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 MENJhLSSOHN'S LETTERS.
 
 LETTERS 
 
 or 
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY 
 
 FROM 
 
 ITALY AXD SWITZERLAND. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE. 
 
 WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 
 
 BY JULIE DK MARGUERITTES. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 OLIVER DITSON 4 CO., 2T7 WASHINGTON STKEET, 
 
 JsEW YORK: C. H. DITSOK & CO.
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY. 
 
 FELIX MEXDELSSOHN BARTHOLDT was born at 
 Hamburg, on the third of February, 1809. The name 
 to which he was destined to add such lustre, was 
 already high in the annals of fame. Moses Mendels- 
 sohn, his grandfather, a great Jewish philosopher, 
 one of the most remarkable men of his time, was the 
 author of profound Metaphysical works, written both 
 in German and Hebrew. To this great power of 
 intellect, Moses Mendelssohn added a purity and 
 dignity of character worthy of the old stoics. The 
 epigraph on the bust of this ancestor of the com- 
 poser, shows the esteem in which he was held by his 
 contemporaries: 
 
 "Faithful to the religion of his fathers, as wise 
 as Socrates, like Socrates teaching the immortality 
 of the soul, and like Socrates leaving a name that is 
 immortal." 
 
 One of Moses Mendelssohn's daughters married 
 Frederick Schlegel, and swerving from the religion 
 iu which both had been brought up, both became 
 Roman Catholics. 
 
 Joseph Mendelssohn, the eldest son of this great 
 old man, was also distinguished for his literary taste 
 A* (i)
 
 11 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BAKTIIOLDY. 
 
 and has left two excellent works of very different 
 characters, one on Dante, the other ou the system of 
 a paper currency. 
 
 In conjunction with his brother, Abraham, he 
 founded the banking-house of Mendelssohn & Com- 
 pany at Berlin, still flourishing under the manage- 
 ment of the sons of the original founders, the 
 brothers and cousins of Felix, the subject of this 
 memoir. 
 
 George Mendelssohn the son of Joseph, was 
 also a distinguished political writer and Professor 
 in the University at Bonn. 
 
 "With such an array of intellectual ancestry, the 
 Mendelssohn of our day came into the world at 
 Hamburg, on the third of February, 1809. He was 
 named Felix, and a more appropriate name could 
 not have been found for him, for in character, cir- 
 cumstance and endowment, he was supremely happy. 
 Goethe, speaking of him, said " the boy was born 
 on a lucky day." Jlis first piece of good fortune, 
 was in having not only an excellent virtuous woman 
 for his mother, but a woman who, besides these 
 qualities, possessed extraordinary intellect and had 
 received an education that fitted her to be the 
 mother of children endowed as hers were. She 
 proffssed the Lutheran creed, in which her children 
 were brought up. Being of a distinguished commer- 
 cial family and an heiress, her husband aodt-d her 
 name of Bartholdy to his own. Mine. Mendelssohn 
 Bartholdy's other children were, Fanny her first- 
 born, whose life is entirely interwoven with that of
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BAETHOLDT. Ill 
 
 her brother Felix, and Paul and Eebecca, born some 
 years later. 
 
 When yet a boy, Felix removed with his parents 
 to Berlin, probably at the time of the formation of 
 the banking house. The Prussian capital has often 
 claimed the honor of being his birthplace, but that 
 distinction really belongs to Hamburg. 
 
 His extraordinary musical talent was not long in 
 developing itself. His sister Fanny, his "soul's 
 friend " and constant companion, almost as richly 
 endowed as himself, aroused his emulation, and they 
 studied music together first as an art, and then as u 
 science, to be the foundation of future works of in- 
 spiration and genius. 
 
 Zelter, severe and classic, profoundly scientific, 
 inexorable for all that was not true science, became 
 the teacher of these two gifted children in com- 
 position and in counterpoint. For piano-forte play- 
 ing, Berger was the professor, though some years 
 later Moscheles added the benefit of his counsels, 
 and Felix was fond of calling himself the pupil of 
 Moscheles, with whom in after life he contracted a 
 close friendship. Zelter was exceedingly proud of 
 his pupil, soon discovering that instead of an indus- 
 trious and intelligent child, one of the greatest 
 musical geniuses ever known was dawning on the 
 world. "When he was but fifteen, Zelter took the 
 young musician to AVeimar, and secured for him the 
 acquaintance and good will of Goethe, which as 
 long as Goethe lived, seemed to be the necessary 
 consecration of all talent in Germany. By this time
 
 IV FELIX MEXDELSSOHN BARTIIOLDT. 
 
 not only was he an admirable performer on the 
 piano, possessed of a talent for improvisation aid a 
 memory so wonderful, that not only could he play 
 almost all Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart and Bee- 
 thoven l;y heart, but he could also without hesitation 
 accompany a whole opera from memory, provided he 
 had but seen the score once. The overture to Mid- 
 sninmcr Night's Dream, so popular now in every coun- 
 try, was composed before lie was seventeen, and was 
 played for the first time as a duet on the piano by 
 his sister Fanny ami himself on the I'.Mh November, 
 loL'li. This is indeed llie inspiration of youth with 
 its brilliancy, its buoyancy, its triumphant joy, full 
 of the poetry of a young- heart, full of the imagina- 
 tion of a mind untainted by the world. It was not 
 till some years after, that Mendelssohn completed 
 the music to Shakspcare's great play. In 1827, 
 Felix left theUnivcrsity of Berlin with great honors. 
 lie was a profound classical scholar, and has left as 
 a specimen of his knowledge, a correct, graceful and 
 elegant translati'-n of Terence's comedy of Andria, 
 a work greatly approved of by Goethe. lie excelled 
 in gymnastics, was an elegant rider, and like Lord 
 Byron, a bold and accomplished swimmer. The year 
 he left the University, he went to England, where 
 Henrietta Sonntag was in the height of her fame. 
 He played in several concerts where she sang, as 
 well as with Moscheles. his old friend and teacher, 
 now established in London. 
 
 On his return to Germany in IS.'IO, he visited 
 Goethe at Weimar, and there planned his journey
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDT. V 
 
 to Italy, a country which all men of genius yearn 
 after, as the promised land of inspiration. "When 
 in Rome. Felix Mendelssohn began the grand Can- 
 tata of the AValpurgis Night, to Goethe's words, at 
 which he worked for some years. On his return 
 from his travels, Mendelssohn, who had now all the 
 assurance and self-possession of an artist, was ap- 
 pointed chapel-master at Dlisseldorf, a position which 
 gave him the direction of the grand musical festivals 
 held at that time in this city and in Aix-la-Chapelle. 
 It was during his residence in Dlisseldorf, that he 
 composed his oratorio of St. Paul, and also, the 
 first set of his " Songs without Words" for the piano, 
 where the music, by its varied expression and its 
 intensity, alone told the story of the poet. These 
 compositions were a novelty for piano-forte players, 
 and inaugurated a new style, full of interest, gradu- 
 ally setting aside the variations and sonatas which 
 had become so meaningless and tedious. The oratorio 
 of St. Paul was not given until 1836, when it was 
 produced at Diisseldorf, under his own special super- 
 intendence. Mendelssohn composed very rapidly, 
 but he was cautious in giving his works to the 
 public, until they thoroughly satisfied his judgment, 
 the most critical to which they could be submitted. 
 In the latter part of 183G, having gone to Frank 
 fort, to direct a concert of the Ceciliaverein, he 
 became acquainted with Cecilia Jcanrenaud. a beau- 
 tiful and accomplished girl, the second daughter of 
 a clergyman of the Reformed Church, and in the 
 spring of 1837 she became his wife. The marriage
 
 \'l FELIX MENDELSSOHN BAETHOLDT. 
 
 had been delayed some months by Mendelssohn's 
 ill health ; he had begun to feel the first symp- 
 toms of the nervous disease, affecting the brain, 
 from which he \vas destined henceforth to suffer, 
 and of which, finally, he was fated to die. 
 
 After his marriage he undertook the direction of 
 the Leipzig Concerts. All over Germany, Mendels- 
 sohn was in requisition ; his immense genius as a 
 composer, his great skill as a conductor, his gentle, 
 fascinating manners, gave him extraordinary popu- 
 larity. It was England, however, after all, who 
 appreciated him most. Sacred music seems to appeal 
 especially to the English taste. Haydn, Handel, 
 Beethoven have all found more patronage and appre- 
 ciation in England than in their own country. So it 
 \va.~ with Mendelssohn ; the greatest musical triumph 
 ever achieved, was the performance of the oratorio 
 of Elijah, given at Birmingham, the work on which 
 Mendelssohn's fame will rest. He was nine years 
 in composing this oratorio; and notwithstanding the 
 most flattering ovation, Mendelssohn's serene tem- 
 perament was not moved to vanity or conceit. In 
 the very moment of his success, he sat down mod- 
 estly to correct many things that had not satisfied 
 him. The trio for three female voices (without ac- 
 companiment) one of the most beautiful pieces in 
 the oratorio, was added by the composer after the 
 public had declared itself satisfied with the work 
 as it originally stood. Elijah was produced in 1847, 
 but Mendelssohn had been several times to England 
 before this, playing at the ancient and Philharmonic
 
 KKUX UEXBELSSOIIX BARTIIOLDY. VM 
 
 concerts ; at that time, the resort of the elite in 
 London. 
 
 It was during one of these visits in 1842, that 
 Prince Albert, who as a German and a musician, 
 hail sought his acquaintance, introduced him to 
 Queen Victoria. The visit was entirely devoid of 
 formality, for without any previous announcement, 
 the Prince conducted Mendelssohn from his private 
 apartments, to the Queen's study, where they found 
 her surrounded by papers, and just terminating her 
 morning's work. The Queen receiving him most 
 graciously, apologized to the composer for the un- 
 tidiness of the room, beginning herself to put it in 
 order and laughingly accepting his assistance. After 
 some agreeable conversation Mendelssohn sat down 
 to the piano and played whatever the Queen asked 
 of him. AVhen at length he rose, Prince Albert 
 asked the Queen to sing, and gracefully choosing 
 one of Mendelssohn's own compositions, she com- 
 plied with the request. Mendelssohn of course 
 applauded, but the Queen laughingly told him. that 
 she had been too frightened to sing well. "Ask 
 Lablache." (Lablache was her singing master) added 
 the Queen, "he will tell you that 1 can sing better 
 than I have done to-day." Prince Albert and the 
 Queen were ever warm patrons and friends of 
 Mendelssohn. 
 
 During all this time so brilliantly filled up. Men- 
 delssohn's health was continually and gradually de- 
 clining. His nervous susceptibility was such that 
 he was often obliged to abstain from playing for
 
 Vlil FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDT. 
 
 weeks together, his gentle and affectionate 
 watching him and keeping him as much as possible 
 from composition. This was a very difficult task, 
 for Mendelssohn was a great worker. Even when 
 travelling, he would take out pen and ink from his 
 pocket and compose at one corner of the table, 
 whilst the dinner was getting ready. 
 
 Little was Mendelssohn prepared, cither mentally 
 or physically at this time, to bear the one great 
 sorrow that overwhelmed this happy life, on which 
 the sun of prosperity had ever shone. His sister 
 Fanny, to whom many of his letters were written, 
 and who had been the companion of his studies, 
 possessing the same tastes and a great deal of the 
 same genius ; his sister Fanny, who was the nearest 
 and dearest affection of his life, was suddenly taken 
 from him. She had married and was living in Frank- 
 fort, where she was the ornament of society, in this 
 enlightened and art-loving city, when in the midst 
 
 O v " 
 
 of a rehearsal of Faust, a symphony of her own 
 composition, she was struck with apoplexy and fell 
 back dead in her chair. There is no doubt that this 
 shock considerably increased the disease from which 
 Mendelssohn was suffering, and though he used to 
 rally and even appear resigned, this sorrow, until the 
 day of his death, lay heavy at his heart. Again lie 
 tried to find health and peace in travel; he went 1o 
 Switzerland with his wife, who strove to keep him 
 from all occupation and labor, but he would gently 
 urge her to let him work. " The time is not far off, 
 when I shall rest ; I must make the most of the time
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY. IX 
 
 given me." " I know not how short a time it may 
 he," would he say to her. On his return from Switzer- 
 land and Baden-Baden, he went to Berlin; and onr.f 
 more all that remained of this tenderly attached 
 family, were united for a short time. At length he 
 returned to his home in Leipzig, serene as ever, but 
 worn to a shadow by the acute and continued pains 
 in the head for which he could obtain no relief. On 
 the 9th of October, he went to the house of a friend, 
 one of the artists of the Leipzig concerts, and en- 
 treated her to sing for him a song he had that 
 night composed. By a strange coincidence, this 
 nong began with these words, " Vanished lias the 
 light of day." It was Mendelssohn's last composi- 
 tion, the last music he heard on earth, for whilst the 
 lady was singing it, he was seized with vertigo and 
 was carried insensible back to his house, lie re- 
 covered, however, comparatively from this attack, 
 but a second stroke of apoplexy placed his life in 
 extreme peril, and a third, on the 3rd of November, 
 made him utterly unconscious. Towards nine o'clock 
 on the evening of the 4th, (1847,) he breathed his 
 last, going to his everlasting rest as easily and aa 
 calmly as a tired child sinks to sleep. lie was in 
 the thirty-ninth year of his age. 
 
 Mendelssohn's death was looked upon, throughout 
 Germany, as a public calamity. The funeral ceremo- 
 nies at Leipzig were of a most imposing character, 
 and all the way from Leipzig to Berlin, where the 
 corpse was taken, to be buried in the family vault, 
 the most touching honors greeted it. Nearly all the
 
 X FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY. 
 
 crowned heads of Europe wrote letters of condo- 
 lence to his widow. 
 
 Mendelssohn as a musician is profoundly original. 
 In his oratorios "Paul" and "Elijah" he has swerved 
 from the conventional religious style; eschewing all 
 fugues, his oratorios are full of power, and contain 
 great dramatic effects at once grand and solemn. 
 His other music is remarkable for the sweetness ol 
 its melodies its earnest simplicity. His instrumen- 
 tality is scientific without being pedantic or heavy, 
 and utterly devoid of antiquated formalism ; though 
 pathetic often, there is always a vigor and life in 
 all his inspirations; the low mournful wail that runs 
 through all Chopin's works, arising from a morbid 
 condition of health and heart, is never felt in Men- 
 delssohn. There is none of the bitterness, the long 
 suffering that artists' lives entail and that artists 
 infuse into their works, for Mendelssohn was a 
 happy man from first to last. 
 
