Chapter II: Part 2

Early yesterday I went alone through the streets. First came a long array of jovial officers, on spirited little horses; behind them a crew of gipsies, making music; succeeded by Vienna fashionables, with eye-glasses and kid gloves, conversing with a Capuchin monk; then a couple of uncivilized peasants in long white coats, their hats pressed down on their foreheads, and their straight black hair cut even all round, (they have reddish-brown complexions, a languid gait, and an indescribable expression of savage stupidity and indifference); then came a couple of sharp, acute-looking students of theology, in their long blue coats, walking arm-in-arm; Hungarian proprietors in their dark blue national costume; court servants; and numbers of carriages every moment arriving, covered with mud. I followed the crowd as they slowly moved on up the hill, and so at last I arrived at the dilapidated castle, which commands an extensive view of the whole city and the Danube. People were looking down on all sides from the ancient white walls, and from the towers and balconies; in every corner boys were scribbling their names on the walls for the benefit of posterity; in a small chamber (perhaps once on a time a chapel, or a sleeping-apartment) an ox was in the act of being roasted whole, and as it turned on the spit, the people shouted with delight; a succession of cannons bristled before the castle, destined to bellow forth their appropriate thunders at the coronation.

Below, on the Danube, which runs very rapidly here, darting with the speed of an arrow through the pontoon bridge, lay a new steamer, that had just arrived, laden with strangers; then the extensive view of the flat but wooded country, and meadows overflowed by the Danube; of the embankments and streets swarming with human beings, and mountains clothed with Hungarian vines--all this was not a little strange and foreign. Then the pleasant contrast of living in the same house with the best and most friendly people in the world, and finding novelty doubly interesting in their society. These were really among the happy days, dear brother, that a kind Providence so often and so richly bestows on me.

September 28th, one o'clock.

The King is crowned--the ceremony was wonderfully fine. How can I even try to describe it to you? An hour hence we will all drive back to Vienna, and thence I pursue my journey. There is a tremendous uproar under my windows, and the Burgher-guards are flocking together, but only for the purpose of shouting "_Vivat!_" I pushed my way through the crowd, while our ladies saw everything from the windows, and never can I forget the effect of all this brilliant and almost fabulous magnificence.

In the great square of the Hospitallers the people were closely packed together, for there the oaths were to be taken on a platform hung with cloth; and afterwards the people were to be allowed the privilege of tearing down the cloth for their own use; close by was a fountain spouting red and white Hungarian wine. The grenadiers could not keep back the people; one unlucky hackney coach that stopped for a moment was instantly covered with men, who clambered on the spokes of the wheels, and on the roof, and on the box, swarming on it like ants, so that the coachman, unable to drive on without becoming a murderer, was forced to wait quietly where he was. When the procession arrived, which was received bare-headed, I had the utmost difficulty in taking off my hat, and holding it above my head; an old Hungarian, however, behind me, whose view it intercepted, quickly devised a remedy, for without ceremony he made a snatch at my unlucky hat, and in an instant flattened it to the size of a cap; then they yelled as if they had all been spitted, and fought for the cloth; in short they were a mob; but my Magyars! the fellows look as if they were born noblemen, and privileged to live at ease, looking very melancholy, but riding like the devil.

When the procession descended the hill, first came the court servants, covered with embroidery, the trumpeters and kettle drums, the heralds and all that class, and then suddenly galloped along the street a mad Count, _en pleine carriere_, his horse plunging and capering, and the caparisons edged with gold; the Count himself a mass of diamonds, rare herons' plumes, and velvet embroidery (though he had not yet assumed his state uniform, being bound to ride so madly--Count Sandor is the name of this furious cavalier.) He had an ivory sceptre in his hand with which he urged on his horse, causing it each time to rear, and to make a tremendous bound forward.

When his wild career was over, a procession of about sixty more magnates arrived, all in the same fantastic splendour, with handsome coloured turbans, twisted moustaches, and dark eyes. One rode a white horse covered with a gold net; another a dark grey, the bridle and housings studded with diamonds; then came a black charger with purple cloth caparisons. One magnate was attired from head to foot in sky blue, thickly embroidered with gold, a white turban, and a long white dolman; another in cloth of gold, with a purple dolman; each one more rich and gaudy than the other, and all riding so boldly and fearlessly, and with such defiant gallantry, that it was quite a pleasure to look at them. At length came the Hungarian Guards, with Esterhazy at their head, dazzling in gems and pearl embroidery. How can I describe the scene? You ought to have seen the procession deploy and halt in the spacious square, and all the jewels and bright colours, and the lofty golden mitres of the bishops, and the crucifixes glittering in the brilliant sunshine like a thousand stars!

Well, to-morrow, God willing, I proceed on my journey. Now, dear brother, you have a letter, so pray write soon, and let me hear how you are getting on. So you have had an _emeute_ in Berlin? and that, too, an _emeute_ of tailors' apprentices? What did it all mean? Once more I send you my farewell from Germany, my dear parents, and brother and sisters. I am leaving Hungary for Italy, and thence I hope to write to you more frequently and more at leisure. Be of good cheer, dear Paul, and go forwards in a confident spirit; rejoice with those that rejoice, and do not forget the brother who is wandering about the world.

