Rome, March 1st, 1831.
While I write this date, I shrink from the thought of how time
flies. Before this month is at an end the Holy Week begins, and
when it is over, my stay in Rome will be drawing to a close. I now
try to reflect whether I have made the best use of my time, and on
every side I perceive a deficiency. If I could only compass one of
my two symphonies! I must and will reserve the Italian one till I
have seen Naples, which must play a part in it, but the other also
seems to elude my grasp; the more I try to seize it and the nearer
the end of this delightful quiet Roman period approaches, the more
am I perplexed, and the less do I seem to succeed. I feel as if it
will be long indeed before I can write again as freely as here, and
so I am eager to finish what I have to do, but I make no progress.
The "Walpurgis Night" alone gets on quickly, and I hope it will
soon be accomplished. Besides, I cannot resist every day sketching,
that I may carry away with me reminiscences of my favourite haunts.
There is still much that I wish to see, so I perfectly well know
that this month will suddenly come to an end, and much remain
undone; and indeed it is quite too beautiful here.
Rome is considerably changed, and neither so gay nor so cheerful as
formerly.[16] Almost all my acquaintances are gone; the promenades
and streets are deserted, the galleries closed, and it is
impossible to gain admittance into them. All news from without
almost entirely fails us, (for we saw the details about Bologna
first in the 'Allgemeine Zeitung' yesterday;) people seldom or
never congregate together; in fact, everything has subsided into
entire rest; but then the weather is lovely, and no one can deprive
us of this warm, balmy atmosphere. Those who are most to be pitied
in the present state of affairs are the Vernet ladies, who are
unpleasantly situated here. The hatred of the entire Roman populace
is, strangely enough, directed against the French Pensionaries,
believing that their influence alone could easily effect a
revolution. Threatening anonymous letters have been repeatedly sent
to Vernet; indeed he one day found an armed Transteverin stationed
in front of the windows of his studio, who however took to flight
when Vernet fetched his gun: and as the ladies are now entirely
alone, and isolated in the villa, their family are naturally very
uneasy. Still all continues quiet and serene within the city, and I
am quite convinced it will remain so.
[16] Some disturbances had in the meantime broken out in the
Ecclesiastical States, at Bologna.
The German painters are really more contemptible than I can tell
you. Not only have they cut off their whiskers and moustaches, and
their long hair and beards, openly declaring that as soon as all
danger is at an end they will let them grow again, but these tall
stalwart fellows go home as soon as it is dark, lock themselves in,
and discuss their fears together. They call Horace Vernet a
braggart, and yet he is very different from these miserable
creatures, whose conduct makes me cordially despise them. Latterly
I occasionally visited some of the modern studios. Thorwaldsen has
just finished a statue in clay of Lord Byron. He is seated amidst
ancient ruins, his feet resting on the capital of a column, while
he is gazing into the distance, evidently about to write something
on the tablets he holds in his hand. He is represented not in Roman
costume, but in a simple modern dress, and I think it looks well,
and does not destroy the general effect. The statue has the natural
air and easy pose so remarkable in all this sculptor's works, and
yet the poet looks sufficiently gloomy and elegiac, though not
affected. I must some day write you a whole letter about the
'Triumph of Alexander,' for never did any piece of sculpture make
such an impression on me; I go there every week, and stand gazing
at that alone, and enter Babylon along with the Conqueror. I lately
called on A----; he has brought with him some admirable pencil
sketches from Naples and Sicily, so I should be glad to take some
hints from him, but I fear that he is a considerable exaggerator,
and does not sketch faithfully. His landscape of the Colosseum,
at H. B., is a beautiful romance; for I cannot say that in
the original I ever perceived woods of large cypresses and
orange-trees, or fountains or thickets in the centre, extending to
the ruins. Moreover, _his_ moustaches have also disappeared.
I have something amusing to tell you in conclusion. I wish, O my
Fanny, that as a contrast to your Sunday harmony you had heard the
music we perpetrated last Sunday evening. We wished to sing the
Psalms of Marcello, being Lent, and the best dilettanti
consequently assembled. A Papal singer was in the middle, a
_maestro_ at the piano, and we sang. When a soprano solo came, all
the ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, so it was
executed as a _tutti_. The tenor by my side never alighted on the
right note, and rambled about in the most insecure regions. When I
chimed in as second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when I
tried to assist him, he seemed to think that was my original part,
and kept steadily to his own. The Papal singer at one instant sang
in the soprano falsetto, and presently took the first bass; soon
after he quaked out the _alt_, and when all that was of no avail,
he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and we nodded mysteriously to
each other. The _maestro_, in striving to set us all right,
repeatedly lost his own place, being a bar behind, or one in
advance, and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, just as
we thought fit. Suddenly came a very solemn solo passage for the
bass, which _all_ attacked valiantly, but at the second bar broke
into a chorus of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, so
the affair ended in high good-humour. The people who had come as
audience talked at the pitch of their voices, and then went out and
dispersed. Eynard came in and listened to our music for a time,
then made a horrid grimace, and was seen no more. Farewell! Health
and happiness attend you all!