[Music: E----go]
I could not catch the formula, though I noted down several parts,
which I can show you when I return: among others, the words spoken
on the Cross. All the other personages,--Pilate, Peter, the Maid,
and the High Priest,--are altos, and sing this melody only:--
[Music]
The chorus sings the words of the people from their places above,
while everything else is sung from the altar. I must really mark
down here as a curiosity the "Crucifige," just as I noted it at the
time:--
[Music: Tol-le! Tol-le! Cru-ci-fi-
ge e-um.]
The "Barabbam" too is most singular;--very tame Jews indeed! But my
letter is already too long, so I shall discuss the subject no
further. Prayers are then offered up for all nations and
institutions, each separately designated. When the prayer for the
Jews is uttered, no one kneels, as they do at all the others, nor
is Amen said. They pray _pro perfidis Judaeis_, and the author of my
book discovers an explanation of this also. Then follows the
Adoration of the Cross; a small crucifix is placed in the centre
of the chapel, and all approach barefooted (without shoes), fall
down before it and kiss it; during this time the "Improperia" are
sung. I have only once heard this composition, but it seems to me
to be one of Palestrina's finest works, and they sing it with
remarkable enthusiasm. There is surprising delicacy and harmony in
its execution by the choir; they are careful to place every passage
in its proper light, and to render it sufficiently prominent
without making it too conspicuous--one chord blending softly with
the other. Moreover, the ceremony is very solemn and dignified, and
the most profound silence reigns in the chapel.
They sing the oft-recurring Greek "Holy" in the most admirable
manner, each time with the sane smoothness and expression. You will
be not a little surprised, however, when you see it written down,
for they sing as follows:--
[Music: A-gi-os O The---os]
[Music: Sanc-tus De-us.]
Such passages as that at the commencement, where all the voices
sing the very same embellishment, repeatedly occur, and the ear
becomes accustomed to them. The effect of the whole is undoubtedly
superb. I only wish you could hear the tenors in the first chorus,
and the mode in which they take the high A on the word "Theos;" the
note is so long-drawn and ringing, though softly breathed, that it
sounds most touching. This is repeated again and again till all in
the chapel have performed the Adoration of the Cross; but as on
this occasion the crowd was not very great, I unluckily had not the
opportunity of hearing it as often as I could have wished.
I quite understand why the "Improperias" produced the strongest
effect on Goethe, for they are nearly the most faultless of all, as
both music and ceremonies, and everything connected with them, are
in the most entire harmony. A procession follows to fetch the Host,
which had been exposed and adored on the previous evening in
another chapel of the Quirinal, lighted up by many hundred
wax-lights. The morning service closed at half-past one with a hymn
in _canto fermo_. At half-past three in the afternoon the first
nocturn began, with the Psalms, Lessons, etc. I corrected what I
had written down, heard the Miserere of Baini, and about seven
o'clock followed the Cardinals home through the illuminated
vestibule--so all was now seen, and all was now over.
I was anxious, dear Professor, to describe the Holy Week to you
minutely, as they were memorable days to me, every hour bringing
with it something interesting and long anticipated. I also
particularly rejoiced in feeling that, in spite of the excitement
and the numerous discussions in praise or blame, the solemnities
made as vivid an impression on me, as if I had been quite free from
all previous prejudice or prepossession. I thus saw the truth
confirmed, that perfection, even in a sphere the most foreign to
us, leaves its own stamp on the mind. May you read this long letter
with even half the pleasure I feel in recalling the period of the
Holy Week at Rome.
Yours faithfully,
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
Florence, June 25th, 1831.
Dear Sisters,
On such a day as this my paternal home and those I love are much in
my thoughts; my feelings on this point are rather singular. If I
feel at any time unwell, or fatigued, or out of humour, I have no
particular longing for my own home or for my family; but when
brighter days ensue, when every hour makes an indelible impression,
and every moment brings with it glad and pleasant sensations then I
ardently wish that I were with you, or you with me; and no minute
passes without my thinking of one or other of you, to whom I have
something particular to say.
I have to-day passed the whole forenoon, from ten till three, in
the gallery; it was glorious! Besides all the beautiful work I saw,
from which so much fresh benefit is always to be derived, I
wandered about among the pictures, feeling so much sympathy, and
such kindly emotions in gazing at them. I now first thoroughly
realized the great charm of a large collection of the highest works
of art. You pass from one to the other, sitting and dreaming for an
hour before some picture, and then on to the next.
Yesterday was a holiday here, so to-day the Palazzo degli Uffizi
was crowded with people who had come into the city to see the
races, and to visit the far-famed gallery; chiefly peasants, male
and female, in their country costumes. All the apartments were
thrown open, and as I was about to contemplate them for the last
time. I contrived to slip quietly through the crowd, and to remain
quite solitary, for I knew that I had not one acquaintance among
them.
