Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland Part 10

The "Barabbam" too is most singular;--very tame Jews indeed! But my letter is already too long, so I shall discuss the subject no further. Prayers are then offered up for all nations and inst.i.tutions, each separately designated. When the prayer for the Jews is uttered, no one kneels, as they do at all the others, nor is Amen said. They pray _pro perfidis Judaeis_, and the author of my book discovers an explanation of this also. Then follows the Adoration of the Cross; a small crucifix is placed in the centre of the chapel, and all approach barefooted (without shoes), fall down before it and kiss it; during this time the "Improperia" are sung. I have only once heard this composition, but it seems to me to be one of Palestrina's finest works, and they sing it with remarkable enthusiasm. There is surprising delicacy and harmony in its execution by the choir; they are careful to place every pa.s.sage in its proper light, and to render it sufficiently prominent without making it too conspicuous--one chord blending softly with the other. Moreover, the ceremony is very solemn and dignified, and the most profound silence reigns in the chapel.

They sing the oft-recurring Greek "Holy" in the most admirable manner, each time with the sane smoothness and expression. You will be not a little surprised, however, when you see it written down, for they sing as follows:--

[Music: A-gi-os O The---os]

[Music: Sanc-tus De-us.]

Such pa.s.sages as that at the commencement, where all the voices sing the very same embellishment, repeatedly occur, and the ear becomes accustomed to them. The effect of the whole is undoubtedly superb. I only wish you could hear the tenors in the first chorus, and the mode in which they take the high A on the word "Theos;" the note is so long-drawn and ringing, though softly breathed, that it sounds most touching. This is repeated again and again till all in the chapel have performed the Adoration of the Cross; but as on this occasion the crowd was not very great, I unluckily had not the opportunity of hearing it as often as I could have wished.

I quite understand why the "Improperias" produced the strongest effect on Goethe, for they are nearly the most faultless of all, as both music and ceremonies, and everything connected with them, are in the most entire harmony. A procession follows to fetch the Host, which had been exposed and adored on the previous evening in another chapel of the Quirinal, lighted up by many hundred wax-lights. The morning service closed at half-past one with a hymn in _canto fermo_. At half-past three in the afternoon the first nocturn began, with the Psalms, Lessons, etc. I corrected what I had written down, heard the Miserere of Baini, and about seven o'clock followed the Cardinals home through the illuminated vestibule--so all was now seen, and all was now over.

I was anxious, dear Professor, to describe the Holy Week to you minutely, as they were memorable days to me, every hour bringing with it something interesting and long antic.i.p.ated. I also particularly rejoiced in feeling that, in spite of the excitement and the numerous discussions in praise or blame, the solemnities made as vivid an impression on me, as if I had been quite free from all previous prejudice or prepossession. I thus saw the truth confirmed, that perfection, even in a sphere the most foreign to us, leaves its own stamp on the mind. May you read this long letter with even half the pleasure I feel in recalling the period of the Holy Week at Rome.

Yours faithfully, FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.

Florence, June 25th, 1831.

Dear Sisters,

On such a day as this my paternal home and those I love are much in my thoughts; my feelings on this point are rather singular. If I feel at any time unwell, or fatigued, or out of humour, I have no particular longing for my own home or for my family; but when brighter days ensue, when every hour makes an indelible impression, and every moment brings with it glad and pleasant sensations then I ardently wish that I were with you, or you with me; and no minute pa.s.ses without my thinking of one or other of you, to whom I have something particular to say.

I have to-day pa.s.sed the whole forenoon, from ten till three, in the gallery; it was glorious! Besides all the beautiful work I saw, from which so much fresh benefit is always to be derived, I wandered about among the pictures, feeling so much sympathy, and such kindly emotions in gazing at them. I now first thoroughly realized the great charm of a large collection of the highest works of art. You pa.s.s from one to the other, sitting and dreaming for an hour before some picture, and then on to the next.

Yesterday was a holiday here, so to-day the Palazzo degli Uffizi was crowded with people who had come into the city to see the races, and to visit the far-famed gallery; chiefly peasants, male and female, in their country costumes. All the apartments were thrown open, and as I was about to contemplate them for the last time. I contrived to slip quietly through the crowd, and to remain quite solitary, for I knew that I had not one acquaintance among them.

The busts of the various princes who founded and enriched this collection, are placed near the entrance, at the top of the staircase. I suppose I must have been peculiarly susceptible to-day, for the faces of the Medici interested me exceedingly; they looked so n.o.ble and refined, so proud and so dignified. I stood looking at them for a long time, and imprinted on my memory those countenances of world-wide renown.

