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smiling as he did so. The black-frocked Abbati pressed round me and seemed highly delighted. I observed this, and it inspirited me so much that towards the end I succeeded famously; they clapped their hands like mad, and Bunsen declared that I had astounded the clergy; in short, the affair went off well. There is no encouraging prospect of any public performance here, so society is the only resource, which is fishing in troubled waters.
Yours,Felix.
To come home from Bunsen's by moonlight, with your letter in my pocket, and then to read it through leisurely at night,—this is a degree of pleasure I wish many may enjoy. In all probability I shall stay here the whole winter, and not go to Naples till April. It is so delightful to look round on every side, and to appreciate it all properly. There ismuch that must be thought over, in order to receive a due impression from it. I have also within myself so much work requiring both quiet and industry, that I feel anything like haste would be utter destruction; and though I adhere faithfully to my system, to receive each day only one fresh image into my mind, still I am sometimes compelled even then to give myself a day of rest, that I may not become confused. I write you a short letter to-day, because I must for the present adhere to my work; and yet I cannot refrain from culling all the beauty that lies at my feet. The weather, too, isbruttoand cold, so that I am not in a very communicative mood. The Pope is dying, or possibly dead by this time. "We shall soon get a new one," say the Italians, coolly. His death will not affect the Carnival, nor the church festivals, with their pomps and processions, and fine music; and as there will be in addition to these, solemn requiems, and the lying-in-state at St. Peter's, they care little about it, provided it does not occur in February.
I am delighted to hear that Mantius sings my songs, and likes them. Give him my kind regards, and ask him why he does not perform his promise, and write to me. I have written to him repeatedly in the shape of music. In the "Ave Maria," and in the choral "Aus tiefer Noth," some passages are composed expressly for him, and he will sing them charmingly. In the "Ave," which is a salutation, a tenor solo takes the lead of the choir (I thought of a disciple all the time). As the piece is in Amajor, and goes rather high at the wordsBenedicta tu, he must prepare his high A; it will vibrate well. Ask him to sing you a song I sent to Devrient from Venice, "Von schlechtem Lebenswandel." It is expressive of mingled joy and despair; no doubt he will sing it well. Show it to no one, but confine it solely to forty eyes. Ritz[7]too never writes, and yet I am constantly longing for his violin and his depth of feeling when he plays, which all recurs to my mind when I see his welcome writing. I am now working daily at the "Hebrides," and will send it to Ritz as soon as it is finished. It is quite a piece to suit him—so very singular.
Next time I write I will tell you more of myself. I work hard, and lead a pleasant, happy life; my mirror is stuck full of Italian, German, and English visiting-cards, and I spend every evening with one of my acquaintances. There is a truly Babylonian confusion of tongues in my head, for English, Italian, German and French are all mixed up together in it. Two days ago I again extemporized before the Papal singers. The fellows had contrived to get hold of the most strange, quaint theme for me, wishing to put my powers to the test. They call me, however,l'insuperabile professorone, and are particularly kind and friendly. I much wished to have described to you the Sunday music in the Sistina, asoiréeat Torlonia's, the Vatican, St.Onofrio, Guido's Aurora, and other small matters, but I reserve them for my next letter. The post is about to set off, and this letter with it. My good wishes are always with you, to-day and ever.
Yours,Felix.
I cannot even to-day manage to write to you as fully as I wish. Heaven knows how time flies here! I was introduced this week to several agreeable English families, and so I have the prospect of many pleasant evenings this winter. I am much with Bunsen. I intend also to cultivate Baini. I think he conceives me to be only abrutissimo Tedesco, so that I have a famous opportunity of becoming well acquainted with him. His compositions are certainly of no great value, and the same may be said of the whole music here. The wish is not wanting, but the means do not exist. The orchestra is below contempt. Mdlle. Carl,[8](who is engaged asprima donna assolutafor the season, at both the principal theatres here,) is now arrived, and begins to makela pluie et le beau temps. The Papal singers even are becoming old; they are almost all unmusical, and do not execute even the most established pieces in tune. The whole choir consists of thirty-twosingers, but that number are rarely together. Concerts are given by the so-called Philharmonic Society, but only with the piano. There is no orchestra, and when recently they wished to perform Haydn's "Creation," the instrumentalists declared it was impossible to play it. The sounds they bring out of their wind instruments, are such as in Germany we have no conception of.
The Pope is dead, and the Conclave assembles on the 14th. A great part of the winter will be occupied with the ceremonies of his funeral, and the enthronement of the new Pope. All music therefore and large parties must be at an end, so I very much doubt whether I shall be able to undertake any public performance during my stay here; but I do not regret this, for there are so many varied objects to enjoy inwardly, that my dwelling on these and meditating on them is no disadvantage. The performance of Graun's "Passion" in Naples, and more especially the translation of Sebastian Bach's, prove that the good cause is sure eventually to make its way, though it will neither kindle enthusiasm, nor will it be appreciated. It is no worse however with regard to music—in fact, rather better—than with their estimate of every other branch of the fine arts; for when some of Raphael's Loggie are with inconceivable recklessness and disgraceful barbarism actually defaced, to give place to inscriptions in pencil; when the lower parts of the arabesques are totally destroyed, because Italians with knives, and Heaven knows what else besides, inscribe their insignificantnames there; when one person painted in large letters under the Apollo Belvedere, 'Christ;' when an altar has been erected in front of Michael Angelo's "Last Judgment," so large that it hides the centre of the picture, thus destroying the whole effect; when cattle are driven through the splendid saloons of the Villa Madama, the walls of which are painted by Giulio Romano, and fodder is stored in them, simply from indifference towards the beautiful,—all this is certainly much worse than a bad orchestra, and painters must be even more distressed by such things than I am by their miserable music.