The busts of the various princes who founded and enriched this
collection, are placed near the entrance, at the top of the
staircase. I suppose I must have been peculiarly susceptible
to-day, for the faces of the Medici interested me exceedingly; they
looked so noble and refined, so proud and so dignified. I stood
looking at them for a long time, and imprinted on my memory those
countenances of world-wide renown.
I then went to the Tribune. This room is so delightfully small you
can traverse it in fifteen paces, and yet it contains a world of
art. I again sought out my favourite armchair, which stands under
the statue of the "Slave Whetting his Knife" (_L'Arrotino_), and
taking possession of it, I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours;
for here, at one glance, I had the "Madonna del Cardellino," "Pope
Julius II.," a female portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely
Holy Family, by Perugino; and so close to me that I could have
touched the statue with my hand, the Venus de' Medici; beyond, that
of Titian; on the other side, the "Apollino" and the "Wrestlers"
(_Lottatori_); in front of the Raphael, the merry Greek Dancing
Faun, who seems to feel an uncouth delight in discordant music, for
the fellow has just struck two cymbals together, and is listening
to the sound, while treading with his foot on a kind of Pan's
pipes, as an accompaniment: what a clown he is! The space between
is occupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a
Domenichino, etc., and all these within the circumference of a
small semicircle, no larger than one of your own rooms. This is a
spot where a man feels his own insignificance, and may well learn
to be humble.
I occasionally walked through the other rooms, where a large
picture by Leonardo da Vinci, only commenced and sketched in, with
all its wild dashes and strokes, is very suggestive. I was
especially struck with the genius of the monk Fra Bartolommeo, who
must have been a man of the most devout, tender, and earnest
spirit. There is a small picture of his here, which I discovered
for myself. It is about the size of this sheet of paper, in two
divisions, and represents the "Adoration" and the "Presentation in
the Temple." The figures are about two-thirds of a finger-length in
size, but finished in the most exquisite and consummate manner,
with the most brilliant colouring, the brightest decorations, and
in the most genial sunshine. You can see in the picture itself,
that the pious _maestro_ has taken delight in painting it, and in
finishing the most minute details; probably with the view of giving
it away, to gratify some friend. We feel as if the painter belonged
to it, and still ought to be sitting before his work, or had only
this moment left it. I felt the same with regard to many pictures
to-day, especially that of the "Madonna del Cardellino," which
Raphael painted as a wedding-gift, and a surprise for his friend.
I could not help meditating on all these great men, so long passed
away from earth, though their whole inner soul is still displayed
in such lustre to us, and to all the world.
While reflecting on these things, I came by chance into the room
containing the portraits of great painters. I formerly merely
regarded them in the light of valuable curiosities, for there are
more than three hundred portraits, chiefly painted by the masters
themselves, so that you see at the same moment the man and his
work; but to-day a fresh idea dawned on me with regard to
them,--that each painter resembles his own productions, and that
each while painting his own likeness, has been careful to represent
himself just as he really was. In this way you become personally
acquainted with all these great men, and thus a new light is shed
on many things. I will discuss this point more minutely with you
when we meet; but I must not omit to say, that the portrait of
Raphael is almost the most touching likeness I have yet seen of
him. In the centre of a large rich screen, entirely covered with
portraits, hangs a small solitary picture, without any particular
designation, but the eye is instantly arrested by it; this is
Raphael--youthful, very pale and delicate, and with such onward
aspirations, such longing and wistfulness in the mouth and eyes,
that it is as if you could see into his very soul. That he
cannot succeed in expressing all that he sees and feels, and
is thus impelled to go forward, and that he must die an early
death,--all this is written on his mournful, suffering, yet fervid
countenance, and when looking at his dark eyes, which glance at you
out of the very depths of his soul, and at the pained and
contracted mouth, you cannot resist a feeling of awe.
How I wish you could see the portrait that hangs above it; that of
Michael Angelo, an ugly, muscular, savage, rugged fellow, in all
the vigour of life, looking gruff and morose; and on the other side
a wise, grave man, with the aspect of a lion, Leonardo da Vinci;
but you cannot see this portrait, and I will not describe it in
writing, but tell you of it when we meet. Believe me, however, it
is truly glorious. Then I passed on to the Niobe, which of all
statues makes the greatest impression on me; and back again to my
painters, and to the Tribune, and through the Corridors, where the
Roman Emperors, with their dignified yet knavish physiognomies,
stare you in the face; and last of all I took a final leave of the
Medici family.
It was indeed a morning never to be forgotten.
June 26th.