I then went to the Tribune. This room is so delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, and yet it contains a world of art. I again sought out my favourite armchair, which stands under the statue of the "Slave Whetting his Knife" (_L'Arrotino_), and taking possession of it, I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for here, at one glance, I had the "Madonna del Cardellino," "Pope Julius II.," a female portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family, by Perugino; and so close to me that I could have touched the statue with my hand, the Venus de' Medici; beyond, that of t.i.tian; on the other side, the "Apollino" and the "Wrestlers"

(_Lottatori_); in front of the Raphael, the merry Greek Dancing Faun, who seems to feel an uncouth delight in discordant music, for the fellow has just struck two cymbals together, and is listening to the sound, while treading with his foot on a kind of Pan's pipes, as an accompaniment: what a clown he is! The s.p.a.ce between is occupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by t.i.tian, a Domenichino, etc., and all these within the circ.u.mference of a small semicircle, no larger than one of your own rooms. This is a spot where a man feels his own insignificance, and may well learn to be humble.

I occasionally walked through the other rooms, where a large picture by Leonardo da Vinci, only commenced and sketched in, with all its wild dashes and strokes, is very suggestive. I was especially struck with the genius of the monk Fra Bartolommeo, who must have been a man of the most devout, tender, and earnest spirit. There is a small picture of his here, which I discovered for myself. It is about the size of this sheet of paper, in two divisions, and represents the "Adoration" and the "Presentation in the Temple." The figures are about two-thirds of a finger-length in size, but finished in the most exquisite and consummate manner, with the most brilliant colouring, the brightest decorations, and in the most genial sunshine. You can see in the picture itself, that the pious _maestro_ has taken delight in painting it, and in finishing the most minute details; probably with the view of giving it away, to gratify some friend. We feel as if the painter belonged to it, and still ought to be sitting before his work, or had only this moment left it. I felt the same with regard to many pictures to-day, especially that of the "Madonna del Cardellino," which Raphael painted as a wedding-gift, and a surprise for his friend.

I could not help meditating on all these great men, so long pa.s.sed away from earth, though their whole inner soul is still displayed in such l.u.s.tre to us, and to all the world.

While reflecting on these things, I came by chance into the room containing the portraits of great painters. I formerly merely regarded them in the light of valuable curiosities, for there are more than three hundred portraits, chiefly painted by the masters themselves, so that you see at the same moment the man and his work; but to-day a fresh idea dawned on me with regard to them,--that each painter resembles his own productions, and that each while painting his own likeness, has been careful to represent himself just as he really was. In this way you become personally acquainted with all these great men, and thus a new light is shed on many things. I will discuss this point more minutely with you when we meet; but I must not omit to say, that the portrait of Raphael is almost the most touching likeness I have yet seen of him. In the centre of a large rich screen, entirely covered with portraits, hangs a small solitary picture, without any particular designation, but the eye is instantly arrested by it; this is Raphael--youthful, very pale and delicate, and with such onward aspirations, such longing and wistfulness in the mouth and eyes, that it is as if you could see into his very soul. That he cannot succeed in expressing all that he sees and feels, and is thus impelled to go forward, and that he must die an early death,--all this is written on his mournful, suffering, yet fervid countenance, and when looking at his dark eyes, which glance at you out of the very depths of his soul, and at the pained and contracted mouth, you cannot resist a feeling of awe.

How I wish you could see the portrait that hangs above it; that of Michael Angelo, an ugly, muscular, savage, rugged fellow, in all the vigour of life, looking gruff and morose; and on the other side a wise, grave man, with the aspect of a lion, Leonardo da Vinci; but you cannot see this portrait, and I will not describe it in writing, but tell you of it when we meet. Believe me, however, it is truly glorious. Then I pa.s.sed on to the Niobe, which of all statues makes the greatest impression on me; and back again to my painters, and to the Tribune, and through the Corridors, where the Roman Emperors, with their dignified yet knavish physiognomies, stare you in the face; and last of all I took a final leave of the Medici family.

It was indeed a morning never to be forgotten.

June 26th.

Do not suppose however that I mean to a.s.sert that all days are spent thus. You must battle your way through the present living mob, before you can arrive at the n.o.bility, long since dead, and those who have not a strong arm are sure to come badly off in the conflict. Such a journey as mine from Rome to Perugia, and on here, is no joke. Jean Paul says that the presence of a person who openly hates you is most painful and oppressive. Such a being is the Roman _vetturino_: he grants you no sleep; exposes you to hunger and thirst; at night, when he is bound to provide you with your _pranzo_, he contrives that you shall not arrive till midnight, when every one is of course asleep, and you are only too thankful to get a bed. In the morning he sets off before four o'clock, and rests his horses at noon for five hours, but invariably in some solitary little wayside inn, where nothing is to be had. Each day he makes out about six German miles, and drives _piano_, while the sun burns _fortissimo_.

