Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland Part 4

After dinner came Catel, Eggers, Senf, Wolf, then a painter, and then two more, and others. I played the piano, and they asked for pieces by Sebastian Bach, so I played numbers of his compositions, which were much admired. I also explained clearly to them the mode in which the "Pa.s.sion" is executed; for they seemed scarcely to believe it. Bunsen possesses it, arranged for the piano; he showed it to the Papal singers, and they said before witnesses, that such music could not possibly be executed by human voices. I think the contrary. It seems, however, that Trautwein is about to publish the score of the Pa.s.sion of St. John. I suppose I must order a set of studs for Paris, _a la Back_.

To-day Bunsen is to take me to Baini's, whom he has not seen for a year as he never goes out except to hear confessions. I am glad to know him, and shall endeavour to improve my intimacy with him, for he can solve many an enigma for me. Old Santini continues as kind as ever. When we are together in society, if I praise any particular piece or am not acquainted with it, next morning he is sure to knock gently at my door, and to bring me the piece in question carefully wrapped up in a blue pocket-handkerchief; I, in return, accompany him home every evening; and we have a great regard for each other. He also brought me his _Te Deum_, written in eight parts, requesting me to correct some of the modulations, as G major predominates too much; so I mean to try if I cannot introduce some A minor or E minor.

I am now very anxious to become acquainted with a good many Italians. I visit at the house of a certain Maestro di San Giovanni Laterano, whose daughters are musical, but not pretty, so this does not count for much. If therefore you can send me letters, pray do so. I work in the morning; at noon I see and admire, and thus the day glides away till sunset: but I should like in the evening to a.s.sociate with the Roman world. My kind English friends have arrived from Venice; Lord Harrowby and his family are to pa.s.s the winter here. Schadow, Bendeman, Bunsen, Tippelskirch, all receive every evening; in short I have no lack of acquaintances, but I should like to know some Italians also.

The present, dear f.a.n.n.y, that I have prepared for your birthday, is a psalm, for chorus and orchestra, _Non n.o.bis, Domine_. You know the melody well; there is an air in it which has a good ending, and the last chorus will I hope please you. I hear that next week I shall have an opportunity of sending it to you, along with a quant.i.ty of new music. I intend now to finish my overture, and then (D.V.) to proceed with my symphony. A pianoforte concerto, too, that I wish to write for Paris, begins to float in my head. If Providence kindly bestows on me success and bright days, I hope we shall enjoy them together. Farewell! May you be happy!

FELIX.

Rome, November 22nd, 1830.

My dear Brother and Sisters,

You know how much I dislike, at a distance of two hundred miles, and fourteen days' journey from you, to offer good advice. I mean to do so, however, for once. Let me tell you therefore of a mistake in your conduct, and in truth the same that I once made myself. I do a.s.sure you that never in my life have I known my father write in so irritable a strain as since I came to Rome, and so I wish to ask you if you cannot devise some domestic recipe to cheer him a little? I mean by forbearance and yielding to his wishes, and in this manner, by allowing my father's view of any subject to predominate over your own; then, not to speak at all on topics that irritate him; and instead of saying shameful, say unpleasant; or instead of superb, very fair. This method has often a wonderfully good effect; and I put it, with all submission to yourselves, whether it might not be equally successful in this case? For, with the exception of the great events of the world, ill-humour often seems to me to proceed from the same cause that my father's did when I chose to pursue my own path in my musical studies. He was then in a constant state of irritation, incessantly abusing Beethoven and all visionaries; and this often vexed me very much, and made me sometimes very unamiable. At that very time something new came out, which put my father out of sorts, and made him I believe not a little uneasy. So long therefore as I persisted in extolling and exalting my Beethoven, the evil became daily worse; and one day, if I remember rightly, I was even sent out of the room. At last, however, it occurred to me that I might speak a great deal of truth, and yet avoid the particular truth obnoxious to my father; so the aspect of affairs speedily began to improve, and soon all went well.

Perhaps you may have in some degree forgotten that you ought now and then to be forbearing, and not aggressive. My father considers himself both much older and more irritable than, thank G.o.d, he really is; but it is our duty always to submit our opinion to his, even if the truth be as much on our side, as it often is on his, when opposed to us. Strive, then, to praise what he likes, and do not attack what is implanted in his heart, more especially ancient established ideas. Do not commend what is new till it has made some progress in the world, and acquired a name, for till then it is a mere matter of taste. Try to draw my father into your circle, and be playful and kind to him. In short, try to smooth and to equalize things; and remember that I, who am now an experienced man of the world, never yet knew any family, taking into due consideration all defects and failings, who have hitherto lived so happily together as ours.

Do not send me any answer to this, for you will not receive it for a month, and by that time no doubt some fresh topic will have arisen; besides, if I have spoken nonsense, I do not wish to be scolded by you; and if I have spoken properly, I hope you will follow my good advice.

November 23rd.