Yours, FELIX.

Venice, October 10th, 1830.

Italy at last! and what I have all my life considered as the greatest possible felicity, is now begun, and I am basking in it. The day has been so fruitful in enjoyment, that I must, now that it is evening, endeavour to collect my thoughts a little to write to you, my dear parents, and to thank you for having bestowed such happiness on me. You also, my dear brother and sisters, are often in my thoughts. How much I wish for you, Paul, to be with me here, once more to enjoy your delight in our rapid travels by sea and by land; and I should like to prove to you, Hensel, that the "Assumption of the Blessed Virgin" is the most divine work ever produced by the hands of man. You are not here, however, so I am obliged to give vent to my enthusiasm in bad Italian to the _laquais de place_, who stands still and listens.

I shall however become quite confused, if things are to go on as they have done on this first day, when every hour brought with it so much never to be forgotten, that I do not know where to find sufficient grasp of intellect to comprehend it all properly. I saw the "Assumption," then a whole gallery of paintings in the Manfrini Palace; then a church festival in the church where hangs Titian's St. Peter; afterwards St. Mark's, and in the afternoon I had a row on the Adriatic, and visited the public gardens, where the people lie on the grass and eat. I then returned to the Piazza of St. Mark, where in the twilight there is always an immense crowd and crush of people; and all this I was obliged to see to-day, because there is so much that is novel and interesting to be seen to-morrow.

But I must now relate methodically how I came hither by water, (for, as Telemachus says, to do so by land would be no easy matter,) and so I begin my history at Gratz, which is certainly the most tiresome hole in the world, and where you yawn all day; and why should I have stayed a single day longer, on account of a (he) relation? How can a traveller with any experience possibly accept of a brother, who is also an ensign, in the place of a charming mother and sister? In short, the man did not know what to do with me, for which I forgive him freely, and shall not defame him to his mother, when I perform my promise and write to her; but he took me to the theatre to see the "Rehbock," the most wretched, silly, objectionable piece that the late Kotzebue ever wrote; and moreover he declared it to be very good and very amusing, and this is not to be forgiven, for this _Rehbock_ has such a _haut gout_ or _fumet_, that it could not even please a cat: but at all events I have left Gratz, for here I am in Venice.

My old vetturino woke me up at four o'clock in the dark, and the horse crawled off with us both. I thought of you, dear father, at least a hundred times during our journey of two days. You would certainly have gone wild with impatience, and possibly assaulted the coachman also, for at every little declivity, he got slowly off the box, deliberately put on the drag, and crept up the smallest hill at a snail's pace; then he thought fit to walk beside his horses for a time, to stretch his legs: every possible conveyance passed us on the road, even when drawn by dogs or donkeys, and when at last, at a steep hill, the fellow put on two oxen as leaders, whose pace exactly corresponded with that of his horse, I had the greatest difficulty in not belabouring him, indeed I did so more than once; but he then gravely assured me that we were going at a capital pace, and I had no means of proving the contrary. Moreover he always passed the night in the most detestable pot-houses, starting again at four o'clock in the morning, so on arriving at Klagenfurt I was fairly worn out; but when in answer to my question as to the time the Venetian diligence set out, I received the answer,--in an hour hence,--I seemed to revive. I was promised a place, and I also got a good supper. The diligence, indeed, did not arrive for two hours after its time, having been detained by deep snow on the Soemmering, but still it came at last. Three Italians were inside, and chattered so that I could scarcely get to sleep, but my snoring fairly silenced them after a time.

At last morning broke, and as we drove into Resciutta, the driver said, that on the other side of the bridge there, no one understood a word of German. I therefore took leave of my mother tongue for a long time to come, and we drove over the bridge. The style of the houses immediately beyond was entirely different. The flat roofs with their convex tiles, the deep windows, the high white walls, and lofty square towers, all betokened another land. The pale olive faces of the men, the innumerable beggars who besieged the carriage, the various small chapels, brightly and carefully painted on every side with flowers, the nuns, monks, and so forth, were all symptomatic of Italy. The monotonous character of the whole scenery however, and of the road we were travelling, passing through bare white rocks, along the banks of a river with a rough rocky bed, in summer creeping along in the form of a tiny brook, certainly does not seem characteristic of Italy. "I purposely made this passage rather meagre, in order that the _subject_ might be more distinctly heard," says Abt Vogler; and I almost think that Providence has done pretty much the same here, for when we had passed Ospedaletto the _subject_ did come out well, and a fine sight it was. I had imagined that the first impression of Italy would be like that of a sudden explosion, violent and startling; I have not hitherto found this to be the case. The effect produced on me has been rather that of a genial warmth, mildness and cheerfulness, and an indescribable sensation of pervading content and satisfaction.