I was very badly off owing to all this, for my fellow-travellers were far from being congenial; three Jesuits inside, and in the cabriolet, where I particularly desired to sit, a most disagreeable Venetian lady. If I wished to escape from her, I was obliged to go inside, and listen to the praises of Charles X., and to hear that Ariosto ought to have been burnt as a corrupt writer, subversive of all morality. It was still worse outside, and we never seemed to get on. The first day, after a journey of four hours, the axletree broke, and we were obliged to remain for nine hours in the same house in the Campagna where we chanced to be, and at last to stay all night. If there was a church on the road that we had an opportunity of visiting, the most beautiful and devotional creations of Perugino, or Giotto, or Cimabue, enchanted our eyes; and so we pa.s.sed from irritation to delight, and then to irritation again. This was a wretched state to be in. I was not in the least amused by it all; and if Nature had not bestowed on us bright moonshine at the Lake of Thrasymene, and if the scenery had not been so wonderfully fine, and if in every town we had not seen a superb church, and if we had not pa.s.sed through a large city each day as we journeyed on, and if--but you see I am not easily satisfied.

The route however was beautiful, and I must now describe my arrival in Florence, which also includes my whole Italian life of the previous days. At Incisa, half a day's journey from Florence, my _vetturino_ became so intolerable from his insolence and abuse, that I found it necessary to take out my luggage, and to tell him to drive to the devil,--which he accordingly did, rather against his will.

It was Midsummer's day, and a celebrated fete was to take place in Florence the same evening, which I would on no account whatever have missed. This is just the kind of thing that the Italians take advantage of, so the landlady at Incisa offered me a carriage at four times the proper fare. When I refused to take it, she said I might try to procure another; and so I accordingly did, but found that no carriages for hire were to be had, only post-horses. I went to the Post, and was there told, to my disgust, that they were at my landlady's, and that she had wished to make me pay an exorbitant price for them. I went back and demanded horses. She said, if I did not choose to pay what she asked, I should have none. I desired to see the regulations, which they are all obliged to have. She said there was no occasion to show them, and turned her back on me. The use of physical strength, which plays a great part here, was resorted to by me on this occasion, for I seized her and pushed her back into a room (for we were standing in the pa.s.sage) and then hurried down the street to the Podesta. It turned out however that there was no such person in the town, but that he lived four miles off. The affair became every instant more disagreeable, the crowd of boys at my heels increasing at every step. Fortunately a decent-looking man came up, to whom the mob seemed to show some respect; so I accosted him, and explained all that had occurred. He sympathized with me, and took me to a vine-dresser's who had a little carriage for hire.

The whole crowd now congregated before his door, many pressing forward into the house after me, and shouting that I was mad; but the carriage drove up, and I threw a few scudi to an old beggar, on which they all called out that I was a _bravo Signore_, and wished me _buon viaggio_. The moderate price the man demanded more fully showed me the abominable overcharge of the landlady. The carriage was easy, and the horses went on at a good pace, and so we travelled across the hills to Florence. In the course of half an hour we overtook my lazy vetturino. I put up my umbrella to defend me from the sun, and I scarcely ever travelled so pleasantly and so comfortably as during those few hours, having left all annoyances behind me, and before me the prospect of the beautiful fete.

Very soon the Duomo, and the hundreds of villas scattered through the valleys, were visible. Once more we pa.s.sed by decorated terraces, and the tops of trees seen over them; the Arno valley looking lovelier than ever. And so I arrived here in good spirits and dined; and even while doing so I heard a tumult, and looking out of the window I saw crowds, both young and old, all hurrying in their holiday costumes across the bridges.

I followed them to the Corso, and then to the races; afterwards to the illuminated Pergola, and last of all to a masked ball in the Goldoni Theatre. At one o'clock in the morning I went towards home, thinking that the whole affair was over; but the Arno was still covered with gondolas, illuminated by coloured lamps, and crossing each other in every direction. Under the bridge a large ship was pa.s.sing, hung with green lanterns; the water shone brightly as it rippled along, while a still brighter moon looked down on the whole scene. I recalled to myself the various occurrences of the day, and the thoughts that had chased each other through my mind, and resolved to write them all to you. It is in fact a reminiscence for myself, for it may not be so suggestive to you, but it will one day be of service to me, enabling me to recall various scenes connected with fair Italy.