 Mendelssohn the happy, " the boy born on a lucky 
 day," has left a life-record that amid the gloomy 
 heart-rending and often degrading histories of ar- 
 tists, shines with a chaste and holy life. Nature, 
 the world and circumstance had done every thing 
 for him. To the great and all-sufficient gift of his 
 musical genius he added many others, he had the 
 eye of a painter, the heart of a poet, his intellect was 
 of the highest order ; he was tall, handsome, graceful, 
 his social position one of the finest in Berlin, rich, 
 and surrounded by the tendcrest family affections. 
 With all these advantages, with all the success
 
 FELIX MEXDELSSOHX BARTIIOLDT. XI 
 
 that attended him, with all the flattery lavished on 
 him, Mendelssohn was never vain or proud, and 
 throughout his life was utterly free from envy. His 
 fine, fearless, childlike spirit, led him through the 
 world, unconscious of evil, undaunted by it. With 
 all the temptations that must have assailed the 
 young, handsome, rich man. there is not one moment 
 of his life over which his friends would wish to draw 
 a veil. On such a life as that of Felix Mendels- 
 sohn, it is good for every one to look, for once, genius 
 is not set forth as a dazzling screen to hide and to 
 excuse disorder and crime, but genius, that one 
 great gift from heaven, was employed as heaven 
 would have directed it, each action, each succeeding 
 year of his life, bringing forth in various but har- 
 monious ways, that extraordinary moral and intel- 
 lectual worth, that rare beauty of character that 
 endeared him to all who knew him, ensured him 
 the unvarying love of kindred and friends, and the 
 admiration of the whole world.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 LAST year a paragraph was inserted in the news- 
 papers, request in? any one who possessed letters 
 From Felix Memlrlssolm Bartholdy to send them to 
 Professor Droysen. or to myself, with the view of 
 completing a selection from his correspondence 
 which we contemplated publishing. Our design in 
 this was twofold. 
 
 In the first place-, we wished to offer to the public 
 in Mendelssohn's own words, which always so truly 
 and faithfully mirrored his thoughts, the most genu- 
 ine impression of his character; and secondly, we 
 thought that the biographical elements contained 
 ill such a correspondence, might be of infinite use 
 in the compilation of a memoir which we reserve 
 for a future day and serve as its precursor and 
 basis. 
 
 There are difficulties, however, opposed to the 
 
 immediate fulfilment of our original purpose to its 
 B* (xiii)
 
 XIV PKKFACE. 
 
 full extent; and at present it is impossible to decide 
 when these can be removed. 
 
 T have, therefore, formed the resolution to carry 
 out my plan in the meantime within more circuin 
 scribed limits, but which leaves me unfettered. 
 
 On Mendelssohn's return from his first visit to 
 England, in the year If29, he came to Berlin for a 
 short time to attend a family festivity, and thence 
 in 1830 proceeded to Italy, returning- through 
 Switzerland to France, and in the beginning of 
 1832 visiting England for the second time. 
 
 This period, which to a certain degree forms a 
 separate section of his life, and which, through the 
 vivid impressions it made, assuredly exercised an 
 important influence on Mendelssohn's development 
 (we may mention that he was only one-and-twenty 
 at the commencement of his journey), supplies us 
 with a number of letters addressed to his parents, 
 and to his sisters. Fanny and Rebecca, as well as to 
 myself. T have also added some communications of 
 the same date, to various friends, partly entire and 
 partly in extracts, and now present them to the 
 public in Iheir original integrity. 
 
 Those who were personally acquainted with Men- 
 delssohn, and who wish once more to realize him as 
 he was when in life, and those also who would be
 
 PREPACK. XV 
 
 glad to acquire a more definite idea of bis individu- 
 ality than can be found in the general inferences 
 deduced from his musical creations, will not lay 
 down ihese letters dissatisfied. Along with this 
 particular source of interest they offer a more uni- 
 versal one. as they prove how admirably Mendels- 
 sohn's superior nature, and perceptions of Art, 
 mutually pervaded and regulated each other. 
 
 With this view, it appeared to me a duty to give 
 to the public these letters, stored up in the peaceful 
 home for which they were originally destined and 
 exclusively intended, and thus to make them acces- 
 sible to a more extended circle. They begin by a 
 visit to Goethe. May his words then accompany 
 these Letters, as an appropriate convoy : 
 
 PAUL MENDELSSOHN BARTUOI.DT. 
 
 BERLIN, Ma>-ch t 1861. 
 
 * " Was in der 7eitcn BUdcrsaal 
 Jcmals 1st trcfflich gewescn, 
 Das wird iminer cint-r einmal 
 Wicdi'j aurfrischen uiid lesen."
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 Weimar, May 2ist, 18^0. 
 
 XEVKR. in the whole course of my travels, dc I 
 remember a more glorious and inspiriting day for a 
 journey than yesterday. At an early hour in the 
 morning the sky was grey and cloudy, but the sun 
 presently burst forth; the air was cool and fresh, 
 and being Ascension Sunday the people were all 
 dressed in their best. In one village I saw them 
 crowding into church as I passed, in another coming 
 away from divine service, and. last of all, playing 
 at bowls. The gardens were bright with tulips, and 
 I drove quickly past, eagerly looking at everything. 
 At "\Veissenfels they gave me a little basket car- 
 riage, and at Xaumburg an open droschky. My 
 cflects. including my hat and cloak, were piled 
 upon it behind. 1 bought a few bunches of lilies-of- 
 Ihe-viHey. and thus I travelled on through the 
 country, as if on a p'easure excursion. 
 
 Some collegians came up to rne beyord Xaum- 
 burg. and envied me. We then drove past Presi- 
 dent G . seated in a small carriage, which
 
 V MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 evidently had some difficulty in containing 1 him. and 
 his daughters or wives; in short, the two ladies 
 with him, who appeared equally envious of my 
 position. We actually trotted up the Ko'seu Hill, 
 for the horses scarcely drew bridle, and overtook 
 several heavily-la-.lcn carnages, the drivers of which 
 no doubt also envied me, for I was really to be 
 envied. The scenery had a charming air of spring 
 so cheerful and gay, and blooming. The sun sank 
 solemnly behind the hills, and presently we came up 
 with the Russian minister and his suite, in two 
 icavy carriages, each with four horses, in true 
 "Kmdcrous official array ; and my light droschky 
 larted past him like a hare. 
 
 In the evening I got a pair of restive horses, so 
 Jiat I had my little annoyance also, (according to 
 my theory, enhancing pleasure,) and not a single 
 bar did I compose all day, but enjoyed complete 
 idleness. It was a delicious day, and one I shall 
 not soon forget. I close this description with the 
 remark, that the children in Eckartsberge dance 
 merry rounds hand-in-haud. just as ours do at home, 
 and that the appearance of a stranger did not ip 
 the least disturb them, in spite of his distinguished 
 air ; I should have liked to join in their game. 
 
 May 24th. 
 
 I wrote this before going to see Goethe, early in 
 the forenoon, after a walk in the park ; but I could 
 not find a moment to finish my letter till now. I 
 shall probably remain here for a couple of days.
 
 TXTERrnrR?" WITH OOETHE. 3 
 
 which is no sacrifice, for I never saw the old gentle- 
 man so cheerful and aniiahle as on this occasion, or 
 so talkative and communicative. My especial rea- 
 son however for staying two days longer, is a very 
 agreeable one, ami makes me almost vain, or I 
 ought rather to say proud, and I do not intend to 
 keep it secret from yen. Goethe, yon must know, 
 sent me a letter yesterday addressed to an artist 
 here, a painter, which I am to deliver myself; and 
 Ottilie confided to me that it contains a commission 
 to take my portrait, as Goethe wishes to place it in a 
 collection of likenesses he has recently commenced 
 of his friends. This circumstance gratified me ex- 
 ceedingly; as however I have not yet seen the 
 complaisant artist who is to accomplish this, nor has 
 he seen me. it is probable that I shall have to remain 
 here until the day after to-morro\v. I don't in the 
 least regret this, for. as I have told you, I live a 
 most agreeable life here, and thoroughly enjoy the 
 society of the old poet. I have dined with him 
 every day, and am invited again to-day. This even- 
 ing there is to be a party at his house, where I am 
 to play. It is quite delightful to hear him conver- 
 sing on every subject, and seeking information on 
 all points. 
 
 I must however tell yon everything regularly and 
 in order, so that you may know each separate detail. 
 
 Early in the day I went to see Ottilie, who, though 
 still delicate, and often complaining. I thought 
 more cheerful than formerly, and q lite as kind and 
 amiable as ever towards myself. We have been
 
 4 MENDELSSOHN S LETTEKS. 
 
 constantly too-other since then, and it has been a 
 source of much pleasure to me to know her more 
 intimately. Ulrikc is more agreeable and charming 
 than formerly; a certain earnestness pervades her 
 whole nature, and she has now a degree of repose, 
 and a depth of feeling, that render her one of the 
 most attractive creatures I have ever met. The 
 two boys, Walter and Wolf, are lively, studious, 
 cordial lads, and to hear them talking about 
 " Grandpapa's Faust," is most pleasant. 
 
 But to return to my narrative. I sent Zelter's 
 letter at once to Goethe, who immediately invited 
 me to dinner. I thought him very little changed 
 in appearance, but at first rather silent and apa- 
 thetic ; 1 think he wished to see how 1 demeaned 
 myself. I was vexed, and thought that possibly he 
 was always now in this mood. Happily the conver- 
 sation turned on the Frauen-Vcrnne in AVeimar. and 
 on the 'Chaos,' a humorous paper circulated among 
 themselves by the ladies here, I having soared so 
 high as to be a contributor to this undertaking. 
 All at once the old man became quite gay, laughing 
 at the two ladies about their charities and intellect- 
 ualism, and their subscriptions and hospital work, 
 which he seems cordially to detest. lie called on 
 me to aid him in his onslaught, and as 1 did not 
 require to be asked twice, he speedily became just 
 what he used to be, and at last more kind and con- 
 fidential than I had ever seen him. The assault 
 soon became general. The 'Robber Bride' of Ries, 
 lie said contained aU that an artist in these days
 
 GOETHE. S 
 
 required to live happily. a robber and a bride; 
 then he attacked the young people of the present 
 day for their universal tendency to languor and 
 melancholy, and related the story of a young lady 
 to whom he had once paid court, and who also felt 
 some interest in him ; a discussion on the exhibi- 
 tions followed., and a fancy bazaar fur the poor, 
 where the ladies of Weimar were the shopwomen, 
 and where he declared it was impossible to purchase 
 anything because the young people, made a private 
 agreement among themselves, and hid the different 
 articles till tl.c proper purchasers appeared. 
 
 After dinner he ail at once began "(Jute Kin- 
 der hubsche Kinder muss immer lustig sein 
 tolles Yolk," etc., his eyes looking like those of a 
 drowsy old lion. Then he begged me to play to 
 hhn,_and said it seemed strange that he had heard 
 no music for so long; that he supposed we had 
 made great progress, but he knew nothing of it. 
 He wished me to tell him a great deal on the 
 subject, saying "Do let us have a little rational 
 conversation together ;" and turning to Ottilie. he 
 said, "No doubt you have already made your own 
 wise arrangements, but they must yield to my 
 express orders, which arc, that you must make tea 
 here this evening,, that we may be all together 
 again." AVhcn in return she asked him if it would 
 not make him too late, as Kiemer was coming to 
 work with him, he replied, "As you gave your chil- 
 dren a holiday from their Latin to-day, that they 
 might hear Felix play, I think you might also give 
 1*
 
 6 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 me one day of relaxation from my work." lie 
 invited me to return to dinner, and I played a great 
 deal to him in the evening. 
 
 My three Welsh pieces, dedicated to three En- 
 glish sisters, have great success here;* and I am 
 trying to rub up my English. As I bad begged 
 Goethe to address me as thou, he desired Ottilic to 
 say to me on the following day, in that case 1 mus' 
 remain longer than the two days 1 had fixed, other- 
 wise he could not regain the more familiar habit I 
 wished. He repeated this to me himself, saying that 
 he did not think I should lose much by staying a 
 little longer, and invited me always to dine with 
 him when I had no other engagement. I have con- 
 sequently been with him every day, and yesterday I 
 told him a great deal about Scotland, and Hengsten- 
 berg. and Spontini, and Hegel's 'Esthetics. 'f He 
 sent me to Tiefurth with the ladies, but prohibited 
 my driving to Berka. because a very pretty girl lived 
 'here, and he did not wish to plunge me into misery. 
 
 I thought to myself, this was indeed the Goethe 
 of wl-om people will one day say, that he was not 
 one single individual, but consisted of several little 
 Goel.liidi'.n. 1 am to play over to him to-day various 
 pieces of 1'ach. Haydn, and Mozart, and thus lead 
 hiiii on. as he said, to the present clay. 
 
 * Three pieces for (lie piano, composed in ISiW for the album of 
 tliree y.mnj.' Kn-li-.li ladies; sub-equ.'iitly published as Opus 18. 
 
 f Felix Mendelssohn attended the Berlin University as a r.iatri- 
 ciliated student for more than a year; it va-t number of sheets 
 written by him at this period, duriuj the lectures, are still extant.
 
 A PARTY AT GOETHF/S. 7 
 
 I should indeed have been very foolish to have 
 regretted my delay ; besides. I am a conscientious 
 
 traveller, and have seen the Library, and ' Iphigeuia 
 in Aulis.' Hummel has struck out all the octaves, 
 
 etc. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Weimar, May 25th, 1830. 
 
 I have just received your welcome letter, written 
 on Ascension Day. I cannot help myself, but must 
 still write to you from this place. 1 will soon send 
 you. dear Fanny, a copy of my symphony; I am 
 having it written out here, and mean to forward it 
 to Leipzig (where perhaps it will lie performed), 
 with strict orders to deliver it into your own hands, 
 as soon as possible. Try to collect opinions as to 
 the title I ought to select ; Reformation Symphony. 
 Confession Symphony, Symphony for a Church Fes- 
 tival. Juvenile Symphony, or whatever yen like. 
 "Write to me on this subject, and instead of a num- 
 ber of stupid suggestions, send me one clever one; 
 still, I should rather like to hear some of the 
 nonsensical ones sure to be devised on the occasion. 
 
 Yesterday evening I was at a party at (loet lie's, 
 and played alone the whole evenintr the Concert- 
 Stiick. the Invitation k la Ya'se. and Weber's Polo- 
 naise in <'. my three Welsh pieces, and my Scotch 
 Konata. It was over by ten o'clock, but I of course 
 stayed till twelve o'clock, when w had all sorts of
 
 8 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 fun, dancing and singing; so yon see I lead a most 
 jovial life here. The old gentleman goes to his 
 room regularly at nine o'clock, and as soon as lie is 
 gone, we begin our frolics, and never separate 
 before midnight. 
 
