FELIX.

Rome, March 29th, 1831.

In the midst of the Holy Week. To-morrow for the first time I am to

hear the Miserere, and while you last Sunday performed "The

Passion," the Cardinals and all the priesthood here received

twisted palms and olive-branches. The Stabat Mater of Palestrina

was sung, and there was a grand procession. My work has got on

badly during the last few days. Spring is in all her bloom; a

genial blue sky without, such as we at most only dream of, and a

journey to Naples in my every thought; so even a quiet time to

write is not to be found. C----, who is usually a cool fellow, has

written me such a glowing letter from Naples! The most prosaic men

become poetical when they speak of it. The finest season of the

year in Italy, is from the 15th of April to the 15th of May. Who

can wonder that I find it impossible to return to my misty Scotch

mood? I have therefore laid aside the Scotch symphony for the

present, but hope to write out the "Walpurgis Night" here. I shall

manage to do so if I work hard to-day and to-morrow, and if we have

bad weather, for really a fine day is too great a temptation. As

soon as an impediment occurs, I hope to find some resource in the

open air, so I go out and think of anything and everything but my

composition, and do nothing but lounge about, and when the church

bells begin to ring, it is the Ave Maria already. All I want now is

a short overture. If I can accomplish this, the thing is complete,

and I can write it out in a couple of days. Then I have done with

music, and leaving all music-paper here, I shall go off to Naples,

where, please God, I mean to do nothing.

Two French friends of mine have tempted me to _flaner_ with them a

good deal of late. When they are together, it is either a perpetual

tragedy, or comedy,--as you will. Y---- distorts everything,

without a spark of talent, always groping in the dark, but

esteeming himself the creator of a new world; writing moreover the

most frightful things, and yet dreaming and thinking of nothing but

Beethoven, Schiller, and Goethe; a victim at the same time to the

most boundless vanity, and looking down condescendingly on Mozart

and Haydn, so that all his enthusiasm seems to me very doubtful.

Z---- has been toiling for three months at a little rondo on a

Portuguese theme; he arranges neatly and brilliantly, and according

to rule, and he now intends to set about composing six waltzes, and

is in a state of perfect ecstasy if I will only play him over a

number of Vienna waltzes. He has a high esteem for Beethoven, but

also for Rossini and for Bellini, and no doubt for Auber,--in

short, for everybody. Then my turn comes to be praised, who would

be only too glad to murder Y----, till he chances to eulogize

Gluck, when I can quite agree with him. I like nevertheless to walk

about with these two, for they are the only musicians here, and

both very pleasant, amiable persons. All this forms an amusing

contrast.

You say, dear mother, that Y---- must have a fixed aim in his art;

but this is far from being my opinion. I believe he wishes to be

married, and is in fact worse than the other, because he is by far

the most affected of the two. I really cannot stand his obtrusive

enthusiasm, and the gloomy despondency he assumes before

ladies,--this stereotyped genius in black and white; and if he were

not a Frenchman, (and it is always pleasant to associate with them,

as they have invariably something interesting to say,) it would be

beyond endurance. A week hence, I shall probably write you my last

letter from Rome, and then you shall hear of me from Naples. It is

still quite uncertain whether I go to Sicily or not; I almost think

not, as in any event I must have recourse to a steamboat, and it is

not yet settled that one is to go.

In haste, yours, FELIX.

Rome, April 4th, 1831.

The Holy Week is over, and my passport to Naples prepared. My room

begins to look empty, and my winter in Rome is now among my

reminiscences of the past. I intend to leave this in a few days,

and my next letter (D. V.) shall be from Naples. Interesting and

amusing as the winter in Rome has been, it has closed with a truly

memorable week; for what I have seen and heard far surpassed my

expectations, and being the conclusion, I will endeavour in this,

my last letter from Rome, to give you a full description of it

all. People have often both zealously praised and censured the

ceremonies of the Holy Week, and have yet omitted, as is often the

case, the chief point, namely its perfection as a complete whole.

My father may probably remember the description of Mdlle. de R----,

who after all only did what most people do, who write or talk about

music and art, when in a hoarse and prosaic voice she attempted at

dinner to give us some idea of the fine clear Papal choir. Many

others have given the mere music, and been dissatisfied, because

external adjuncts are required to produce the full effect. Those

persons may be in the right; still so long as these indispensable

externals are there, and especially in such entire perfection, so

long will it impress others; and just as I feel convinced that

place, time, order, the vast crowd of human beings awaiting in the

most profound silence the moment for the music to begin, contribute

largely to the effect, so do I contemn the idea of deliberately

separating what ought in fact to be indivisible, and this for the

purpose of exhibiting a certain portion, which may thus be

depreciated. That man must be despicable indeed, on whom the

devotion and reverence of a vast assemblage did not make a

corresponding impression of devotion and reverence, even if they

were worshipping the Golden Calf; let him alone destroy this, who

can replace it by something better.

