If you are walking on the sea-shore, and gazing at the islands, and then chance to look round at the land, you find yourself the centre of a group of cripples, who make a trade of their infirmities; or you discover (which lately happened to me) that you are surrounded by thirty or forty children, all whining out their favourite phrase, "Muoio di fame," and rattling their jaws to show that they have nothing to eat. All this forms a most repulsive contrast; and yet to me it is still more repugnant that youmust entirely renounce the great pleasure of seeing happy faces; for even when you have given the richest gratuities to guards, waiters, or workpeople, in short, to whom you will, the invariable rejoinder is, "Nienti di più?" in which case you may be very sure that you have given too much. If it is the proper sum, they give it back with the greatest apparent indignation, and then return and beg to have it again. These are trifles, certainly, but they show the lamentable condition of the people. I have even gone so far as to feel provoked with the perpetual smiling aspect of nature, when in the most retired spots troops of beggars everywhere assailed me, some even persisting in following me a long way. It is only when I am quietly seated in my own room, gazing down on the Bay, and on Vesuvius, that being totally alone with them I feel really cheerful and happy.
To-day we are to ascend the hill to visit the Camaldoli Monastery, and to-morrow, if the weather permits, we proceed to Procida and Ischia. I go this evening to Madame Fodor's with Donizetti, Benedict, etc. She is very kind and amiable towards me, and her singing has given me great pleasure, for she has wonderful facility, and executes herfiorituriwith so much taste, that it is easy to see how many things Sonntag acquired from her, especially themezza voce, which Fodor, whose voice is no longer full and fresh, most prudently and judiciously introduces into many passages. As she is not singing at the theatre, I am most fortunate inhaving made her acquaintance personally. The theatre is now closed for some weeks, because the blood of St. Januarius is shortly to liquefy. What I heard at the opera previously did not repay the trouble of going. The orchestra, like that in Rome, was worse than in any part of Germany, and not even one tolerable female singer. Tamburini alone, with his vigorous bass voice, imparted some life to the whole. Those who wish to hear Italian operas, must now-a-days go to Paris or London. Heaven grant that this may not eventually be the case with German music also!
I must however return to my "Witches," so you must forgive my not writing any more to-day. This whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather I do so in my "Walpurgis Night," whether I am to introduce the big drum or not. "Zacken, Gabeln, und wilde Klapperstöcke," seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation dissuades me. I certainly am the only person who ever composed for the scene on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but I can't help regretting the big drum, and before I can receive Fanny's advice, the "Walpurgis Night" will be finished and packed up. I shall then set off again on my travels, and Heaven knows what I may have in my head by that time. I feel convinced that Fanny would sayyes; still, I feel very doubtful; at all events a vast noise is indispensable.
Oh, Rebecca! can you not procure the words of some songs, and send them to me? I feel quite inthe humour for them, and you must require something new to sing. If you can furnish me with some pretty verses, old or new, gay or grave, I will compose something in a style to suit your voice. I am at your service for any compact of this kind. Pray do send me wherewithal to work at, during my journey, in the inns. Now, farewell to you all! May you be as happy as I ever wish you to be, and think of me!
Felix.
On Saturday, the 14th of May, at two o'clock, I told my driver to turn the carriage. We were opposite the Temple of Ceres at Pæstum, the most southern point of my journey. The carriage consequently turned towards the north, and from that moment, as I journey onwards, I am every hour drawing nearer to you. It is about a year now since I travelled with my father to Dessau and Leipzig; the time in fact exactly corresponds, for it was about the half-year. I have made good use of the past year. I have acquired considerable experience and many new impressions. Both in Rome and here I have been very busy, but no change has occurred in my outward circumstances; and till the beginning of the new year, in fact so long as I am in Italy, it will probably be the same. This period has not however been less valuable to me than some when outwardly, and in the opinion of others, I haveappeared to make greater progress; for there must always be a close connection between the two. If I have gathered experience, it cannot fail to influence me outwardly, and I shall allow no opportunity to escape to show that it has done so. Possibly some such may occur before the end of my journey, so I may for the present continue to enjoy nature, and the blue sky, during the months that still remain for me in Italy, without thinking of anything else; fortherealone lies true art, now in Italy,—thereand in her monuments; and there it will ever remain; and there we shall ever find it, for our instruction and delight, so long as Vesuvius stands, and so long as the balmy air, and the sea, and the trees do not pass away.
