Rome, March 15th, 1831.
The letters of introduction that R---- sent me, have been of no use
to me here. L---- likewise, to whom I was presented by Bunsen, has
not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other
way when we meet. I rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. Albani
admitted me, so I had the honour of conversing for half an hour
with a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, he asked me
if I was a pensioner of the King of Hanover. "No," said I. He
supposed that I must have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I
knew Meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure his music;
it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so
learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was
a German, and the Germans, _mon ami_, have not the most remote
conception of what melody is! "No," said I. "In _my_ scores,"
continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the
first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings,
and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the
double-bass sings too." I was naturally desirous, in all humility,
to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me
nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in Rome a
agreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit to his villa,
and I might take as many of my friends with me as I chose. It was
near such and such a place. I thanked him very much, and
subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but
presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any
one can go there who chooses. Since that time I have heard no more
of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with
respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest Roman circles,
I resolved not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was
satisfied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed out to me on
the promenade, where I met them daily.
I think Mizkiewicz very tiresome. He possesses that kind of
indifference which bores both himself and others, though the ladies
persist in designating it melancholy and lassitude; but this makes
it no better in my eyes. If he looks at St. Peter's, he deplores
the times of the hierarchy; if the sky is blue and beautiful, he
wishes it were dull and gloomy; if it is gloomy, he is freezing; if
he sees the Colosseum, he wishes he had lived at that period. I
wonder what sort of a figure he would have made in the days of
Titus!
You inquire about Horace Vernet, and this is, indeed, a pleasant
theme. I believe I may say that I have learned something from him,
and every one may do the same. He produces with incredible facility
and freshness. When a form meets his eye which touches his
feelings, he instantly adopts it, and while others are deliberating
whether it can be called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he
has long completed his work, entirely deranging our aesthetical
standard. Though this facility cannot be acquired, still its
principle is admirable, and the serenity which springs from it, and
the energy it calls forth in working, nothing else can replace.
Among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this season of
blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in the midst of the
shrubberies and gardens of the Villa Medicis, stands a small house,
in which as you approach you invariably hear a tumult,--shouting
and wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the barking of
dogs; this is Vernet's _atelier_. The most picturesque disorder
everywhere prevails; guns, a hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a
couple of dead hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures,
finished and unfinished. "The Investiture of the National Cockade"
(an eccentric picture which does not please me), portraits recently
begun of Thorwaldsen, Eynard, Latour-Maubourg, some horses, a
sketch of Judith, and studies for it; the portrait of the Pope, a
couple of Moorish heads, bagpipers, Papal soldiers, my unworthy
self, Cain and Abel, and last of all a drawing of the interior of
the place itself, all hang up in his studio.
Lately his hands were quite full, owing to the number of portraits
bespoken from him; but in the street, he saw one of the Campagna
peasants, who are armed and mounted by Government, and ride about
Rome. The singular costume caught the artist's eye, and next day he
began a picture representing a similar peasant, sitting on his
horse in bad weather in the Campagna, and seizing his gun in order
to take aim at some one with it; in the distance are visible a
small troop of soldiers, and the desolate plain. The minute details
of the weapon, where the peasant peeps through the soldier's
uniform, the wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the
discomfort prevalent throughout, and the Italian phlegm in the
bearded fellow, make a charming little picture; and no one can help
envying him, who sees the real delight with which his brush
traverses the stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little
rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a button on the saddle; then
lining the soldier's great-coat with green. Numbers of people come
to look on: during my first sitting twenty persons, at least,
arrived one after the other. Countess E---- asked him to allow her
to be present when he was at work; but when he darted on it as a
hungry man does on food, her amazement was great. The whole family
are, as I told you, good people, and when old Charles talks about
his father Joseph, you must feel respect for them, and I maintain
that they are noble. Good-bye, for it is late, and I must send my
letter to the Post.