After passing Ospedaletto we entered a plain, leaving the blue mountains behind us; the sun shone bright and warm through the foliage of the vines; the road winding through orchards, in which the trees were connected by trailing boughs. I felt as if I were at home again, and knew every object, and was once more about to take possession of it all. The carriage too seemed to _fly_ over the smooth road, and towards evening we arrived at Udine, where we passed the night, when for the first time I ordered my supper in Italian, my tongue skating as if on slippery ice, first gliding into English, and then stumbling afresh. Moreover next morning I was famously cheated, but I did not in the least care, and on we went. It happened to be Sunday, and on every side people were coming along, in bright southern costumes, and flowers; the women with roses in their hair. Light single-horse carriages drove past, and men were riding to church on donkeys; at the inns, groups of idlers were to be seen in the most picturesque, indolent attitudes: among others, one man placed his arm quietly round his wife's waist, and swung round with her and then they went on their way; this sounds trivial enough, and yet it had a pretty effect. Venetian villas now were occasionally visible from the road, and by degrees became more frequent, till at length our way led past houses, trees, and gardens like a park. The whole country had a gay festive air, as if a Prince were expected to make his grand entry, and the vine-branches with their rich purple grapes hanging in festoons from the trees, made the most lovely of all festive wreaths. The inhabitants were all gaily dressed and adorned, and a few scattered cypresses only enhanced the general effect.

In Treviso there was an illumination, paper lanterns suspended in every part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in the centre. Some most lovely girls were walking about, in their long white veils and scarlet petticoats. It was quite dark when we arrived at Mestre last night, when we got into a boat, and in a dead calm, gently rowed across to Venice. On our passage thither, where nothing but water is to be seen, and distant lights, we saw a small rock which stands in the midst of the sea; on this a lamp was burning; all the sailors took off their hats as we passed, and one of them said, this was the "Madonna of Tempests," which are often most dangerous and violent here. We then glided quietly into the great city, under innumerable bridges, without sound of post-horns, or rattling of wheels, or toll-keepers; the passage now became more thronged, and numbers of ships were lying near; past the theatre, where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters, just as our own carriages do at home, then into the great canal, past the church of St. Mark, the Lions, the palace of the Doges, and the Bridge of Sighs. The obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on hearing the familiar names, and seeing the dark outlines.

And so I am actually in Venice! Well, to-day I have seen the finest pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto I only knew by name--I allude to a certain Signor Giorgione, an inimitable artist--and also to Pordenone, who paints the most noble portraits, both of himself and many of his simple scholars, in such a devout, faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse with him, and to feel an affection for him. Who would not have been confused by all this? But if I am to speak of Titian, I must do so in a more reverent mood. Till now, I never knew that he was the felicitous artist I have this day seen him to be. That he thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and fulness, the picture in Paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human sorrow, as well as the joys of Heaven. His glorious "Entombment," and also the "Assumption," fully evince this. How Mary floats on the cloud, while a waving movement seems to pervade the whole picture; how you see at a glance her very breathing, her awe, and piety, and in short a thousand feelings,--all words seem poor and commonplace in comparison! The three angels too, on the right of the picture, are of the highest order of beauty,--pure, serene loveliness, so unconscious, so bright and so seraphic. But no more of this! or I must perforce become poetical, or indeed am so already, and this does not at all suit me; but I shall certainly see it every day.

I must however say a few words about the "Entombment," as you have the engraving. Look at it, and think of me. This picture represents the conclusion of a great tragedy: so still, so grand, and so acutely painful. Magdalene is supporting Mary, fearing that she will die of anguish; she endeavours to lead her away, but looks round herself once more, evidently wishing to imprint this spectacle indelibly on her heart, thinking that it is for the last time; it surpasses everything; and then the sorrowing John, who sympathizes and suffers with Mary; and Joseph, who absorbed in his piety, and occupied with the tomb, directs and conducts the whole; and Christ himself, lying there so tranquil, having endured to the end: then the blaze of brilliant colour, and the gloomy mottled sky! It is a composition that speaks to my heart and fills me with enthusiasm, and will never leave my memory.

I believe few things I have yet to see in Italy will affect me so deeply; but you know that I am devoid of all prejudices, and I give you a fresh proof of this by telling you that the "Martyrdom of St. Peter," from which I expected the most, pleased me the least of the three; it did not strike me as being a complete whole; the landscape, which is very fine, seemed to me to predominate too much. Then I was dissatisfied with the disposition in the picture of _two_ victims and only _one_ murderer; (for the small figure inthe distant background does not remedy this). I could not bring myself to consider it a martyrdom. But probably I am in error, and I intend to study it more carefully to-morrow; my contemplation of it, besides, was disturbed by some one strumming most sacrilegiously on the organ, and these sacred forms were forced to listen to such miserable opera _finales_! But this matters not: where such pictures are, I require no organist. I play the organ in my thoughts for myself, and feel as little irritated by such trash as I should be by an ignorant rabble. Titian, however, was a man well adapted to improve others; so I shall try to profit by him, and to rejoice that I am in Italy. At this moment the gondoliers are shouting to each other, and the lights are reflected in the depths of the waters; one is playing a guitar, and singing to it. It is a charming night. Farewell! and think of me in every happy hour as I do of you.