 To-morrow my portrait is to be finished ; a large 
 black-crayon sketch, and very like; but 1 look 
 rather sulky. Goethe is so friendly and kind to me, 
 that I don't know how to thank him sufficiently, or 
 what to do to deserve it. In the forenoon he likes 
 me to play to him the compositions of the various 
 great masters, in chronological order, for an hour, 
 and also tell him the progress they have made, 
 while he sits in a dark corner, like a Jupiter tnnavs, 
 his old eyes flashing on me. lie did not wish to 
 hear anything of Beethoven's, but I told him that 
 I could not let him off. and played the first part of 
 the Symphony in C minor. It seemed to have a 
 singular effect on him: at first he said, "This 
 causes no emotion, nothing but astonishment : it is 
 grandios." lie continued grumbling in this way, 
 and after a long pause he began again, ' It is, very 
 grand, very wild: it makes one fear that the house 
 is about to fall down : and what must it be when 
 played by a number of men together!'' IKu'ing 
 dinner, in the midst of another subject, he alluded 
 to it again. You know that I dine with him every 
 day, when he questions me very minutely, and is 
 always so gay and communicative after dinner, that 
 we generally remain together alone for an hour 
 while he speaks on uninterruptedly.
 
 I have no greater pleasure than when he brings 
 out engravings, and explains them to me, or gives 
 his opinion of Krnani, or Lamartine's Elegies, or 
 the theatre, or pretty girls. He has several times 
 lately invited people, which he rarely does now, 
 so that most of the guests had not seen him 
 for a long time. I then play a great deal, and he 
 compliments me before all these people, and ' ijanz 
 st(ii>i.'))d~' is his favourite expression. To-day he 
 has invited a number of Weimar beauties on my 
 iccount, because he thinks that I ought to enjoy 
 the society of young people. If I go up to him on 
 such occasions, he says, - '.My young friend, you 
 must join the ladies, and make yourself agreeable 
 to them." I am not however devoid of tact, so I 
 contrived to have him asked yesterday whether I 
 did not come too often; but he growled out to 
 Ottilie, who put the question to him, that "he must 
 now begin to speak to me in good earnest, for I had 
 euch clear ideas, that he hoped to learn much from 
 me." I became twice as tall in my own estimation, 
 when Ottilie repeated this to me. He said so to 
 me himself yesterday; and when he declared that 
 there were many subjects he had at heart that I 
 must explain to him, 1 said, "Oh, certainly!" but 
 I thought, "This is an honour I can never forget," 
 often it is the very reverse. 
 
 FELIX.
 
 10 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Munich, June 6th, 1830. 
 
 It is a long time since I have written to you, and 
 I fear you may have been anxious on my account, 
 Y"ou must not be angry with me, for it was really 
 no fault of mine, and J have been not a little an- 
 noyed about it. 1 expedited my journey as well as 
 1 could, inquiring' everywhere about diligences, and 
 invariably receiving false information. 1 travelled 
 through one niu'ht on purpose to enable me to 
 write to you by this day's post, of which I was told 
 at Xurnberg; and when at last I arrive, I find that 
 no post leaves here to-day: it is enough to drive 
 one wild, and I feel out of all patience with Ger- 
 many and her petty Principalities, her different 
 kinds of money, her diligences, which require an 
 hour and a quarter for a German mile, and her 
 Thuringian forests, where there is incessant rain 
 and wind, nay, even with her 'Fidelio' this very 
 evening, for. though dead beat, I must do my duty 
 by going to see it, when J would far rather go to bed. 
 Pray do not be angry with me, or scold me for my 
 delay in writing ; I do assure you that this very 
 night while I was travelling, I thought 1 saw peep- 
 ing through the clouds the shadow of your threat- 
 ening finger ; but I shall now proceed to explain 
 why I could not write sooner. 
 
 Some days after rny last letter from AVeimar. I 
 wished, as I told you, to set off for this place, and 
 said so during dinner to Goethe, who made no 
 reply. After dinner however he withdrew with 
 Ottilie into the recess of a window, and said, "You
 
 INTERCOURSE WITH GOETHE. 11 
 
 must persuade him to remain." She endeavoured to 
 prevail on me to do so, and walked up and down in 
 the garden with me. I wished however to show 
 that I was a man of determination, so I remained 
 steady to my resolve. Then came the old gentle- 
 man himself, and said he saw no use in my being in 
 such a hurry: that he had still a great deal to tell 
 inc. and I had still a great deal to play to him ; and 
 what I had told him as to the object of my journey, 
 \vas really all nonsense. Weimar was my present ob- 
 ji'Ct. and he could not see that I was likely to find 
 in tubles-d'hOte elsewhere, what I could not obtain 
 here : 1 would see plenty of hotels in my travels. 
 lie talked on in this style, which touched my heart, 
 especially as Ottilie and Ulrike added their persua- 
 sions, assuring me that the old gentleman much 
 more often insisted on people going away, than on 
 their remaining ; and as no one can be so sure of 
 enjoying a number of happy days, that he can 
 afford to throw away those; that cannot fail to be 
 pleasant, and as they promised to go with me to 
 Jena, I resolved nut to be a man of determination, 
 find agreed to stay. 
 
 Seldom in the course of my life have I so little 
 regretted any resolution as on this occasion, for the 
 following day was by i'ar the most delightful that I 
 ever passed in (Joethe's house. After an early 
 drive, I found old Goethe very cheerful ; he began 
 to converse on various subjects, passing from the 
 Muette de Purtici' to Walter Scott, and thence to 
 the beauties in Weimar ; to the ' Studeuts,' aiid the
 
 it ME>DELSSOII1S S LETTERS. 
 
 'Robbers,' and so on to Schiller ; then he spoke on 
 uninterruptedly for more than an hour, with the 
 utmost animation, about Schiller's life and writings, 
 and his position in Weimar. He proceeded to 
 speak of the late Grand-Duke, and of the year 1775, 
 which he designated as the intellectual spring of 
 Germany, declaring that no man living could de- 
 scribe it so well as he could ; indeed, it had beeu 
 his intention to have devoted the second volume of 
 his life to this subject; but what with botany, and 
 meteorology, and other stuff of the same kind, for 
 which no one cared a straw, he had not yet been 
 able to fulfil his purpose. He proceeded to relate 
 various anecdotes of the time when he was director 
 of the theatre, and when I wished to thank him, he 
 said, " It is mere chance, it all comes to light 
 incidentally, called forth by your welcome pres- 
 ence." These words sounded marvellously pleasant 
 to me ; in short, it was one of those conversations 
 that a man can never forget so long as he lives. 
 Next day he made me a present of a sheet of the 
 manuscript of 'Faust,' and at the bottom of the 
 page he wrote, "To my dear young friend F. M. T>., 
 mighty, yet delicate master of the piano a friendly 
 souvenir of happy May days in 1830. 3. W. von 
 Goethe." ITe also gave me three letters of intro- 
 duction to take with me. 
 
 If that relentless 'Fidelio' did not begin at so 
 early an hour, I could tell you much more, but as it 
 is, I have only time to detail my farewell interview 
 with the old gentleman. At the very beginning of
 
 PARTING WITU HOETHE. 13 
 
 my visit to Weimar, I spoke of a print taken from 
 Adrian von Ostade, of a peasant family praying, 
 which nine years ago made a deep impression on 
 me. When I went at an early hour to take leave of 
 Goethe, 1 found him seated beside a large portfolio, 
 and he said, "So you are actually going away? I 
 must try to keep all right till you return ; but at all 
 events we won't part now without some pious 
 feelings, so let us once more look at the praying 
 family together." lie told me that I must some- 
 times write to him (courage! courage! I mean to 
 do so r'r.im this very place), and then he embraced 
 me, and we drove off to Jena, where the Frommans 
 received me with much kindness, and where the 
 same evening I took leave of Ottilie and Ulrike, 
 and came on here. 
 
 Nine o'liuck. ' Fidelio' is over; and while wait- 
 ing fur supper I add a few words. 
 
 Scheduler is very much gone off; the quality of 
 her voice has become husky ; she repeatedly sang 
 flat, yet there were moments when her expression 
 was so touching, that 1 wept in my own fashion; all 
 the others were bad, and there was also much to 
 censure in the performance. Still, there is great 
 talent in the orchestra, and the style in which they 
 played the overture was very good. Certainly our 
 (Germany is a strange land ; producing great people, 
 but not appreciating them; possessing many fine 
 singers and intellectual artists, but none sufficiently 
 modest and subordinate to render their parts faith- 
 fully, and without false pretension. Marzeline intro
 
 14 MKXDELSSOHX'S LETTERS. 
 
 duces all sorts of flourishes into her part ; Jaquino 
 is a blockhead; the minister a simpleton: and when a 
 German like Beethoven writes an opera, then conies 
 a German like Stuntz or Poissl (or whoever it may 
 have been) and strikes ont the ritournelle, and 
 similar unnecessary passages ; another German adds 
 a trombone part to his symphonies ; a third declares 
 that Beethoven is overloaded : and thus is a great 
 man sacrificed. 
 
 Farewell ! be happy and merry ; and may all my 
 heartfelt wishes for you be fulfilled. FEL:X 
 
 To FAXXY HEXSEL. 
 
 Munich, June I4th, 1830. 
 My dearest Sister, 
 
 I received your letter of the 5th this morning ; I 
 see from it that you are not yet quite well. I wish 
 I were with you, and could see you, and talk to 
 you ; but this is impossible, so I have written a 
 song for you expressive of my wishes and thoughts. 
 You were in my mind when I composed it, and 
 I was in a tender mood. There is indeed nothing 
 very new in it. You know me well, and what I am; 
 in no respect am I changed, so you may smile at 
 this and rejoice. I could say and wish many other 
 things for you, bat none better; and this letter too 
 shall contain nothing else. You know that I am 
 always your own ; and may it please God to bestow 
 on you all that I hope and pray.
 
 15 
 
 Andante. 
 
 / y-*2 l * 5 " 
 
 &j E'EEr^F^cr- =^L 
 
 \ rr~ , ^- I * 
 
 ( cyr$~?5^L.^i*i*:* 
 
 o- 
 
 * " 
 
 &
 
 16 
 
 MEXDKT^SOHX 5 LETTERS. 
 
 ->-> -- *-- '-- *^** i -- -- 1"^~ I *-, I -- 1 
 -TMT --- ^-v ~% m ---- M ---- m *-J 
 
 v -rt -: -- *- - ' -------* 
 
 ^~ 
 
 dolce. 
 
 fz Jt 
 
 5? -^f 
 
 : 
 
 ' - 
 
 - ^=&''-\$'g-i *- 
 
 ~ ft --^ >-- 
 
 ^ I 
 
 ^ f esprcKS. 
 
 -* _!- 
 
 V 
 
 >-
 
 TROUBLES OF TRAVELMNO. 
 
 17 
 
 
 -,-*-.-,.: 
 
 ff sf dim. 
 
 Linz, August nth, 1830. 
 Dearest Mother, 
 
 li IIo\v a travelling musician bore his had hick iu 
 Salzburg'." A fragment from the unwritten journal 
 of Count F. M. B. (continuation.) After I had 
 finished my last letter to you, a regular day of mis- 
 fortunes commenced for me. I took up my pencil, 
 and so entirely destroyed two of my pet sketches, 
 takeu in the Bavarian mountains, that I was obliged 
 
 to tear them from piy book, and to throw them out 
 9*
 
 18 
 
 of the window. This provoked me exceedingly; so 
 to divert my mind, I went to the Capuchin Iliil : of 
 course I contrived to lose my way. and at. the very 
 moment, when I at last found myself on the summit, 
 it bejran to rain so furiously that [ was forced to 
 run down again with all speed under the shelter of 
 an umbrella. Well! I resolved at all events to 
 have a look at the monastery at the foot of the 
 hill, so I rang the bell, when I suddenly recollected 
 that 1 had not sufficient money to give the monk 
 who was to show the building, and as this is a kind 
 of thing that they take highly amiss, I hurried away 
 without waiting till the porter appeared. 
 
 I then closed my packet of letters for Leipzig, 
 and took it myself to the post, but there T was t<>ld, 
 that it must first lie examined at the Custom-house; 
 so thither I went. They kept me wailing a whole 
 hour, till they composed a certificate of three lines, 
 and behaved so saucily that I was forced to quarrel 
 with them. Hang Sal/burg! thought 1; so 1 
 ordered horses for J<chl. where 1 hoped to escape 
 from all my bad luck. Xo horses were to be had 
 without, a permission from the police. I went to 
 the police office. " Xo permission can be granted 
 till you bring your passport." Why pursue the 
 subject ? After innumerable delays, and running 
 about hither and thither, the wished-for pnsl-car- 
 riage arrived. My dinner was over, my luggage 
 ready, and I thought that at last all was in good 
 train : my bill and the servants fees were paid. 
 
 Just as I reached the door, 1 saw two handsome
 
 BARONESS I'EREIRA. 19 
 
 open carriage? approaching at a foot's pace, and the 
 
 people of the inn hurrying to receive the travelers, 
 who were following on foot. I however paid no 
 attention to the new arrivals, but jumped into my 
 carriage. I observed, that at the same moment, 
 one of the travelling carriages drew up close to 
 mine, and that a lady was seated in it, but what u 
 lady! That you may not instantly jump to the 
 conclusion that I had suddenly fallen in love, which 
 would have been the crowning point of my unlucky 
 day, I must tell you that she was an elderly lady; 
 but she looked very amiable and benevolent; she 
 wore a black dress, and a massive gold chain, and 
 smiled good-humouredly when she paid the postilion 
 his fare. Heaven knows why 1 continued to arrange 
 :ny luggage instead of driving oil'. I did look 
 across continually at the other carriage, and though 
 the lady was an entire stranger to me 1 felt a strong 
 inclination to address her. It might be mere imagi- 
 nation on my part, but I do think that she too looked 
 at the dusty traveller in his student's cap. At 
 length she got out of the carriage, and stood close 
 to the door of my vehicle, leaning her hand on it, 
 and I required all my knowledge of the common 
 proprieties of travelling, not to get out myself and 
 say to her, "Dear lady, what may your name be?" 
 Routine however conquered, and 1 called out with 
 an air of dignity, "Postilion! go on !" on which the 
 lady quickly withdrew her hand, and we set off. I 
 felt in no very pleasant humour, and while thinking 
 over the events of the day. 1 fell asleep.
 
 20 MEXPELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 A carriage with two gentlemen passing us, woke 
 me up, and the following dialogue ensued between 
 the postilion and myself. /. These gentlemen are 
 coming from Ischl, so I shall probably find no 
 horses there. He. Oh ! the two carriages that 
 stopped at the Inn were also from Ischl ; still there 
 is no doubt you will get horses. /. Are, you sure 
 they came from Ischl? lie. Quite sure: they go 
 there every year, und were here last summer also; 
 I drove them. It is a baroness from Vienna. 
 (Heavens ! thought I,) and she is dreadfully rich, and 
 has such handsome daughters. When they went to 
 Berchtesgaden to visit the mines, I drove them, and 
 very nice they looked in their miner's dresses: they 
 have a grand estate, and yet they speak to us quite 
 familiarly. Halt! cried I; what name? Don't 
 know. Pereira?* Not sure. Drive back, said I 
 in a resolute tone. If I do, we shall not reach Ischl 
 to-night, and we have got over the worst hill ; you 
 can learn the name at the next stage. 1 hesitated, 
 and we drove on. They did not know the name at 
 the next stage, nor at the following one either. At 
 length, at the end of seven long wearisome hours, 
 we arrived, and before I left the carriage, I said, 
 who were the party who drove to Salzburg this 
 morning in two carriages ? and received the quiet 
 reply, Baroness Pereira; she proceeds to Gastein 
 early to-morrow morning, but returns four or five 
 davs hence. Now I hud arrived at a certainty, and 1 
 
 * A relation of the family.
 
