FELIX.

Rome, January 17th, 1831.

For a week past we have had the most lovely spring weather. Young

girls are carrying about nosegays of violets and anemones, which

they gather early in the morning at the Villa Pamfili. The streets

and squares swarm with gaily attired pedestrians; the Ave Maria has

already been advanced twenty minutes, but what is become of the

winter? Some little time ago it indeed reminded me of my work, to

which I now mean to apply steadily, for I own that during the gay

social life of the previous weeks, I had rather neglected it. I

have nearly completed the arrangement of "Solomon," and also my

Christmas anthem, which consists of five numbers; the two

symphonies also begin to assume a more definite form, and I

particularly wish to finish them here. Probably I shall be able to

accomplish this during Lent, when parties cease (especially balls)

and spring begins, and then I shall have both time and inclination

to compose, in which case I hope to have a good store of new

works. Any performance of them here is quite out of the question.

The orchestras are worse than any one could believe; both

musicians, and a right feeling for music, are wanting. The two or

three violin performers play just as they choose, and join in when

they please; the wind instruments are tuned either too high or too

low; and they execute flourishes like those we are accustomed to

hear in farm-yards, but hardly so good; in short the whole forms a

Dutch concert, and this applies even to compositions with which

they are familiar.

The question is, whether all this could be radically reformed by

introducing other people into the orchestra, by teaching the

musicians time, and by instructing them in first principles. I

think in that case the people would no doubt take pleasure in it;

so long, however, as this is not done, no improvement can be hoped

for, and every one seems so indifferent on the subject, that there

is not the slightest prospect of such a thing. I heard a solo on

the flute, where the flute was more than a quarter of a tone too

high; it set my teeth on edge, but no one remarked it, and when at

the end a shake came, they applauded mechanically. If it were even

a shade better with regard to singing! The great singers have left

the country. Lablache, David, Lalande, Pisaroni, etc., sing in

Paris, and the minor ones who remain, copy their inspired moments,

which they caricature in the most insupportable manner.

We in Germany may perhaps wish to accomplish something false or

impossible, but it is, and always will be, quite _dissimilar_; and

just as a _cicisbeo_ will for ever be odious and repulsive to my

feelings, so is it also with Italian music. I may be too obtuse to

comprehend either; but I shall never feel otherwise; and recently,

at the Philharmonic, after the music of Pacini and Bellini, when

the Cavaliere Ricci begged me to accompany him in "Non piu andrai,"

the very first notes were so utterly different and so infinitely

remote from all the previous music, that the matter was clear to me

then, and never will it be equalized, so long as there is such a

blue sky, and such a charming winter as the present. In the same

way the Swiss can paint no beautiful scenery, precisely because

they have it the whole day before their eyes. "Les Allemands

traitent la musique comme une affaire d'etat," says Spontini, and I

accept the axiom. I lately heard some musicians here talking of

their composers, and I listened in silence. One quoted ----, but

the others interrupted him, saying he could not be considered an

Italian, for the German school still clung to him, and he had never

been able to get rid of it; consequently he had never been at home

in Italy: we Germans say precisely the reverse of him, and it must

be not a little trying to find yourself so _entre deux_, and

without any fatherland. So far as I am concerned I stick to my own

colours, which are quite honourable enough for me.

Last night a theatre that Torlonia has undertaken and organized,

was opened with a new opera of Pacini's. The crowd was great, and

every box filled with handsome, well-dressed people; young Torlonia

appeared in a stage-box with his mother, the old Duchess, and they

were immensely applauded. The audience called out _Bravo, Torlonia,

grazie, grazie!_ Opposite to him was Jerome, with his suite, and

covered with orders: in the next box Countess Samoilow, etc. Over

the orchestra is a picture of Time pointing to the dial of the

clock, which revolves slowly, and is enough to make any one

melancholy. Pacini then appeared at the piano, and was kindly

welcomed. He had prepared no overture, so the opera began with a

chorus, accompanied by strokes on an anvil tuned in the proper key.

The Corsair came forward, sang his _aria_, and was applauded, on

which the Corsair above, and the Maestro below, bowed (this pirate

is a contralto, and sung by Mademoiselle Mariani); a variety of

airs followed, and the piece became very tiresome. This seemed to

be also the opinion of the public, for when Pacini's grand _finale_

began, the whole pit stood up, talking to each other as loud as

they could, laughing and turning their backs on the stage. Madame

Samoilow fainted in her box, and was carried out. Pacini glided

away from the piano, and at the end of the act, the curtain fell in

the midst of a great tumult. Then came the grand ballet of _Barbe

Bleue_, followed by the last act of the opera. As the audience were

now in a mood for it, they hissed the whole ballet from the very

beginning, and accompanied the second act also with hooting and

laughter. At the close Torlonia was called for, but he would not

appear.

