Naples, May 28th, 1831.
My dear Sisters,
As my journal is become too stupid and uninteresting to send you, I
must at least supply you with an _abrege_ of my history. You must
know, then, that on Friday, the 20th of May, we breakfasted _in
corpore_ at Naples, on fruit, etc.; this _in corpore_ includes the
travelling party to Ischia, consisting of Ed. Bendemann, T.
Hildebrand, Carl Sohn, and Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. My knapsack
was not very heavy, for it contained scarcely anything but Goethe's
poems, and three shirts; so we packed ourselves into a hired
carriage, and drove through the grotto of Posilippo to Pozzuoli.
The road runs along by the sea, and nothing can be more lovely; so
it is all the more painful to witness the horrible collection of
cripples, blind men, beggars, and galley slaves, in short, the poor
wretches of every description who there await you, amid the holiday
aspect of nature.
I seated myself quietly on the mole and sketched, while the others
plodded and toiled through the Temple of Serapis, the theatres, the
hot springs, and extinct volcanoes, which I had already seen to
satiety on three different occasions. Then, like youthful
patriarchs or nomads, we collected all our goods and chattels,
cloaks, knapsacks, books and portfolios on donkeys, and placing
ourselves also on them, we made the tour of the Bay of Baiae, as far
as the Lake of Avernus, where you are obliged to buy fish for
dinner; we crossed the hill to Cumae (_vide_ Goethe's 'Wanderer')
and descended on Baiae, where we ate and rested. We then looked at
more ruined temples, ancient baths, and other things of the kind,
and thus evening had arrived before we crossed the bay.
At half-past nine we arrived at the little town of Ischia, where we
found every corner of the only inn fully occupied, so we resolved
to go on to Don Tommaso's; a journey of two hours nominally, but
which we performed in an hour and a quarter. The evening was
deliciously cool, and innumerable glow-worms, who allowed us to
catch them, were scattered on the vine-branches, and fig-trees, and
shrubs. When we at last arrived, somewhat fatigued, at Don
Tommaso's house, about eleven o'clock, we found all the people
still up, clean rooms, fresh fruits, and a friendly deacon to wait
on us, so we remained comfortably seated opposite a heap of
cherries till midnight. The next morning the weather was bad, and
the rain incessant, so we could not ascend the Epomeo, and as we
seemed little disposed to converse (we did not get on in this
respect, Heaven knows why!) the affair would have become rather a
bore, if Don Tommaso had not possessed the prettiest poultry-yard
and farm in Europe. Right in front of the door stands a large leafy
orange-tree covered with ripe fruit, and from under its branches a
stair leads to the dwelling. Each of the white stone steps is
decorated with a large vase of flowers, these steps leading to a
spacious open hall, whence through an archway you look down on the
whole farm-yard, with its orange-trees, stairs, thatched roofs,
wine casks and pitchers, donkeys and peacocks. That a foreground
may not be wanting, an Indian fig-tree stands under the walled
arch, so luxuriant that it is fastened to the wall with ropes. The
background is formed by vineyards with summer-houses, and the
adjacent heights of the Monte Epomeo. Being protected from the rain
by the archway, the party seated themselves there under shelter,
and sketched the various objects in the farm the best way they
could, the whole livelong day. I was on no ceremony, and sketched
along with them, and I think I in some degree profited by so doing.
At night we had a terrific storm, and as I was lying in bed, I
remarked that the thunder growled tremendously on Monte Epomeo, and
the echoes continued to vibrate like those on the Lake of Lucerne,
but even for a greater length of time.
Next morning, Sunday, the weather was again fine. We went to Foria,
and saw the people going to the cathedral in their holiday
costumes. The women wore their well-known head-dress of folds of
white muslin placed flat on the head; the men were standing in the
square before the church, in their bright red caps, gossiping about
politics, and we gradually wound our way through these festal
villages up the hill. It is a huge rugged volcano, full of
fissures, ravines, cavities, and steep precipices. The cavities
being used for wine cellars, they are filled with large casks.
Every declivity is clothed with vines and fig-trees, or
mulberry-trees. Corn grows on the sides of the steep rocks, and
yields more than one crop every year. The ravines are covered with
ivy, and innumerable bright-coloured flowers and herbs, and
wherever there is a vacant space, young chestnut-trees shoot up,
furnishing the most delightful shade. The last village, Fontana,
lies in the midst of verdure and vegetation. As we climbed higher,
the sky became overcast and gloomy, and by the time we reached the
most elevated peaks of the rocks, a thick fog had come on. The
vapours flitted about, and although the rugged outlines of the
rocks, and the telegraph, and the cross, stood forth strangely in
the clouds, still we could not see even the smallest portion of the
view. Soon afterwards rain commenced, and as it was impossible to
remain, and wait as you do on the Righi, we were obliged to take
leave of Epomeo without having made his acquaintance. We ran down
in the rain, one rushing after the other, and I do believe that we
were scarcely an hour in returning.
Next day we went to Capri. This place has something Eastern in its
aspect, with the glowing heat reflected from its rocky white walls,
its palm-trees, and the rounded domes of the churches that look
like mosques. The sirocco was burning, and rendered me quite unfit
to enjoy anything; for really climbing up five hundred and
thirty-seven steps to Anacapri in this frightful heat, and then
coming down again, is toil only fit for a horse. True, the sea is
wondrously lovely, looking down on it from the summit of the bleak
rock, and through the singular fissures of the jagged peaks, so
strangely formed.