In spite of all this, I am enough of a musician to own that I do heartily long once more to hear an orchestra or a full chorus where there is at least some sound, for here there is nothing of the sort. This isourpeculiar province, and to be so long deprived of such an element, leaves a sad void. The orchestra and chorus here are like those in our second-rate provincial towns, only more harsh and incorrect. The first violinist, all through the opera, beats the four quarters of each bar on a tin candle-stick, which is often more distinctly heard than the voices (it sounds somewhat like obbligati castanets, only louder); and yet in spite of this the voices are never together. Every little instrumental solo is adorned with old-fashioned flourishes, and a bad tone pervades the whole performance, which istotally devoid of genius, fire, or spirit. The singers are the worst Italian ones I ever heard anywhere (except, indeed, in Italy), and those who wish to have a true idea of Italian singing must go to Paris or to London. Even the Dresden company, whom I heard last year in Leipzig, are superior to any here. This is but natural, for in the boundless misery that prevails in Naples, where can the bases of a theatre be found, which of course requires considerable capital? The days when every Italian was a born musician, if indeed they ever existed, are long gone by. They treat music like any other fashionable article, with total indifference; in fact, they scarcely pay it the homage of outward respect, so it is not to be wondered at that every single person of talent should, as regularly as they appear, transfer themselves to foreign countries, where they are better appreciated, their position better defined, and where they find opportunities of hearing and learning something profitable and inspiriting.
The only really good singer here is Tamburini; he has, however, long since been heard in Vienna and Paris, and I believe in London also; so now, when he begins to discover that his voice is on the decline, he comes back to Italy. I cannot admit either that the Italians alone understand the art of singing; for there is no music, however florid. I have ever heard executed by Italians, that Sonntag cannot accomplish, and in even greater perfection. She certainly, as she acknowledges, learned much from Fodor; but why should not another Germanin turn learn the same from Sonntag? and Malibran is a Spaniard. Italy can no longer claim the glorious appellation of "the land of music;" in truth, she has already lost it, and possibly she may yet do so even in the opinion of the world, though this is problematical. I was lately in company with some professional musicians, who were speaking of a new opera by a Neapolitan, Coccia; and one of them asked if it was clever. "Probably it is," said another, "for Coccia was long in England, where he studied, and some of his compositions are much liked there." This struck me as very remarkable, for in England they would have spoken exactly in the same way of Italy; butquo me rapis? I say nothing to you, dear sisters, in this letter, but in the course of a few days I mean to send you a little pamphlet dedicated to you. Do not be alarmed, it is not poetry; the thing is simply entitled "Journal of an Excursion to the Islands, in May."
Felix.
My dear Sisters,
As my journal is become too stupid and uninteresting to send you, I must at least supply you with anabrégéof my history. You must know, then, that on Friday, the 20th of May, we breakfastedin corporeat Naples, on fruit, etc.; thisin corporeincludes the travelling party to Ischia, consisting ofEd. Bendemann, T. Hildebrand, Carl Sohn, and Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. My knapsack was not very heavy, for it contained scarcely anything but Goethe's poems, and three shirts; so we packed ourselves into a hired carriage, and drove through the grotto of Posilippo to Pozzuoli. The road runs along by the sea, and nothing can be more lovely; so it is all the more painful to witness the horrible collection of cripples, blind men, beggars, and galley slaves, in short, the poor wretches of every description who there await you, amid the holiday aspect of nature.
I seated myself quietly on the mole and sketched, while the others plodded and toiled through the Temple of Serapis, the theatres, the hot springs, and extinct volcanoes, which I had already seen to satiety on three different occasions. Then, like youthful patriarchs or nomads, we collected all our goods and chattels, cloaks, knapsacks, books and portfolios on donkeys, and placing ourselves also on them, we made the tour of the Bay of Baiæ, as far as the Lake of Avernus, where you are obliged to buy fish for dinner; we crossed the hill to Cumæ (videGoethe's 'Wanderer') and descended on Baiæ, where we ate and rested. We then looked at more ruined temples, ancient baths, and other things of the kind, and thus evening had arrived before we crossed the bay.
