Venice, October 16th, 1830.
Dear Professor,
I have entered Italy at last, and I intend this letter to be the
commencement of a regular series of reports, which I purpose
transmitting to you, of all that appears to me particularly worthy
of notice. Though I only now for the first time write to you, I
must beg you to impute the blame to the state of constant
excitement in which I lived, both in Munich and in Vienna. It was
needless for me to describe to you the parties in Munich, which I
attended every evening, and where I played the piano more
unremittingly than I ever did in my life before; one _soiree_
succeeding another so closely, that I really had not a moment to
collect my thoughts. Moreover, it would not have particularly
interested you, for after all, "good society which does not offer
materials for the smallest epigram," is equally vapid in a letter.
I hope that you have not taken amiss my long silence, and that I
may expect a few lines from you, even if they contain nothing save
that you are well and cheerful.
[5] Mendelssohn's instructor in the theory of music.
The aspect of the world at this moment is very bleak and stormy,
and much that was once thought durable and unchangeable, has been
swept away in the course of a couple of days. It is then doubly
welcome to hear well-known voices, to convince us that there are
certain things which cannot be annihilated or demolished, but
remain firm and steadfast. You must know that I am at this moment
very uneasy at not having received any news from home for some
weeks past. I found no letters from my family, either at Trieste or
here, so a few lines from you, written in your old fashion, would
both cheer and gratify me, especially as it would prove that you
think of me with the same kindness that you have always done from
my childhood to the present time.
My family have no doubt told you of the exhilarating impression
made on me by the first sight of the plains of Italy. I hurry from
one enjoyment to another hour by hour, and constantly see something
novel and fresh; but immediately on my arrival I discovered some
masterpieces of art, which I study with deep attention, and
contemplate daily for a couple of hours at least. These are three
pictures by Titian. The "Presentation of Mary as a Child in the
Temple;" the "Assumption of the Virgin;" and the "Entombment of
Christ." There is also a portrait by Giorgione, representing a girl
with a cithern in her hand, plunged in thought, and looking forth
from the picture in serious meditation (she is apparently about to
begin a song, and you feel as if you must do the same): besides
many others.
To see these alone would be worth a journey to Venice; for the
fruitfulness, genius, and devotion of the great men who painted
these pictures, seem to emanate from them afresh as often as you
gaze at their works, and I do not much regret that I have scarcely
heard any music here; for I suppose I must not venture to include
the music of the angels, in the "Assumption," encircling Mary with
joyous shouts of welcome; one gaily beating the tambourine, a
couple of others blowing away on strange crooked flutes, while
another charming group are singing--or the music floating in the
thoughts of the cithern player. I have only once heard anything on
the organ, and miserable it was. I was gazing at Titian's
"Martyrdom of St. Peter" in the Franciscan Church. Divine service
was going on, and nothing inspires me with more solemn awe than
when on the very spot for which they were originally created and
painted, those ancient pictures in all their grandeur, gradually
steal forth out of the darkness in which the long lapse of time has
veiled them.
As I was earnestly contemplating the enchanting evening landscape
with its trees, and angels among the boughs, the organ commenced.
The first sound was quite in harmony with my feelings; but the
second, third, and in fact all the rest, quickly roused me from my
reveries, and sent me straight home, for the man was playing in
church and during divine service, and in the presence of
respectable people, thus:
[Music]
with the "Martyrdom of St. Peter" actually close beside him! I was
therefore in no great hurry to make the acquaintance of the
organist. There is no regular Opera here at this moment, and the
gondoliers no longer sing, Tasso's stanzas; moreover, what I have
hitherto seen of modern Venetian art, consists of poems framed and
glazed on the subject of Titian's pictures, or Rinaldo and Armida,
by a new Venetian painter, or a St. Cecilia by a ditto, besides
various specimens of architecture in no style at all; as all these
are totally insignificant, I cling to the ancient masters, and
study how they worked. Often, after doing so, I feel a musical
inspiration, and since I came here I have been busily engaged in
composition.
Before I left Vienna, a friend of mine made me a present of
Luther's Hymns, and on reading them over I was again so much struck
by their power, that I intend to compose music for several next
winter. I have nearly completed here the choral "Aus tiefer Noth,"
for four voices _a capella_; and the Christmas hymn, "Vom Himmel
hoch," is already in my head. I wish also to set the following
hymns to music: "Ach Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein," "Wir glauben
all' an einen Gott," "Verleih uns Frieden," "Mitten wir im Leben
sind," and finally "Ein' feste Burg." The latter, however, it is my
intention to compose for a choir and orchestra. Pray write to me
about this project of mine, and say whether you approve of my
retaining the ancient melodies in them all, but not adhering to
them too strictly: for instance, if I were to take the first verse
of "Vom Himmel hoch" as a separate grand chorus. Besides this, I am
hard at work at an orchestral overture, and if an opportunity for
an opera offered it would be most welcome.
I finished two pieces of sacred music in Vienna--a choral in three
movements for chorus and orchestra ("O! Haupt voll Blut und
Wunden") and an Ave Maria for a choir of eight voices, _a capella_.
The people I associated with there were so dissipated and
frivolous, that I became quite spiritually-minded, and conducted
myself like a divine among them. Moreover, not one of the best
pianoforte players there, male or female, ever played a note of
Beethoven, and when I hinted that he and Mozart were not to be
despised, they said, "So you are an admirer of classical
music?"--"Yes," said I.
To-morrow I intend to go to Bologna to have a glance at the St.
Cecilia, and then proceed by Florence to Rome, where I hope (D. V.)
to arrive eight or ten days hence. I will then write to you more
satisfactorily. I only wished to make a beginning to-day, and to
beg you not to forget me, and kindly to accept my heartfelt wishes
for your health and happiness. Your faithful