FELIX.

TO PROFESSOR ZELTER.[5]

Venice, October 16th, 1830.

Dear Professor,

I have entered Italy at last, and I intend this letter to be the commencement of a regular series of reports, which I purpose transmitting to you, of all that appears to me particularly worthy of notice. Though I only now for the first time write to you, I must beg you to impute the blame to the state of constant excitement in which I lived, both in Munich and in Vienna. It was needless for me to describe to you the parties in Munich, which I attended every evening, and where I played the piano more unremittingly than I ever did in my life before; one _soiree_ succeeding another so closely, that I really had not a moment to collect my thoughts. Moreover, it would not have particularly interested you, for after all, "good society which does not offer materials for the smallest epigram," is equally vapid in a letter. I hope that you have not taken amiss my long silence, and that I may expect a few lines from you, even if they contain nothing save that you are well and cheerful.

[5] Mendelssohn's instructor in the theory of music.

The aspect of the world at this moment is very bleak and stormy, and much that was once thought durable and unchangeable, has been swept away in the course of a couple of days. It is then doubly welcome to hear well-known voices, to convince us that there are certain things which cannot be annihilated or demolished, but remain firm and steadfast. You must know that I am at this moment very uneasy at not having received any news from home for some weeks past. I found no letters from my family, either at Trieste or here, so a few lines from you, written in your old fashion, would both cheer and gratify me, especially as it would prove that you think of me with the same kindness that you have always done from my childhood to the present time.

My family have no doubt told you of the exhilarating impression made on me by the first sight of the plains of Italy. I hurry from one enjoyment to another hour by hour, and constantly see something novel and fresh; but immediately on my arrival I discovered some masterpieces of art, which I study with deep attention, and contemplate daily for a couple of hours at least. These are three pictures by Titian. The "Presentation of Mary as a Child in the Temple;" the "Assumption of the Virgin;" and the "Entombment of Christ." There is also a portrait by Giorgione, representing a girl with a cithern in her hand, plunged in thought, and looking forth from the picture in serious meditation (she is apparently about to begin a song, and you feel as if you must do the same): besides many others.

To see these alone would be worth a journey to Venice; for the fruitfulness, genius, and devotion of the great men who painted these pictures, seem to emanate from them afresh as often as you gaze at their works, and I do not much regret that I have scarcely heard any music here; for I suppose I must not venture to include the music of the angels, in the "Assumption," encircling Mary with joyous shouts of welcome; one gaily beating the tambourine, a couple of others blowing away on strange crooked flutes, while another charming group are singing--or the music floating in the thoughts of the cithern player. I have only once heard anything on the organ, and miserable it was. I was gazing at Titian's "Martyrdom of St. Peter" in the Franciscan Church. Divine service was going on, and nothing inspires me with more solemn awe than when on the very spot for which they were originally created and painted, those ancient pictures in all their grandeur, gradually steal forth out of the darkness in which the long lapse of time has veiled them.

As I was earnestly contemplating the enchanting evening landscape with its trees, and angels among the boughs, the organ commenced. The first sound was quite in harmony with my feelings; but the second, third, and in fact all the rest, quickly roused me from my reveries, and sent me straight home, for the man was playing in church and during divine service, and in the presence of respectable people, thus:

[Music]

with the "Martyrdom of St. Peter" actually close beside him! I was therefore in no great hurry to make the acquaintance of the organist. There is no regular Opera here at this moment, and the gondoliers no longer sing, Tasso's stanzas; moreover, what I have hitherto seen of modern Venetian art, consists of poems framed and glazed on the subject of Titian's pictures, or Rinaldo and Armida, by a new Venetian painter, or a St. Cecilia by a ditto, besides various specimens of architecture in no style at all; as all these are totally insignificant, I cling to the ancient masters, and study how they worked. Often, after doing so, I feel a musical inspiration, and since I came here I have been busily engaged in composition.

Before I left Vienna, a friend of mine made me a present of Luther's Hymns, and on reading them over I was again so much struck by their power, that I intend to compose music for several next winter. I have nearly completed here the choral "Aus tiefer Noth," for four voices _a capella_; and the Christmas hymn, "Vom Himmel hoch," is already in my head. I wish also to set the following hymns to music: "Ach Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein," "Wir glauben all' an einen Gott," "Verleih uns Frieden," "Mitten wir im Leben sind," and finally "Ein' feste Burg." The latter, however, it is my intention to compose for a choir and orchestra. Pray write to me about this project of mine, and say whether you approve of my retaining the ancient melodies in them all, but not adhering to them too strictly: for instance, if I were to take the first verse of "Vom Himmel hoch" as a separate grand chorus. Besides this, I am hard at work at an orchestral overture, and if an opportunity for an opera offered it would be most welcome.