 JOURNEY TO VIENNA. 21 
 
 also spoke to her driver, who said that none of the 
 family were here. The two gentlemen I met in a car- 
 riage on the road, were sons of the Baroness (the 
 very two I had never seen). In addition to all this, I 
 remembered a wretched portrait that I had once 
 
 got a glimpse of at our aunt II 's, and the lady 
 
 in the black dress was Baroness Pereira ! Heaven 
 knows when I may have another opportunity of 
 seeing her ! I do not think that she ever could 
 have made a more pleasing impression on me, and 
 I shall not assuredly soon forget her attractive 
 appearance, and her kind expression of counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Nothing is more unsatisfactory than a presen- 
 timent; we all experience them, but we never 
 discover till too late, that they really were presen- 
 timents. I would have returned then and there, 
 and travelled through the night, but I reflected that 
 I should only overtake her at the very moment of 
 her departure, or that possibly she might have left 
 Salzburg before my arrival, and that I should thus 
 frustrate all the plan of my journey to Vienna. At 
 one moment I thought of going to Gastein. but I 
 could not help feeling that Salzburg had treated 
 me very badly, so I once more said adieu, and went 
 to bed very crest-fallen. Xext morning I desired 
 that her empty house should be pointed out to me, 
 and made a sketch of it for you, dear mother. My 
 bad luck, however, was still growling in the dis- 
 tance, for I could find no favourable spot to take 
 my sketch from. Besides, they charged me more
 
 22 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 than a ducat at the inn fur one night's entertain- 
 ment, etc., etc. ] gave utterance to various ana- 
 themas, both in English and German, and drove 
 away, laying aside among- the tilings of the past. 
 Ischl, Salzburg. Baroness Pereira. and the Traunsec; 
 and so 1 came 011 here, where 1 have taken a day's 
 rest. 
 
 To-morrow I intend to pursue my journey, and 
 (I). V.) to sleep in Vienna the day after. I will 
 write to you further from thence. Thus ended my 
 day of misfortunes; "truth, and no poetry," not 
 even Ilie leaning- the hand against the door of my 
 carriage is invention ; all is a portrait taken from 
 life. The most incomprehensible thing is that I 
 should have totally overlooked Flora, who it seems 
 was also there, for the old lady in a tartan cloak. 
 
 who went into the inn, was Fran von "\V , and 
 
 the old gentleman with green spectacles who fol- 
 lowed her, could not well have been Flora? Jn 
 short, when things once take a wrong 1 turn, they 
 "will have their course. I can write no more to-day, 
 for my disappointment is still too recent; in my 
 next letter 1 will describe the Salzkammergut, and 
 all the beauties of my journey yesterday. How 
 right Devrient was to advise me to take this route ! 
 The Traunstein also, and the Traun Falls, are won- 
 derfully fine ; and after ail. the world is a very 
 pleasant world, and it is fortunate for me that yon 
 art 1 in it. and that 1 shall find letters from you the 
 day after to-morrow, and possibly much that id 
 agreeable besides. Dear Fanny. I mean now to
 
 23 
 
 compose my Non nobis, and the symphony in A 
 minor. Dear llebecca. if you could hear me singing 
 "Jin warmen Thai" in a spasmodic fashion, you 
 would think it rather deplorable; you could sing' it 
 better. Oh. Paul ! can you declare that you under- 
 stand the ^chein Gulden, AY. AY. Gulden, heavy 
 Gulden, light Gulden, Conventions Gulden, and the 
 devil and his grandmother's Gulden ? I don't, one 
 bit. 1 wish therefore that you were with me, but 
 for many reasons besides this one. Farewell ! 
 
 Presburg, September ayth, 1830. 
 Dear Brother, 
 
 ideals of bells, drums and music, carriages on car- 
 riages, people, hurrying in all directions, everywhere 
 gay crowds, such is the general aspect around me, 
 for to-morrow is to be the coronation of the King, 
 which the whole city has been expecting since 
 yesterday, and are now imploring that the sky may 
 clear up, and wake bright and cheerful, for the 
 grand ceremony which ought to have taken place 
 yesterday was obliged to be deferred on account of 
 the torrents of rain. This afternoon the sky is blue 
 and beautiful, and the moon is now shining down 
 tranquilly on the tumult of the city. To-morrow at 
 a very early hour the Crown Prince is to take his 
 oaths (as Iving of Hungary) in the large Market- 
 place; he is then to go to church in grand proce
 
 24 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 sion, attended by a whole array of bishops and 
 nobles of the realm, and afterwards rides up the 
 Kbnigsberg, which lies opposite my windows, iu 
 order to wave his sword towards the banks of the 
 Danube and the four quarters of the globe, in token 
 that he takes possession of his new realm. 
 
 This excursion has made me acquainted with a 
 new country; for Hungary with her magnates, her 
 high dignitaries, her Oriental luxury, and also her 
 barbarism, is to be seen here, and the streets oiler a 
 spectacle which is to me both novel and striking. 
 We really seem here to approach closer to the East; 
 the miserably obtuse peasants or serf's ; the troops 
 of gipsies ; the equipages and retainers of the 
 nobles overloaded with gold and gems, ( for thf 
 grandees themselves are only visible through tha 
 closed windows of their carriages); then tiie singu- 
 larly bold national physiognomy, the yellow hue, 
 the long moustaches, the soft foreign idiom all 
 this makes the most motley impression in the world. 
 
 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
 
 CORO.VATIOX OF THE KIXG. 25 
 
 couple of sharp, acute-looking students of theology, 
 in their long blue coats, walking arm-in-arm ; Hun- 
 garian proprietors in their dark blue national 
 costume ; court servants ; and numbers of carriages 
 every moment arriving, covered with mud. I fol- 
 lowed 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 
 beneiit 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 de- 
 light ; 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 exten- 
 sive view of the flat but wooded country, and 
 meadows overflowed by the Danube; of the em- 
 bankments and streets swarming with human beings, 
 and mountains clothed with Hungarian vines all 
 tins 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.
 
 26 MKXDEI,SSOII.\'S LETTERS. 
 
 Those 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 wonder- 
 fully 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 Hocking together, but only for 
 the purpose of shouting "Vivaf!" I pushed my 
 way through the crowd, while our ladies saw every- 
 thing from the windows, and never can I forget the 
 effect of all this brilliant and almost fabulous mag- 
 nificence. 
 
 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 lie 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 or, without becoming a murderer, was forced 
 to wait quietly where he was. When the procession 
 arrived, which was received bare-headed, 1 had the
 
 COROXATIOX OF THE KIXO. 1 1 
 
 utmost difficulty in taking off my hat. and holding 
 it above my In.- ad ; an old Hungarian, however, 
 behind me. wlii.se view it intercepted, quickly de- 
 vised a remedy, for without ceremony he made a 
 snatch at my unlucky hat. and in an instant flat- 
 tened it to the size of a cup ; 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. 
 
 AVheu 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 p.'i://tc carriers, 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 Sandur is the name 
 of this furious cavalier.) lie had an ivory sceptre 
 in his hand with which lie urged on his horse, 
 causing it each time to rear, and to make a tremen- 
 dous bound forward. 
 
 AVlien his wild career was over, a procession of 
 about sixty more magnates arrived, all in the same 
 fantastic splendour, with handsome coloured tur- 
 bans, twisted moustaches, and dark eyes. One rode 
 a white horse covered \vith a gold net : another r. 
 dark trr.'v. the iridle ar.d housings studded with
 
 28 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 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 
 deliant 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 goldeu 
 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 get- 
 ting on. So you have had an 6meute in Berlin ? 
 and that, too, an tmeute 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 fre- 
 quently 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.
 
 JOURXEY TO VENICE. 29 
 
 Venice, October loth, 1830 
 
 Italy at last ! and what I have all my life consi- 
 dered as the greatest possible felicity, is now begun, 
 and I am basking in it. The day has been so fruit- 
 ful 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. 
 
 1 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 suffi- 
 cient grasp of intellect to comprehend it all pro- 
 perly. I saw the "Assumption," then a whole 
 gallery of printings in the Manfrini Palace ; then 
 a church festival in the church where hangs Titian s 
 St. Peter; afterwards St. Mark's, and in the after- 
 noon 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 im
 
 30 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 mense crowd and crush of people; and all this I 
 was obliged to sec to-day, because there is so much 
 that is novel and interesting to be seen to-morrow. 
 
 But I must now relate methodically how 1 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 1 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 HrMock has such 
 a haut fjoiit orfumet, that it could not even please 
 a cat: but at all events I have left Gratz, for here 
 I am in Venice. 
 
 My old vctturino woke me up at four o'clock in 
 the dark, and the horse crawled oil' with us both. 
 I thought of you, dear father, at least a hundred 
 times during our journey of two days. You would 
 certainly luve gone wild with impatience, and pos- 
 sibly assaulted the coachman also, for at every 
 little declivity, he got slowly off the box, deliber-
 
 31 
 
 ately put on the drag, and crept np the smallest 
 hill at a snail's pace; then he thought lit 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 i'ellow put on two oxen as 
 leaders, whose pace exactly corresponded with that 
 of his horse, 1 had the greatest difficulty in not 
 belabouring him. indeed I did so more than once; 
 !;jt 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 
 KlagfMifurt 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 s low on the Sommer- 
 ing. but still it came at last. Three Italians were 
 inside, ami chattered so that I could scarcely get 
 to sleep, but my snoring fairly silenced them after 
 a time. 
 
 At last morning broke, and us we drove into Re- 
 sciutta. the driver said, that on the other side of the 
 bridge there, no one understood a word of (ierman. I 
 therefore took h-ave of my mother tongue for a long 
 time to come, and we drove over the bridge. The 
 tjtyi2 of the houses immediately beyond wus entirely
 
 32 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 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 be- 
 sieged 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 docs not seem characteristic of 
 Italy. "I purposely made this passage rather 
 meagre, in order that the sultji-ct might be more 
 distinctly heard," says Abt Voglcr ;. and I almost 
 think that Providence has done pretty much tin: 
 same here, for when we had passed Ospedaletto the 
 subject did come out well, and a fine sight it was. 1 
 had imagined that the first impression of Italy would 
 be like that of a sudden explosion, violent and start- 
 ling; 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 bv trailing boughs. I felt as
 
 JOURNEY TO VEXICE. 33 
 
 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 
 1 ordered my supper in Italian, my tongue skating 
 us 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 ilowers ; the women 
 with roses in their hair. Light single-horse car- 
 riages 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 inhabi- 
 tants were all gaily dressed and adorned, and a few 
 scattered cypresses only enhanced the general 
 effect.
 
 Ill 'Proviso 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 trot 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 Tem- 
 pests," which are often most dangerous and violent 
 here. "\V<3 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 tlieatr<-, 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 1 only knew by name 
 ~-l allude to a certain Signer Giorgione, an ininii-
 
 THK VKNETIAX MASTERS. Of) 
 
 table 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 feli- 
 citous artist 1 have this day seen him to be. That 
 he thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and ful- 
 ness, the picture in Paris proves; but he lias 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 uncon 
 scions, 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 
 1 shall certainly see it every day. 
 
 I must however say a few words about the '' En- 
 tombment. 1 ' as you have the engraving. Look at it. 
 and think of me. This picture represents the con- 
 clusion 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
 
 SG MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 to lend lior away, but looks round herself ouco 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 en- 
 dured 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 enthusi- 
 a.-m. and will never leave my memory. 
 
 I believe few things J have yet to see in Italy will 
 affect me so deeply: but you know that 1 am devoid 
 of all prejudices, and ] give you a fresh proof of this 
 by telling you that the ''Martyrdom of St. Peter," 
 IV o in 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 line, 
 seemed to me to predominate too much. Then I was 
 dissatisfied with the disposition in the picture of hcc 
 victims and only o??e murderer; (for the small figure 
 in the distant background does not remedy this). 
 ] could not bring myself to consider it a martyrdt in. 
 I'ut probably 1 am in error, and I intend to study it 
 mere carefully to-morrow; my contemplation of it, 
 besides, was disturbed by some one strumming most 
 sacrilegiously on the organ, and these sacred forms 
 wen- forced to listen to such miserable opera final'-* ' 
 I!ut this matters not ; where such pictures arc. I 
 reipiire no organist. I play the organ in my thoughts
 
 THE VENETIAN SCHOOL. 37 
 
 for myself, and feel as little irritated by such trash 
 as I should be by an ignorant rabble. Titian, how- 
 ever, 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 shout- 
 ing 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 iu every happy hour as I do of you. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 To PROFESSOR ZELTKR.* 
 
 Venice, October i6th, 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 J lived, both in Munich 
 and in Vienna. It was needless for me to describe to 
 you the parties in Munich, which J attended every 
 evening, and where I played the piano more unre- 
 mittingly than I ever did in my life before ; one suirfe 
 succeeding another so closelv, that I reallv had 
 
 * Mendelssohn's iii-tructor in tlit> tlit'ory of rrrj-i 
 
 4
 
 38 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 not a moment to collect my thoughts. Moreover, 
 it would not have particularly interested you, for 
 after all, -'good society which does not offer mater- 
 ials for the smallest epigram," is equally vapid in a 
 letter. 1 hope that you have not taken amiss my 
 long silence, and that 1 may expect a few lines from 
 you, even if they contain nothing save that you are 
 well and cheerful. 
 
 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 anni- 
 hilated or demolished, but remain iirm and stead- 
 fast. 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 exhilara- 
 ting impression made on me by the iirst 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 1 
 discovered some masterpieces of art. which I study 
 w ; th deep attention, and contemplate daily for a
 
 THE VENETIAN SCHOOL. 39 
 
 couple of hours at least. These are three pictures 
 by 'Titian. The "Presentation of Mary as a Child 
 in the Temple:' 1 the "Assumption of the Virgin;" 
 and the "Entombment of Christ." There is also a 
 portrait by Giorgionc, 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 iruitfulness. 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 shunts of welcome: one gaily beating the 
 tambourine, a couple of others blowing away on 
 strange crooked flutes, while another charming 
 aronp 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 wa' 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 
 Meal forth out. of the darkness in which the long 
 [apse 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 : 
 
 Allegro confuoco. 
 
 -A-Siii I--I -I 9 -i-x-. m ~ (-, ' I. I ff-t 
 
 \-jp5* -TV- -o <** 2 % j *--- -3-sr^ 
 
 SBerf. 
 
 cetera animalia. 
 