Whether one person repeats it from another, whether it comes up to

its great reputation, or is merely the effect of the imagination,

is quite the same thing. It suffices that we have a perfect

totality, which has exercised the most powerful influence for

centuries past, and still exercises it, and therefore I reverence

it, as I do every species of real perfection. I leave it to

theologians to pronounce on its religious influence, for the

various opinions on that point are of no great value. There is more

to be considered than the mere ceremonies: for me it is sufficient,

as I already said, that in any sphere the object should be fully

carried out, so far as ability will permit, with fidelity and

conscientiousness, to call forth my respect and sympathy. Thus you

must not expect from me a formal critique on the singing, as to

whether they intoned correctly or incorrectly, in tune or out of

tune, or whether the compositions are fine. I would rather strive

to show you, that as a whole the affair cannot fail to make a

solemn impression, and that everything contributes to this result,

and as last week I enjoyed music, forms, and ceremonies, without

severing them, revelling in the perfect whole, so I do not intend

to separate them in this letter. The technical part, to which I

naturally paid particular attention, I mean to detail more minutely

to Zelter.

The first ceremony was on Palm Sunday, when the concourse of people

was so great, that I could not make my way through the crowd to my

usual place on what is called the Prelates' Bench, but was forced

to remain among the Guard of Honour, where indeed I had a very good

view of the solemnities, but could not follow the singing

properly, as they pronounced the words very indistinctly, and on

that day I had no book. The result was that on this first day, the

various antiphons, Gospels, and Psalms, and the mode of chanting,

instead of reading, which is employed here in its primitive form,

made the most confused and singular impression on me. I had no

clear conception what rule they followed with regard to the various

cadences. I took considerable pains gradually to discover their

method, and succeeded so well, that at the end of the Holy Week I

could have sung with them. I thus also escaped the extreme

weariness, so universally complained of during the endless Psalms

before the Miserere; for I quickly detected any variety in the

monotony, and when perfectly assured of any particular cadence, I

instantly wrote it down; so I made out by degrees (which indeed I

deserved) the melodies of eight Psalms. I also noted down the

antiphons, etc., and was thus incessantly occupied and interested.

The first Sunday, however, as I already told you, I could not make

it all out satisfactorily: I only knew that the choir sang "Hosanna

in excelsis," and intoned various hymns, while twisted palms were

offered to the Pope, which he distributed among the Cardinals.

These palms are long branches decorated with buttons, crosses, and

crowns, all entirely made of dried palm-leaves, which makes them

look like gold. The Cardinals, who are seated in the Chapel in the

form of a quadrangle, with the abbati at their feet, now advance

each in turn to receive their palms, with which they return to

their places; then come the bishops, monks, abbati, and all the

other orders of the priesthood; the Papal singers, the knights, and

others, who receive olive-branches entwined with palm-leaves. This

makes a long procession, during which the choir continues to sing

unremittingly. The abbati hold the long palms of their cardinals

like the lances of sentinels, slanting them on the ground before

them, and at this moment there is a brilliancy of colour in the

chapel that I never before saw at any ceremony. There were the

Cardinals in their gold embroidered robes and red caps, and the

violet abbati in front of them, with golden palms in their hands,

and further in advance, the gaudy servants of the Pope, the Greek

priests, the patriarchs in the most gorgeous attire; the Capuchins

with long white beards, and all the other religious Orders; then

again the Swiss, in their popinjay uniforms, all carrying green

olive-branches, while singing is going on the whole time; though

certainly it is scarcely possible to distinguish what is being

sung, yet the mere sound is sufficient to delight the ear.

The Pope's throne is then carried in, on which he is elevated in

all processions, and where I saw Pius VIII. enthroned on the day of

my arrival (_vide_ the 'Heliodorus' of Raphael, where he is

portrayed). The Cardinals, two and two, with their palms, head the

procession, and the folding doors of the chapel being thrown open,

it slowly defiles through them. The singing, which has hitherto

incessantly prevailed, like an element, becomes fainter and

fainter, for the singers also walk in the procession, and at length

are only indistinctly heard, the sound dying away in the distance.

Then a choir in the chapel bursts forth with a query, to which the

distant one breathes a faint response; and so it goes on for a

time, till the procession again draws near, and the choirs reunite.

Let them sing how or what they please, this cannot fail to produce

a fine effect; and though it is quite true that nothing can be more

monotonous, and even devoid of form, than the hymns _all' unisono_,

being without any proper connection, and sung _fortissimo_

throughout, still I appeal to the impression that as a _whole_ it

must make on every one. After the procession returns, the Gospel is

chanted in the most singular tone, and is succeeded by the Mass. I

must not omit here to make mention of my favourite moment; I mean

the Credo. The priest takes his place for the first time in the

centre, before the altar, and after a short pause, intones in his

hoarse old voice the Credo of Sebastian Bach. When he has finished,

the priests stand up, the Cardinals leave their seats, and advance

into the middle of the chapel, where they form a circle, all

repeating the continuation in a loud voice, "Patrem omnipotentem,"

etc. The choir then chimes in, singing the same words. When I for

the first time heard my well-known

[Music: Cre-do in u-num De-um]

and all the grave monks round me began to recite in loud and eager

tones, I felt quite excited, for this is the moment I still like

the best of all. After the ceremony, Santini made me a present of

his olive-branch, which I carried in my hand the whole day when

I was walking about, for the weather was beautiful. The Stabat

Mater which succeeds the Credo, made much less effect; they

sang it incorrectly and out of tune, and likewise curtailed it

considerably. The 'Sing Akademie' executes it infinitely better.