The fact is, that the people are mentally enervated and apathetic. They have a religion, but they do not believe in it; they have a Pope and a Government, but they turn them into ridicule; they can recall a brilliant and heroic past, but they do not value it. It is thus no marvel that they do not delight in Art, for they are indifferent to all that is earnest. It is really quite revolting to see their unconcern about the death of the Pope, and their unseemly merriment during the ceremonies. I myself saw the corpse lying in state, and the priests standing round incessantly whispering and laughing; and at this moment, when masses are being said for his soul, they are in the very same church hammering away at the scaffolding of the catafalque, so that the strokes of the hammers and the noise of the workpeople entirely prevent any one hearing the religious services. As soon as the Cardinals assemble in conclave, satires appear against them,where, for instance, they parody the Litanies, and instead of praying to be delivered from each particular sin, they name the bad qualities of each well-known cardinal; or, again, they perform an entire opera, where all the characters are Cardinals, one being theprimo amoroso, another thetiranno assoluto, a third, stage candle-snuffer, etc. This could not be the case where the people took any pleasure in Art. Formerly it was no better, but they had faith then; and it is this which makes the difference. Nature, however, and the genial December atmosphere, and the outlines of the Alban hills, stretching as far as the sea, all remain unchanged. There they can scribble no names, or compose no inscriptions. These every one can still individually enjoy in all their freshness, and to these I cling. I feel much the want of afriendhere, to whom I could freely unbosom myself; who could read my music as I write it, thus making it doubly precious in my eyes; in whose society I could feel an interest, and enjoy repose; and honestly learn from him, (it would not require a very wise man for this purpose.) But just as trees are not ordained to grow up into the sky, so probably such a man is not likely to be found here; and the good fortune I have hitherto so richly enjoyed elsewhere, is not to fall to my share at present; so I must hum over my melodies to myself, and I dare say I shall do well enough.
Felix.
Dear Father,
It is a year this very day since we kept your birthday at Hensel's, and now let me give you some account of Rome, as I did at that time of London. I intend to finish my Overture to the "Einsame Insel"[9]as a present to you, and if I write under it the 11th December, when I take up the sheets I shall feel as if I were about to place them in your hands. You would probably say that you could not read them, but still I should have offered you the best it was in my power to give; and though I desire to do this every day, still there is a peculiar feeling connected with a birthday. Would I were with you! I need not offer you my good wishes, for you know them all already, and the deep interest I, and all of us, take in your happiness and welfare, and that we cannot wish any good for you, that is not reflected doubly on ourselves. To-day is a holiday. I rejoice in thinking how cheerful you are at home; and when I repeat to you how happily I live here, I feel as if this were also a felicitation. A period like this, when serious thought and enjoyment are combined, is indeed most cheering and invigorating. Every time I enter my room I rejoice that I am not obliged to pursue my journey on the following day, and that I may quietly postpone many things till the morrow—that I am in Rome!Hitherto much that passed through my brain was swept away by fresh ideas, each new impression chasing away the previous one, while here, on the contrary, they are all in turn properly developed. I never remember having worked with so much zeal, and if I am to complete all that I have projected, I must be very industrious during the winter. I am indeed deprived of the great delight of showing my finished compositions to one who could take pleasure in them, and enter into them along with me; but this impels me to return to my labours, which please me most when I am fairly in the midst of them. And now this must be combined with the various solemnities, and festivals of every kind, which are to supplant my work for a few days; and as I have resolved to see and to enjoy all I possibly can, I do not allow my occupation to prevent this, and shall then return with fresh zeal to my composition.
This is indeed a delightful existence! My health is as good as possible, though the hot wind, called here thesirocco, rather attacks my nerves, and I find I must beware of playing the piano much, or at night; besides it is easy for me to refrain from doing so for a few days, as for some weeks past I have been playing almost every evening. Bunsen, who often warns me against playing if I find it prejudicial, gave a large party yesterday, where nevertheless I was obliged to play; but it was a pleasure to me, for I had the opportunity of making so many agreeable acquaintances. Thorwaldsen, in particular,expressed himself in so gratifying a manner with regard to me, that I felt quite proud, for I honor him as one of the greatest of men, and always have revered him. He looks like a lion, and the very sight of his face is invigorating. You feel at once that he must be a noble artist; his eyes look so clear, as if with him every object must assume a definite form and image. Moreover he is very gentle, and kind, and mild, because his nature is so superior; and yet he seems to be able to enjoy every trifle. It is a real source of pleasure to see a great man, and to know that the creator of works that will endure for ever stands before you in person; a living being with all his attributes, and individuality, and genius, and yet a man like others.
Now your actual birthday is arrived! A few lines of music suggested themselves to me on the occasion, and though they may not be worth much, the congratulations I have been in the habit of offering, were of quite as little value. Fanny may add the second part. I have only written what occurred to my mind as I entered the room, the sun shining, on your birthday:—
music095a
music095a
music095a
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Bunsen has just been here, and begs me to send you his best regards and congratulations. He is all kindness and courtesy towards me, and as you wish to know, I think I may say that we suit each other remarkably well. The few words you wrote about P—— recalled him to my memory in all his offensiveness. The Abbate Santini ought to be an obscure man compared with him, for he never attempts to magnify his own importance by impertinence or self-sufficiency. P—— is one of those collectors who make learning and libraries distasteful to others by their narrow-mindedness, whereas Santini is a genuine collector, in the best sense of the word, caring little whether his collection be of much value in a pecuniary point of view. He therefore gives everything away indiscriminately, and is only anxious to procure something new, for his chief object is the diffusion and universal knowledge of ancient music. I have not seen him lately, as every morning now he figures,ex officio, in his violet gown at St. Peter's; but if he has made use of some ancient text, he will say so without scruple, as he has no wish to be thought the first discoverer. He is, in fact, a man of limited capacity; and this I consider great praise in a certain sense, for though he is neither a musical nor any other luminary, and even bears some resemblance to Lessing's inquisitive friar, still he knows how to confine himself within his own sphere. Music itself does not interest him much, if he can only have it on his shelves; and he is, and esteems himself to be, simply a quiet, zealous collector.I must admit that he is fatiguing, and not altogether free from irritability; still I love any one who adopts and perseveres in some particular pursuit, prosecuting it to the best of his ability, and endeavouring to perfect it for the benefit of mankind, and I think every one ought to esteem him just the same, whether he chance to be tiresome or agreeable.
I wish you would read this aloud to P——. It always makes me furious when men who have no pursuit, presume to criticize those who wish to effect something, even on a small scale; so on this very account I took the liberty of rebuking lately a certain musician in society here. He began to speak of Mozart, and as Bunsen and his sister love Palestrina, he tried to flatter their tastes by asking me, for instance, what I thought of the worthy Mozart, and all his sins. I however replied, that so far as I was concerned, I should feel only too happy to renounce allmyvirtues in exchange for Mozart's sins: but that of course I could not venture to pronounce on the extent ofhisvirtues. The people all laughed, and were highly amused. How strange it is that such persons should feel no awe of so great a name!