At half-past nine we arrived at the little town of Ischia, where we found every corner of the only inn fully occupied, so we resolved to go on to Don Tommaso's;a journey of two hours nominally, but which we performed in an hour and a quarter. The evening was deliciously cool, and innumerable glow-worms, who allowed us to catch them, were scattered on the vine-branches, and fig-trees, and shrubs. When we at last arrived, somewhat fatigued, at Don Tommaso's house, about eleven o'clock, we found all the people still up, clean rooms, fresh fruits, and a friendly deacon to wait on us, so we remained comfortably seated opposite a heap of cherries till midnight. The next morning the weather was bad, and the rain incessant, so we could not ascend the Epomeo, and as we seemed little disposed to converse (we did not get on in this respect, Heaven knows why!) the affair would have become rather a bore, if Don Tommaso had not possessed the prettiest poultry-yard and farm in Europe. Right in front of the door stands a large leafy orange-tree covered with ripe fruit, and from under its branches a stair leads to the dwelling. Each of the white stone steps is decorated with a large vase of flowers, these steps leading to a spacious open hall, whence through an archway you look down on the whole farm-yard, with its orange-trees, stairs, thatched roofs, wine casks and pitchers, donkeys and peacocks. That a foreground may not be wanting, an Indian fig-tree stands under the walled arch, so luxuriant that it is fastened to the wall with ropes. The background is formed by vineyards with summer-houses, and the adjacent heights of the Monte Epomeo. Being protected from the rain by the archway, the party seated themselves there under shelter, andsketched the various objects in the farm the best way they could, the whole livelong day. I was on no ceremony, and sketched along with them, and I think I in some degree profited by so doing. At night we had a terrific storm, and as I was lying in bed, I remarked that the thunder growled tremendously on Monte Epomeo, and the echoes continued to vibrate like those on the Lake of Lucerne, but even for a greater length of time.
Next morning, Sunday, the weather was again fine. We went to Foria, and saw the people going to the cathedral in their holiday costumes. The women wore their well-known head-dress of folds of white muslin placed flat on the head; the men were standing in the square before the church, in their bright red caps, gossiping about politics, and we gradually wound our way through these festal villages up the hill. It is a huge rugged volcano, full of fissures, ravines, cavities, and steep precipices. The cavities being used for wine cellars, they are filled with large casks. Every declivity is clothed with vines and fig-trees, or mulberry-trees. Corn grows on the sides of the steep rocks, and yields more than one crop every year. The ravines are covered with ivy, and innumerable bright-coloured flowers and herbs, and wherever there is a vacant space, young chestnut-trees shoot up, furnishing the most delightful shade. The last village, Fontana, lies in the midst of verdure and vegetation. As we climbed higher, the sky became overcast and gloomy, and by the time we reached the most elevated peaks of the rocks, athick fog had come on. The vapours flitted about, and although the rugged outlines of the rocks, and the telegraph, and the cross, stood forth strangely in the clouds, still we could not see even the smallest portion of the view. Soon afterwards rain commenced, and as it was impossible to remain, and wait as you do on the Righi, we were obliged to take leave of Epomeo without having made his acquaintance. We ran down in the rain, one rushing after the other, and I do believe that we were scarcely an hour in returning.
Next day we went to Capri. This place has something Eastern in its aspect, with the glowing heat reflected from its rocky white walls, its palm-trees, and the rounded domes of the churches that look like mosques. The sirocco was burning, and rendered me quite unfit to enjoy anything; for really climbing up five hundred and thirty-seven steps to Anacapri in this frightful heat, and then coming down again, is toil only fit for a horse. True, the sea is wondrously lovely, looking down on it from the summit of the bleak rock, and through the singular fissures of the jagged peaks, so strangely formed.
But above all, I must tell you of the blue grotto, for it is not known to every one, as you can only enter it either in very calm weather, or by swimming. The rocks there project precipitously into the sea, and are probably as steep under the water as above it. A huge cavity has been hollowed out by nature, but in such a manner, that round the whole circumferenceof the grotto, the rocks rest on the sea in all their breadth, or rather are sunk precipitously into it, and ascend thence to the vault of the cavern. The sea fills the whole space of the grotto, the entrance to which lies under the water, only a very small portion of the opening projecting above the water, and through this narrow space you can only pass in a small boat, in which you must lie flat. When you are once in, the whole extent of the huge cave and its vault is revealed, and you can row about in it with perfect ease, as if under a dome. The light of the sun also pierces through the opening into the grotto underneath the sea, but broken and dimmed by the green sea water, and thence it is that such magical visions arise. The whole of the rocks are sky-blue and green in the twilight, resembling the hue of moonshine, yet every nook, and every depth, is distinctly visible. The water is thoroughly lighted up and brilliantly illuminated by the light of the sun, so that the dark skiff glides over a bright shining surface. The colour is the most dazzling blue I ever saw, without shadow or cloud, like a pane of opal glass; and as the sun shines down, you can plainly discern all that is going on under the water, while the whole depths of the sea with its living creatures are disclosed. You can see the coral insects and polypuses clinging to the rocks, and far below, fishes of different species meeting and swimming past each other. The rocks become deeper in colour as they go lower into the water, and are quite black at the end of the grotto,where they are closely crowded together, and still further under them, you can see crabs, fishes, and reptiles in the clear waters. Every stroke too of the oars echoes strangely under the vault, and as you row round the wall, new objects come to light. I do wish you could see it, for the effect is singularly magical. On turning towards the opening by which you entered, the daylight seen through it seems bright orange, and by moving even a few paces you are entirely isolated under the rock in the sea, with its own peculiar sunlight: it is as if you were actually living under the water for a time.