I finished two pieces of sacred music in Vienna--a choral in three movements for chorus and orchestra ("O! Haupt voll Blut und Wunden") and an Ave Maria for a choir of eight voices, _a capella_. The people I associated with there were so dissipated and frivolous, that I became quite spiritually-minded, and conducted myself like a divine among them. Moreover, not one of the best pianoforte players there, male or female, ever played a note of Beethoven, and when I hinted that he and Mozart were not to be despised, they said, "So you are an admirer of classical music?"--"Yes," said I.

To-morrow I intend to go to Bologna to have a glance at the St. Cecilia, and then proceed by Florence to Rome, where I hope (D. V.) to arrive eight or ten days hence. I will then write to you more satisfactorily. I only wished to make a beginning to-day, and to beg you not to forget me, and kindly to accept my heartfelt wishes for your health and happiness. Your faithful

FELIX.

Florence, October 23rd, 1830.

Here am I in Florence, the air warm and the sky bright; everything is beautiful and glorious, "wo blieb die Erde," as Goethe says. I have now received your letter of the 3rd, by which I see that you are all well, that my anxiety was needless, that you are all going on as usual, and thinking of me; so I feel happy again, and can now see everything, and enjoy everything, and am able to write to you; in short, my mind is at rest on the main point. I made my journey here amid a thousand doubts and fears, quite uncertain whether to go direct to Rome, because I did not expect any letters at Florence. Fortunately, however, I decided on coming here, and now it is of no consequence how the misunderstanding arose, that caused me to wait for letters in Venice, while you had written to Florence; all I can promise is to endeavour in future to be less over-anxious. My driver pointed out a spot between the hills, on which lay a blue mist, and said "_Ecco Firenze!_" I eagerly looked towards the place, and saw the round dome looming out of the mist before me, and the spacious wide valley in which the city is situated. My love of travel revived when at last Florence appeared. I looked at some willow-trees (as I thought) beside the road, when the driver said, "Buon olio," and then I saw that they were hanging full of olives.

My driver, as a genus, is undoubtedly a most villanous knave, thief, and impostor; he has cheated me and half-starved me, and yet I think him almost amiable from his enthusiastic animal nature. About an hour before we arrived in Florence he said that the beautiful scenery was now about to commence; and true it is that the fair land of Italy does first begin then. There are villas on every height, and decorated old walls, with sloping terraces of roses and aloes, flowers and grapes and olive leaves, the sharp points of cypresses, and the flat tops of pines, all sharply defined against the sky; then handsome square faces, busy life on the roads on every side, and at a distance in the valley, the blue city.

So I drove confidently into Florence in my little open carriage, and though I looked shabby and dusty, like one coming from the Apennines, I cared little for that. I passed recklessly through all the smart equipages from which the most refined English ladies looked at me; while I thought it may one day actually come to pass that you who are now looking down on the _roturier_, may shake hands with him, the only difference being a little clean linen and so forth. By the time that we came to the _battisterio_, I no longer felt diffident, but gave orders to drive to the Post, and then I was really happy, for I received three letters,--yours of the 22nd and the 3rd, and my father's also. I was now quite delighted, and as we drove along beside the Arno, to Schneider's celebrated hotel, the world seemed once more a very pleasant world.

October 24th.

The Apennines are really not so beautiful as I had imagined; for the name always suggested to me richly wooded, picturesque hills, covered with vegetation, whereas they are merely a long chain of melancholy bleak hills; and the little verdure there is, not gratifying to the eye. There are no dwellings to be seen, no merry brooks or rills; only an occasional stream, its broad bed dried up, or a little water-channel. Add to this the shameful roguery of the inhabitants: really, at last, I became quite confused and perplexed, by their incessant cheating, and could scarcely discover for what object they were lying. I therefore, once for all, invariably protested against every demand they made, and declared that I would not pay at all if they asked more than I chose to give; so in this way I managed very tolerably.

Last night I was again in grand quarters: I had made an agreement with the vetturino for board and lodging, and all I required. The natural consequence was, that the fellow took me to the most detestable little inns, and actually starved me. So late yesterday we arrived at a solitary pothouse, the filth of which no pen can describe. The stair was strewed with heaps of dead leaves and firewood; moreover the cold was intense, and they invited me to warm myself in the kitchen, which I agreed to do. A bench was placed for me beside the fire; a whole troop of peasants were standing about, also warming themselves. I looked quite regal from my bench on the hearth among this rough set of fellows, who, in their broad-leaved hats, lit up by the fire, and babbling in their incomprehensible dialect, looked vastly suspicious characters. I made them prepare my soup under my own eyes, giving moreover good advice on the subject; but, after all, it was not eatable.