It is some consolation, however, that it is the same in every sphere of art, as the painters here are quite as bad. They are most formidable to look at, sitting in theirCafé Greco. I scarcely ever go there, for I dislike both them and their favourite places of resort. It is a small dark room, about eight feet square, where on one side you may smoke, but noton the other; so they sit round on benches, with their broad-leaved hats on their heads, and their huge mastiffs beside them; their cheeks and throats, and the whole of their faces covered with hair, puffing forth clouds of smoke (only on one side of the room), and saying rude things to each other, while the mastiffs swarm with vermin. A neckcloth or a coat would be quite innovations. Any portion of the face visible through the beard, is hid by spectacles; so they drink coffee, and speak of Titian and Pordenone, just as if they were sitting beside them, and also wore beards and wide-awakes! Moreover, they paint such sickly Madonnas and feeble saints, and such milk-sop heroes, that I feel the strongest inclination to knock them down. These infernal critics do not even shrink from discussing Titian's picture in the Vatican, about which you asked me; they say that it has neither subject nor meaning; yet it never seems to occur to them, that a master who had so long studied a picture with due love and reverence, must have had quite as deep an insight into the subject as they are likely to have, even with their coloured spectacles. And if in the course of my life I accomplish nothing but this, I am at all events determined to say the most harsh and cutting things to those who show no reverence towards their masters, and then I shall at least have performed one good work. But there they stand, and see all the splendour of those creations, so far transcending their own conceptions, and yet dare to criticize them.
In this picture there are three stages, or whateverthey are called the same as in the "Transfiguration." Below, saints and martyrs are represented in suffering and abasement; on every face is depicted sadness, nay almost impatience; one figure in rich episcopal robes looks upwards, with the most eager and agonized longing, as if weeping, but he cannot see all that is floating above his head, but whichwesee, standing in front of the picture. Above, Mary and her Child are in a cloud, radiant with joy, and surrounded by angels, who have woven many garlands; the Holy Child holds one of these, and seems as if about to crown the saints beneath, but his Mother withholds his hand for the moment. The contrast between the pain and suffering below, whence St. Sebastian looks forth out of the picture with such gloom and almost apathy, and the lofty unalloyed exultation in the clouds above, where crowns and palms are already awaiting him, is truly admirable. High above the group of Mary, hovers the Holy Spirit, from whom emanates a bright streaming light, thus forming the apex of the whole composition. I have just remembered that Goethe, at the beginning of his first visit to Rome, describes and admires this picture; but I no longer have the book to enable me to read it over, and to compare my description with his. He speaks of it in considerable detail. It was at that time in the Quirinal, and subsequently transferred to the Vatican; whether it was painted on a given subject, as some allege, or not, is of no moment. Titian has imbued it with his genius and his poetical feeling, and hasthus made it his own. I like Schadow much, and am often with him; on every occasion, and especially in his own department, he is mild and clear-judging, doing justice with due modesty to all that is truly great; he recently said that Titian had never painted an indifferent or an uninteresting picture, and I believe he is right; for life and enthusiasm and the soundest vigour are displayed in all his productions, and where these are, it is good to be also. There is one singular and fortunate peculiarity here: though all the objects have been, a thousand times over, described, discussed, copied, and criticized, in praise or blame, by the greatest masters, and the most insignificant scholars, cleverly or stupidly, still they never fail to make a fresh and sublime impression on all, affecting each person according to his own individuality. Here we can take refuge from man in all that surrounds us; in Berlin it is often exactly the reverse.
I have this moment received your letter of the 27th, and am pleased to find that I have already answered many of the questions it contains. There is no hurry about the letters I asked for, as I have now made almost more acquaintances than I wish; besides, late hours, and playing so much, do not suit me in Rome, so I can await the arrival of these letters very patiently: it was not so at the time I urged you to send them. I cannot however understand what you mean by your allusion tocoterieswhich I ought to have outgrown, for I know that I, and all of us, invariably dreaded and detested what is usually so called,—that is, afrivolous, exclusive circle of society, clinging to empty outward forms. Among persons, however, who daily meet, while their mutual objects of interest remain the same, who have no sympathy with public life (and this is certainly the case in Berlin, with the exception of the theatre), it is not unnatural that they should form for themselves a gay, cheerful, and original mode of treating passing events, and that this should give rise to a peculiar, and perhaps monotonous style of conversation; but this by no means constitutes acoterie. I feel convinced that I shall never belong to one, whether I am in Rome or Wittenberg. I am glad that the last words I was writing when your letter arrived, chanced to be that in Berlin you must take refuge in society from all that surrounds you; thus proving that I had no spirit ofcoterie, which invariably estranges men from each other. I should deeply regret your observing anything of the kind in me or in any of us, except indeed for the moment. Forgive me, my dear father, for defending myself so warmly, but this word is most repugnant to my feelings, and you say in your letters that I am always to speak out what I think in a straightforward manner, so pray do not take this amiss.
I was in St. Peter's to-day, where the grand solemnities called the absolutions have begun for the Pope, and which last till Tuesday, when the Cardinals assemble in conclave. The building surpasses all powers of description. It appears to me like some great work of nature, a forest, a mass ofrocks, or something similar; for I never can realize the idea that it is the work of man. You strive to distinguish the ceiling as little as the canopy of heaven. You lose your way in St. Peter's, you take a walk in it, and ramble till you are quite tired; when divine service is performed and chanted there, you are not aware of it till you come quite close. The angels in the Baptistery are monstrous giants; the doves, colossal birds of prey; you lose all idea of measurement with the eye, or proportion; and yet who does not feel his heart expand, when standing under the dome, and gazing up at it? At present a monstrous catafalque has been erected in the nave in this shape.[10]The coffin is placed in the centre under the pillars; the thing is totally devoid of taste, and yet it has a wondrous effect. The upper circle is thickly studded with lights, so are all the ornaments; the lower circle is lighted in the same way, and over the coffin hangs a burning lamp, and innumerable lights are blazing under the statues. The whole structure is more than a hundred feet high, and stands exactly opposite the entrance. The guards of honour, and the Swiss, march about in the quadrangle; in every corner sits a Cardinal in deep mourning, attended by his servants, who hold large burning torches, and then the singing commences with responses, in the simple and monotonous tone you no doubt remember. It is the only occasion when there is anysinging in the middle of the church, and the effect is wonderful. Those who place themselves among the singers (as I do) and watch them, are forcibly impressed by the scene: for they all stand round a colossal book from which they sing, and this book is in turn lit up by a colossal torch that burns before it; while the choir are eagerly pressing forward in their vestments, in order to see and to sing properly: and Baini with his monk's face, marking time with his hand, and occasionally joining in the chant with a stentorian voice. To watch all these different Italian faces, was most interesting; one enjoyment quickly succeeds another here, and it is the same in their churches, especially in St. Peter's, where by moving a few steps the whole scene is changed. I went to the very furthest end, whence there was indeed a wonderfulcoup d'œil. Through the spiral columns of the high altar, which is confessedly as high as the palace in Berlin, far beyond the space of the cupola, the whole mass of the catafalque was seen in diminished perspective, with its rows of lights, and numbers of small human beings crowding round it. When the music commences, the sounds do not reach the other end for a long time, but echo and float in the vast space, so that the most singular and vague harmonies are borne towards you. If you change your position, and place yourself right in front of the catafalque, beyond the blaze of light and the brilliant pageantry, you have the dusky cupola replete with blue vapour; all this is quite indescribable. Such is Rome!