 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 gon 
 doliers no longer sing Tasso's stanzas ; moreover,
 
 LUTHER'S IIYMXS. 41 
 
 what I have hitherto seen of modern Venetian art, 
 consists of poems framed and glazed on the sub- 
 ject 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, al'ter doing so. I feel a musical in- 
 spiration, 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 tie for 
 Noth," for four voices a cupdla ; and the Christmas 
 hymn. ' Vom Ilimmel hoch," is already in my head. 
 I wish also to set the following hymns to music : 
 ''Ach Gott, vom Ilimmel sieh darcin," " Wir glanben 
 all' an einen Gott," ' Verleih nns Fricden." ''Mit- 
 ten wir im Leben sind," and finally " Kin' feste 
 Burg." The latter, however, it is my intention to 
 compose tor 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 nut adhering to them too strictly: 
 i\ r instance, if I were to take the first verse of 
 " Vom Ilimmel hoch " as a separate grand chorus. 
 Besides this. I am hard at wurk at an orchestral 
 overture, and if an opportunity for an opera offered, 
 it would be most welcome.
 
 42 MENDELSSOHN'S I.KTTERS. 
 
 I finished two pieces of sacred music in Vienna 
 a choral in llirce movements for chorus and or- 
 chestra ( " ! Ilaupt roll Blut mid AVunden " ) and 
 :in Ave Maria for a choir of eight voices, a cap'-lla. 
 The people I associated with there were so dissi- 
 pated 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 Mo/.art 
 were not to be despised, they said. " So you arc an 
 admirer of classical music ?" '"Yes," said I. 
 
 To-morrow 1 intend to go to Bologna to have a 
 glance at the St. Cecilia, and then proceed by 
 Florence to Home, where I hope ( 1). V.) to arrive 
 eight or ten days hence 1 will then write to you 
 more, satisfactorily. I only wished to make a begin- 
 ning 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 ajrd, 1830. 
 
 Here am T in Florence, the air warm and the sky 
 bright; everything is beautiful and glorious, "wo 
 blieb die Krde," as (Joethe says. 1 have now re- 
 ceived your letter of the I5rd, by which ] see that 
 you are all well, that my anxiety was needless, that 
 you are all going on as usual, and thinking of me ;
 
 ARRIVAL AT FLORENCE. 43 
 
 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 misunder- 
 standing 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 be- 
 tween the hills, on which lay a blue mist, and said 
 " Ecco Firenzc !" 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 re- 
 vived when at last Florence appeared. 1 looked at 
 some willow-trees (as I thought) beside the road, 
 when the driver said. " ]>uon olio." and then I saw 
 that they were hanging full of olives. 
 
 My driver, as a genus, is undoubtedly a most villa- 
 nous 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 docs 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
 
 44 
 
 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 1 thought it may 
 one day actually come to pass that you who are now 
 looking down on the roturicr, may shake hands 
 with him, the only difference being a little clean 
 linen and so forth. By the time that we came to 
 the baltistc.rio, 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 vege- 
 tation, whereas they are merely a long chain ot 
 melancholy bleak hills ; and the little verdure there 
 is, not gratifying to the eye. There are no dwell- 
 ings to be seen, no merry brooks or rills ; only an 
 occasional stream, it? br<md bed dried up. or a little
 
 THE APENNINES. 45 
 
 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 con- 
 sequence was, that Hie 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 
 babblim;' in their incomprehensible dialect, looked 
 vastly suspicious characters. 1 made them prepare 
 my sou]) 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
 
 46 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 to MS a little hill in the distance incessantly vomit- 
 ing 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 1 slept as sound as a bear, and be- 
 fore falling asleep I said to myself, Now you are in 
 the Apennines: and next morning, after getting no 
 breakfast, my veiturino 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 2^th. 
 
 I now intend to go once more to the Tribune, to be 
 inspired with feelings of reverence. There is a par- 
 ticular 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 pic- 
 ture 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 i'ace 
 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;
 
 THE FLORENCE GALLERY. 47 
 
 it is as if the two spirits who could produce such 
 creations, wore 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 Xiobe 
 with all her children : while we gaze at her. \ve can 
 find no words. I have not yet been to the Pitti 
 Palace, which possesses the Saint Kzekiel. and the 
 Madonna della Sedia, of Ilaphael. I saw the gar- 
 dens 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 1 hear llensel exclaim, "Oh, the northern 
 bear ! " 
 
 October 3Cth. 
 
 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. 1 resolved to take a long walk till sunset; 
 so after buying a bunch of narcissuses and helio- 
 tropes. I went up the hill through the vineyards. It 
 was one of the most delightful walks I ever remember;
 
 48 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTKRS. 
 
 every one must feel revived and refreshed at the 
 sight of nature in such a garb as this, and a thous- 
 and happy thoughts passed through my mind. 
 
 First of all, I went to a villa called Bello 
 Sguardo, whence the whole of Florence and its spa- 
 cious valley are to be seen, and I thoroughly enjoyed 
 the view of the superb city and its massive towers 
 and palaces. Bat most of all I admired the count- 
 less 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 
 T 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 lower 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
 
 GALILEO'S TOWER. 49 
 
 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, " K questo S. Miniato al 
 Monte, Signor?" With admirable decision I re- 
 plied, ''Si, Signer;" and it turned out that I was 
 
 right. A. F immediately recurred to my 
 
 memory, as she had advised me to see this monas- 
 tery, 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 Home the day after to-morrow. 
 From thence you shall hear again. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Rome, November 2nd, 1830. 
 
 . . I refrain from writing longer in this melan- 
 choly strain ; for just as your letter, after a lapse of 
 fourteen days, has saddened me. my answer will 
 have the same effect on vou fourteen days hence.
 
 50 
 
 You would write to me in the same style, and so it 
 might go on for ever. As four weeks must puss be- 
 fore I can receive any answer. I feel that I ought to 
 restrict myself to relating- events past and present, 
 und not dwell much on the particular frame of my 
 mind at the moment, which is indeed usually suffi- 
 ciently manifest in the narrative given, and the 
 various occurrences described. 
 
 I have scarcely yet arrived at the conviction that 
 I am now actually in Koine ; and when yesterday, 
 just as day was breaking. I drove across a bridge 
 with statues, under a deep blue sky. and in dax/cling 
 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 Florcnc-c to Rome has 
 very few attractions. Siena, which is. I understand 
 worth seeing, we passed through during the night. 
 [t 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 mean- 
 time everything progresses, and there are moments 
 when the bound forwards is actually visible. 
 
 J was still in Florence, waiting for the departure, 
 of the post, reading a French newspaper, when at 
 the very moment the bell sounded, 1 read among 
 <,he advertisements, "Vie de Siebenkas, par dear
 
 GRAUX'S "TCD JESU." 51 
 
 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-country- 
 men ; 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 1 may also have 
 t'ic score of Bach's " Passion." Thus music pro- 
 gresses 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 
 iu health and happiness ! 
 
 FEUS.
 
 52 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Rome, November Sth, 1830. 
 
 T must now write to you of my first week in 
 Home ; liiiw ] have arranged my time, lm\v ] look 
 forward to the winter, and what impression the 
 glorious objects by which I am surrounded have 
 
 I were entirely changed since I came here. For- 
 merly 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 1 have at last attained 
 it my mood is so tranquil and joyous, and yet su 
 'arnest. that I shall not attempt to describe it to 
 von. What it is that thus works on me 1 cannot 
 exactly define : for the awo-inspirhijr Coliseum, and 
 the brilliant Vatican, and the Denial 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 
 ] expect to acei mplisii much more than I anticipa- 
 ted: indeed. 1 have already done a good deal. If 
 it pleases Providence to grant me a continuation of 
 this happy mood. 1 look forward to the most delight- 
 ful and product ivo winter. 
 
 Picture to yourself a small house, with two win- 
 dows iu front, in the Pia/./.a di .^pagna. Xo. 3 which
 
 ARRIVAL I>" ROME. 53 
 
 all clay 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 Nun Nobi* ; 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, a. ml 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). 1 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 inter- 
 esting problem to enjoy: but I go deliberately to 
 work, daily selecting some different object apper- 
 taining to history. One day I visit the ruins of the 
 ancient city; another 1 go to the Borghese gallery, 
 or to the Capitol, or St. Peter's, or the Vatican. 
 Ea;h day is thus made memorable, and as I take
 
 54 MFADKLSSOTIN'S T.KTTI'RS. 
 
 my time, oacli object becomes firmly and indelibly 
 impressed on me. When I am occupied in the 
 i'orenoon I am willing 1 to leave oil', and should like 
 to continue my writing 1 , but 1 say to myself that 1 
 must see the Vatican, and when I am actually there, 
 I equally dislike leaving it ; thus each of my occu- 
 pations 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 1 modern palaces, 
 and the perpetual remembrance of former splen- 
 dour, causing' sad and discordant sensations ; so 
 does the past of Rome suggest the impersonation 
 of history; her monuments elevate the soul, inspir- 
 ing 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 thia 
 on my mind, and each day a fresh one, twilight lias 
 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 Hiibner's, where German artists usually assem- 
 ble, and I sometimes go to Hchadow'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 1 
 like, for no one can be more obliging. At night he
 
 SOCIETY AT RO.TtK. 55 
 
 makes either Ahlborn or me accompany him home, 
 as mi Abbate being' seen alone at night in the 
 streets would bring- him into evil repute. Thai 
 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 mu?''-j 
 
 which she was anxious to procure copies of if pos- 
 sible. Santiiii's collection contains all this, and I am 
 much obliged to him for havinir furnished me with 
 copies, fur 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 IJach. published by Marx at 
 .Simn.ck's. or some of his pieces fur the organ. I 
 should lu wever prefer the cantatas: he already lias 
 the " .Magnificat " and the Mutets. and others. He 
 has translated the "S.inget dem llerrn ein neues 
 Lied." and intends it to be executed at Naples, for 
 which he deserves a reward. I am writing to Zeltor 
 ail particulars about the Papal singers, whom I 
 have heard three times. in the Quirinal, in the 
 Monte Cavallo. and once in San Curio. 
 
 1 look forward with delight to seeing I>unsen 
 we shall have much to discuss together, and 1 Lave 
 likewise an idea that he has g'ot some- work for me : 
 if I can conscientiously undertake it. I will do ?o 
 gladly, and render it all the justice in mv power. 
 Among 1 my home pleasures 1 include that of reading 
 torthe first time (joethe's Journey to Italy: and I 
 must avow that it is a source of great satisfaction 
 to me to find that he arrived in Home the very
 
 56 MENDELSSOHN'S I/KTTERS. 
 
 same day that I did ; that he also went first to the 
 Qnirinal, and heard a Requiem there ; that he waa 
 seized with the same lit of impatience in Florence 
 and Bologna; and i'elt the same tranquil, or as he calls 
 it, solid spirit here : indeed, everything that he de- 
 scribes, I exactly experience myself, so I am pleased. 
 He speaks in detail of a large picture of Titian's 
 m 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 "THspula." 
 and the ' Peter," stand before us precisely as they 
 were created : and then the entrance through splen- 
 did open arches, whence you can see the Piazza .if 
 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 !
 
 TITIAN AND RAPHAEL. 57 
 
 You may well bo proud, dear Ilei scl, for your 
 copy of the ' Transfiguration " is superb ! The 
 pleasing emotion which seizes mo, when I see for 
 tin 1 first time some immortal work, and the per- 
 vading idea and chief impression it inspires, I did 
 nut 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 pre- 
 viously made on me ; and it was not till after 
 considerable research and contemplation that 1 
 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 anticipa- 
 tions, 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 atten- 
 tively 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!
 
 58 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 To-day I am going to the Lateran, and the ruins 
 of ancient Home; 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 peo- 
 ple, 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 i6th, 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 Home, 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. J 
 don't think you require to be much better ; may 
 good fortune- ever abide with you ! 
 
 And now 1 think these are all my birthday good 
 wishes; for really it is nut fair to expect that a man 
 of my calibre should wish you also a fresh stock ot
 
 ROME. 59 
 
 musical ideas ; besides you are very unreasonable 
 in complaining of any deficiency in that respect, 
 Per Bu ecu! if you had the inclination, yon certainly 
 have sufficient genius to compose, and if you have 
 no desire to do so, why grumble so much ? If 1 had 
 a baby to nurse, I certainly should not write any 
 scores, and as I have to compose Non Nuliis, I 
 cannot unluckily carry my nephew about in my 
 arms. 15ut TO speak seriously, your child is scarcely 
 six months old yet, and you can think of anything 
 but Sebastian '!* (not Bach !) Be thankful that you 
 have him. Music only retreats when there is no 
 longer a place for her. and I am not surprised that 
 you are not an unnatural mother. However, you 
 have my best wishes on your birthday, for all that 
 your heart desires ; so I may as well wish you half- 
 a-dozen melodies into the bargain; not that this 
 will be of much use. 
 
 In Rome here, we celebrated the 14th of Novem- 
 ber by the sky shining, in blue and festive array, 
 and breathing on us warm genial air. So I went on 
 pleasantly towards the Capitol and into church, 
 
 where I heard a miserable sermon from , who 
 
 is no doubt a very good man. but to my mind has 
 a most morose style of preaching; and any one 
 who could irritate me on ,sc/i a day, in the. Capitol, 
 and in church, must have an especial talent for so 
 doing. I afterwards went to call on Bunsen. who 
 had just arrived. He and his wife received me 
 
 * The name of the child.
 
 60 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 most kindly, and we conversed on much that was 
 interesting, including politics and regrets for your 
 absence. Apropos, my favourite work that I am 
 now studying is Goethe's 'Lili's Park,' especially 
 three portions: " Kchr' ich mich um, und brumin :" 
 then, " Kh la menotte ; " and best of all, " Die ganze 
 Luf't ist warm, ist bllithevoll," where decidedly 
 clarionets must be introduced. 1 mean to make it 
 the subject of a scherzo for a symphony. 
 
 Yesterday, at dinner at Bunsen's, we had among 
 others a German musician. Oh, heavens ! I wish I 
 were a Frenchman! The man said to me, " Music 
 must be handlc.d everyday." "Why?" replied 1, 
 which rather embarrassed him. lie also spoke of 
 earnest purpose; and said that Spohr had no earnest 
 purpose, but that he had distinctly discerned gleams 
 of an earnest purpose in my Ta cs Petrus. The 
 fellow, however, has a small property at Frascati, 
 and is about to lay do-wn the profession of music. 
 We have not got so far as that yet ! 
 
 After dinner came Catel, Kggers, Scnf, Wolf, 
 then a painter, and then two more, and others. I 
 played the piano, and they asked for pieces by 
 Sebastian Bach, so I played numbers of his compo- 
 sitions, which were much admired, i also explained 
 clearly to them the mode in which the "Passion" is 
 executed; for they seemed scarcely to believe it. 
 Bunsen possesses it, arranged for the piano; he 
 showed it to the Papal singers, and they said before 
 witnesses, that such music could not possibly be 
 executed by human voices. 1 think the contrary.
 
