Rome, November 16th, 1830.
Dear Fanny,
No post left this the day before yesterday, and I could not talk to
you, so when I remembered that my letter must necessarily remain
two days before it left Rome, I felt it impossible to write; but I
thought of you times without number, and wished you every
happiness, and congratulated myself that you were born a certain
number of years ago. It is, indeed, cheering to think what
charming, rational beings, are to be found in the world; and you
are certainly one of these. Continue cheerful, bright, and well,
and make no great change in yourself. I don't think you require to
be much better; may good fortune ever abide with you!
And now I think these are all my birthday good wishes; for really
it is not fair to expect that a man of my _calibre_ should wish you
also a fresh stock of musical ideas; besides you are very
unreasonable in complaining of any deficiency in that respect. _Per
Bacco!_ if you had the inclination, you certainly have sufficient
genius to compose, and if you have no desire to do so, why grumble
so much? If I had a baby to nurse, I certainly should not write any
scores, and as I have to compose _Non Nobis_, I cannot unluckily
carry my nephew about in my arms. But to speak seriously, your
child is scarcely six months old yet, and you can think of anything
but Sebastian?[6] (not Bach!) Be thankful that you have him. Music
only retreats when there is no longer a place for her, and I am not
surprised that you are not an unnatural mother. However, you have
my best wishes on your birthday, for all that your heart desires;
so I may as well wish you half-a-dozen melodies into the bargain;
not that this will be of much use.
[6] The name of the child.
In Rome here, we celebrated the 14th of November by the sky
shining, in blue and festive array, and breathing on us warm genial
air. So I went on pleasantly towards the Capitol and into church,
where I heard a miserable sermon from ----, who is no doubt a very
good man, but to my mind has a most morose style of preaching; and
any one who could irritate me on _such_ a day, in the Capitol, and
in church, must have an especial talent for so doing. I afterwards
went to call on Bunsen, who had just arrived. He and his wife
received me most kindly, and we conversed on much that was
interesting, including politics and regrets for your absence.
_Apropos_, my favourite work that I am now studying is Goethe's
'Lili's Park,' especially three portions: "Kehr' ich mich um, und
brumm:" then, "Eh la menotte;" and best of all, "Die ganze Luft ist
warm, ist bluethevoll," where decidedly clarionets must be
introduced. I mean to make it the subject of a scherzo for a
symphony.
Yesterday, at dinner at Bunsen's, we had among others a German
musician. Oh, heavens! I wish I were a Frenchman! The man said to
me, "Music must be _handled_ every day." "Why?" replied I, which
rather embarrassed him. He also spoke of earnest purpose; and said
that Spohr had no earnest purpose, but that he had distinctly
discerned gleams of an earnest purpose in my _Tu es Petrus_. The
fellow, however, has a small property at Frascati, and is about to
_lay down_ the profession of music. We have not got so far as that
yet!
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 "Passion" 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 Passion 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
associate with the Roman world. My kind English friends have
arrived from Venice; Lord Harrowby and his family are to pass 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 Fanny, that I have prepared for your birthday, is
a psalm, for chorus and orchestra, _Non nobis, 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
quantity 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!