This is the matter-of-fact narrative of a first performance at the

opening of a theatre in Rome. I had anticipated much amusement, so

I came away considerably out of humour; still, if the music had

made _furore_, I should have been very indignant, for it is so

wretched that it really is beneath all criticism. But that they

should turn their backs on their favourite Pacini, whom they wished

to crown in the Capitol, parody his melodies, and sing them in a

ludicrous style, this does, I confess, provoke me not a little, and

is likewise a proof of how low such a musician stands in the public

opinion. Another time they will carry him home on their shoulders;

but this is no compensation. They would not act thus in France with

regard to Boieldieu; independent of all love of art, a sense of

propriety would prevent their doing so: but enough of this subject,

for it is too vexatious.

Why should Italy still insist on being the land of Art, while it is

in reality the Land of Nature, thus delighting every heart! I have

already described to you my walks to the Monte Pincio. I continue

them daily. I went lately with the Vollards to Ponte Nomentano, a

solitary dilapidated bridge in the spacious green Campagna. Many

ruins from the days of ancient Rome, and many watch-towers from the

Middle Ages, are scattered over this long succession of meadows;

chains of hills rise towards the horizon, now partially covered

with snow, and fantastically varied in form and colour by the

shadows of the clouds. And there is also the enchanting, vapoury

vision of the Alban hills, which change their hues like a

chameleon, as you gaze at them,--where you can see for miles little

white chapels glittering on the dark ground of the hills, as far as

the Passionist Convent on the summit, and whence you can trace the

road winding through thickets, and the hills sloping downwards to

the Lake of Albano, while a hermitage peeps through the trees. The

distance is equal to that from Berlin to Potsdam, say I as a good

Berliner; but that it is a lovely vision, I say in earnest. No lack

of music _there_; it echoes and vibrates _there_ on every side; not

in the vapid, tasteless theatres. So we rambled about, chasing each

other in the Campagna, and jumping over the fences, and when the

sun went down we drove home, feeling so weary, and yet so

self-satisfied and pleased, as if we had done great things; and so

we have, if we _rightly appreciated_ it all.

I have now applied myself again to drawing, and have latterly put

in some tints, as I should be glad to be able to recall some of

these bright hues, and practice quickens the perceptions. I must

now tell you, dear mother, of a great, very great pleasure I

recently enjoyed, because you will rejoice with me. Two days ago I

was for the first time in a small circle with Horace Vernet, and

played there. He had previously told me that his most favourite and

esteemed music was "Don Juan," especially the Duet and the

Commendatore at the end; and as I highly approved of such

sentiments on his part, the result was, that while playing a

prelude to Weber's _Concert-Stueck_, I imperceptibly glided further

into extemporizing--thought I would please him by taking these

themes, and so I worked them up fancifully for some time. This

caused him a degree of delight far beyond what I ever knew my music

produce in any one, and we became at once more intimate. Afterwards

he suddenly came up to me, and whispered that we must make an

exchange, for that he also was an improvisatore; and when I was

naturally curious to know what he meant, he said it was his secret.

He is however like a little child, and could not conceal it for

more than a quarter of an hour, when he came in again, and taking

me into the next room, he asked me if I had any time to spare, as

he had stretched and prepared a canvas, and proposed painting my

portrait on it, which I was to keep in memory of this day, or roll

it up and send it to you, or take it with me, just as I chose. He

said he should have no easy task with his improvisation, but at all

events he would attempt it. I was only too glad to give my consent,

and cannot tell you how much I was enchanted with the delight and

enthusiasm he evidently felt in my playing.

It was in every respect a happy evening; as I ascended the hill

with him, all was so still and peaceful, and only one window lit up

in the large dark villa.[12] Fragments of music floated on the

air, and its echoes in the dark night, mingled with the murmuring

of fountains, were sweeter than I can describe. Two young students

were drilling in the anteroom, while the third acted the part of

lieutenant, and commanded in good form. In another room my friend

Montfort, who gained the prize for music in the Conservatorium, was

seated at a piano, and others were standing round, singing a

chorus; but it went very badly. They urged another young man to

join them, and when he said that he did not know how to sing, his

friend rejoined, "Qu'est-ce que ca fait? c'est toujours une voix de

plus!" I helped them as I best could, and we were well amused.