 It seems, however, that Trautwein is about to pub- 
 lish the score of the Passion of .St. John. I suppose 
 I must order a set of studs for Paris, a la Back. 
 
 To-day Bunsen is to take me to Baini's. whom he 
 has not seen for a year, as he never goes out except 
 to hear confessions. 1 am glad to know him, and 
 shall endeavour to improve my intimacy with him, 
 fur he can solve many an enigma for me. Old 
 Sajitini continues as kind as ever. When we are 
 together in society, if I praise any particular piece 
 or am not acquainted with it. next morning he is 
 sure to knock gently at my door, and to bring me 
 the piece in question carefully wrapped up in a 
 blue pocket-handkerchief; I, in return, accompany 
 him home every evening; and we have a great 
 r-irard for each other. He also brought me his Te 
 I) -urn. written in eight parts, requesting me to 
 :orrect some of the modulations, as G major pre- 
 dominates too much ; so I mean to try if 1 cannot 
 introduce some A minor or E minor. 
 
 I am now very anxious to become acquainted 
 with a good many Italians. I visit at the house of 
 a certain Maestro di .San Giovanni Laterano, whose 
 daughters are musical, but not pretty, so this does 
 not count for much. If therefore you can send me 
 letters, pray do so. I work in the morning; at noon 
 I see and admire, and thus the day glides away till 
 sunset ; but 1 should like in the evening to associ- 
 ate with the Roman world. My kind English 
 frier ds have arrived from Venice ; Lord Ilarrowby 
 and his family are to pass the winter here, 
 6
 
 62 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Schadow, Bendeman, Bunscn, Tippclskirch, all re- 
 ceive every evening ; in short I have no lack of 
 acquaintances, but I should like to know some 
 Italians also. 
 
 The present, dear Fanny, that I have prepared 
 for your birthday, is a psalm, for chorus and or- 
 chestra. Non nob is, Domine. You know the mel- 
 ody well ; there is an air in it which has a good 
 ending, and the last chorus will I hope please you. 
 I hear that next week 1 shall have an opportunity 
 of sending it to you, along with a quantity of new 
 music. I intend now to finish my overture, and 
 then (D.V.) to proceed with my symphony. A 
 pianoforte concerto, too, that I wish to write for 
 Paris, begins to float in my head. If Providence 
 kindly bestows on me success and bright days, I 
 hope we shall enjoy them together. Farewell ! 
 May you be happy ! 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Rome, November 22nd, 1830. 
 My dear Brother and Sisters. 
 
 You know how much I dislike, at a distance of 
 two hundred miles, and fourteen days' journey from 
 yon, to oiler good advice. I mean to do so. how- 
 ever, for once. Let me tell you therefore of u 
 mistake in your conduct, and in truth the same that 
 I once made myself. I do assure you that never iu 
 my life have I known my father write in so irritable
 
 ROME. 63 
 
 a strain as since I came to Rome, and so I wish to 
 ask you if you cannot devise some domestic recipe 
 to rhecr him a little? I mean by forbearance and 
 yielding to his wishes, and in this manner, by allow- 
 i:i'j' my lather's view of any subject to predominate 
 ever yuur n\vn : then, not to speak at all on topics 
 that irritate him ; and instead of saying shameful, 
 say unpleasant ; or instead of superb, very fair. 
 This method has often a wonderfully good effect; 
 and 1 put it, with all submission to yourselves, 
 whether it might nut be equally successful in this 
 case? For, with the exception of the great events 
 of the world, ill-humour often seems to me to pro- 
 ceed from the same cause that my father's did when 
 I chose to pursue my own path in my musical 
 studies. He was then in a constant state of irrita- 
 tion, incessantly abusing Beethoven and all vision- 
 aries ; and this often vexed me very much, and 
 made me sometimes very unamiable. At that very 
 time something new came out, which put my father 
 out of sorts, and made him I believe not a little 
 uneasy. So long therefore as I persisted in ex- 
 tolling and exalting my Beethoven, the evil 
 became daily worse ; and one day, if I remember 
 rightly, I was even sent out of the room. At last, how- 
 ever, it occurred to me that I might speak a great 
 deal of truth, and yet avoid the particular truth 
 obnoxious to my father; so the aspect of affairs 
 speedily began to improve, and soon all went well. 
 
 Perhaps you may have in some degree forgotten 
 that you ought now and then to be forbearing, and
 
 64 
 
 not aggressive. My father considers himself both 
 much older and more irritable than, thank God. he 
 really is; but it is our duty always to submit our 
 opinion to his. even if the truth be as much on our 
 side, as it often is on his, when opposed to us. 
 Strive, then, to praise what he likes, and do not 
 attack what is implanted in his heart, more es- 
 pecially ancient established ideas. Do not commend 
 what is new till it, has made some progress in the 
 world, and acquired a name, for till then it is a 
 mere matter of taste. Try to draw my father into 
 your circle, and be playful and kind to him. lu 
 short, try to smooth and to equalixe things; and re- 
 member that I, who am now an experienced man of 
 the world, never yet knew any family, taking into 
 due consideration all defects and failings, who have 
 hitherto lived so happily together as ours. 
 
 J)o not send me any answer to this, for you will 
 not receive it for a month, and by that time no 
 doubt some fresh topic will have arisen ; besides, if 
 I have spoken nonsense, I do not wish to be scolded 
 by you ; and if I have spoken properly, I hope you 
 will follow my good advice. 
 
 November 23rd. 
 
 Just as I was going to set to work at the " Hebri- 
 des," arrived ITerr 15 , a musical professor from 
 
 Magdeburg. He played me over a whole book of 
 songs, and an Avc Maria, and begged to have the 
 benefit of my opinion. I seemed in the position of 
 a juvenile Nestor, and made him some insipid
 
 " THE HEBRIDES." 65 
 
 speeches, but this caused me the loss of a morning 
 in Home, which is a pity. The Choral, " Mitten wir 
 im Leben sintl," is iinished, and is certainly one of 
 the best sacred pieces that I have yet composed. 
 A_i'ter I have completed the Hebrides, 1 think of 
 arranging Handel's Solomon for future performance, 
 wuh proper curtailments, etc. I then purpose 
 writing the Christmas music of "Torn Himmel 
 hocli," and the symphony in A minor ; perhaps also 
 some pieces for the piano, and a concerto, etc., just 
 as they come into my head. 
 
 1 own 1 do sadly miss some friend to whom I could 
 communicate my new works, and who could examine 
 the score along with me. and play a bass or a flute ; 
 whereas now when a piece is finished I must lay it 
 aside in my de.>k without its giving pleasure to any 
 one. London spoiled me in this respect. I can 
 never again expect to meet all together such friends 
 as I Lad there. Here 1 can only say the half of 
 what I think, and leave the best half unspoken; 
 whereas there it was not necessary to say more than 
 the half, because the other half was a mere matter 
 of coarse, and already understood. Still, this is a 
 most delightful place. 
 
 Yfe young people went lately to Albano, and set 
 off in tin 1 most lovely weather. The road to Fras- 
 cati passed under the great aqueduct, its dark brown 
 outlines standing out sharply defined against the 
 clear blue sky ; thence we proceeded to the monas- 
 tery at (Jrotta Ferrata, where there are some beauti- 
 ful frescoes by Domenichino ; then to Marino, very 
 6*
 
 66 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 picturesquely situated on a hill, an 1 proceeding 
 along the margin of the lake we reached (..'astel Gan- 
 dolfo. The scenery, like my first impression of Italy. 
 is by no means so striking or so wonderfully beauti- 
 ful as is generally supposed, but most pleasing ana 
 gratifying to the eye, and the outlines undulating 
 and picturesque, forming a perfect whole, with its 
 entourage and distribution of light. 
 
 Here 1 must deliver a eulogy on monks; they 
 finish a picture at once, giving it tone and colour, 
 with their wide loose gowns, their pious meditative 
 gait, and their dark aspect. A beautiful shadj 
 avenue of evergreen oaks runs along the lake froih 
 Castel Gandolfo to Albano, where monks of ever; 
 order are swarming, animating the scenery and yei 
 marking its solitude. Near the city a couple ol 
 begging monks were walking together ; further on, ^ 
 whole troop of young Jesuits ; then we saw an ele- 
 gant young priest in a thicket reading ; beyond this 
 two more were standing in the wood with their guns, 
 watching for birds. Then we cam'e to a monastery, 
 encircled by a number of small chapels. At last all 
 was solitude ; but at that moment appeared a dirty, 
 stupid-looking Capuchin, laden with huge nosegays, 
 which he placed before the various shrines, kneeling 
 down in front of them before proceeding to decorate 
 them. 
 
 As we passed on, we met two old prelates engaged 
 in eager conversation. The bell for vespers was 
 ringing in the monastery of Albano, and even on 
 the summit of the highest hill stands a Passionist
 
 MONASTERY OF AI.BAXO. 67 
 
 convent, where they are only permitted to speak for 
 a single hour daily, and occupy themselves solely in 
 reading the history of the passion of Christ. In 
 Albano. among girls with pitchers on their heads, 
 vndors of flowers and vegetables, and all the crowd 
 and tumult, we saw a coal-bla^k dumb monk, return- 
 ing 1o Monte Cavo, who formed a singular contrast 
 to the rest of the scene. They seem to have taken 
 entire possession of all this splendid country, and 
 form a strange melancholy ground-tone for all that 
 is lively, gay, and free, and the ever-living cheerful- 
 ness bestowed by nature. It is as if men, on that 
 very account, required a counterpoise. This is not 
 however my case, and I need no contrast to enable 
 me to enjoy what I see. 
 
 I am often with Bunsen, and as he likes to turn 
 the conversation on the subject of his Liturgy and 
 its musical portions, which I consider very deficient, 
 I am perfectly plain-spoken, and give him a straight- 
 forward opinion ; and I believe this is the only way 
 to establish a mutual understanding. We have had 
 several long, serious discussions, and I hope we 
 shall eventually know each other better. Yesterday 
 Palest rina's music was performed at Bunsen's house 
 (as on every Monday), and then for the first time I 
 played before the Roman musicians in corporc. I 
 am quite aware of the necessity in every foreign city 
 of playing so as to make myself understood by the 
 audience. This makes me usually feel rather em- 
 barrassed, and such was the case with me yesterday. 
 After the Papal singers finished Palestrina's music,
 
 68 MEXDELSSOHX'S LETTKRS. 
 
 it was mv turn to play something. A brilliant piece 
 would have been unsuitable, and there had been 
 more than enough of serious music ; I therefore 
 oegged Astolfi, the Director, to give me a theme, so 
 lie lightly touched the notes with one finger thus : 
 
 
 smiling as he did so. The black-frocked Abbati 
 pressed round me and seemed highly delighted. I 
 observed this, and it inspirited me so much that 
 towards the end I succeeded famously; they clapped 
 their hands like mad. and Bunsen declared that I 
 had astounded the clergy ; in short, the affair went 
 off well. There is no encouraging prospect of any 
 public performance here, so society is the only re- 
 source, which is fishing in troubled waters. 
 
 Yours, FELIX 
 
 Rome, November 3Cth, 1830. 
 
 To come home from Bunsen's by moonlight, with 
 your letter in my pocket, and then to read it through 
 leisurely at night. this is a degree of pleasure I 
 wish many may enjoy. In all probability I shall stay 
 here the whole winter, and not go to Naples till 
 April. It is so delightful to look round on every 
 side, and to appreciate it all properly. There is
 
 THE POPE. 69 
 
 much that must be thought over, in order to receive 
 a clue impression from it. I have also within my- 
 self so much work requiring both quiet and industry, 
 that I feel anything like haste would be utter des- 
 truction ; and though I adhere faithfully to my 
 system, to receive each day only one fresh image 
 into my mind, still I am sometimes compelled even 
 then to give myself a day of rest, that 1 may not 
 become confused. I write you a short letter to-day, 
 because 1 must for the present adhere to my work ; 
 and yet I cannot refrain from culling all the beauty 
 that lies at my feet. The weather, too, is briitto 
 and cold, so that I am not in a very communicative 
 mood. The Pope is dying, or possibly dead by this 
 time. "We shall soon get a new one," say the 
 Italians, coolly. His death will not affect the Car- 
 nival, nor the church festivals, Avith their pomps 
 and processions, and fine music ; and as there will 
 be in addition to these, solemn requiems, and the 
 lying-in-state at St. Peter's, they care little about it, 
 provided it does not occur in February. 
 
 I am delighted to hear that Mantius sings my 
 songs, and likes them. Give him my kind regards, 
 and ask him why he does not perform his promise, 
 and write to me. I have written to him repeatedly 
 in the shape of music. In the "Ave Maria," and in 
 the choral ''Atis tiefer Noth," some passages are 
 composed expressly for him, and he will sing them 
 charmingly. In the "Ave,' : which is a salutation, 
 a tenor solo takes the lead of the choir ( I thought 
 of a disciple all the time). As the piece is in A
 
 10 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 major, and goes rather high at the words Hcne- 
 Jicla in. lie must prepare his high A; it will vibrate 
 well. Ask him to sing you a song I sent to Devrient 
 from Venice, ''Von schlcchtem Lebenswandel." 
 It is expressive of mingled joy and despair ; no 
 doubt he will sing it well. .Show it to no one, but 
 confine it solely to forty eyes. Ilitz* too nevei 
 writes, and yet I am constantly longing for his vio- 
 lin and his depth of feeling when he plays, which 
 till recurs to my mind when I see his welcome wri- 
 ting. I am now working daily at the " Hebrides," 
 and will send it to Ilitz as soon as it is finished. It 
 is quite a piece to suit him so very singular. 
 
 Next time I write I will tell you more of myself. 
 I work hard, and lead a pleasant, happy life ; my 
 mirror is stuck full of Italian, German, and English 
 visiting-cards, and I spend every evening with one 
 of my acquaintances. There is a truly Babylonian 
 confusion of tongues in my head, for English, 
 Italian, German and French are all mixed up to 
 get her in it. Two days ago I again extemporized 
 before the Papal singers. The fellows had con- 
 trived to get hold of the most strange, quaint 
 theme for me, wishing to put my powers to the test. 
 They call me, however, I'insuperabile professorone, 
 and are particularly kind and friendly. I much 
 wished to have described to you the Sunday music in 
 the Sistina, a soiree at Torlonia's, the Vatican, St. 
 
 * The violin player, Edward Kitz, an intimate friend of Men- 
 deUsolm s.
 
 SOCIETY IN ROME. il 
 
 Onofrio, Guide's Aurora, and other small matters, 
 but I reserve them for my next letter. The post 
 is about to set off, and this letter with it. My 
 good wishes are always with you, to-day and ever. 
 Yours, 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Rome, December yth, 1830. 
 
