Rome, November 2nd, 1830.
... I refrain from writing longer in this melancholy strain; for
just as your letter, after a lapse of fourteen days, has saddened
me, my answer will have the same effect on you fourteen days hence.
You would write to me in the same style, and so it might go on for
ever. As four weeks must pass before I can receive any answer, I
feel that I ought to restrict myself to relating events past and
present, and not dwell much on the particular frame of my mind at
the moment, which is indeed usually sufficiently manifest in the
narrative given, and the various occurrences described.
I have scarcely yet arrived at the conviction that I am now
actually in Rome; and when yesterday, just as day was breaking, I
drove across a bridge with statues, under a deep blue sky, and in
dazzling white moonlight, and the courier said, "Ponte Molle," it
all seemed to me like a dream, and at the same moment I saw before
me my sick-bed in London a year ago, and my rough Scotch journey,
and Munich, and Vienna, and the pines on these hills. The journey
from Florence to Rome has very few attractions. Siena, which is, I
understand worth seeing, we passed through during the night. It was
unpleasant to see a regular Government courier compelled to take a
military escort, which was doubled at night; still it must be
absolutely necessary, as he is obliged to pay for it. In these days
this ought not to be the case. In the meantime everything
progresses, and there are moments when the bound forwards is
actually visible.
I was still in Florence, waiting for the departure of the post,
reading a French newspaper, when at the very moment the bell
sounded, I read among the advertisements, "Vie de Siebenkaes, par
Jean Paul." Many reflections occurred to me as to so many men of
renown gradually vanishing from our sight, and our great geniuses
having such homage paid to them after their death, and yet during
their _life_, Lafontaine's novels and French vaudevilles alone make
any impression on their fellow-countrymen; while _we_ only strive
to appreciate the very refuse of the French, and neglect
Beaumarchais and Rousseau. However, it matters little after all.
The first thing connected with music that I met with here, was the
"Tod Jesu," by Graun, which an Abbate here, Fortunato Santini, has
translated faithfully and admirably into Italian. It appears that
the music of this heretic has been sent along with the translation
to Naples, where it is to be produced this winter at a great
festival, and I hear that the musical world there are quite
enchanted with it, and are studying the work with infinite love and
enthusiasm. I understand that the Abbate has been long impatiently
expecting me, because he hopes to obtain considerable information
from me about German music, and thinks I may also have the score of
Bach's "Passion." Thus music progresses onwards, as sure to pierce
through as the sun; if mists still prevail, it is merely a sign
that the spring-time has not yet come, but come again it must and
will! Farewell! and from my heart I say,--May a merciful Providence
preserve you all in health and happiness!