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 assure 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 God, 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 Haendel'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 bass 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 passed 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 passed 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

Passionist convent, where they are only permitted to speak for a

single hour daily, and occupy themselves solely in reading the

history of the passion 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 embarrassed, 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 passages 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 assoluta_ for the season, at both the principal

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 assembles 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 "Passion" 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 masses 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 assemble 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 assoluto_, 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.