I have just received your letter, which brings me the intelligence
of Goethe's illness. What I personally feel at this news I cannot
express. This whole evening his words, "I must try to keep all
right till your return," have sounded continually in my ears, to
the exclusion of every other thought: when he is gone, Germany will
assume a very different aspect for artists. I have never thought of
Germany without feeling heartfelt joy and pride that Goethe lived
there; and the rising generation seem for the most part so weakly
and feeble, that it makes my heart sink within me. He is the last;
and with him closes a happy prosperous period for us! This year
ends in solemn sadness.
Rome, December 20th, 1830.
In my former letter I told you of the more serious aspect of Roman
life; but as I wish to describe to you how I live, I must now tell
you of the gayeties that have prevailed during this week.
To-day we have the most genial sunshine, a blue sky, and a
transparent atmosphere, and on such days I have my own mode of
passing my time. I work hard till eleven o'clock, and from that
hour till dark, I do nothing but breathe the air. For the first
time, for some days past, we yesterday had fine weather. After
therefore working for a time in the morning at "Solomon," I went to
the Monte Pincio, where I rambled about the whole day. The effect
of this exhilarating air is quite magical; and when I arose to-day,
and again saw bright sunshine, I exulted in the thoughts of the
entire idleness I was again about to indulge in. The whole world is
on foot, revelling in a December spring. Every moment you meet some
acquaintance, with whom you lounge about for a time, then leave
him, and once more enjoy your solitary revery. There are swarms of
handsome faces to be seen. As the sun declines, the appearance of
the whole landscape, and every hue, undergo a change. When the Ave
Maria sounds, it is time to go to the church of Trinita de' Monti,
where French nuns sing; and it is charming to hear them. I declare
to heaven that I am become quite tolerant, and listen to bad music
with edification; but what can I do? the composition is positively
ridiculous; the organ playing even more absurd. But it is
twilight, and the whole of the small bright church is filled with
persons kneeling, lit up by the sinking sun each time that the door
is opened; both the singing nuns have the sweetest voices in the
world, quite tender and touching, more especially when one of them
sings the responses in her melodious voice, which we are accustomed
to hear chanted by priests in a loud, harsh, monotonous tone. The
impression is very singular; moreover, it is well known that no one
is permitted to see the fair singers,--so this caused me to form a
strange resolution. I have composed something to suit their voices,
which I observed very minutely, and I mean to send it to
them,--there are several modes to which I can have recourse to
accomplish this. That they will sing it, I feel quite assured; and
it will be pleasant for me to hear my chant performed by persons
whom I never saw, especially as they must in turn sing it to the
_barbaro Tedesco_, whom they also never beheld. I am charmed with
this idea. The text is in Latin,--a Prayer to Mary. Does not this
notion please you?[11]
[11] This piece appeared afterwards as Opus 39.
After church I walk again on the hill until it is quite dark, when
Madame Vernet and her daughter, and pretty Madame V---- (for whose
acquaintance I have to thank Roesel), are much admired by us
Germans, and we form groups round them, or follow, or walk beside
them. The background is formed by haggard painters with terrific
beards; they smoke tobacco on the Monte Pincio, whistle to their
huge dogs, and enjoy the sunset in their own way.
As I am in a frivolous mood to-day, I must relate to you, dear
sisters, every particular of a ball I lately attended, and where I
danced with a degree of zeal I never did before. I had spoken a few
fair words to the _maitre de danse_ (who stands in the middle here,
and regulates everything), consequently he allowed the galop to
continue for more than half an hour, so I was in my element, and
pleasantly conscious that I was dancing in the Palazzo Albani, in
Rome, and also with the prettiest girl in it, according to the
verdict of the competent judges (Thorwaldsen, Vernet, etc.) The way
in which I became acquainted with her is also an anecdote of Rome.
I was at Torlonia's first ball, though not dancing, as I knew none
of the ladies present, but merely looking at the people. Suddenly
some one tapped me on the shoulder, saying, "So you also are
admiring the English beauty; I am quite dazzled." It was
Thorwaldsen himself standing at the door, lost in admiration;
scarcely had he said this, when we heard a torrent of words behind
us,--"Mais ou est-elle donc, cette petite Anglaise? Ma femme m'a
envoye pour la regarder. Per Bacco!" It was quite clear that this
little thin Frenchman, with stiff, grey hair, and the ribbon of the
Legion of Honour, must be Horace Vernet. He now discussed the
youthful beauty with Thorwaldsen, in the most earnest and
scientific manner; and it was quite a pleasure to me to see these
two old masters admiring the young girl together, while she was
dancing away, quite unconcerned. They were then presented to her
parents, but I felt very insignificant, as I could not join in the
conversation. A few days afterwards, however, I was with some
acquaintances whom I knew through the Attwoods, at Venice, they
having invited me for the purpose of presenting me to some of their
friends; and these friends turned out to be the very persons I have
been speaking of; so your son and brother was highly delighted.
My pianoforte playing is a source of great gratification to me
here. You know how Thorwaldsen loves music, and I sometimes play to
him in the morning while he is at work. He has an excellent
instrument in his studio, and when I look at the old gentleman and
see him kneading his brown clay, and delicately fining off an arm,
or a fold of drapery,--in short, when he is creating what we must
all admire when completed, as an enduring work,--then I do indeed
rejoice that I have the means of bestowing any enjoyment on him.
Nevertheless, I have not fallen into arrear with my own tasks. The
"Hebrides" is completed at last, and a strange production it is.
The chant for the nuns is in my head; and I think of composing
Luther's choral for Christmas, but on this occasion I must do so
quite alone; and it will be a more serious affair this time, and so
will the anniversary of your silver wedding-day, when I intend to
have a great many lights, and to sing my "Liederspiel," and to have
a peep at my English _baton_. After the new year, I intend to
resume instrumental music, and to write several things for the
piano, and probably a symphony of some kind, for two have been
haunting my brain.
I have lately frequented a most delightful spot,--the tomb of
Cecilia Metella. The Sabine hills had a sprinkling of snow, but it
was glorious sunshine; the Alban hills were like a dream or a
vision. There is no such thing as distance in Italy, for all the
houses on the hills can be counted, with their roofs and windows. I
have thus inhaled this air to satiety; and to-morrow in all
probability, more serious occupations will be resumed, for the sky
is cloudy, and it is raining hard, but what a spring this will be!
December 21st.
This is the shortest day, and very gloomy, as might have been
anticipated; so to-day nothing can be thought of but fugues,
chorals, balls, etc. But I must say a few words about Guido's
"Aurora," which I often visit; it is a picture the very type of
haste and impetus; for surely no man ever imagined such hurry and
tumult, such sounding and clashing. Painters maintain that it is
lighted from two sides,--they have my full permission to light
_theirs_ from three if it will improve them,--but the difference
lies elsewhere.
I really cannot compose a tolerable song here, for who is there to
sing it to me? But I am writing a grand fugue, "Wir glauben all,"
and sing it to myself in such a fashion that my friend the Captain
rushes downstairs in alarm, puts in his head, and asks what I want.
I answer--a counter theme. But how much I do really want; and yet
how much I have got! Thus life passes onwards.