Do not suppose however that I mean to assert that all days are
spent thus. You must battle your way through the present living
mob, before you can arrive at the nobility, long since dead, and
those who have not a strong arm are sure to come badly off in the
conflict. Such a journey as mine from Rome to Perugia, and on here,
is no joke. Jean Paul says that the presence of a person who openly
hates you is most painful and oppressive. Such a being is the
Roman _vetturino_: he grants you no sleep; exposes you to hunger
and thirst; at night, when he is bound to provide you with your
_pranzo_, he contrives that you shall not arrive till midnight,
when every one is of course asleep, and you are only too thankful
to get a bed. In the morning he sets off before four o'clock, and
rests his horses at noon for five hours, but invariably in some
solitary little wayside inn, where nothing is to be had. Each day
he makes out about six German miles, and drives _piano_, while the
sun burns _fortissimo_.
I was very badly off owing to all this, for my fellow-travellers
were far from being congenial; three Jesuits inside, and in the
cabriolet, where I particularly desired to sit, a most disagreeable
Venetian lady. If I wished to escape from her, I was obliged to go
inside, and listen to the praises of Charles X., and to hear that
Ariosto ought to have been burnt as a corrupt writer, subversive of
all morality. It was still worse outside, and we never seemed to
get on. The first day, after a journey of four hours, the axletree
broke, and we were obliged to remain for nine hours in the same
house in the Campagna where we chanced to be, and at last to stay
all night. If there was a church on the road that we had an
opportunity of visiting, the most beautiful and devotional
creations of Perugino, or Giotto, or Cimabue, enchanted our eyes;
and so we passed from irritation to delight, and then to irritation
again. This was a wretched state to be in. I was not in the least
amused by it all; and if Nature had not bestowed on us bright
moonshine at the Lake of Thrasymene, and if the scenery had not
been so wonderfully fine, and if in every town we had not seen a
superb church, and if we had not passed through a large city each
day as we journeyed on, and if--but you see I am not easily
satisfied.
The route however was beautiful, and I must now describe my arrival
in Florence, which also includes my whole Italian life of the
previous days. At Incisa, half a day's journey from Florence, my
_vetturino_ became so intolerable from his insolence and abuse,
that I found it necessary to take out my luggage, and to tell him
to drive to the devil,--which he accordingly did, rather against
his will.
It was Midsummer's day, and a celebrated fete was to take place in
Florence the same evening, which I would on no account whatever
have missed. This is just the kind of thing that the Italians take
advantage of, so the landlady at Incisa offered me a carriage at
four times the proper fare. When I refused to take it, she said I
might try to procure another; and so I accordingly did, but found
that no carriages for hire were to be had, only post-horses. I went
to the Post, and was there told, to my disgust, that they were at
my landlady's, and that she had wished to make me pay an exorbitant
price for them. I went back and demanded horses. She said, if I did
not choose to pay what she asked, I should have none. I desired to
see the regulations, which they are all obliged to have. She said
there was no occasion to show them, and turned her back on me. The
use of physical strength, which plays a great part here, was
resorted to by me on this occasion, for I seized her and pushed her
back into a room (for we were standing in the passage) and then
hurried down the street to the Podesta. It turned out however that
there was no such person in the town, but that he lived four miles
off. The affair became every instant more disagreeable, the crowd
of boys at my heels increasing at every step. Fortunately a
decent-looking man came up, to whom the mob seemed to show some
respect; so I accosted him, and explained all that had occurred. He
sympathized with me, and took me to a vine-dresser's who had a
little carriage for hire.
The whole crowd now congregated before his door, many pressing
forward into the house after me, and shouting that I was mad; but
the carriage drove up, and I threw a few scudi to an old beggar, on
which they all called out that I was a _bravo Signore_, and wished
me _buon viaggio_. The moderate price the man demanded more fully
showed me the abominable overcharge of the landlady. The carriage
was easy, and the horses went on at a good pace, and so we
travelled across the hills to Florence. In the course of half an
hour we overtook my lazy vetturino. I put up my umbrella to defend
me from the sun, and I scarcely ever travelled so pleasantly and so
comfortably as during those few hours, having left all annoyances
behind me, and before me the prospect of the beautiful fete.
Very soon the Duomo, and the hundreds of villas scattered through
the valleys, were visible. Once more we passed by decorated
terraces, and the tops of trees seen over them; the Arno valley
looking lovelier than ever. And so I arrived here in good spirits
and dined; and even while doing so I heard a tumult, and looking
out of the window I saw crowds, both young and old, all hurrying in
their holiday costumes across the bridges.
I followed them to the Corso, and then to the races; afterwards to
the illuminated Pergola, and last of all to a masked ball in the
Goldoni Theatre. At one o'clock in the morning I went towards home,
thinking that the whole affair was over; but the Arno was still
covered with gondolas, illuminated by coloured lamps, and crossing
each other in every direction. Under the bridge a large ship was
passing, hung with green lanterns; the water shone brightly as it
rippled along, while a still brighter moon looked down on the whole
scene. I recalled to myself the various occurrences of the day, and
the thoughts that had chased each other through my mind, and
resolved to write them all to you. It is in fact a reminiscence for
myself, for it may not be so suggestive to you, but it will one day
be of service to me, enabling me to recall various scenes connected
with fair Italy.