Just as I was going to set to work at the "Hebrides," arrived Herr B----, a musical professor from Magdeburg. He played me over a whole book of songs, and an Ave Maria, and begged to have the benefit of my opinion. I seemed in the position of a juvenile Nestor, and made him some insipid speeches, but this caused me the loss of a morning in Rome, which is a pity. The Choral, "Mitten wir im Leben sind," is finished, and is certainly one of the best sacred pieces that I have yet composed. After I have completed the Hebrides, I think of arranging Handel's Solomon for future performance, with proper curtailments, etc. I then purpose writing the Christmas music of "Vom Himmel hoch," and the symphony in A minor; perhaps also some pieces for the piano, and a concerto, etc., just as they come into my head.

I own I do sadly miss some friend to whom I could communicate my new works, and who could examine the score along with me, and play a ba.s.s or a flute; whereas now when a piece is finished I must lay it aside in my desk without its giving pleasure to any one. London spoiled me in this respect. I can never again expect to meet all together such friends as I had there. Here I can only say the half of what I think, and leave the best half unspoken; whereas there it was not necessary to say more than the half, because the other half was a mere matter of course, and already understood. Still, this is a most delightful place.

We young people went lately to Albano, and set off in the most lovely weather. The road to Frascati pa.s.sed under the great aqueduct, its dark brown outlines standing out sharply defined against the clear blue sky; thence we proceeded to the monastery at Grotta Ferrata, where there are some beautiful frescoes by Domenichino; then to Marino, very picturesquely situated on a hill, and proceeding along the margin of the lake we reached Castel Gandolfo. The scenery, like my first impression of Italy, is by no means so striking or so wonderfully beautiful as is generally supposed, but most pleasing and gratifying to the eye, and the outlines undulating and picturesque, forming a perfect whole, with its _entourage_ and distribution of light.

Here I must deliver a eulogy on monks; they finish a picture at once, giving it tone and colour, with their wide loose gowns, their pious meditative, gait, and their dark aspect. A beautiful shady avenue of evergreen oaks runs along the lake from Castel Gandolfo to Albano, where monks of every order are swarming, animating the scenery and yet marking its solitude. Near the city a couple of begging monks were walking together; further on, a whole troop of young Jesuits; then we saw an elegant young priest in a thicket reading; beyond this two more were standing in the wood with their guns, watching for birds. Then we came to a monastery, encircled by a number of small chapels. At last all was solitude; but at that moment appeared a dirty, stupid-looking Capuchin, laden with huge nosegays, which he placed before the various shrines, kneeling down in front of them before proceeding to decorate them.

As we pa.s.sed on, we met two old prelates engaged in eager conversation. The bell for vespers was ringing in the monastery of Albano, and even on the summit of the highest hill stands a Pa.s.sionist convent, where they are only permitted to speak for a single hour daily, and occupy themselves solely in reading the history of the pa.s.sion of Christ. In Albano, among girls with pitchers on their heads, vendors of flowers and vegetables, and all the crowd and tumult, we saw a coal-black dumb monk, returning to Monte Cavo, who formed a singular contrast to the rest of the scene. They seem to have taken entire possession of all this splendid country, and form a strange melancholy ground-tone for all that is lively, gay, and free, and the ever-living cheerfulness bestowed by nature. It is as if men, on that very account, required a counterpoise. This is not however my case, and I need no contrast to enable me to enjoy what I see.

I am often with Bunsen, and as he likes to turn the conversation on the subject of his Liturgy and its musical portions, which I consider very deficient, I am perfectly plain-spoken, and give him a straight-forward opinion; and I believe this is the only way to establish a mutual understanding. We have had several long, serious discussions, and I hope we shall eventually know each other better.

Yesterday Palestrina's music was performed at Bunsen's house (as on every Monday), and then for the first time I played before the Roman musicians _in corpore_. I am quite aware of the necessity in every foreign city of playing so as to make myself understood by the audience. This makes me usually feel rather embarra.s.sed, and such was the case with me yesterday. After the Papal singers finished Palestrina's music, it was my turn to play something. A brilliant piece would have been unsuitable, and there had been more than enough of serious music; I therefore begged Astolfi, the Director, to give me a theme, so he lightly touched the notes with one finger thus:--

[Music]

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.

Rome, November 30th, 1830.

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 is much 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, is _brutto_ and 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 pa.s.sages 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 A major, and goes rather high at the words _Benedicta 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.

[7] The violin player, Edward Ritz, an intimate friend of Mendelssohn's.

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, a _soiree_ at 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.

Rome, December 7th, 1830.

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 a _brutissimo 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 as _prima donna a.s.soluta_ for the season, at both the princ.i.p.al theatres here,) is now arrived, and begins to make _la 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-two singers, 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.

[8] Formerly a singer in the Royal Theatre at Berlin.

The Pope is dead, and the Conclave a.s.sembles 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 "Pa.s.sion" 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 insignificant names 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 ma.s.ses 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 a.s.semble 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 the _primo amoroso_, another the _tiranno a.s.soluto_, 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 a _friend_ here, 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.

Rome, December 10th, 1830.

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 pa.s.sed 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.

[9] Afterwards published under the name of "Overture to the Hebrides."

This is indeed a delightful existence! My health is as good as possible, though the hot wind, called here the _sirocco_, 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 n.o.ble artist; his eyes look so clear, as if with him every object must a.s.sume 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.

December 11th, morning.

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. f.a.n.n.y 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:--

[Music]

[Music]

[Music]

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.