This has become a long letter, so I must conclude; it will reach you on Christmas-day. May you all enjoy it happily! I send each of you presents, which are to be dispatched two days hence, and will arrive in time for the anniversary of your silver wedding-day. Many glad festivals are thus crowded together, and I scarcely know whether to imagine myself with you to-day, and to wish you, dear father, all possible happiness, or to arrive with my letter at Christmas, and not to be allowed by my mother to pass through the room with the Christmas-tree. I am afraid I must be contented with thinking of you.—Farewell all! May you be happy!
Felix.
I have just received your letter, which brings me the intelligence of Goethe's illness. What I personally feel at this news I cannot express. This whole evening his words, "I must try to keep all right till your return," have sounded continually in my ears, to the exclusion of every other thought: when he is gone, Germany will assume a very different aspect for artists. I have never thought of Germany without feeling heartfelt joy and pride that Goethe lived there; and the rising generation seem for the most part so weakly and feeble, that it makes my heart sink within me. He is the last; and with him closes a happy prosperous period for us! This year ends in solemn sadness.
In my former letter I told you of the more serious aspect of Roman life; but as I wish to describe to you how I live, I must now tell you of the gayeties that have prevailed during this week.
To-day we have the most genial sunshine, a blue sky, and a transparent atmosphere, and on such days I have my own mode of passing my time. I work hard till eleven o'clock, and from that hour till dark, I do nothing but breathe the air. For the first time, for some days past, we yesterday had fine weather. After therefore working for a time in the morning at "Solomon," I went to the Monte Pincio, where I rambled about the whole day. The effect of this exhilarating air is quite magical; and when I arose to-day, and again saw bright sunshine, I exulted in the thoughts of the entire idleness I was again about to indulge in. The whole world is on foot, revelling in a December spring. Every moment you meet some acquaintance, with whom you lounge about for a time, then leave him, and once more enjoy your solitary revery. There are swarms of handsome faces to be seen. As the sun declines, the appearance of the whole landscape, and every hue, undergo a change. When the Ave Maria sounds, it is time to go to the church of Trinità de' Monti, where French nuns sing; and it is charming to hear them. I declare to heaven that I am become quite tolerant, and listen to bad music with edification; but what can I do? the composition is positively ridiculous; the organ playing evenmore absurd. But it is twilight, and the whole of the small bright church is filled with persons kneeling, lit up by the sinking sun each time that the door is opened; both the singing nuns have the sweetest voices in the world, quite tender and touching, more especially when one of them sings the responses in her melodious voice, which we are accustomed to hear chanted by priests in a loud, harsh, monotonous tone. The impression is very singular; moreover, it is well known that no one is permitted to see the fair singers,—so this caused me to form a strange resolution. I have composed something to suit their voices, which I observed very minutely, and I mean to send it to them,—there are several modes to which I can have recourse to accomplish this. That they will sing it, I feel quite assured; and it will be pleasant for me to hear my chant performed by persons whom I never saw, especially as they must in turn sing it to thebarbaro Tedesco, whom they also never beheld. I am charmed with this idea. The text is in Latin,—a Prayer to Mary. Does not this notion please you?[11]
After church I walk again on the hill until it is quite dark, when Madame Vernet and her daughter, and pretty Madame V—— (for whose acquaintance I have to thank Roesel), are much admired by us Germans, and we form groups round them, or follow, or walk beside them. The background isformed by haggard painters with terrific beards; they smoke tobacco on the Monte Pincio, whistle to their huge dogs, and enjoy the sunset in their own way.
As I am in a frivolous mood to-day, I must relate to you, dear sisters, every particular of a ball I lately attended, and where I danced with a degree of zeal I never did before. I had spoken a few fair words to themaître de danse(who stands in the middle here, and regulates everything), consequently he allowed the galop to continue for more than half an hour, so I was in my element, and pleasantly conscious that I was dancing in the Palazzo Albani, in Rome, and also with the prettiest girl in it, according to the verdict of the competent judges (Thorwaldsen, Vernet, etc.) The way in which I became acquainted with her is also an anecdote of Rome. I was at Torlonia's first ball, though not dancing, as I knew none of the ladies present, but merely looking at the people. Suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder, saying, "So you also are admiring the English beauty; I am quite dazzled." It was Thorwaldsen himself standing at the door, lost in admiration; scarcely had he said this, when we heard a torrent of words behind us,—"Mais où est-elle donc, cette petite Anglaise? Ma femme m'a envoyé pour la regarder. Per Bacco!" It was quite clear that this little thin Frenchman, with stiff, grey hair, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, must be Horace Vernet. He now discussed the youthful beauty with Thorwaldsen, in themost earnest and scientific manner; and it was quite a pleasure to me to see these two old masters admiring the young girl together, while she was dancing away, quite unconcerned. They were then presented to her parents, but I felt very insignificant, as I could not join in the conversation. A few days afterwards, however, I was with some acquaintances whom I knew through the Attwoods, at Venice, they having invited me for the purpose of presenting me to some of their friends; and these friends turned out to be the very persons I have been speaking of; so your son and brother was highly delighted.
My pianoforte playing is a source of great gratification to me here. You know how Thorwaldsen loves music, and I sometimes play to him in the morning while he is at work. He has an excellent instrument in his studio, and when I look at the old gentleman and see him kneading his brown clay, and delicately fining off an arm, or a fold of drapery,—in short, when he is creating what we must all admire when completed, as an enduring work,—then I do indeed rejoice that I have the means of bestowing any enjoyment on him. Nevertheless, I have not fallen into arrear with my own tasks. The "Hebrides" is completed at last, and a strange production it is. The chant for the nuns is in my head; and I think of composing Luther's choral for Christmas, but on this occasion I must do so quite alone; and it will be a more serious affair this time, and so will the anniversary of your silverwedding-day, when I intend to have a great many lights, and to sing my "Liederspiel," and to have a peep at my Englishbâton. After the new year, I intend to resume instrumental music, and to write several things for the piano, and probably a symphony of some kind, for two have been haunting my brain.