I entered into conversation with my subjects from my throne on the hearth, and they pointed out to me a little hill in the distance incessantly vomiting forth flames, which had a singular effect in the dark ("Raticosa" is the name of the hill), and then I was conducted to my bed-room. The landlord took hold of the sackcloth sheets, and said, "Very fine linen!" but I slept as sound as a bear, and before falling asleep I said to myself, Now you are in the Apennines: and next morning, after getting no breakfast, my vetturino civilly asked me how I liked my night's entertainment. The fellow talked a great deal of nonsense about politics, and the present state of France, abused his horse in German for being born in Switzerland, and spoke French to the beggars who swarmed round the cabriolet, while I corrected many a fault in his pronunciation.

October 25th.

I now intend to go once more to the Tribune, to be inspired with feelings of reverence. There is a particular place where I like to sit, as the little Venus de' Medici is directly opposite, and above, that of Titian, and by turning rather to the left, I have a view of the Madonna del Cardello, a favourite picture of mine, and which invariably reminds me of _la belle Jardiniere_, and seems to me a kindred creation; and also the Fornarina, which made no great impression on me from the first, for I know the engraving, which is very faithful, and the face has, I think, a most disagreeable and even ordinary expression. In gazing thus, however, at the two Venuses, their loveliness inspires a feeling of piety; it is as if the two spirits who could produce such creations, were flying through the hall and grasping you as they passed.

Titian must have been a marvellous man, and enjoyed his life in his works; still the fair Medici is not to be slighted, and then the divine Niobe with all her children: while we gaze at her, we can find no words. I have not yet been to the Pitti Palace, which possesses the Saint Ezekiel, and the Madonna della Sedia, of Raphael. I saw the gardens of the palace yesterday in sunshine; they are superb, and the thick solid stems of the myrtles and laurels, and the innumerable cypresses, made a strange exotic impression on me; but when I declare that I consider beeches, limes, oaks, and firs, ten times more beautiful and picturesque, I think I hear Hensel exclaim, "Oh, the northern bear!"

October 30th.

After the soft rain of yesterday, the air is so mild and genial, that I am at this moment seated at the open window writing to you; and indeed it is pleasant enough to see the people going about the streets, offering the prettiest baskets of flowers, fresh violets, roses, and pinks. Two days ago, being satiated with all pictures, statues, vases, and museums, I resolved to take a long walk till sunset; so after buying a bunch of narcissuses and heliotropes, I went up the hill through the vineyards. It was one of the most delightful walks I ever remember; every one must feel revived and refreshed at the sight of nature in such a garb as this, and a thousand happy thoughts passed through my mind.

First of all, I went to a villa called Bello Sguardo, whence the whole of Florence and its spacious valley are to be seen, and I thoroughly enjoyed the view of the superb city and its massive towers and palaces. But most of all I admired the countless villas, covering every hill and every acclivity as far as the eye can reach, as if the city extended beyond the mountains into the far distance. And when I took up a telescope and looked down on the valley through the blue mists, every portion of it seemed thickly dotted with bright objects and white villas, while such a large circle of dwellings inspired me with a feeling of home and comfort.

I proceeded far over the hills to the highest point I could see, on which stood an ancient tower, and when I reached it I found all the people throughout the building busily engaged in making wine, drying grapes, and repairing casks. It proved to be Galileo's tower, from which he used to make his discoveries and observations; from here also there was a very extensive view, and the girl who took me to the roof of the tower related a number of stories in her peculiar dialect, which I scarcely understood at all; but she afterwards presented me with some of her sweet dried grapes, which I ate with great gusto. And so I went on to another tower I saw at a distance, but could not manage to find my way; and examining my map as I went along, I stumbled on a traveller busily searching his map also; the only difference between us being, that he was an old Frenchman with green spectacles, who addressed me thus, "E questo S. Miniato al Monte, Signor?" With admirable decision I replied, "Si, Signor;" and it turned out that I was right. A. F---- immediately recurred to my memory, as she had advised me to see this monastery, which is indeed wonderfully fine.

When I tell you I went from there to the Boboli Gardens, where I saw the sun set, and at night enjoyed the brightest moonlight, you may imagine how much I was invigorated by my ramble. I will write to you about the pictures here some other time, for to-day it is too late, as I have still to take leave of the Pitti Palace and the great Gallery, and to gaze once more at my Venus, who is not indeed mentioned before ladies, but whose beauty is truly divine. The courier goes at five o'clock, and God willing, I shall be in Rome the day after to-morrow. From thence you shall hear again.

FELIX.

Rome, November 2nd, 1830.

... I refrain from writing longer in this melancholy strain; for just as your letter, after a lapse of fourteen days, has saddened me, my answer will have the same effect on you fourteen days hence. You would write to me in the same style, and so it might go on for ever. As four weeks must pass before I can receive any answer, I feel that I ought to restrict myself to relating events past and present, and not dwell much on the particular frame of my mind at the moment, which is indeed usually sufficiently manifest in the narrative given, and the various occurrences described.

