Rome, June 6th, 1831.
My dear Parents,
It is indeed high time that I should write to you a rational,
methodical letter, for I fear that none of those from Naples were
worth much. It really seemed as if the atmosphere there deterred
every one from serious reflection, at least I very seldom succeeded
in collecting my thoughts or ideas; and now I have been scarcely
more than a few hours here, when I once more resume that Roman
tranquillity, and grave serenity, which I alluded to in my former
letters from this place. I cannot express how infinitely better I
love Rome than Naples. People allege that Rome is monotonous, of
one uniform hue, melancholy, and solitary. It is certainly true
that Naples is more like a great European city, more lively and
varied, and more cosmopolitan; but I may say to you confidentially,
that I begin gradually to feel the most decided hatred of all that
is cosmopolitan;--I dislike it, just as I dislike _many-sidedness_,
which, moreover, I rather think I do not much believe in. Anything
that aspires to be distinguished, or beautiful, or really great,
must be _one-sided_; but then this _one side_ must be brought to a
state of the most consummate perfection, and no man can deny that
such is the case at Rome.
Naples seems to me too small to be called properly a great
city; all the life and bustle are confined to two large
thoroughfares--the Toledo, and the coast from the harbour to the
Chiaja. Naples does not realize to my mind the idea of a centre for
a great nation, which London offers in such perfection; chiefly
indeed because it is deficient in a people: for the fishermen and
lazzaroni I cannot designate as a people, they are more like
savages, and their centre is not Naples, but the sea. The middle
classes, by which I mean those who pursue various trades, and the
working citizens who form the basis of other great towns, are quite
subordinate; indeed, I may almost say that such a class is not to
be found there. It was this that often made me feel out of humour
during my stay in Naples, much as I loved and enjoyed the scenery;
but as a dissatisfied feeling constantly recurred, I think I at
last discovered the cause to lie within myself. I cannot say that I
was precisely unwell during the incessant sirocco, but it was more
disagreeable than an indisposition which passes away in a few days.
I felt languid, disinclined for all that was serious,--in fact,
lazy. I lounged about the streets all day with a morose face, and
would have preferred lying on the ground, without the trouble of
thinking, or wishing, or doing anything; then it suddenly occurred
to me, that the principal classes in Naples live in reality
precisely in the same manner; that consequently the source of my
depression did not spring from myself, as I had feared, but from
the whole combination of air, climate, etc. The atmosphere is
suitable for grandees who rise late, never require to go out on
foot, never think (for this is heating), sleep away a couple of
hours on a sofa in the afternoon, then eat ice, and drive to the
theatre at night, where again they do not find anything to think
about, but simply make and receive visits. On the other hand, the
climate is equally suitable for a fellow in a shirt, with naked
legs and arms, who also has no occasion to move about--begging for
a few _grani_ when he has literally nothing left to live on--taking
his afternoon's siesta stretched on the ground, or on the quay, or
on the stone pavement (the pedestrians step over him, or shove him
aside if he lies right in the middle). He fetches his _frutti di
mare_ himself out of the sea, sleeps wherever he may chance to
find himself at night; in short, he employs every moment in doing
exactly what he likes best, just as an animal does.
These are the two principal classes of Naples. By far the largest
portion of the population of the Toledo there, consists of gaily
dressed ladies and gentlemen, or husbands and wives driving
together in handsome equipages, or of those olive _sans-culottes_
who sometimes carry about fish for sale, brawling in the most
stentorian way, or bearing burdens when they have no longer any
money left. I believe there are few indeed who have any settled
occupation, or follow up any pursuit with zeal and perseverance, or
who like work for the sake of working. Goethe says that the
misfortune of the North is, that people there always wish to be
doing something, and striving after some end; and he goes on to
say, that an Italian was right, who advised him not to think so
much, for it would only give him a headache. I suspect however that
he was merely jesting; at all events, he did not act in this manner
himself, but, on the contrary, like a genuine Northman. If however
he means that the difference of character is produced by nature,
and subservient to her influence, then there is no doubt that he is
quite in the right. I can perfectly conceive that it must be so,
and why wolves howl; still it is not necessary to howl along with
them. The proverb should be exactly reversed. Those who, owing to
their position, are obliged to work, and must consequently both
think and bestir themselves, treat the matter as a necessary evil,
which brings them in money, and when they actually have it, they
too live like the great, or the naked, gentlemen. Thus there is no
shop where you are not cheated. Natives of Naples, who have been
customers for many years, are obliged to bargain, and to be as much
on their guard as foreigners; and one of my acquaintances, who had
dealt at the same shop for fifteen years, told me that during the
whole of that period there had been invariably the same battle
about a few scudi, and that nothing could prevent it.
Thence it is that there is so little industry or competition, and
that Donizetti finishes an opera in ten days; to be sure, it is
sometimes hissed, but that does not matter, for it is paid for all
the same, and he can then go about amusing himself. If at last
however his reputation becomes endangered, he will in that case be
forced really to work, which he would find by no means agreeable.
This is why he sometimes writes an opera in three weeks, bestowing
considerable pains on a couple of airs in it, so that they may
please the public, and then he can afford once more to divert
himself, and once more to write trash. Their painters, in the same
way, paint the most incredibly bad pictures, far inferior even to
their music. Their architects also erect buildings in the worst
taste; among others, an imitation, on a small scale, of St.
Peter's, in the Chinese style. But what does it matter? the
pictures are bright in colour, the music makes plenty of noise, the
buildings give plenty of shade, and the Neapolitan grandees ask no
more.
My physical mood was similar to theirs, everything inspiring me
with a wish to be idle, and to lounge about, and sleep; yet I was
constantly saying to myself that this was wrong; and striving to
occupy myself, and to work, which I could not accomplish. Hence
arose the querulous tone of some of the letters I wrote to you, and
I could only escape from such a mood by rambling over the hills,
where nature is so divine, making every man feel grateful and
cheerful. I did not neglect the musicians, and we had a great deal
of music, but I cared little in reality for their flattering
encomiums. Fodor is hitherto the only genuine artist, male or
female, that I have seen in Italy; elsewhere I should probably have
found a great many faults with her singing, but I overlooked them
all, because when she sings it is real music, and after such a long
privation, that was most acceptable.
Now however I am once more in old Rome, where life is very
different. There are processions daily, for last week was the
Corpus Domini; and just as I left the city during the celebration
of the week following the Holy Week, I now return after the Corpus
Christi to find them engaged in the same way. It made a singular
impression on me to see that the streets had in the interim assumed
such an aspect of summer: on all sides booths with lemons and iced
water, the people in light dresses, the windows open, and the
_jalousies_ closed. You sit at the doors of coffee-houses, and eat
_gelato_ in quantities; the Corso swarms with equipages, for people
no longer walk much, and though in reality I miss no dear friends
or relatives, yet I felt quite moved when I once more saw the
Piazza di Spagna, and the familiar names written up on the corners
of the streets. I shall stay here for about a week, and then
proceed northwards.
The Infiorata is on Thursday, but it is not yet quite certain that
it will take place, because they have some apprehensions of a
revolution; but I hope I shall witness this ceremony. I mean to
take advantage of this opportunity to see the hills once more, and
then to set off for the north. Wish me a good journey, for I am on
the eve of departure. It is a year this very day since I arrived in
Munich, heard 'Fidelio,' and wrote to you. We have not met since
then; but, please God, we shall see each other again before another
year.