I have lately frequented a most delightful spot,—the tomb of Cecilia Metella. The Sabine hills had a sprinkling of snow, but it was glorious sunshine; the Alban hills were like a dream or a vision. There is no such thing as distance in Italy, for all the houses on the hills can be counted, with their roofs and windows. I have thus inhaled this air to satiety; and to-morrow in all probability, more serious occupations will be resumed, for the sky is cloudy, and it is raining hard, but what a spring this will be!
This is the shortest day, and very gloomy, as might have been anticipated; so to-day nothing can be thought of but fugues, chorals, balls, etc. But I must say a few words about Guido's "Aurora," which I often visit; it is a picture the very type of haste and impetus; for surely no man ever imagined such hurry and tumult, such sounding and clashing. Painters maintain that it is lighted from two sides,—they have my full permission to lighttheirsfrom three if it will improve them,—but the difference lies elsewhere.
I really cannot compose a tolerable song here, for who is there to sing it to me? But I am writing a grand fugue, "Wir glauben all," and sing it to myself in such a fashion that my friend the Captain rushes downstairs in alarm, puts in his head, and asks what I want. I answer—a counter theme. But how much I do really want; and yet how much I have got! Thus life passes onwards.
Felix.
Rome in wet weather is the most odious, uncomfortable place imaginable. For some days past we have had incessant storms and cold, and streams of water from the sky; and I can scarcely comprehend how, only one week ago, I could write you a letter full of rambles and orange-trees and all that is beautiful: in such weather as this everything becomes ugly. Still, I must write to you about it, otherwise my previous letter would not have the advantage of contrast, and of that there is no lack. If in Germany we can form no conception of the bright winter days here, quite as little can we realize a really wet winter day in Rome; everything is arranged for fine weather, so the bad is borne like a public calamity, and in the hope of better times. There is no shelter anywhere; in my room, which is usually so comfortable, the water pours in throughthe windows, which will not shut fast; the wind whistles through the doors, which will not close; the stone floor chills you in spite of double mattings, and the smoke from the chimney is driven into the room, because the fire will not burn; foreigners shiver and freeze here like tailors.
All this is, however, actual luxury when compared with the streets; and when I am obliged to go out, I consider it a positive misfortune. Rome, as every one knows, is built on seven large hills; but there are a number of smaller ones besides, and all the streets are sloping, so the water pours down them, and rushes towards you; nowhere is there a raised footpath, or atrottoir; at the stair of the Piazza di Spagna, there is a flood like the great water-works in Wilhelms-Höhe; the Tiber has overflowed its banks, and inundated the adjacent streets: this, then, is the water from below. From above come violent showers of rain, but that is the least part. The houses have no water-spouts, and the long roofs slant precipitously, but, being of different lengths, this causes an incessant violent inundation on both sides of the street, so that go where you will, close to the houses, or in the middle of the streets, beside a barber's shop or a palace, you are sure to be deluged, and, quite unawares, you find yourself standing under a tremendous shower-bath, the water pelting on your umbrella, while a stream is running before you that you cannot jump over, so you are obliged to return the way you came: this is the water overhead. Then the carriages drive as rapidly as possible,and close to the houses, so that you must retreat into the doorways till they are past; they not only splash men and houses, but each other, so that when two meet, one must drive into the gutter, which, being a rapid current, the consequences are lamentable. Lately I saw an Abbate hurrying along, whose umbrella chancing to knock off the broad-brimmed hat of a peasant, it fell with the crown exposed to one of these deluges, and when the man went to pick it up, it was quite filled with water. "Scusi," said the Abbate. "Padronè," replied the peasant. The hackney coaches moreover only ply till five o'clock, so if you go to a party at night, it costs you a scudo.Fiat justitia et pereat mundus—Rome in rainy weather is vastly disagreeable.
I see by a letter of Devrient's, that one I wrote to him from Venice, and which I took to the post myself on the 17th of October, had not reached him on the 19th of November. It would appear also, that another which I sent the same day to Munich had not arrived; both these letters contained music, and this accounts for the loss. At that very time in Venice they carried off all my manuscripts to the Custom-house, after visiting my effects at night, shortly before the departure of the post, and I only received them again here, after much worry and writing backwards and forwards. Every one assured me that the cause of this was a secret correspondence being suspected in cipher in the manuscript music. I could scarcely credit such intolerable stupidity; but as my two letters fromVenice containing music have not arrived, and these only, the thing is clear enough. I intend to complain of this to the Austrian ambassador here, but it will do no good, and the letters are lost, which I much regret. Farewell!
Felix.
For a week past we have had the most lovely spring weather. Young girls are carrying about nosegays of violets and anemones, which they gather early in the morning at the Villa Pamfili. The streets and squares swarm with gaily attired pedestrians; the Ave Maria has already been advanced twenty minutes, but what is become of the winter? Some little time ago it indeed reminded me of my work, to which I now mean to apply steadily, for I own that during the gay social life of the previous weeks, I had rather neglected it. I have nearly completed the arrangement of "Solomon," and also my Christmas anthem, which consists of five numbers; the two symphonies also begin to assume a more definite form, and I particularly wish to finish them here. Probably I shall be able to accomplish this during Lent, when parties cease (especially balls) and spring begins, and then I shall have both time and inclination to compose, in which case I hope to have a good store of newworks. Any performance of them here is quite out of the question. The orchestras are worse than any one could believe; both musicians, and a right feeling for music, are wanting. The two or three violin performers play just as they choose, and join in when they please; the wind instruments are tuned either too high or too low; and they execute flourishes like those we are accustomed to hear in farm-yards, but hardly so good; in short the whole forms a Dutch concert, and this applies even to compositions with which they are familiar.
The question is, whether all this could be radically reformed by introducing other people into the orchestra, by teaching the musicians time, and by instructing them in first principles. I think in that case the people would no doubt take pleasure in it; so long, however, as this is not done, no improvement can be hoped for, and every one seems so indifferent on the subject, that there is not the slightest prospect of such a thing. I heard a solo on the flute, where the flute was more than a quarter of a tone too high; it set my teeth on edge, but no one remarked it, and when at the end a shake came, they applauded mechanically. If it were even a shade better with regard to singing! The great singers have left the country. Lablache, David, Lalande, Pisaroni, etc., sing in Paris, and the minor ones who remain, copy their inspired moments, which they caricature in the most insupportable manner.
