Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland Part 5

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 all _my_ virtues in exchange for Mozart's sins: but that of course I could not venture to p.r.o.nounce on the extent of _his_ virtues. 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 their _Cafe 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 not on 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 t.i.tian 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 t.i.tian'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 whatever they are called the same as in the "Transfiguration." Below, saints and martyrs are represented in suffering and abas.e.m.e.nt; 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 which _we_ see, 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. t.i.tian has imbued it with his genius and his poetical feeling, and has thus 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 t.i.tian 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 to _coteries_ which 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, a frivolous, 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 pa.s.sing events, and that this should give rise to a peculiar, and perhaps monotonous style of conversation; but this by no means const.i.tutes a _coterie_. 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 of _coterie_, 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 a.s.semble in conclave. The building surpa.s.ses all powers of description. It appears to me like some great work of nature, a forest, a ma.s.s of rocks, 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 any singing 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 wonderful _coup d'oeil_.

Through the spiral columns of the high altar, which is confessedly as high as the palace in Berlin, far beyond the s.p.a.ce of the cupola, the whole ma.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce, 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!

[10] A little sketch of the catafalque was enclosed in the letter.

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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sume 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.

Rome, December 20th, 1830.

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 pa.s.sing 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 Trinita 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 even more 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 a.s.sured; 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 the _barbaro 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]

[11] This piece appeared afterwards as Opus 39.

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 is formed 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 the _maitre 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 ou est-elle donc, cette pet.i.te Anglaise? Ma femme m'a envoye 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 the most 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 silver wedding-day, when I intend to have a great many lights, and to sing my "Liederspiel," and to have a peep at my English _baton_. 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!

December 21st.

This is the shortest day, and very gloomy, as might have been antic.i.p.ated; so to-day nothing can be thought of but fugues, chorals, b.a.l.l.s, 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 light _theirs_ from 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 pa.s.ses onwards.

FELIX.

Rome, December 28th, 1830.

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 through the 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 a _trottoir_; at the stair of the Piazza di Spagna, there is a flood like the great water-works in Wilhelms-Hohe; 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. "Padrone,"

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 just.i.tia 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 ma.n.u.scripts 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 a.s.sured me that the cause of this was a secret correspondence being suspected in cipher in the ma.n.u.script music. I could scarcely credit such intolerable stupidity; but as my two letters from Venice containing music have not arrived, and these only, the thing is clear enough. I intend to complain of this to the Austrian amba.s.sador here, but it will do no good, and the letters are lost, which I much regret. Farewell!

FELIX.

Rome, January 17th, 1831.

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 a.s.sume 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 b.a.l.l.s) 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 new works. 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 accomplish something false or impossible, but it is, and always will be, quite _dissimilar_; and just as a _cicisbeo_ will 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 piu 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'etat," 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 so _entre 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 d.u.c.h.ess, and they were immensely applauded. The audience called out _Bravo, 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 his _aria_, 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 grand _finale_ began, 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 of _Barbe 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 and laughter. 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 antic.i.p.ated much amus.e.m.e.nt, so I came away considerably out of humour; still, if the music had made _furore_, 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 s.p.a.cious 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, and fantastically 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 Pa.s.sionist 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 music _there_; it echoes and vibrates _there_ on 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 we _rightly appreciated_ it 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 as I highly approved of such sentiments on his part, the result was, that while playing a prelude to Weber's _Concert-Stuck_, 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 the air, 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 ca 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 many _entrechats_, 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.

[12] Vernet lived in the Villa Medici.

In my next letter I must tell you of my acquaintance with 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 t.i.tian'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.