Naples, April 27th, 1831.
It is now nearly a fortnight since I have heard from you. I do
earnestly hope that nothing unpleasant has occurred, and every day
I expect the post will bring me tidings of you all. My letters from
Naples are of little value, for I am too deeply absorbed here to be
able easily to extricate myself, and to write descriptive letters.
Besides, when we had bad weather lately, I took advantage of it to
resume my labours, and zealously applied myself to my "Walpurgis
Night," which daily increases in interest for me, so I employ every
spare moment in completing it. I hope to finish it in a few days,
and I think it will turn out well. If I continue in my present
mood, I shall finish my Italian symphony also in Italy, in which
case I shall have a famous store to bring home with me, the fruits
of this winter. Moreover every day I have something new to see. I
generally make my excursions with the Schadows.
Yesterday we went to Pompeii. It looks as if it had been burnt
down, or like a recently deserted city. As both of these always
seem to me deeply affecting, the impression made on me was the most
melancholy that I have yet experienced in Italy. It is as if the
inhabitants had just gone out, and yet almost every object tells of
another religion and another life; in short, of seventeen hundred
years ago; and the French and English ladies scramble about as
gaily as possible, and sketch it all. It is the old tragedy of the
Past and the Present, a problem I never can solve. Lively Naples is
indeed a pleasant contrast; but it is painful to see the crowd of
wretched beggars who waylay you in every street and path, swarming
round the carriage the instant it stops. The old white-haired men
particularly distress me, and such a mass of misery exceeds all
belief. If you are walking on the sea-shore, and gazing at the
islands, and then chance to look round at the land, you find
yourself the centre of a group of cripples, who make a trade of
their infirmities; or you discover (which lately happened to me)
that you are surrounded by thirty or forty children, all whining
out their favourite phrase, "Muoio di fame," and rattling their
jaws to show that they have nothing to eat. All this forms a most
repulsive contrast; and yet to me it is still more repugnant that
you must entirely renounce the great pleasure of seeing happy
faces; for even when you have given the richest gratuities to
guards, waiters, or workpeople, in short, to whom you will, the
invariable rejoinder is, "Nienti di piu?" in which case you may be
very sure that you have given too much. If it is the proper sum,
they give it back with the greatest apparent indignation, and then
return and beg to have it again. These are trifles, certainly, but
they show the lamentable condition of the people. I have even gone
so far as to feel provoked with the perpetual smiling aspect of
nature, when in the most retired spots troops of beggars everywhere
assailed me, some even persisting in following me a long way. It is
only when I am quietly seated in my own room, gazing down on the
Bay, and on Vesuvius, that being totally alone with them I feel
really cheerful and happy.
To-day we are to ascend the hill to visit the Camaldoli Monastery,
and to-morrow, if the weather permits, we proceed to Procida and
Ischia. I go this evening to Madame Fodor's with Donizetti,
Benedict, etc. She is very kind and amiable towards me, and her
singing has given me great pleasure, for she has wonderful
facility, and executes her _fiorituri_ with so much taste, that it
is easy to see how many things Sonntag acquired from her,
especially the _mezza voce_, which Fodor, whose voice is no longer
full and fresh, most prudently and judiciously introduces into many
passages. As she is not singing at the theatre, I am most fortunate
in having made her acquaintance personally. The theatre is now
closed for some weeks, because the blood of St. Januarius is
shortly to liquefy. What I heard at the opera previously did not
repay the trouble of going. The orchestra, like that in Rome, was
worse than in any part of Germany, and not even one tolerable
female singer. Tamburini alone, with his vigorous bass voice,
imparted some life to the whole. Those who wish to hear Italian
operas, must now-a-days go to Paris or London. Heaven grant that
this may not eventually be the case with German music also!
I must however return to my "Witches," so you must forgive my not
writing any more to-day. This whole letter seems to hover in
uncertainty, or rather I do so in my "Walpurgis Night," whether I
am to introduce the big drum or not. "Zacken, Gabeln, und wilde
Klapperstoecke," seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation
dissuades me. I certainly am the only person who ever composed for
the scene on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but I
can't help regretting the big drum, and before I can receive
Fanny's advice, the "Walpurgis Night" will be finished and packed
up. I shall then set off again on my travels, and Heaven knows what
I may have in my head by that time. I feel convinced that Fanny
would say _yes_; still, I feel very doubtful; at all events a vast
noise is indispensable.
Oh, Rebecca! can you not procure the words of some songs, and send
them to me? I feel quite in the humour for them, and you must
require something new to sing. If you can furnish me with some
pretty verses, old or new, gay or grave, I will compose something
in a style to suit your voice. I am at your service for any compact
of this kind. Pray do send me wherewithal to work at, during my
journey, in the inns. Now, farewell to you all! May you be as happy
as I ever wish you to be, and think of me!