We in Germany may perhaps wish to accomplishsomething false or impossible, but it is, and always will be, quitedissimilar; and just as acicisbeowill for ever be odious and repulsive to my feelings, so is it also with Italian music. I may be too obtuse to comprehend either; but I shall never feel otherwise; and recently, at the Philharmonic, after the music of Pacini and Bellini, when the Cavaliere Ricci begged me to accompany him in "Non più andrai," the very first notes were so utterly different and so infinitely remote from all the previous music, that the matter was clear to me then, and never will it be equalized, so long as there is such a blue sky, and such a charming winter as the present. In the same way the Swiss can paint no beautiful scenery, precisely because they have it the whole day before their eyes. "Les Allemands traitent la musique comme une affaire d'état," says Spontini, and I accept the axiom. I lately heard some musicians here talking of their composers, and I listened in silence. One quoted ——, but the others interrupted him, saying he could not be considered an Italian, for the German school still clung to him, and he had never been able to get rid of it; consequently he had never been at home in Italy: we Germans say precisely the reverse of him, and it must be not a little trying to find yourself soentre deux, and without any fatherland. So far as I am concerned I stick to my own colours, which are quite honourable enough for me.
Last night a theatre that Torlonia has undertaken and organized, was opened with a new opera of Pacini's.The crowd was great, and every box filled with handsome, well-dressed people; young Torlonia appeared in a stage-box with his mother, the old Duchess, and they were immensely applauded. The audience called outBravo, Torlonia, grazie, grazie!Opposite to him was Jerome, with his suite, and covered with orders: in the next box Countess Samoilow, etc. Over the orchestra is a picture of Time pointing to the dial of the clock, which revolves slowly, and is enough to make any one melancholy. Pacini then appeared at the piano, and was kindly welcomed. He had prepared no overture, so the opera began with a chorus, accompanied by strokes on an anvil tuned in the proper key. The Corsair came forward, sang hisaria, and was applauded, on which the Corsair above, and the Maestro below, bowed (this pirate is a contralto, and sung by Mademoiselle Mariani); a variety of airs followed, and the piece became very tiresome. This seemed to be also the opinion of the public, for when Pacini's grandfinalebegan, the whole pit stood up, talking to each other as loud as they could, laughing and turning their backs on the stage. Madame Samoilow fainted in her box, and was carried out. Pacini glided away from the piano, and at the end of the act, the curtain fell in the midst of a great tumult. Then came the grand ballet ofBarbe Bleue, followed by the last act of the opera. As the audience were now in a mood for it, they hissed the whole ballet from the very beginning, and accompanied the second act also with hooting andlaughter. At the close Torlonia was called for, but he would not appear.
This is the matter-of-fact narrative of a first performance at the opening of a theatre in Rome. I had anticipated much amusement, so I came away considerably out of humour; still, if the music had madefurore, I should have been very indignant, for it is so wretched that it really is beneath all criticism. But that they should turn their backs on their favourite Pacini, whom they wished to crown in the Capitol, parody his melodies, and sing them in a ludicrous style, this does, I confess, provoke me not a little, and is likewise a proof of how low such a musician stands in the public opinion. Another time they will carry him home on their shoulders; but this is no compensation. They would not act thus in France with regard to Boieldieu; independent of all love of art, a sense of propriety would prevent their doing so: but enough of this subject, for it is too vexatious.
Why should Italy still insist on being the land of Art, while it is in reality the Land of Nature, thus delighting every heart! I have already described to you my walks to the Monte Pincio. I continue them daily. I went lately with the Vollards to Ponte Nomentano, a solitary dilapidated bridge in the spacious green Campagna. Many ruins from the days of ancient Rome, and many watch-towers from the Middle Ages, are scattered over this long succession of meadows; chains of hills rise towards the horizon, now partially covered with snow, andfantastically varied in form and colour by the shadows of the clouds. And there is also the enchanting, vapoury vision of the Alban hills, which change their hues like a chameleon, as you gaze at them,—where you can see for miles little white chapels glittering on the dark ground of the hills, as far as the Passionist Convent on the summit, and whence you can trace the road winding through thickets, and the hills sloping downwards to the Lake of Albano, while a hermitage peeps through the trees. The distance is equal to that from Berlin to Potsdam, say I as a good Berliner; but that it is a lovely vision, I say in earnest. No lack of musicthere; it echoes and vibratesthereon every side; not in the vapid, tasteless theatres. So we rambled about, chasing each other in the Campagna, and jumping over the fences, and when the sun went down we drove home, feeling so weary, and yet so self-satisfied and pleased, as if we had done great things; and so we have, if werightly appreciatedit all.
I have now applied myself again to drawing, and have latterly put in some tints, as I should be glad to be able to recall some of these bright hues, and practice quickens the perceptions. I must now tell you, dear mother, of a great, very great pleasure I recently enjoyed, because you will rejoice with me. Two days ago I was for the first time in a small circle with Horace Vernet, and played there. He had previously told me that his most favourite and esteemed music was "Don Juan," especially the Duet and the Commendatore at the end; and asI highly approved of such sentiments on his part, the result was, that while playing a prelude to Weber'sConcert-Stück, I imperceptibly glided further into extemporizing—thought I would please him by taking these themes, and so I worked them up fancifully for some time. This caused him a degree of delight far beyond what I ever knew my music produce in any one, and we became at once more intimate. Afterwards he suddenly came up to me, and whispered that we must make an exchange, for that he also was an improvisatore; and when I was naturally curious to know what he meant, he said it was his secret. He is however like a little child, and could not conceal it for more than a quarter of an hour, when he came in again, and taking me into the next room, he asked me if I had any time to spare, as he had stretched and prepared a canvas, and proposed painting my portrait on it, which I was to keep in memory of this day, or roll it up and send it to you, or take it with me, just as I chose. He said he should have no easy task with his improvisation, but at all events he would attempt it. I was only too glad to give my consent, and cannot tell you how much I was enchanted with the delight and enthusiasm he evidently felt in my playing.
It was in every respect a happy evening; as I ascended the hill with him, all was so still and peaceful, and only one window lit up in the large dark villa.[12]Fragments of music floated on theair, and its echoes in the dark night, mingled with the murmuring of fountains, were sweeter than I can describe. Two young students were drilling in the anteroom, while the third acted the part of lieutenant, and commanded in good form. In another room my friend Montfort, who gained the prize for music in the Conservatorium, was seated at a piano, and others were standing round, singing a chorus; but it went very badly. They urged another young man to join them, and when he said that he did not know how to sing, his friend rejoined, "Qu'est-ce que ça fait? c'est toujours une voix de plus!" I helped them as I best could, and we were well amused. Afterwards we danced, and I wish you could have seen Louisa Vernet dancing the Saltarella with her father. When at length she was forced to stop for a few moments, and snatched up a tambourine, playing with the utmost spirit, and relieving us, who could really scarcely any longer move our hands, I wished I had been a painter, for what a superb picture she would have made! Her mother is the kindest creature in the world, and the grandfather, Charles Vernet (who paints such splendid horses), danced a quadrille the same evening with so much ease, making so manyentrechats, and varying his steps so gracefully, that it is a sad pity he should actually be seventy-two years of age. Every day he rides, and tires out two horses, paints and draws a little, and spends the evening in society.