I have scarcely yet arrived at the conviction that I am now actually in Rome; and when yesterday, just as day was breaking, I drove across a bridge with statues, under a deep blue sky, and in dazzling white moonlight, and the courier said, "Ponte Molle," it all seemed to me like a dream, and at the same moment I saw before me my sick-bed in London a year ago, and my rough Scotch journey, and Munich, and Vienna, and the pines on these hills. The journey from Florence to Rome has very few attractions. Siena, which is, I understand worth seeing, we passed through during the night. It was unpleasant to see a regular Government courier compelled to take a military escort, which was doubled at night; still it must be absolutely necessary, as he is obliged to pay for it. In these days this ought not to be the case. In the meantime everything progresses, and there are moments when the bound forwards is actually visible.

I was still in Florence, waiting for the departure of the post, reading a French newspaper, when at the very moment the bell sounded, I read among the advertisements, "Vie de Siebenkaes, par Jean Paul." Many reflections occurred to me as to so many men of renown gradually vanishing from our sight, and our great geniuses having such homage paid to them after their death, and yet during their _life_, Lafontaine's novels and French vaudevilles alone make any impression on their fellow-countrymen; while _we_ only strive to appreciate the very refuse of the French, and neglect Beaumarchais and Rousseau. However, it matters little after all.

The first thing connected with music that I met with here, was the "Tod Jesu," by Graun, which an Abbate here, Fortunato Santini, has translated faithfully and admirably into Italian. It appears that the music of this heretic has been sent along with the translation to Naples, where it is to be produced this winter at a great festival, and I hear that the musical world there are quite enchanted with it, and are studying the work with infinite love and enthusiasm. I understand that the Abbate has been long impatiently expecting me, because he hopes to obtain considerable information from me about German music, and thinks I may also have the score of Bach's "Passion." Thus music progresses onwards, as sure to pierce through as the sun; if mists still prevail, it is merely a sign that the spring-time has not yet come, but come again it must and will! Farewell! and from my heart I say,--May a merciful Providence preserve you all in health and happiness!

FELIX.

Rome, November 8th, 1830.

I must now write to you of my first week in Rome; how I have arranged my time, how I look forward to the winter, and what impression the glorious objects by which I am surrounded have made on me; but this is no easy task. I feel as if I were entirely changed since I came here. Formerly when I wished to check my haste and impatience to press forward, and to continue my journey more rapidly, I attributed this eagerness merely to the force of habit, but I am now fully persuaded that it arose entirely from my anxiety to reach this goal. Now that I have at last attained it my mood is so tranquil and joyous, and yet so earnest, that I shall not attempt to describe it to you. What it is that thus works on me I cannot exactly define; for the awe-inspiring Coliseum, and the brilliant Vatican, and the genial air of spring, all contribute to make me feel thus, and so do the kindly people, my comfortable apartments, and everything else. At all events I am different from what I was. I am better in health and happier than I have been for a long time, and take delight in my work, and feel such an inclination for it, that I expect to accomplish much more than I anticipated; indeed, I have already done a good deal. If it pleases Providence to grant me a continuation of this happy mood, I look forward to the most delightful and productive winter.

Picture to yourself a small house, with two windows in front, in the Piazza di Spagna, No. 5 which all day long enjoys the warm sun, and an apartment on the first floor, where there is a good Viennese grand piano: on the table are some portraits of Palestrina, Allegri, etc., along with the scores of their works, and a Latin psalm-book, from which I am to compose the _Non Nobis_;--such is my present abode. The Capitol was too far away, besides I had a great dread of the cold air, which here I have no cause to guard against; for when I look out of my window in the morning across the square, I see every object sharply defined in the sunshine against the blue sky. My landlord was formerly a captain in the French army, and his daughter has the most splendid contralto voice I ever heard. Above me lives a Prussian captain, with whom I talk politics,--in short, the situation is excellent.

When I come into the room early in the morning, and see the sun shining so brightly on the breakfast-table (you see I am marred as a poet), I feel so cheerful and comfortable, for it is now far on in the autumn, and who in our country at this season looks for warmth, or a bright sky, or grapes and flowers? After breakfast I begin my work, and play, and sing, and compose till near noon. Then Rome in all her vast dimensions lies before me like an interesting problem to enjoy; but I go deliberately to work, daily selecting some different object appertaining to history. One day I visit the ruins of the ancient city; another I go to the Borghese gallery, or to the Capitol, or St. Peter's, or the Vatican. Each day is thus made memorable, and as I take my time, each object becomes firmly and indelibly impressed on me. When I am occupied in the forenoon I am willing to leave off, and should like to continue my writing, but I say to myself that I must see the Vatican, and when I am actually there, I equally dislike leaving it; thus each of my occupations causes me the most genuine pleasure, and one enjoyment follows another.

Just as Venice, with her past, reminded me of a vast monument: her crumbling modern palaces, and the perpetual remembrance of former splendour, causing sad and discordant sensations; so does the past of Rome suggest the impersonation of history; her monuments elevate the soul, inspiring solemn yet serene feelings, and it is a thought fraught with exultation that man is capable of producing creations, which, after the lapse of a thousand years, still renovate and animate others. When I have fairly imprinted an object like this on my mind, and each day a fresh one, twilight has usually arrived and the day is over.