There is nothing on Monday or Tuesday; but on Wednesday, at

half-past four, the nocturns begin.

The Psalms are sung in alternate verses by two choirs, though

invariably by one class of voices, basses or tenors. For an hour

and a half, therefore, nothing but the most monotonous music is

heard; the Psalms are only once interrupted by the Lamentations,

and this is the first moment when, after a long time, a complete

chord is given. This chord is very softly intoned, and the whole

piece sung _pianissimo_, while the Psalms are shouted out as much

as possible, and always upon one note, and the words uttered with

the utmost rapidity, a cadence occurring at the end of each verse,

which defines the different characteristics of the various

melodies. It is not therefore surprising that the mere soft sound

(in G major) of the first Lamentation, should produce so touching

an effect. Once more the single tone recommences; a wax light is

extinguished at the end of each Psalm, so that in the course of an

hour and a half the fifteen lights round the altar are all out; six

large-sized candles still burn in the vestibule. The whole strength

of the choir, with alti and soprani, etc., intone _fortissimo_ and

_unisono_, a new melody, the "Canticum Zachariae," in D minor,

singing it slowly and solemnly in the deepening gloom; the last

remaining lights are then extinguished. The Pope leaves his throne,

and falls on his knees before the altar, while all around do the

same, repeating a paternoster _sub silentio_; that is, a pause

ensues, during which you know that each Catholic present says the

Lord's Prayer, and immediately afterwards the Miserere begins

_pianissimo_ thus:--

[Music: mi-se-re-re me-i]

This is to me the most sublime moment of the whole. You can easily

picture to yourself what follows, but not this commencement. The

continuation, which is the Miserere of Allegri, is a simple

sequence of chords, grounded either on tradition, or what appears

to me much more probable, merely embellishments, introduced by some

clever _maestro_ for the fine voices at his disposal, and

especially for a very high soprano. These _embellimenti_ always

recur on the same chords, and as they are cleverly constructed,

and beautifully adapted for the voice, it is invariably pleasing to

hear them repeated. I could not discover anything unearthly or

mysterious in the music; indeed, I am perfectly contented that its

beauty should be earthly and comprehensible. I refer you, dearest

Fanny, to my letter to Zelter. On the first day they sang Baini's

Miserere.

On Thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, the solemnities

recommenced, and lasted till one o'clock. There was High Mass, and

afterwards a procession. The Pope conferred his benediction from

the Loggia of the Quirinal, and washed the feet of thirteen

priests, who are supposed to represent the pilgrims, and were

seated in a row, wearing white gowns and white caps, and who

afterwards dine. The crowd of English ladies was extraordinary, and

the whole affair repugnant to my feelings. The Psalms began again

in the afternoon, and lasted on this occasion till half past seven.

Some portions of the Miserere were taken from Baini, but the

greater part were Allegri's. It was almost dark in the chapel when

the Miserere commenced. I clambered up a tall ladder standing there

by chance, and so I had the whole chapel crowded with people, and

the kneeling Pope and his Cardinals, and the music, beneath me. It

had a splendid effect. On Friday forenoon the chapel was stripped

of every decoration, and the Pope and Cardinals in mourning. The

history of the Passion, according to St. John, the music by

Vittoria, was sung; then the Improperia of Palestrina, during

which the Pope and all the others, taking off their shoes, advance

to the cross and adore it. In the evening Baini's Miserere was

given, which they sang infinitely the best.

Early on Saturday, in the baptistery of the Lateran, Heathens,

Jews, and Mahomedans were baptized, all represented by a little

child, who screeched the whole time, and subsequently some young

priests received consecration for the first time. On Sunday the

Pope himself performed High Mass in the Quirinal, and subsequently

pronounced his benediction on the people, and then all was over. It

is now Saturday, the 9th of April, and to-morrow at an early hour I

get into a carriage and set off for Naples, where a new style of

beauty awaits me. You will perceive by the end of this letter that

I write in haste. This is my last day, and a great deal yet to be

done. I do not therefore finish my letter to Zelter, but will send

it from Naples. I wish my description to be correct, and my

approaching journey distracts my attention sadly. Thus I am off to

Naples; the weather is clearing up, and the sun shining, which it

has not done for some days past. My passport is prepared, the

carriage ordered, and I am looking forward to the months of spring.

Adieu!