In my next letter I must tell you of my acquaintancewith Robert, who has just finished an admirable picture, "The Harvest," and also describe my recent visits with Bunsen to the studios of Cornelius, Koch, Overbeck, etc. My time is fully occupied, for there is plenty to do and to see; unluckily I cannot make time elastic, however much I may strive to extend it. I have as yet said nothing of Raphael's portrait as a child, and Titian's "Nymphs Bathing," who in a piquant enough fashion are designated "Sacred and Profane Love," one being in full gala costume, while the other is devoid of all drapery,[13]or of my exquisite "Madonna di Foligno," or of Francesco Francia, the most guileless and devout painter in the world; or of poor Guido Reni, whom the bearded painters of the present day treat with such contempt, and yet he painted a certain Aurora, and many other splendid objects besides; but what avails description? It is well for me that I can revel in the sight of them. When we meet, I may perhaps be able to give you a better idea of them.
YourFelix.
I intended not to write to you till my birthday, but possibly two days hence I may not be in a writing mood, and must drive all fancies away by hard work. It does not seem probable that the Papal militaryband will surprise me in the morning,[14]and as I have told all my acquaintances that I was born on the 25th, I think the day will glide quietly by; I prefer this to a trivial half-and-half celebration. I will place your portrait before me in the morning, and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of you. I shall then play over my military overture, and select my favourite dish for dinner, from thecarteat theLepre. It is not unprofitable to be obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birthdays and other days. I feel isolated enough, and am rather partial to the other extreme. At night the Torlonias are so obliging as to give a ball to eight hundred persons; on Wednesday, the day before, and on Friday, the day after my birthday, I am invited to the house of some English friends. During the previous week, I have been busily engaged in sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known objects;—thus I was in the Vatican, the Farnesina, Corsini, the Villa Lante, Borghese, etc. Two days ago I saw the frescoes for the first time in Bartholdy's house;[15]inasmuch as the English ladies who reside there, and who have transformed the painted saloon into a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, would never hitherto permit me to enter it. So this was my first visit to my uncle's house, where at last I saw his pictures, and the view of the city. It wasa noble, regal idea to have these frescoes; and the execution of such a sublime thought, in spite of every kind of impediment and annoyance, simply in order that the design should be carried out, seems to me very charming.
But to turn to an entirely different subject. In many circles here, it is the fashion to consider piety and dulness synonymous, and yet they are very different; our German clergyman here is not behindhand in this respect. There are men in Rome with an amount of fanaticism credible in the sixteenth century, but quite monstrous in the present day; they all wish to make converts, abusing each other in a Christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief of his neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. As if to have simplicity, and to be simple, were the same thing! Unfortunately I must here retract my favourite axiom, thatgoodwillcan effect all things,abilitymust accompany it; but I am soaring too high, and my father will lecture me. I wish this letter were better, but we have snow on the ground; the roofs in the Piazza di Spagna are quite white, and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing can be more odious to us Southerners, and we are freezing. The Monte Pincio is a mass of ice. Your Northern Lights have their revenge on us. Who can write or think with any degree of warmth? I was so pleased at the idea of being a whole winter without snow, but now I must give up that notion. The Italians say that spring breezes will come in a few days; then gay life, and gay letters, will be resumed.Farewell! may you enjoy every good, and think of me.
Felix.
The Pope is elected: the Pope is crowned. He performed mass in St. Peter's on Sunday, and conferred his benediction; in the evening the dome was illuminated, succeeded by the Girandola; the Carnival began on Saturday, and pursues its headlong course in the most motley forms. The city has been illuminated each evening. Last night there was a ball at the French Embassy; to-day the Spanish Ambassador gives a grand entertainment. Next door to me they sellconfetti, and how they do shout! And now I might as well stop, for why attempt to describe what is, in fact, indescribable? You ought to make Hensel tell you of these splendidfêtes, which in pomp, brilliancy, and animation, surpass all the imagination can conceive, for my sober pen is not equal to the task. What a different aspect everything has assumed during the last eight days, for now the mildest and most genial sun is shining, and we remain in the balcony enjoying the air till after sunset. Oh, that I could enclose for you, in this letter, only one quarter of an hour of all this pleasure, or tell you how life actually flies in Rome, every minute bringing its own memorable delights! It is not difficult to givefêteshere; if the simple architectural outlines are lighted up, thedome of St. Peter's blazes forth in the dark purple atmosphere, calmly shining. If there are fireworks, they brighten the gloomy solid walls of the Castle of St. Angelo, and fall into the Tiber; when they commence their fantasticfêtesin February, the most lustrous sun shines down on them and beautifies them. It is a wondrous land.
But I must not forget to tell you that I spent my birthday very differently from what I expected. I must however be brief, for an hour hence I go to join the Carnival in the Corso. My birthday had three celebrations—the eve, the birthday itself, and the day after. On the 2nd of February, Santini was sitting in my room in the morning, and in answer to my impatient questions about the Conclave, he replied with a diplomatic air, that there was little chance of a Pope being elected before Easter. Herr Brisbane also called, and told me that after leaving Berlin, he had been in Constantinople, and Smyrna, etc., and inquired after all his acquaintances in Berlin, when suddenly the report of a cannon was heard, and then another, and the people rushed across the Piazza di Spagna, shouting with all their might. We three started off, Heaven knows how, and ran breathlessly to the Quirinal, where the man was just retreating, who had shouted through a broken window—"Annuncio vobis gaudium magnum; habemus Papam R. E. dominum Capellari, qui nomen assumsit Gregorius XVI." All the Cardinals now crowded into the balcony, to breathe fresh air, and laughed, and talked togetherIt was the first time they had been in the open air for fifty days, and yet they looked so gay, their red caps shining brightly in the sun; the whole Piazza was filled with people, who clambered on the obelisk, and on the horses of Phidias, and the statues projected far above in the air. Carriage after carriage drove up, amid jostling and shouting. Then the new Pope appeared, and before him was borne the golden cross, and he blessed the crowd for the first time, while the people at the same moment prayed, and cried "Hurrah!" All the bells in Rome were ringing, and there was firing of cannons, and flourishes of trumpets, and military music. This was theeveof my birthday.
