Milan, July 14th, 1831.
This letter will probably be the last (D.V.) that I shall write to
you from an Italian city; I may possibly send you another from the
Borromean Islands, which I intend to visit in a few days, but do
not rely on this.
My week here has been one of the most agreeable and amusing that I
have passed in Italy; and how this could be the case in Milan,
hitherto utterly unknown to me, I shall now proceed to relate. In
the first place, I immediately secured a small piano, and attacked
with _rabbia_ that endless "Walpurgis Night," to finish the thing
at last; and to-morrow morning it will be completed, except the
overture; for as yet I have not quite made up my mind whether it
shall be a grand symphony, or a short introduction breathing of
spring. I should like to take the opinion of some adept on this
point. I must say the conclusion has turned out better than I
myself expected. The hobgoblins and the bearded Druid, with the
trombones sounding behind him, diverted me immensely, and so I
passed two forenoons very happily.
'Tasso' also contributed to my pleasure, which I have now for the
first time been able to read with facility; it is a splendid poem.
I was glad to be already well acquainted with Goethe's 'Tasso;'
being constantly reminded of it by the principal passages of the
Italian poet, whose verse, like that of Goethe, is so dreamy,
harmonious, and tender, its sweet melody delighting the ear. Your
favourite passage, dear father, "Era la notte allor," struck me as
very beautiful, but the stanzas that I admire most, are those
descriptive of Clorinda's death; they are so wonderfully
imaginative, and fine. The close however does not quite please me.
Tancred's 'Lamentations' are, I think, more charmingly composed
than true to nature; they contain too many clever ideas and
antitheses; and even the words of the hermit, which soothe him,
sound more like a censure on the hermit himself. I should
infallibly have killed him on the spot, if he had talked to me in
such a strain.
Recently I was reading the episode of 'Armida' in a carriage,
surrounded by a company of Italian actors, who were incessantly
singing Rossini's "Ma trema, trema," when suddenly there recurred
to my thoughts Gluck's "Vous m'allez quitter," and Rinaldo's
falling asleep, and the voyage in the air--and I felt in a most
melting mood. This is genuine music; thus have men felt, and thus
have men spoken, and such strains can never die. I do cordially
hate the present licentious style. Do not take it amiss; your motto
is, Without hatred, no love,--and I did feel so moved when I
thought of Gluck, and his grand embodiments.
Every evening I was in society, owing to a mad prank, which however
proved very successful. I think I have invented this kind of
eccentric proceeding, and may take out a patent for it, as I have
already made my most agreeable acquaintances _ex abrupto_, without
letters or introductions of any kind.
I asked by chance on my arrival at Milan the name of the
Commandant, and the _laquais de place_ named General Ertmann. I
instantly thought of Beethoven's Sonata in A major, and its
dedication; and as I had heard all that was good of Madame
Ertmann, from those who knew her; that she was so kind, and had
bestowed such loving care on Beethoven, and played herself so
beautifully, I, next morning, at a suitable hour for a visit, put
on a black coat, desired that the Government-house should be
pointed out to me, and occupied myself on the way thither by
composing some pretty speeches for the General's lady, and went on
boldly.
I cannot however deny that I felt rather dismayed when I was told
that the General lived in the first story, facing the street; and
when I was fairly in the splendid vaulted hall, I was seized with a
sudden panic, and would fain have turned back: but I could not help
thinking that it was vastly provincial on my part to take fright at
a vaulted hall, so I went straight up to a group of soldiers
standing near, and asked an old man in a short nankeen jacket, if
General Ertmann lived there, intending then to send in my name to
the lady. Unluckily the man replied, "I am General Ertmann: what is
your pleasure?" This was unpleasant, as I was forced to have
recourse to the speech I had prepared. The General, however, did
not seem particularly edified by my statement, and wished to know
whom he had the honour of addressing. This also was far from
agreeable, but fortunately he was acquainted with my name, and
became very polite: his wife, he said was not at home, but I should
find her at two o'clock, or any hour after that which might suit
me.
