Naples, May 17th, 1831.
On Saturday, the 14th of May, at two o'clock, I told my driver to
turn the carriage. We were opposite the Temple of Ceres at Paestum,
the most southern point of my journey. The carriage consequently
turned towards the north, and from that moment, as I journey
onwards, I am every hour drawing nearer to you. It is about a year
now since I travelled with my father to Dessau and Leipzig; the
time in fact exactly corresponds, for it was about the half-year. I
have made good use of the past year. I have acquired considerable
experience and many new impressions. Both in Rome and here I have
been very busy, but no change has occurred in my outward
circumstances; and till the beginning of the new year, in fact so
long as I am in Italy, it will probably be the same. This period
has not however been less valuable to me than some when outwardly,
and in the opinion of others, I have appeared to make greater
progress; for there must always be a close connection between the
two. If I have gathered experience, it cannot fail to influence me
outwardly, and I shall allow no opportunity to escape to show that
it has done so. Possibly some such may occur before the end of my
journey, so I may for the present continue to enjoy nature, and the
blue sky, during the months that still remain for me in Italy,
without thinking of anything else; for _there_ alone lies true art,
now in Italy,--_there_ and in her monuments; and there it will ever
remain; and there we shall ever find it, for our instruction and
delight, so long as Vesuvius stands, and so long as the balmy air,
and the sea, and the trees do not pass away.
In spite of all this, I am enough of a musician to own that I do
heartily long once more to hear an orchestra or a full chorus where
there is at least some sound, for here there is nothing of the
sort. This is _our_ peculiar province, and to be so long deprived
of such an element, leaves a sad void. The orchestra and chorus
here are like those in our second-rate provincial towns, only more
harsh and incorrect. The first violinist, all through the opera,
beats the four quarters of each bar on a tin candle-stick, which is
often more distinctly heard than the voices (it sounds somewhat
like obbligati castanets, only louder); and yet in spite of this
the voices are never together. Every little instrumental solo is
adorned with old-fashioned flourishes, and a bad tone pervades the
whole performance, which is totally devoid of genius, fire, or
spirit. The singers are the worst Italian ones I ever heard
anywhere (except, indeed, in Italy), and those who wish to have a
true idea of Italian singing must go to Paris or to London. Even
the Dresden company, whom I heard last year in Leipzig, are
superior to any here. This is but natural, for in the boundless
misery that prevails in Naples, where can the bases of a theatre be
found, which of course requires considerable capital? The days when
every Italian was a born musician, if indeed they ever existed, are
long gone by. They treat music like any other fashionable article,
with total indifference; in fact, they scarcely pay it the homage
of outward respect, so it is not to be wondered at that every
single person of talent should, as regularly as they appear,
transfer themselves to foreign countries, where they are better
appreciated, their position better defined, and where they find
opportunities of hearing and learning something profitable and
inspiriting.
The only really good singer here is Tamburini; he has, however,
long since been heard in Vienna and Paris, and I believe in London
also; so now, when he begins to discover that his voice is on the
decline, he comes back to Italy. I cannot admit either that the
Italians alone understand the art of singing; for there is no
music, however florid. I have ever heard executed by Italians, that
Sonntag cannot accomplish, and in even greater perfection. She
certainly, as she acknowledges, learned much from Fodor; but why
should not another German in turn learn the same from Sonntag? and
Malibran is a Spaniard. Italy can no longer claim the glorious
appellation of "the land of music;" in truth, she has already lost
it, and possibly she may yet do so even in the opinion of the
world, though this is problematical. I was lately in company with
some professional musicians, who were speaking of a new opera by a
Neapolitan, Coccia; and one of them asked if it was clever.
"Probably it is," said another, "for Coccia was long in England,
where he studied, and some of his compositions are much liked
there." This struck me as very remarkable, for in England they
would have spoken exactly in the same way of Italy; but _quo me
rapis_? I say nothing to you, dear sisters, in this letter, but in
the course of a few days I mean to send you a little pamphlet
dedicated to you. Do not be alarmed, it is not poetry; the thing is
simply entitled "Journal of an Excursion to the Islands, in May."