Rome, December 28th, 1830.
Rome in wet weather is the most odious, uncomfortable place
imaginable. For some days past we have had incessant storms and
cold, and streams of water from the sky; and I can scarcely
comprehend how, only one week ago, I could write you a letter full
of rambles and orange-trees and all that is beautiful: in such
weather as this everything becomes ugly. Still, I must write to you
about it, otherwise my previous letter would not have the advantage
of contrast, and of that there is no lack. If in Germany we can
form no conception of the bright winter days here, quite as little
can we realize a really wet winter day in Rome; everything is
arranged for fine weather, so the bad is borne like a public
calamity, and in the hope of better times. There is no shelter
anywhere; in my room, which is usually so comfortable, the water
pours in through the windows, which will not shut fast; the wind
whistles through the doors, which will not close; the stone floor
chills you in spite of double mattings, and the smoke from the
chimney is driven into the room, because the fire will not burn;
foreigners shiver and freeze here like tailors.
All this is, however, actual luxury when compared with the streets;
and when I am obliged to go out, I consider it a positive
misfortune. Rome, as every one knows, is built on seven large
hills; but there are a number of smaller ones besides, and all the
streets are sloping, so the water pours down them, and rushes
towards you; nowhere is there a raised footpath, or a _trottoir_;
at the stair of the Piazza di Spagna, there is a flood like the
great water-works in Wilhelms-Hoehe; the Tiber has overflowed its
banks, and inundated the adjacent streets: this, then, is the water
from below. From above come violent showers of rain, but that is
the least part. The houses have no water-spouts, and the long roofs
slant precipitously, but, being of different lengths, this causes
an incessant violent inundation on both sides of the street, so
that go where you will, close to the houses, or in the middle of
the streets, beside a barber's shop or a palace, you are sure to be
deluged, and, quite unawares, you find yourself standing under a
tremendous shower-bath, the water pelting on your umbrella, while a
stream is running before you that you cannot jump over, so you are
obliged to return the way you came: this is the water overhead.
Then the carriages drive as rapidly as possible, and close to the
houses, so that you must retreat into the doorways till they are
past; they not only splash men and houses, but each other, so that
when two meet, one must drive into the gutter, which, being a rapid
current, the consequences are lamentable. Lately I saw an Abbate
hurrying along, whose umbrella chancing to knock off the
broad-brimmed hat of a peasant, it fell with the crown exposed to
one of these deluges, and when the man went to pick it up, it was
quite filled with water. "Scusi," said the Abbate. "Padrone,"
replied the peasant. The hackney coaches moreover only ply till
five o'clock, so if you go to a party at night, it costs you a
scudo. _Fiat justitia et pereat mundus_--Rome in rainy weather is
vastly disagreeable.
I see by a letter of Devrient's, that one I wrote to him from
Venice, and which I took to the post myself on the 17th of October,
had not reached him on the 19th of November. It would appear also,
that another which I sent the same day to Munich had not arrived;
both these letters contained music, and this accounts for the loss.
At that very time in Venice they carried off all my manuscripts to
the Custom-house, after visiting my effects at night, shortly
before the departure of the post, and I only received them again
here, after much worry and writing backwards and forwards. Every
one assured me that the cause of this was a secret correspondence
being suspected in cipher in the manuscript music. I could scarcely
credit such intolerable stupidity; but as my two letters from
Venice containing music have not arrived, and these only, the
thing is clear enough. I intend to complain of this to the Austrian
ambassador here, but it will do no good, and the letters are lost,
which I much regret. Farewell!