FELIX.

Rome, December 10th, 1830.

Dear Father,

It is a year this very day since we kept your birthday at Hensel's,

and now let me give you some account of Rome, as I did at that time

of London. I intend to finish my Overture to the "Einsame Insel"[9]

as a present to you, and if I write under it the 11th December,

when I take up the sheets I shall feel as if I were about to place

them in your hands. You would probably say that you could not read

them, but still I should have offered you the best it was in my

power to give; and though I desire to do this every day, still

there is a peculiar feeling connected with a birthday. Would I were

with you! I need not offer you my good wishes, for you know them

all already, and the deep interest I, and all of us, take in your

happiness and welfare, and that we cannot wish any good for you,

that is not reflected doubly on ourselves. To-day is a holiday. I

rejoice in thinking how cheerful you are at home; and when I repeat

to you how happily I live here, I feel as if this were also a

felicitation. A period like this, when serious thought and

enjoyment are combined, is indeed most cheering and invigorating.

Every time I enter my room I rejoice that I am not obliged to

pursue my journey on the following day, and that I may quietly

postpone many things till the morrow--that I am in Rome! Hitherto

much that passed through my brain was swept away by fresh ideas,

each new impression chasing away the previous one, while here, on

the contrary, they are all in turn properly developed. I never

remember having worked with so much zeal, and if I am to complete

all that I have projected, I must be very industrious during the

winter. I am indeed deprived of the great delight of showing my

finished compositions to one who could take pleasure in them, and

enter into them along with me; but this impels me to return to my

labours, which please me most when I am fairly in the midst of

them. And now this must be combined with the various solemnities,

and festivals of every kind, which are to supplant my work for a

few days; and as I have resolved to see and to enjoy all I possibly

can, I do not allow my occupation to prevent this, and shall then

return with fresh zeal to my composition.

[9] Afterwards published under the name of "Overture to the

Hebrides."

This is indeed a delightful existence! My health is as good as

possible, though the hot wind, called here the _sirocco_, rather

attacks my nerves, and I find I must beware of playing the piano

much, or at night; besides it is easy for me to refrain from doing

so for a few days, as for some weeks past I have been playing

almost every evening. Bunsen, who often warns me against playing

if I find it prejudicial, gave a large party yesterday, where

nevertheless I was obliged to play; but it was a pleasure

to me, for I had the opportunity of making so many agreeable

acquaintances. Thorwaldsen, in particular, expressed himself in so

gratifying a manner with regard to me, that I felt quite proud, for

I honor him as one of the greatest of men, and always have revered

him. He looks like a lion, and the very sight of his face is

invigorating. You feel at once that he must be a noble artist; his

eyes look so clear, as if with him every object must assume a

definite form and image. Moreover he is very gentle, and kind, and

mild, because his nature is so superior; and yet he seems to be

able to enjoy every trifle. It is a real source of pleasure to see

a great man, and to know that the creator of works that will endure

for ever stands before you in person; a living being with all his

attributes, and individuality, and genius, and yet a man like

others.

December 11th, morning.

Now your actual birthday is arrived! A few lines of music suggested

themselves to me on the occasion, and though they may not be worth

much, the congratulations I have been in the habit of offering,

were of quite as little value. Fanny may add the second part. I

have only written what occurred to my mind as I entered the room,

the sun shining, on your birthday:--

[Music]

[Music]

[Music]

Bunsen has just been here, and begs me to send you his best regards

and congratulations. He is all kindness and courtesy towards me,

and as you wish to know, I think I may say that we suit each other

remarkably well. The few words you wrote about P---- recalled him

to my memory in all his offensiveness. The Abbate Santini ought to

be an obscure man compared with him, for he never attempts to

magnify his own importance by impertinence or self-sufficiency.

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 pronounce 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

Titian 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 Titian'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 abasement; 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. Titian

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 Titian 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 passing events, and that

this should give rise to a peculiar, and perhaps monotonous style

of conversation; but this by no means constitutes 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 assemble in conclave. The building surpasses all

powers of description. It appears to me like some great work of

nature, a forest, a mass 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 space of the

cupola, the whole mass 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 space, 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 pass through the

room with the Christmas-tree. I am afraid I must be contented with

thinking of you.--Farewell all! May you be happy!