 I cannot even to-day manage to write to you as 
 fully as I wish. Heaven knows how time flies here ! 
 I was introduced this week to several agreeable 
 English families, and so I have the prospect of many 
 pleasant evenings this winter. I am much with 
 Uiinsen. I intend also to cultivate Baini. 1 think 
 he conceives me to be only a brutix^i'ino Tedesco, so 
 that 1 have a famous opportunity of becoming well 
 acquainted with him. ] 1 is compositions are certainly 
 of no great value, and the same may be said of the 
 whole music here. The wish is not wanting, but the 
 means do not exist. The orchestra is below con- 
 tempt. Mdlle. Carl.* (who is engaged as prima 
 tluima axs<'/ln(a for tire season, at both the principal 
 theatres here.) is now arrived, and begins to make 
 la pluie ct l<f bean temps. The Papal singers even 
 are becoming old; they are almost all unmusical, 
 and do not execute even the most established pieces 
 iu tune. The whole choir consists of thirtv-two
 
 72 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 singers, but that number are rarely together. Con- 
 certs are given by the so-called Philharmonic Society, 
 but only with the piano. There is no orchestra, and 
 when recently they wished to perform Haydn's 
 "Creation," the instrumentalists declared it was 
 impossible to play it. The sounds they bring out of 
 their wind instruments, are such as in Germany we 
 have no conception of. 
 
 The Pope is dead, and the Conclave assembles on 
 the 14th. A great part of the winter will be occu- 
 pied with the ceremonies of his funeral, and the en- 
 thronement of the new Pope. All music therefore 
 and large parties must be at an end, so I very much 
 doubt whether I shall be able to undertake any pub- 
 lic performance during my stay here ; but I do not 
 regret this, for there are so many varied objects to 
 enjoy inwardly, that my dwelling on these and medi- 
 tating on them is no disadvantage. The performance 
 of Graun's " Passion" in Naples, and more especially 
 the translation of Sebastian Bach's, prove that the 
 good cause is sure eventually to niake its way, 
 though it will neither kindle enthusiasm, nor will it 
 be appreciated. It is no worse however with regard 
 to music in fact, rather better than with their 
 estimate of every other branch of the fine arts; for 
 when some of Kaphael's Loggie arc with inconceiv- 
 able recklessness and disgraceful barbarism actually 
 defaced, to give place to inscriptions in pencil ; when 
 the lower parts of the arabesques are totally de- 
 stroyed, because Italians with knives, and 1 1 en veil 
 knows what else besides, inscribe their insignificant
 
 THE ARTS AT ROME. 73 
 
 names there ; when one person painted in large 
 letters under the Apollo Belvedere, ' Christ ;' when 
 an altar has been erected in front of Michael An- 
 gelo's ''Last Judgment," so large that it hides the 
 centre of the picture, thus destroying the whole 
 effect; when cattle are driven through the splendid 
 saloons of the Villa Madama, the walls of which aro 
 painted by Giulio llomano, and fodder is stored in 
 them, simply from indifference towards the beautiful, 
 all this is certainly much worse than a bad or- 
 chestra, and painters must be even more distressed 
 by such things than I am by their miserable music. 
 
 The fact is, that the people are mentally ener- 
 vated and apathetic. They have a religion, but 
 they do not believe in it; they have a Pope and a 
 Government, but they turn them into ridicule; they 
 can recall a brilliant and heroic past, but they do 
 not value it. It is thus no marvel that they do not 
 delight in Art, for they are indifferent to all that is 
 earnest, it is realiy quite revolting to see their 
 unconcern about the death of the Pope, and then 
 unseemly merriment during the ceremonies. I my- 
 self saw the corpse lying in state, and the priests 
 standing round incessantly whispering and laugh- 
 ing; and at this moment, when masses are being 
 said fur his soul, they are in the very same church 
 hammering away at the scaffolding of the catafalque, 
 so that the strokes of the hammers and the noise of 
 the workpeople entirely prevent any one hearing 
 the religious services. As soon as the Cardinals 
 assemble in conclave, satires appear against them,
 
 74 MEXUELSSOIIX'S LETTERS. 
 
 where, for instance, they parody the Litanies, and in- 
 stead of praying to be delivered from each particular 
 sin, they name the bad qualities of each well-known 
 cardinal ; or. again, they perform an entire opera, 
 where all the characters are Cardinals, one being 
 the primo amoroso, another the tiraniw annul uto, a 
 third, stage candle-snuffer, etc. This could not be 
 the case where the people took any pleasure in Art. 
 Formerly it was no better, but they had faith then ; 
 and it is this which makes the difference. Nature, 
 however, and the genial December atmosphere, and 
 the outlines of the Alban hills, stretching as far as 
 the sea, all remain unchanged. There they can 
 scribble no names, or compose no inscriptions. 
 These every one can still individually enjoy in all 
 their freshness, and to these I cling. I feel much 
 the want of a friend here, to whom I could freely 
 unbosom myself; who could read my music as I 
 write it, thus making it doubly precious in my 
 eyes ; in whose society I could feel an interest, and 
 enjoy repose; and honestly learn from him, (it would 
 not require a very wise man for this purpose.) But 
 just as trees are not ordained to grow up into the 
 sky, so probably such a man is not likely to be 
 found here ; and the good fortune I have hitherto 
 so richly enjoyed elsewhere, is not to fall to my 
 share at present ; so I must hum over my melodies 
 to myself, and 1 dare say 1 shall do well enough. 
 
 FELIX.
 
 OVERTURE TO "THE HEBRIDES." 75 
 
 Rome, December loth, 1830. 
 Dear Father, 
 
 It is a year this very day since we kept your 
 birthday at Heiisel's, and now let me give you some 
 account of Rome, as I did at that lime of London. 
 I intend to finish my Overture to the " Einsame 
 Tnsel "* as a present to you, and if I write under it 
 the llth December, when I take up the sheets I 
 shall feel as if I were about to place them in your 
 hands. You would probably say that you could not 
 read them, but still I should have offered you the 
 bust it was in my power to give ; and though I 
 desire to do this every day. still there is a peculiar 
 feeling connected with a birthday. "Would I were 
 with you ! I need not offer you my good wishes, 
 for you know them all already, and the deep interest 
 I. and all of UP. take in your happiness and welfare, 
 and that we cannot wish any good for you. that is 
 not reflected doubly on ourselves. To-day is a holi- 
 day. I rejoice in thinking how cheerful you are at 
 home; and when I repeat to you how happily I 
 live here. I feel as if this were also a felicitation. 
 A period like this, when serious thought and enjoy- 
 ment are combined, is indeed most cheering and 
 invigorating. Every time I enter my room I rejoice 
 that 1 am not obliged to pursue my journey on the 
 following day. and that I may quietly postpone 
 many thinirs till the morrow that I am in Hume! 
 
 * Afterwards published under the ruime of "Overture to the 
 Hebrides. 1 '
 
 76 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 HitliCi to much that passed through my brain waa 
 swept away by fresh ideas, each new impression 
 chasing' away the previous one, while here, on the 
 contrary, they are all in turn properly developed. 
 I never remember having worked with so much zeal, 
 and it' I am to complete all that I have projected, I 
 must be very industrious during the winter. I am 
 indeed deprived of the great delight of showing my 
 finished compositions to one who could take pleas- 
 ure in them, and enter into them along with me ; 
 but this impels me to return to my labours, which 
 please me most when I am fairly in the midst of 
 them. And now this must be combined with the 
 various solemnities, and festivals of every kind, 
 which are to supplant my work for a few days ; and 
 as 1 have resolved to see and to enjoy all I possibly 
 can, I do not allow my occupation to prevent this, 
 and shall then return with fresh zeal to my com- 
 position. 
 
 This is indeed a delightful existence! My health 
 is as good as possible, though the hot wind, called 
 here the sirocco, rather attacks my nerves, and I 
 find I must beware of playing the piano much, or 
 at night ; besides it is easy for me to refrain from 
 doing so for a few days, as for some weeks past I 
 have been playing almost every evening. Bunsen, 
 who often warns me against playing if I find it pre- 
 judicial, gave a large party yesterday, where never- 
 theless I was obliged to play; but it was a pleasure 
 to me, for I had the opportunity of making so many 
 agreeable acquaintances. Thorwaldsen, in particu-
 
 THOF.WAI.nSKX. 77 
 
 lar, expressed himself in so gratifying a manner 
 with regard to me, that I felt quite proud, for I 
 honor him as one of the greatest of men, and 
 always have revered him. He looks like a lion, 
 and the very sight of his face is invigorating. You 
 feel at once that he must be a noble artist ; his 
 oyes look so clear, as if with him every object must 
 assume a definite form and image. Moreover he is 
 very gentle, and kind, and mild, because his nature 
 is so superior; and yet he seems to be able to enjoy 
 every trifle. It is a real source of pleasure to see 
 a great man. and to know that the creator of works 
 that will endure for ever stands before you in per- 
 son : a living being with all his attributes, and 
 individuality, and genius, and yet a man like others. 
 
 December lith, morning. 
 
 Now your actual birthday is arrived ! A few 
 lines of music suggested themselves to me on the 
 occasion, and though they may not be worth much, 
 the congratulations I have been in the habit of offer- 
 ing, were of quite as little value. Fanny may add 
 the second part. J have only written what occurred 
 to my mind as I entered the room, the sun shining, 
 on our birthda :
 
 MENDELSSOHN S LETTERS. 
 
 -:*= j-_-rt::>i7-i J .- ^ T^ 
 
 (g^f= 
 
 - 2-9-% 
 
 _ 
 P P +-' * 
 
 ^i 
 'J 
 
 JJT-- 
 
 -v. 
 
 * -- z^= 
 Fed.
 
 rOXTJRATl'LATION*. 
 
 79 
 
 s s s 
 
 : / 
 
 ~ # *
 
 80 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Bunscn has just been here, and hogs me to ?ond 
 you his best regards and congratulations. He is all 
 kindness and courtesy towards me, and as you wish 
 to know, I think I. may say that we suit each other 
 remarkably well. The few words you wrote about 
 
 P recalled him to my memory in all his offen- 
 
 siveness. The Abbatc Santini ought to be an 
 obscure man compared with him, for he never 
 attempts to magnify his own importance by imper- 
 tinence or self-sufficiency. P is one of those 
 
 collectors who make learning and libraries distaste- 
 ful 1o others by their narrow-mindedness, whereas 
 Bantini is a genuine collector, in the best sense of 
 the word, caring lillle whether his collection be of 
 much value in a pecuniary point of view. lie there- 
 fore gives everything away indiscriminately, and is 
 only anxious to procure something new, for his chief 
 object is the diffusion and universal knowledge of 
 ancient music. I have not seen him lately, as every 
 morning now he figures. (X offic/o, in his violet gown 
 nt St. Peter's; but if he has made use of some an- 
 cient text, he will say so without scruple, as he has 
 no wish to be thought the first discoverer. He is, 
 in fact, a man of limited capacity; and this I con- 
 sider great praise in a certain sense, for though he is 
 neither a musical nor any other luminary, and even 
 bears some resemblance to Lessing's inquisitive friar, 
 still he knows how to confine himself within his own 
 spli'-re. Music itself does not interest him much, if 
 lu' can only have it on his shelves: and lie is. and 
 esteems himself to lie, simply a quiet, zealous col-
 
 THK PAINTERS T\ ROME. 81 
 
 loctor. I must admit that he is fatiguing, and not 
 altogether free from irritability; still I love any one 
 who adopts and perseveres in some particular pur- 
 suit, prosecuting it to the best of his ability, and 
 endeavouring to perfect it for the benefit of mankind, 
 and 1 think every one ought to esteem him just the 
 same, whether he chance to be tiresome or agree- 
 able. 
 
 I wish you would read this aloud to P . It 
 
 always makes me furious when men who have no 
 pursuit, presume to criticize those who wish to effect 
 something, even on a small scale; soon this very 
 account 1 took the liberty of rebuking lately a cer- 
 tain musician in society here. He began to speak 
 of Mo/art, and ns Bunsen and his sister love Pales- 
 trina, he tried to Hatter their tastes by asking me, 
 for instance, what I thought of the worthy Mozart, 
 and all his sins. I however replied, that so far as I 
 was concerned. I should feel only too happy to re- 
 nounce all my virtues in exchange for Mozart's sins : 
 but that of course I could not venture to pronounce 
 on the extent of his virtues. The people all laughed, 
 and were highly amused. How strange it is that 
 such persons should feel no awe of so great a name ! 
 
 It is some consolation, however, that it is the same 
 in every sphere of art, as the painters here are quite 
 as bad. They are most formidable to look at, sitting 
 in their Caf6 Greco. I scarcely ever go there, for 
 I dislike both them and their favourite places of re- 
 sort. It is a small dark room, about eight feet 
 square, where on one side you may smoke, but not
 
 82 
 
 on the other; so they sit round on benches, with 
 their 1 'road-leaved lints on their heads, and their 
 huge mastiff's beside them; their cheeks and throats, 
 and the whole of their faces covered with hair, puff, 
 ing forth clouds of smoke (only on one side of the 
 room), and saying rude tilings to each other, while 
 the mastiffs swarm with vermin. A neckcloth or a 
 coat would be quite innovations. Any portion of 
 the face visible through the beard, is hid by specta- 
 cles ; so they drink coffee, and speak of Titian and 
 Pordenone, just as if they were sitting beside them, 
 and also wore beards and wide-awakes ! Moreover, 
 they paint such sickly Madonnas and feeble saints, 
 and such milk-sop heroes, that I feel the strongest 
 inclination to knock them down. These infernal 
 critics do not even shrink from discussing Titian's 
 picture in the Vatican, about which you asked me; 
 they say that it has neither subject nor meaning; yet 
 it never seems to occur to them, that a master who 
 had so long studied a picture with due love and 
 reverence, must have had quite as deep an insight 
 into the subject as they are likely to have, even with 
 their coloured spectacles. And if in the course of 
 my life I accomplish nothing but this. I am at all 
 events determined to say the most harsh and cutting 
 things to those who show no reverence towards their 
 masters, and then I shall at least have performed 
 one good work. 13tit there they stand, and see all 
 the splendour of those creations, so far transcending 
 their own conceptions, and yet dare to criticize them. 
 In this picture there arc three stages, or whatever
 
 A I'AIXTIXO BY TTTIAX. 83 
 
 they are called, the same as in the " Transfiguration." 
 Below, saints and martyrs are represented in suffer- 
 ing and abasement ; on every face is depicted sad- 
 ness, nay almost impatience ; one figure in rich 
 episcopal robes looks upwards, with the most eager 
 and agonized longing, as if weeping, but he cannot 
 see all that is floating above his head, but which we 
 see. standing in front of the picture. Above, Mary 
 and her Child are in a cloud, radiant with joy, and 
 surrounded by angels, who have woven many gar- 
 lands ; the Holy Child holds one of these, and seems 
 as if about to crown the saints beneath, but his 
 Mother withholds his hand for the moment. The 
 contrast between the pain and suffering below, 
 whence St. Sebastian looks forth out of the picture 
 with such gloom and almost apathy, and the lofty 
 unalloyed exultation in the clouds above, where 
 crowns and palms are already awaiting him, is truly 
 admirable. High above the group of Mary, hovers 
 the Holy Spirit, from whom emanates a bright 
 streaming light, thus forming the apex of the whole 
 composition. I have just remembered that Goethe, 
 at the beginning of his first visit to Rome, describes 
 and admires this picture ; but I no longer have the 
 book to enable me to read it over, and to compare 
 my description with his. He speaks of it in con- 
 siderable detail. It was at that time in the Quirinal, 
 and subsequently transferred to the Vatican ; 
 whether it was painted on a given subject, as some 
 allege, or not, is of no moment. Titian has imbued 
 it with his genius aud his poetical feeling, and has
 
 84 MEXDELSSOHX'S LETTERS. 
 
 thus made it his own. I like Schadow much, and am 
 often with him ; on every occasion, and especially in 
 his own department, he is mild and clear-judging, 
 doing justice with due modesty to all that is truly 
 great ; he recently said that Titian had never painted 
 an indifferent or an uninteresting picture, and I believe 
 he is right ; for life and enthusiasm and the soundest 
 vigour are displayed in all his productions, and where 
 these are, it is good to be also. There is one singu- 
 lar and fortunate peculiarity here: though all the 
 objects have been, a thousand times over, described, 
 discussed, copied, and criticized, in praise or blame, 
 by the greatest masters, and the most insignificant 
 scholars, cleverly or stupidly, still they never fail to 
 make a fresh and sublime impression on all. affecting 
 each person according to his own individuality. 
 Here we can take refuge from man in all that sur- 
 rounds us; in Berlin it is often exactly the reverse. 
 