I then visit my friends and acquaintances, when we mutually communicate what each has done, which means _enjoyed_ here, and are reciprocally pleased. I have been most evenings at Bendemann's and Huebner's, where German artists usually assemble, and I sometimes go to Schadow's. The Abbate Santini is a valuable acquaintance for me, as he has a very complete library of ancient Italian music, and he kindly gives or lends me anything I like, for no one can be more obliging. At night he makes either Ahlborn or me accompany him home, as an Abbate being seen alone at night in the streets would bring him into evil repute. That such youngsters as Ahlborn and I should act as duennas to a priest of sixty is diverting enough.

The Duchess of ---- gave me a list of old music which she was anxious to procure copies of if possible. Santini's collection contains all this, and I am much obliged to him for having furnished me with copies, for I am now looking through them all, and becoming acquainted with them. I beg you will send me for him, as a token of my gratitude, the six cantatas of Sebastian Bach, published by Marx at Simrock's, or some of his pieces for the organ. I should however prefer the cantatas: he already has the "Magnificat" and the Motets, and others. He has translated the "Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied," and intends it to be executed at Naples, for which he deserves a reward. I am writing to Zelter all particulars about the Papal singers, whom I have heard three times,--in the Quirinal, in the Monte Cavallo, and once in San Carlo.

I look forward with delight to seeing Bunsen, we shall have much to discuss together, and I have likewise an idea that he has got some work for me; if I can conscientiously undertake it, I will do so gladly, and render it all the justice in my power. Among my home pleasures I include that of reading for the first time Goethe's Journey to Italy; and I must avow that it is a source of great satisfaction to me to find that he arrived in Rome the very same day that I did; that he also went first to the Quirinal, and heard a Requiem there; that he was seized with the same fit of impatience in Florence and Bologna; and felt the same tranquil, or as he calls it, solid spirit here: indeed, everything that he describes, I exactly experience myself, so I am pleased.

He speaks in detail of a large picture of Titian's in the Vatican, and declares that its meaning is not to be devised; only a number of figures standing beautifully grouped together. I fancy, however, that I have discovered a very deep sense in it, and I believe that whoever finds the most beauties in Titian, is sure to be most in the right, for he was a glorious man. Though he has not had the opportunity of displaying and diffusing his genius here, as Raphael has done in the Vatican, still I can never forget his three pictures in Venice, and to these I may add the one in the Vatican, which I saw for the first time this morning. If any one could come into the world with full consciousness, every object around would smile on him with the same vivid life and animation, that these pictures do on us. "The School of Athens," and the "Disputa," and the "Peter," stand before us precisely as they were created; and then the entrance through splendid open arches, whence you can see the Piazza of St. Peter's, and Rome, and the blue Alban hills; and above our heads figures from the Old Testament, and a thousand bright little angels, and arabesques of fruit, and garlands of flowers; and then on to the gallery!

You may well be proud, dear Hensel, for your copy of the "Transfiguration" is superb! The pleasing emotion which seizes me, when I see for the first time some immortal work, and the pervading idea and chief impression it inspires, I did not experience on this occasion from the original, but from _your_ copy. The first effect of this picture to-day, was precisely the same that yours had previously made on me; and it was not till after considerable research and contemplation that I succeeded in finding out anything new to me. On the other hand, the Madonna di Foligno dawned on me in the whole splendour of her loveliness. I have passed a happy morning in the midst of all these glorious works; as yet I have not visited the statues, but have reserved my first impression of them for another day.

November 9th, morning.

Thus every morning brings me fresh anticipations, and every day fulfils them. The sun is again shining on my breakfast-table and I am now going to my daily work. I will send you, dear Fanny, by the first opportunity, what I composed in Vienna, and anything else that may be finished, and my sketch-book to Rebecca; but I am far from being pleased with it this time, so I intend to study attentively the sketches of the landscape painters here, in order to acquire if possible a new manner. I tried to produce one of my own, but it would not do!

To-day I am going to the Lateran, and the ruins of ancient Rome; and in the evening to a kind English family, whose acquaintance I made here. Pray send me a good many letters of introduction. I am exceedingly anxious to know numbers of people, especially Italians. So I live on happily, and think of you in every pleasant moment. May you also be happy, and rejoice with me at the prospect which lies before me here!

FELIX M. B.

Rome, November 16th, 1830.

Dear Fanny,

No post left this the day before yesterday, and I could not talk to you, so when I remembered that my letter must necessarily remain two days before it left Rome, I felt it impossible to write; but I thought of you times without number, and wished you every happiness, and congratulated myself that you were born a certain number of years ago. It is, indeed, cheering to think what charming, rational beings, are to be found in the world; and you are certainly one of these. Continue cheerful, bright, and well, and make no great change in yourself. I don't think you require to be much better; may good fortune ever abide with you!