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO FRAU VON PEREIRA, IN VIENNA.

Genoa, July, 1831.

At first I resolved not to answer your letter until I had fulfilled your injunctions, and composed "Napoleon's Midnight Review;" and now I have to ask your forgiveness for not having done so, but there is a peculiarity in this matter. I take music in a very serious light, and I consider it quite inadmissible to compose anything that I do not thoroughly feel. It is just as if I were to utter a falsehood; for notes have as distinct a meaning as words, perhaps even a more definite sense. Now it appears to me almost impossible to compose for a descriptive poem. The ma.s.s of compositions of this nature do not militate against this opinion, but rather prove its truth; for I am not acquainted with one single work of the kind that has been successful. You are placed between a dramatic conception or a mere narrative; the one, in the "Erl Konig," causes the willows to rustle, the child to shriek, and the horse to gallop. The other imagines a ballad singer, calmly narrating the horrible tale, as you would a ghost story, and this is the most accurate view of the two; Reichardt almost invariably adopted this reading, but it does not suit me; the music stands in my way. I feel in a far more spectral spirit when I read such a poem quietly to myself, and imagine the rest, than when it is depicted, or related to me.

It does not answer to look on "Napoleon's Midnight Review" as a narrative, inasmuch as no particular person speaks, and the poem is not written in the style of a ballad. It seems to me more like a clever conception than a poem; it strikes me that the poet himself placed no great faith in his misty forms.

I could indeed have composed music for it in the same descriptive style, as Neukomm and Fischhof, in Vienna. I might have introduced a very novel rolling of drums in the ba.s.s, and blasts of trumpets in the treble, and have brought in all sorts of hobgoblins. But I love my serious elements of sound too well to do anything of the sort; for this kind of thing always appears to me a joke; somewhat like the painting's in juvenile spelling-books, where the roofs are coloured bright red, to make the children aware they are intended for roofs; and I should have been most reluctant to write out and send you anything incomplete, or that did not entirely please myself, because I always wish you to have the best I can accomplish.

FELIX.

Milan, July 14th, 1831.

This letter will probably be the last (D.V.) that I shall write to you from an Italian city; I may possibly send you another from the Borromean Islands, which I intend to visit in a few days, but do not rely on this.

My week here has been one of the most agreeable and amusing that I have pa.s.sed in Italy; and how this could be the case in Milan, hitherto utterly unknown to me, I shall now proceed to relate. In the first place, I immediately secured a small piano, and attacked with _rabbia_ that endless "Walpurgis Night," to finish the thing at last; and to-morrow morning it will be completed, except the overture; for as yet I have not quite made up my mind whether it shall be a grand symphony, or a short introduction breathing of spring. I should like to take the opinion of some adept on this point. I must say the conclusion has turned out better than I myself expected. The hobgoblins and the bearded Druid, with the trombones sounding behind him, diverted me immensely, and so I pa.s.sed two forenoons very happily.

'Ta.s.so' also contributed to my pleasure, which I have now for the first time been able to read with facility; it is a splendid poem.

I was glad to be already well acquainted with Goethe's 'Ta.s.so;'

being constantly reminded of it by the princ.i.p.al pa.s.sages of the Italian poet, whose verse, like that of Goethe, is so dreamy, harmonious, and tender, its sweet melody delighting the ear. Your favourite pa.s.sage, dear father, "Era la notte allor," struck me as very beautiful, but the stanzas that I admire most, are those descriptive of Clorinda's death; they are so wonderfully imaginative, and fine. The close however does not quite please me.

Tancred's 'Lamentations' are, I think, more charmingly composed than true to nature; they contain too many clever ideas and ant.i.theses; and even the words of the hermit, which soothe him, sound more like a censure on the hermit himself. I should infallibly have killed him on the spot, if he had talked to me in such a strain.

Recently I was reading the episode of 'Armida' in a carriage, surrounded by a company of Italian actors, who were incessantly singing Rossini's "Ma trema, trema," when suddenly there recurred to my thoughts Gluck's "Vous m'allez quitter," and Rinaldo's falling asleep, and the voyage in the air--and I felt in a most melting mood. This is genuine music; thus have men felt, and thus have men spoken, and such strains can never die. I do cordially hate the present licentious style. Do not take it amiss; your motto is, Without hatred, no love,--and I did feel so moved when I thought of Gluck, and his grand embodiments.