Afterwards we danced, and I wish you could have seen Louisa Vernet

dancing the Saltarella with her father. When at length she was

forced to stop for a few moments, and snatched up a tambourine,

playing with the utmost spirit, and relieving us, who could really

scarcely any longer move our hands, I wished I had been a painter,

for what a superb picture she would have made! Her mother is the

kindest creature in the world, and the grandfather, Charles Vernet

(who paints such splendid horses), danced a quadrille the same

evening with so much ease, making so many _entrechats_, and varying

his steps so gracefully, that it is a sad pity he should actually

be seventy-two years of age. Every day he rides, and tires out two

horses, paints and draws a little, and spends the evening in

society.

[12] Vernet lived in the Villa Medici.

In my next letter I must tell you of my acquaintance with Robert,

who has just finished an admirable picture, "The Harvest," and also

describe my recent visits with Bunsen to the studios of Cornelius,

Koch, Overbeck, etc. My time is fully occupied, for there is plenty

to do and to see; unluckily I cannot make time elastic, however

much I may strive to extend it. I have as yet said nothing of

Raphael's portrait as a child, and Titian's "Nymphs Bathing," who

in a piquant enough fashion are designated "Sacred and Profane

Love," one being in full gala costume, while the other is devoid of

all drapery,[13] or of my exquisite "Madonna di Foligno," or of

Francesco Francia, the most guileless and devout painter in the

world; or of poor Guido Reni, whom the bearded painters of the

present day treat with such contempt, and yet he painted a certain

Aurora, and many other splendid objects besides; but what avails

description? It is well for me that I can revel in the sight of

them. When we meet, I may perhaps be able to give you a better idea

of them.

Your FELIX.

[13] This picture is in the Borghese Gallery.

Rome, February 1st, 1831.

I intended not to write to you till my birthday, but possibly two

days hence I may not be in a writing mood, and must drive all

fancies away by hard work. It does not seem probable that the Papal

military band will surprise me in the morning,[14] and as I have

told all my acquaintances that I was born on the 25th, I think the

day will glide quietly by; I prefer this to a trivial half-and-half

celebration. I will place your portrait before me in the morning,

and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of you. I shall

then play over my military overture, and select my favourite dish

for dinner, from the _carte_ at the _Lepre_. It is not unprofitable

to be obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birthdays and

other days. I feel isolated enough, and am rather partial to the

other extreme. At night the Torlonias are so obliging as to give a

ball to eight hundred persons; on Wednesday, the day before, and

on Friday, the day after my birthday, I am invited to the house

of some English friends. During the previous week, I have been

busily engaged in sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known

objects;--thus I was in the Vatican, the Farnesina, Corsini, the

Villa Lante, Borghese, etc. Two days ago I saw the frescoes for the

first time in Bartholdy's house;[15] inasmuch as the English ladies

who reside there, and who have transformed the painted saloon into

a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, would never hitherto

permit me to enter it. So this was my first visit to my uncle's

house, where at last I saw his pictures, and the view of the city.

It was a noble, regal idea to have these frescoes; and the

execution of such a sublime thought, in spite of every kind of

impediment and annoyance, simply in order that the design should be

carried out, seems to me very charming.

[14] On the 3rd of February, 1830, the bands of some regiments in

Berlin gave Mendelssohn a serenade in honour of his birthday.

[15] The Prussian Consul-General Bartholdy, who died in Rome, and

was an uncle of Felix Mendelssohn's.

But to turn to an entirely different subject. In many circles here,

it is the fashion to consider piety and dulness synonymous, and yet

they are very different; our German clergyman here is not

behindhand in this respect. There are men in Rome with an amount of

fanaticism credible in the sixteenth century, but quite monstrous

in the present day; they all wish to make converts, abusing each

other in a Christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief of his

neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. As if to have

simplicity, and to be simple, were the same thing! Unfortunately I

must here retract my favourite axiom, that _goodwill_ can effect

all things, _ability_ must accompany it; but I am soaring too high,

and my father will lecture me. I wish this letter were better, but

we have snow on the ground; the roofs in the Piazza di Spagna are

quite white, and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing can be

more odious to us Southerners, and we are freezing. The Monte

Pincio is a mass of ice. Your Northern Lights have their revenge on

us. Who can write or think with any degree of warmth? I was so

pleased at the idea of being a whole winter without snow, but now I

must give up that notion. The Italians say that spring breezes will

come in a few days; then gay life, and gay letters, will be

resumed. Farewell! may you enjoy every good, and think of me.