But above all, I must tell you of the blue grotto, for it is not
known to every one, as you can only enter it either in very calm
weather, or by swimming. The rocks there project precipitously into
the sea, and are probably as steep under the water as above it. A
huge cavity has been hollowed out by nature, but in such a manner,
that round the whole circumference of the grotto, the rocks rest
on the sea in all their breadth, or rather are sunk precipitously
into it, and ascend thence to the vault of the cavern. The sea
fills the whole space of the grotto, the entrance to which lies
under the water, only a very small portion of the opening
projecting above the water, and through this narrow space you can
only pass in a small boat, in which you must lie flat. When you are
once in, the whole extent of the huge cave and its vault is
revealed, and you can row about in it with perfect ease, as if
under a dome. The light of the sun also pierces through the opening
into the grotto underneath the sea, but broken and dimmed by the
green sea water, and thence it is that such magical visions arise.
The whole of the rocks are sky-blue and green in the twilight,
resembling the hue of moonshine, yet every nook, and every depth,
is distinctly visible. The water is thoroughly lighted up and
brilliantly illuminated by the light of the sun, so that the dark
skiff glides over a bright shining surface. The colour is the most
dazzling blue I ever saw, without shadow or cloud, like a pane of
opal glass; and as the sun shines down, you can plainly discern all
that is going on under the water, while the whole depths of the sea
with its living creatures are disclosed. You can see the coral
insects and polypuses clinging to the rocks, and far below, fishes
of different species meeting and swimming past each other. The
rocks become deeper in colour as they go lower into the water, and
are quite black at the end of the grotto, where they are closely
crowded together, and still further under them, you can see crabs,
fishes, and reptiles in the clear waters. Every stroke too of the
oars echoes strangely under the vault, and as you row round the
wall, new objects come to light. I do wish you could see it, for
the effect is singularly magical. On turning towards the opening by
which you entered, the daylight seen through it seems bright
orange, and by moving even a few paces you are entirely isolated
under the rock in the sea, with its own peculiar sunlight: it is as
if you were actually living under the water for a time.
We then proceeded to Procida, where the women adopt the Greek
dress, but do not look at all prettier from doing so. Curious faces
were peeping from every window. A couple of Jesuits, in black gowns
and with gloomy countenances, were seated in a gay arbour of vines,
evidently enjoying themselves, and made a good picture. Then we
crossed the sea to Pozzuoli, and through the grotto of Posilippo
again home.
I cannot write to Paul about his change of residence, and his
entrance into the great, wide world of London, because he mentions
casually, that he will probably leave for London in the course of
three weeks, so my letter could not possibly reach him in Berlin; a
week hence I shall take my chance, and address to my brother in
London. That smoky place is fated to be now and ever my favourite
residence; my heart glows when I even think of it, and I paint to
myself my return there, passing through Paris, and finding Paul
independent, alone, and another man, in the dear old haunts; when
he will present me to his new friends, and I will present him to my
old ones, and we shall live and dwell together: so even at this
moment I am all impatience soon to go there. I see by some
newspapers my friends have sent me, that my name is not forgotten,
and so I hope when I return to London, to be able to work steadily,
which I was previously unable to do, being forced to go to Italy.
If they make any difficulty in Munich about my opera, or if I
cannot get a _libretto_ that I like, I intend in that case to
compose an opera for London. I know that I could receive a
commission to do so, as soon as I chose. I am also bringing some
new pieces with me for the Philharmonic, and so I shall have made
good use of my time.
As my evenings here are at my own disposal, I read a little French
and English. The "Barricades" and "Les Etats de Blois" particularly
interest me, as while I read them I realize with horror a period
which we have often heard extolled as a vigorous epoch, too soon
passed away. Though these books seem to me to have many faults, yet
the delineation of the two opposite leaders is but too correct;
both were weak, irresolute, miserable hypocrites, and I thank God
that the so highly-prized middle ages are gone never to return. Say
nothing of this to any disciple of Hegel's, but it is so
nevertheless; and the more I read and think on the subject, the
more I feel this to be true. Sterne has become a great favourite
of mine. I remembered that Goethe once spoke to me of the
'Sentimental Journey,' and said that it was impossible for any one
better to paint what a froward and perverse thing is the human
heart. I chanced to meet with the book, and thought I should like
to read it. It pleases me very much. I think it very subtle, and
beautifully conceived and expressed.
There are very few German books to be had here. I am therefore
restricted to Goethe's Poems, and assuredly these are suggestive
enough, and always new. I feel especial interest in those poems
which he evidently composed in or near Naples, such as Alexis and
Dora; for I daily see from my window how this wonderful work was
created. Indeed, which is often the case with master-pieces, I
often suddenly and involuntarily think, that the very same ideas
might have occurred to myself on a similar occasion, and as if
Goethe had only by some chance been the first to express them.
With regard to the poem, "Gott segne dich, junge Frau," I maintain
that I have discovered its locality and dined with the woman
herself; but of course she is now grown old, and the boy she was
then nursing is become a stalwart vine-dresser. Her house lies
between Pozzuoli and Baiae, "eines Tempels Truemmern," and is fully
three miles from Cumae. You may imagine therefore with what new
light and truth these poems dawn on me, and the different feeling
with which I now regard and study them. I say nothing of Mignon's
song at present, but it is singular that Goethe and Thorwaldsen
are still living, that Beethoven only died a few years ago, and yet
H---- declares that German art is as dead as a rat. _Quod non._ So
much the worse for him if he really feels thus; but when I reflect
for a time on his conclusions, they appear to me very shallow.
_Apropos_, Schadow, who returns to Duesseldorf in the course of a
few days, has promised to extract, if possible, some new songs for
me from Immermann, which rejoices me much. That man is a true poet,
which is proved by his letters, and everything that he has written.
Count Platen is a little, shrivelled, wheezing old man, with gold
spectacles, yet not more than five-and-thirty! He quite startled
me. The Greeks look very different! He abuses the Germans terribly,
forgetting however that he does so in German. But farewell for
to-day.