I was glad that all had gone off so well, and in the meantime went
to the Brera, where I passed the time in studying the 'Sposalizio'
of Raphael, and at two o'clock I presented myself to Freifrau
Dorothea von Ertmann. She received me with much courtesy, and was
most obliging, playing me Beethoven's Sonata in C sharp minor, and
the one in D minor. The old General, who now appeared in his
handsome grey uniform, covered with orders, was quite enchanted,
and had tears of delight in his eyes, because it was so long since
he had heard his wife play; he said there was not a person in Milan
who cared to hear what I had heard. She mentioned the trio in B
major, but said she could not remember it. I played it, and sang
the other parts: this enchanted the old couple, and so their
acquaintance was soon made.
Since then their kindness to me is so great that it quite
overwhelms me. The old General shows me all the remarkable objects
in Milan; in the afternoon his lady takes me in her carriage to
drive on the Corso, and at night we have music till one o'clock in
the morning. Yesterday at an early hour they drove with me in the
environs; at noon I dined with them, and in the evening there was a
party. They are the most agreeable and cultivated couple you can
imagine, and both as much in love with each other as if they
were a newly wedded pair,--and yet they have been married for
four-and-thirty years. Yesterday he spoke of his profession, of
military life, of personal courage, and similar subjects, with a
degree of lucidity, and liberality of feeling, that I scarcely
ever met with, except in my father. The General has been now an
officer for six-and-forty years, and you should really see him
galloping beside his wife's carriage in the park,--the old
gentleman looking so dignified and animated!
She plays Beethoven's works admirably, though it is so long since
she studied them; she sometimes rather exaggerates the expression,
dwelling too long on one passage, and then hurrying the next; but
there are many parts that she plays splendidly, and I think I have
learned something from her. When sometimes she can bring no more
tone out of the instrument, and begins to sing in a voice that
emanates from the very depths of her soul, she reminds me of you,
dear Fanny, though you are infinitely her superior. When I was
approaching the end of the adagio in the B major trio, she
exclaimed, "The amount of expression here is beyond any one's
playing;" and it is quite true of this passage.
The following day, when I went there again to play her the symphony
in C minor, she insisted on my taking off my coat, as the day was
so hot. In the intervals of our music she related the most
interesting anecdotes of Beethoven, and that when she was playing
to him in the evening he not unfrequently used the snuffers as a
tooth-pick! She told me that when she lost her last child,
Beethoven at first shrank from coming to her house; but at length
he invited her to visit him, and when she arrived, she found him
seated at the piano, and simply saying, "Let us speak to each
other by music," he played on for more than an hour, and, as
she expressed it, "he said much to me, and at last gave me
consolation." In short I am now in the most genial mood, and quite
at my ease, having no occasion to resort to any disguise, or to be
silent, for we understand each other admirably on all points. She
played the Kreutzer Sonata yesterday with violin accompaniment, and
when the violin-player (an Austrian cavalry officer) made a long
flourish, _a la_ Paganini, at the beginning of the adagio, the old
General made such a desperate grimace, that I nearly fell off my
chair from laughing.
I called on Teschner, as you, dear mother, desired me to do so;
such a musician however is as depressing as a thick fog. Madame
Ertmann has more soul in her little finger than that fellow has in
his whole body, with his formidable moustaches, behind which he
seems to lie in ambush. There is no public music in Milan; they
still speak with enthusiasm of last winter, when Pasta and Rubini
sang here, but say that they were miserably supported, and the
orchestra and choruses bad. I however heard Pasta six years ago in
Paris, and I can do the same every year, with the addition of a
good orchestra and a good chorus, and many other advantages; so it
is evident that if I wish to hear Italian music, I must go to Paris
or to England. The Germans however take it amiss when you say this,
and persist _par force_ in singing, playing, and acquiring new
ideas here, declaring this is the land of inspiration; while I
maintain that inspiration is peculiar to no country, but floats
about in the air.
Two days ago I was in the morning theatre here, and was amused.
There you can see more of the life of the people than in any other
part of Italy. It is a large theatre with boxes, the pit filled
with wooden benches, on which you can find places if you come
early; the stage is like every other stage, but there is no roof
either over the pit or boxes, so that the bright sun shines into
the theatre and into the eyes of the actors. Moreover, the piece
they gave was in the Milanese dialect. You feel as if you were
secretly watching all these complicated and diverting situations,
and might take part in them if necessary, and thus the most
familiar comic dilemmas become novel and interesting; and the
public seem to feel the most lively interest in them. And now, good
night. I wished to talk to you a little before going to bed, and so
it has become a letter.