We then proceeded to Procida, where the women adopt the Greek dress, but do not look at all prettier from doing so. Curious faces were peeping from every window. A couple of Jesuits, in black gowns and with gloomy countenances, were seated in a gay arbour of vines, evidently enjoying themselves, and made a good picture. Then we crossed the sea to Pozzuoli, and through the grotto of Posilippo again home.
I cannot write to Paul about his change of residence, and his entrance into the great, wide world of London, because he mentions casually, that he will probably leave for London in the course of three weeks, so my letter could not possibly reach him in Berlin; a week hence I shall take my chance, and address to my brother in London. That smoky place is fated to be now and ever my favourite residence; my heart glows when I even think of it, and I paint to myself my return there, passingthrough Paris, and finding Paul independent, alone, and another man, in the dear old haunts; when he will present me to his new friends, and I will present him to my old ones, and we shall live and dwell together: so even at this moment I am all impatience soon to go there. I see by some newspapers my friends have sent me, that my name is not forgotten, and so I hope when I return to London, to be able to work steadily, which I was previously unable to do, being forced to go to Italy. If they make any difficulty in Munich about my opera, or if I cannot get alibrettothat I like, I intend in that case to compose an opera for London. I know that I could receive a commission to do so, as soon as I chose. I am also bringing some new pieces with me for the Philharmonic, and so I shall have made good use of my time.
As my evenings here are at my own disposal, I read a little French and English. The "Barricades" and "Les États de Blois" particularly interest me, as while I read them I realize with horror a period which we have often heard extolled as a vigorous epoch, too soon passed away. Though these books seem to me to have many faults, yet the delineation of the two opposite leaders is but too correct; both were weak, irresolute, miserable hypocrites, and I thank God that the so highly-prized middle ages are gone never to return. Say nothing of this to any disciple of Hegel's, but it is so nevertheless; and the more I read and think on the subject, the more I feel this to be true. Sterne has become agreat favourite of mine. I remembered that Goethe once spoke to me of the 'Sentimental Journey,' and said that it was impossible for any one better to paint what a froward and perverse thing is the human heart. I chanced to meet with the book, and thought I should like to read it. It pleases me very much. I think it very subtle, and beautifully conceived and expressed.
There are very few German books to be had here. I am therefore restricted to Goethe's Poems, and assuredly these are suggestive enough, and always new. I feel especial interest in those poems which he evidently composed in or near Naples, such as Alexis and Dora; for I daily see from my window how this wonderful work was created. Indeed, which is often the case with master-pieces, I often suddenly and involuntarily think, that the very same ideas might have occurred to myself on a similar occasion, and as if Goethe had only by some chance been the first to express them.
With regard to the poem, "Gott segne dich, junge Frau," I maintain that I have discovered its locality and dined with the woman herself; but of course she is now grown old, and the boy she was then nursing is become a stalwart vine-dresser. Her house lies between Pozzuoli and Baiæ, "eines Tempels Trümmern," and is fully three miles from Cumæ. You may imagine therefore with what new light and truth these poems dawn on me, and the different feeling with which I now regard and study them. I say nothing of Mignon's song at present, but it issingular that Goethe and Thorwaldsen are still living, that Beethoven only died a few years ago, and yet H—— declares that German art is as dead as a rat.Quod non.So much the worse for him if he really feels thus; but when I reflect for a time on his conclusions, they appear to me very shallow.Apropos, Schadow, who returns to Düsseldorf in the course of a few days, has promised to extract, if possible, some new songs for me from Immermann, which rejoices me much. That man is a true poet, which is proved by his letters, and everything that he has written. Count Platen is a little, shrivelled, wheezing old man, with gold spectacles, yet not more than five-and-thirty! He quite startled me. The Greeks look very different! He abuses the Germans terribly, forgetting however that he does so in German. But farewell for to-day.
Felix.