Every evening I was in society, owing to a mad prank, which however proved very successful. I think I have invented this kind of eccentric proceeding, and may take out a patent for it, as I have already made my most agreeable acquaintances _ex abrupto_, without letters or introductions of any kind.

I asked by chance on my arrival at Milan the name of the Commandant, and the _laquais de place_ named General Ertmann. I instantly thought of Beethoven's Sonata in A major, and its dedication; and as I had heard all that was good of Madame Ertmann, from those who knew her; that she was so kind, and had bestowed such loving care on Beethoven, and played herself so beautifully, I, next morning, at a suitable hour for a visit, put on a black coat, desired that the Government-house should be pointed out to me, and occupied myself on the way thither by composing some pretty speeches for the General's lady, and went on boldly.

I cannot however deny that I felt rather dismayed when I was told that the General lived in the first story, facing the street; and when I was fairly in the splendid vaulted hall, I was seized with a sudden panic, and would fain have turned back: but I could not help thinking that it was vastly provincial on my part to take fright at a vaulted hall, so I went straight up to a group of soldiers standing near, and asked an old man in a short nankeen jacket, if General Ertmann lived there, intending then to send in my name to the lady. Unluckily the man replied, "I am General Ertmann: what is your pleasure?" This was unpleasant, as I was forced to have recourse to the speech I had prepared. The General, however, did not seem particularly edified by my statement, and wished to know whom he had the honour of addressing. This also was far from agreeable, but fortunately he was acquainted with my name, and became very polite: his wife, he said was not at home, but I should find her at two o'clock, or any hour after that which might suit me.

I was glad that all had gone off so well, and in the meantime went to the Brera, where I pa.s.sed the time in studying the 'Sposalizio'

of Raphael, and at two o'clock I presented myself to Freifrau Dorothea von Ertmann. She received me with much courtesy, and was most obliging, playing me Beethoven's Sonata in C sharp minor, and the one in D minor. The old General, who now appeared in his handsome grey uniform, covered with orders, was quite enchanted, and had tears of delight in his eyes, because it was so long since he had heard his wife play; he said there was not a person in Milan who cared to hear what I had heard. She mentioned the trio in B major, but said she could not remember it. I played it, and sang the other parts: this enchanted the old couple, and so their acquaintance was soon made.

Since then their kindness to me is so great that it quite overwhelms me. The old General shows me all the remarkable objects in Milan; in the afternoon his lady takes me in her carriage to drive on the Corso, and at night we have music till one o'clock in the morning. Yesterday at an early hour they drove with me in the environs; at noon I dined with them, and in the evening there was a party. They are the most agreeable and cultivated couple you can imagine, and both as much in love with each other as if they were a newly wedded pair,--and yet they have been married for four-and-thirty years. Yesterday he spoke of his profession, of military life, of personal courage, and similar subjects, with a degree of lucidity, and liberality of feeling, that I scarcely ever met with, except in my father. The General has been now an officer for six-and-forty years, and you should really see him galloping beside his wife's carriage in the park,--the old gentleman looking so dignified and animated!

She plays Beethoven's works admirably, though it is so long since she studied them; she sometimes rather exaggerates the expression, dwelling too long on one pa.s.sage, and then hurrying the next; but there are many parts that she plays splendidly, and I think I have learned something from her. When sometimes she can bring no more tone out of the instrument, and begins to sing in a voice that emanates from the very depths of her soul, she reminds me of you, dear f.a.n.n.y, though you are infinitely her superior. When I was approaching the end of the adagio in the B major trio, she exclaimed, "The amount of expression here is beyond any one's playing;" and it is quite true of this pa.s.sage.

The following day, when I went there again to play her the symphony in C minor, she insisted on my taking off my coat, as the day was so hot. In the intervals of our music she related the most interesting anecdotes of Beethoven, and that when she was playing to him in the evening he not unfrequently used the snuffers as a tooth-pick! She told me that when she lost her last child, Beethoven at first shrank from coming to her house; but at length he invited her to visit him, and when she arrived, she found him seated at the piano, and simply saying, "Let us speak to each other by music," he played on for more than an hour, and, as she expressed it, "he said much to me, and at last gave me consolation." In short I am now in the most genial mood, and quite at my ease, having no occasion to resort to any disguise, or to be silent, for we understand each other admirably on all points. She played the Kreutzer Sonata yesterday with violin accompaniment, and when the violin-player (an Austrian cavalry officer) made a long flourish, _a la_ Paganini, at the beginning of the adagio, the old General made such a desperate grimace, that I nearly fell off my chair from laughing.