Next morning I followed the crowd down the long street to the Piazza of St. Peter's, which looked finer than I had ever seen it, lit up brightly by the sun, and swarming with carriages; the Cardinals in their red coaches, driving in state to the sacristy, with servants in embroidered liveries, and people innumerable, of every nation, rank, and condition; and high above them the dome and the church seeming to float in blue vapour, for there was considerable mist in the morning air. And I thought that Capellari would probably appropriate all this to himself when he saw it; but I knew better. It was all to celebrate my birthday; and the election of the Pope, and the homage, a mere spectacle in honour of me; but it was well and naturally performed; and so long as I live. I shall never forget it.
The Church of St. Peter's was crowded to thedoor. The Pope was borne in on his throne, and fans of peacocks' feathers carried before him, and then set down on the High Altar, when the Papal singers intoned, "Tu es sacerdos magnus." I only heard two or three chords, but it required no more; the sound was enough. Then one Cardinal succeeded another, kissing the Pope's foot and his hands, when he in turn embraced them. After surveying all this for a time, standing closely pressed by a crowd, and unable to move, to look suddenly aloft to the dome, as far as the lantern, inspires a singular sensation. I was with Diodati, among a throng of Capuchins; these saintly men are far from being devotional on an occasion of this kind, and by no means cleanly. But I must hasten on; the Carnival is beginning, and I must not lose any portion of it.
At night, (in honour of my birthday,) barrels of pitch were burned in all the streets, and the Propaganda illuminated. The people thought this was owing to its being the former residence of the Pope, butIknew it was because I lived exactly opposite, and I had only to lean out of my window to enjoy it all. Then came Torlonia's ball, and in every corner were seen glimpses of red caps above, and red stockings below. The following day they worked very hard at scaffoldings, platforms, and stages for the Carnival; edicts were posted up about horse-racing, and specimens of masks were displayed at the windows, and (in celebration of the day following my birthday) the illumination of the dome, and the Girandolawere fixed for Sunday. On Saturday all the world went to the Capitol, to witness the form of the Jews' supplications to be suffered to remain in the Sacred City for another year; a request which is refused at the foot of the hill, but after repeated entreaties, granted on the summit, and the Ghetto is assigned to them. It was a tiresome affair; we waited two hours, and after all, understood the oration of the Jews as little as the answer of the Christians. I came down again in very bad humour, and thought that the Carnival had commenced rather unpropitiously. So I arrived in the Corso and was driving along, thinking no evil, when I was suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I looked up; they had been flung by some young ladies whom I had seen occasionally at balls, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarrassment I took off my hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. Their carriage drove on, and in the next was Miss T——, a delicate young Englishwoman. I tried to bow to her, but she pelted me too, so I became quite desperate, and clutching theconfetti, I flung them back bravely; there were swarms of my acquaintances, and my blue coat was soon as white as that of a miller. The B——s were standing on a balcony, flingingconfettilike hail at my head; and thus pelting and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers, and the most extravagant masks, the day ended with races.
The following day there was no carnival, but as a compensation, the Pope conferred his benedictionfrom the Loggia, in the Piazza of St. Peter's; he was consecrated as Bishop in the Church, and at night the dome was lighted up. The sudden, nayinstantaneouschange the illumination of the building effects, you must ask Hensel to paint or to describe, whichever he prefers. Nothing can be more startling than the sudden and surprising vision, of so many hundred human beings, previously invisible, now revealed as it were in the air, working and moving about—and the glorious Girandola,—but who can conceive it! Now the gaieties recommence. Farewell! in my next letter I mean to continue my description. Yesterday, at the Carnival, flowers andbonbonswere indiscriminately thrown, and a mask gave me a bouquet, which I have dried, and mean to bring home for you. All idea of occupation is out of the question at present; I have only composed one little song; but when Lent comes, I intend to be more industrious. Who can at such a moment think either of writing or music? I must go out, so farewell, dear ones.
Felix.
A thousand thanks for your letter of the 8th, which I received yesterday, on my return from Tivoli. I cannot tell you, dear Fanny, how much I am delighted with your plan about the Sunday music. This idea of yours is most brilliant, and I do entreat of you, for Heaven's sake, not to let it die away again; on the contrary, pray give your travellingbrother a commission to write something new for you. He will gladly do so, for he is quite charmed with you, and with your project. You must let me know what voices you have, and also take counsel with your subjects as to what they like best (for the people, O Fanny, have rights). I think it would be a good plan to place before them something easy, interesting and pleasing,—for instance, the Litany of Sebastian Bach. But to speak seriously, I recommend the "Shepherd of Israel," or the "Dixit Dominus," of Hændel.
Do you mean to play something during the intervals to these people? I think this would not be unprofitable to either party, for they must have time to take breath, and you must study the piano, and thus it would become a vocal and instrumental concert. I wish so much that I could be one of the audience, and compliment you afterwards. Be discreet and indulgent, and avoid fatiguing either yourself or the voices of your singers. Do not be irritable when things go badly; say very little on the subject to any one. Lastly, above all, endeavour to prevent the choir feeling any tedium, for this is the principal point. One of my pieces certainly owes its birth to this Sunday music. When you wrote to me about it lately, I reflected whether there was anything I could send you, thus reviving an old favourite scheme of mine, which has however now assumed such vast proportions, that I cannot let you have any part of it by E——, but you shall have it at some future time.
Listen and wonder! Since I left Vienna I have partly composed Goethe's first "Walpurgis Night," but have not yet had courage to write it down. The composition has now assumed a form, and become a grand Cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. At the opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty of others of the same kind. Afterwards, when the watchmen with their "Gabeln, und Zacken, und Eulen," make a great noise, the fairy frolics begin, and you know that I have a particular foible for them; the sacrificial Druids then appear, with their trombones in C major, when the watchmen come in again in alarm, and here I mean to introduce a light mysterious tripping chorus; and lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. Do you not think that this might develop into a new style of Cantata? I have an instrumental introduction, as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is very spirited. I hope it will soon be finished. I have once more begun to compose with fresh vigour, and the Italian symphony makes rapid progress; it will be the most sportive piece I have yet composed, especially the last movement. I have not yet decided on theadagio, and think I shall reserve it for Naples. "Verleih uns Frieden" is completed, and "Wir glauben all" will also be ready in a few days. The Scotch symphony alone is not yet quite to my liking; if any brilliant idea occurs to me, I will seize it at once, quickly write it down, and finish it at last.
Felix.