 I have this moment received your letter of the 
 27th, and am pleased to find that I have already 
 answered many of the questions it contains. There 
 is no hurry about the letters I asked for, as I have 
 now made almost more acquaintances than I 
 wish ; besides, late hours, and playing so much, do 
 not suit me in Rome, so I can await the arrival of 
 these letters very patiently : it was not so at the 
 time I urged you to send them. I cannot however 
 understand what you mean by your allusion to 
 coteries which I ought to have outgrown, for I 
 know that I, and all of us, invariably dreaded and 
 detested what is usually so called, that is, a
 
 ST. PETER'S. 85 
 
 frivolous, exclusive circle of society, clinging to 
 empty outward forms. Among persons, however, 
 who daily meet, while their mutual objects of 
 interest remain the same, who have no sympathy 
 with public life (and this is certainly the case 
 in Berlin, with the exception of the theatre), it is 
 not unnatural that they should form for themselves 
 a gay, cheerful, and original mode of treating pass- 
 ing events, and that this should give rise to a 
 peculiar, and perhaps monotonous style of conver 
 sation ; but this by no means constitutes a coterie. 
 I feel convinced that I shall never belong to one. 
 whether I am in Home or Wittenberg. 1 am glad 
 that the last words I was writing when your letter 
 arrived, chanced to be that in Berlin you must take 
 refuge in society from all that surrounds you; thus 
 proving that I had no spirit of coterie, which invar- 
 iably estranges men from each other. 1 should 
 deeply regret your observing anything of the kind 
 in me or in any of us, except indeed for the moment. 
 Forgive me. my dear lather, for defending myself 
 so warmly, but this word is most repugnant to my 
 feelings, and you say in your letters that 1 am always 
 to speak out what I think in a straightforward 
 manner, so pray do not take this amiss. 
 
 I was in >St. Peter's to-day, where the grand 
 solemnities called the absolutions have begun for 
 the Pope, and which last till Tuesday, when the 
 Cardinals assemble in conclave. The building sur- 
 passes all powers of description. It appears to me 
 like some great work of nature, a forest, a mass of 
 8
 
 86 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 rocks, or something similar; for I never can realize 
 (lie idea that it is the work of man. You strive to 
 distinguish the ceiling as little as the canopy of 
 heaven. You lose your way in St. Peter's, you 
 take a walk in it, and ramble till you are quite 
 tired; when divine service is performed and chanted 
 there, you are not aware of it till you come quite 
 close. The angels in the Baptistery are monstrous 
 giants; the doves, colossal birds of prey; you lose 
 all idea of measurement with the eye. or propor- 
 tion; and yet who does not feel his heart expand, 
 when standing under the dome, and gazing up at 
 .t ? At present a monstrous catafalque has been 
 erected in the nave in this shape.* The coffin is 
 placed in the centre under the pillars ; the thing jg 
 totally devoid of taste, and yet it has a wondrous 
 effect. The upper circle is thickly studded with 
 lights, so are all the ornaments; the lower circle is 
 lighted in the same way, and over the coffin hangs 
 a burning lamp, and innumerable lights are blazing 
 under the statues. The whole structure is more 
 than a hundred feet high, and stands exactly oppo 
 site the entrance. The guards of honour, and the 
 Swiss, march about in the quadrangle; in every 
 corner sits a Cardinal in deep mourning, attended 
 by his servants, who hold large: burning torches, 
 and then the singing commences with responses, in 
 the simple and monotonous tone you no doubt re- 
 member. It is the only occasion when there is any 
 
 us enclosed iu the letter.
 
 ST. PETER'S. 87 
 
 singing in ihe middle of the church, and the effect 
 is wonderful. Those who place themselves among 
 the singers (as I do) and watch them, are forcibly 
 impressed by the scene : for they all stand round a 
 colossal book from which they sing, and this book 
 io in turn lit up by a colossal torch that burns 
 before it; while the choir are eagerly pressing for- 
 ward in their vestments, in order to see and to sing 
 properly: and Baini with his monk's face, marking 
 time with his hand, and occasionally joining in the 
 chant with a stentorian voice. To watch all these 
 ilitlerent Italian faces, was most interesting; one 
 enjoy;. lent quickly succeeds another here, and it is 
 the same in their churches, especially in .St. Peter's, 
 where by moving a lew steps the whole scene is 
 changed. I went to the very furthest end. whence 
 there was indeed a wonderful coup d'ceil. Through 
 the spiral columns of the high altar, which is con- 
 fessedly as high as the paluco in Berlin, far beyond 
 the space of the cupola, the whole mass of the 
 catafalque was seen in diminished perspective, with 
 its rows of lights, and numbers of small human 
 beings crowding round it. When the music com- 
 mences, the sounds do not read', the other end fcr 
 a. long time, but echo and tloat in the vast space, 
 so that the most singular and vague harmonies are 
 borne towards you. If you change your position, 
 and place yourself riii'ht in front of the catafalque, 
 beyond the blaze of light and the brilliant pagean- 
 try, you have tin- dusky cupola replete with blue va- 
 pour ; all this i* quite ind..-scrlbabk>. rfuc.h is Rome!
 
 88 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 This has become a long letter, so I must con- 
 clude ; it will reach you on Christmas-day. May 
 you all enjoy it happily ! 1 send each of you pre- 
 sents, which are to be dispatched two days hence, 
 and will arrive in time for the anniversary of your 
 silver wedding-day. Many glad festivals are thus 
 crowded together, and I scarcely know whether to 
 imagine myself with you to-day, and to wish you, 
 dear father, all possible happiness, or to arrive with 
 my letter at Christmas, and not to be allowed by 
 my mother to pass through the room with the 
 Christmas-tree. I am afraid I must be contented 
 with thinking of you. -Farewell all ! May you be 
 
 happy ! 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 I have just received your letter, which brings me 
 the intelligence of Goethe's illness. What I per- 
 sonally feel at this news I cannot express. This 
 whole evening his words, " I must try to keep all 
 right till your return," have sounded continually in 
 my ears, to the exclusion of every other thought : 
 when he is gone, Germany will assume a very 
 different aspect for artists. I have never thought 
 of Germany without feeling heartfelt joy and pride 
 that Goethe lived there ; and the rising generation 
 seem for the most part so weakly and feeble, that it 
 makes my heart sink within me. He is the last; 
 and with him closes a happy prosperous period for 
 as ! This year ends in solemn sadness.
 
 SIXGIXG OF THE FRE.VCH XUXS. 89 
 
 Rome, December 2,oth, 1830. 
 
 In my former letter I told you of the more serious 
 aspect of Koman life ; but as I wish to describe to 
 you how I live, I must now tell you of the gayeties 
 that have prevailed during this week. 
 
 To-day we have the most genial sunshine, a blue 
 sky, and a transparent atmosphere, and on such days 
 I have my own mode of passing my time. I work 
 hard till eleven (/clock, and from that hour till 
 dark, 1 do nothing but breathe the air. For the 
 first time, for some days past, we yesterday had 
 fine weather. After therefore working for a time 
 in the morning at " Solomon," I went to the Monte 
 Pincio, where I rambled about the whole day. The 
 effect of this exhilarating air is quite magical; and 
 when I arose to-day, and again saw bright sunshine, 
 I exulted in the thoughts of the entire idleness I 
 was again about to indulge in. The whole world is 
 on foot, revelling in a December spring. Every 
 moment you meet some acquaintance, with whom 
 you lounge about for a time, then leave him, and 
 once more enjoy your solitary revery. There are 
 swarms of handsome faces to be seen. As the sun 
 declines, the appearance of the whole landscape, 
 and every hue, undergo a change. "When the Ave 
 Maria sounds, it is time to go to the church of 
 Trinita de' Monti, where French nuns sing ; and it 
 is charming to hear them. I declare to heaven that 
 I am become quite tolerant, and listen to bad music 
 with edification ; but what can I do ? the composi- 
 tion is positively ridiculous ; the organ playing eveu
 
 90 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 more absurd. 15ut it is twilight, and the whole of 
 the small brio-lit church is filled with persons kneel- 
 in <r, lit up by the sinking sun each time that the 
 door is opened ; both the singing nuns have the 
 sweetest voices in the world, quite tender and 
 touching, more especially when one of them sings 
 the responses in her melodious voice, which we are 
 accustomed to hear chanted by priests in a loud, 
 harsh, monotonous tone. The impression is very 
 singular; moreover, it is well known that no one is 
 permitted to see the fair singers, so this caused me 
 to form a strange resolution. I have composed 
 something to suit their voices, which I observed 
 very minutely, and I mean to send it to them, 
 there are several modes to which I can have re- 
 course to accomplish this. That they will sing it, 
 I feel quite assured; and it will be pleasant for me 
 to hear my chant performed by persons whom I 
 never saw, especially as they must in turn sing it to 
 the baibaro Tedesco, whom they also never beheld. 
 I am charmed with this idea. The text is in Latin, 
 a Prayer to Mary. Does not this notion please 
 you ?* 
 
 After church I walk again on the hill until it [3 
 quite dark, when Madame Vernet and her daughter, 
 and pretty Madame V (for whose acquaintance 
 I have to thank lloesel), are much admired by us 
 Germans, and we form groups round them, or fol- 
 low, or walk beside them. The background ig 
 
 * This piece appeared afterwards as Opus 39.
 
 VERNET AND THORWALDSEN. 91 
 
 formed by haggard painters with terrific beards ; 
 they smoke tobacco on the Monte Pincu , whistle to 
 their huge dogs, and enjoy the sunset in their own 
 way. 
 
 As I am in a frivolous mood to-day, I must relate 
 '.o you, dear sisters, every particular of a ball I 
 lately attended, and where I danced with a degree 
 of zeal I never did before. I had spoken a few fair 
 words to the maifre de dansc (who stands in the 
 middle here, and regulates everything), consequently 
 he allowed the galop to continue for more than hall 
 an hour, so I was in my element, and pleasantly 
 conscious that I was dancing in the Palazzo Albani. 
 in Rome, and also with the prettiest girl in it, 
 according to the verdict of the competent judges 
 (Thorwaldsen, A'ernet, etc.) The way in which 1 be 
 came acquainted with her is also an anecdote of 
 Home. I was at Torlonia's first ball ) tliou:>li not dan- 
 cing, as 1 knew none of the ladies present, but merely 
 looking at the people. .Suddenly some one tapped 
 me on the shoulder, saying. " So you also are admir- 
 ing the English beauty; T am quite dazzled." It 
 was Thorwaldsen himself standing at the door, lost 
 in admiration ; scarcely had he said this, when we 
 heard a torrent of words behind us. Mais: ou 
 est-elle done, cette petite Anglaise? Ma femnie 
 m'a envoy pour la regarder. Per ]>acco!" It 
 was quite clear that this little thin Pri'nchman, with 
 stiff, grey hair, and the ribbon of the Legion of 
 Honour, must be Horace Vernet. He now dis- 
 cussed the vouthi'ul beauty with Thorwaldsen, in the
 
 92 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 most earnest and scientific manner; and it was 
 quite a pleasure to me to see these two old masters 
 admiring the young girl together, while she was 
 dancing away, quite unconcerned. They were then 
 presented to her parents, but I felt very insignifi- 
 cant, as I could not join in the conversation. A 
 few davs afterwards, however, I was with some 
 acquaintances whom 1 knew through the Attwoods, 
 at Venice, they having invited me for the purpose 
 of presenting me to some of their friends; and 
 these friends turned out to be the very persons I 
 have been speaking of; so your son and brother was 
 highly delighted. 
 
 My pianoforte playing is a source of great grati- 
 fication to me here. You know how Thorwaldsen 
 loves music, and I sometimes play to him in the 
 morning while he is at work, lie has an excellent 
 instrument in his studio, and when I look at the 
 old gentleman and see him kneading his brown 
 clay, and delicately fining off an arm, or a fold of 
 drapery, in short, when he is creating what we must 
 all admire when completed, as an enduring work, 
 then I do indeed rejoice that I have the means of 
 bestowing any enjoyment on him. Nevertheless, I 
 have not fallen into arrear with my own tasks. 
 The "Hebrides " is completed at last, and a strange 
 production it is. The chant for the nuns is in my 
 head ; and I think of composing Luther's choral 
 for Christmas, but on this occasion I must do so 
 quite alone ; and it will be a more serious affair this 
 time, and so will the anniversary of your silver
 
 GUIDO'S "AURORA." 93 
 
 wedding-day, when I intend to have a great many 
 lights, and to sing my " Liederspiel," and to have a 
 peep at my English baton. After the new year, I 
 intend to resume instrumental music, and to write 
 several things for the piano, and probably a sym- 
 phony of some kind, for two have been haunting my 
 brain. 
 
 I have lately frequented a most delightful spot, 
 the tomb of Cecilia Mctella. The Sabine hills had 
 a sprinkling of snow, but it was glorious sunshine ; 
 the Alban hills were like a dream or a vision. 
 There is no such thing as distance in Italy, for all 
 the houses on the hills can be counted, with their 
 roofs and windows. I have thus inhaled this air to 
 satiety; and to-morrow in all probability, more 
 serious occupations will be resumed, for the sky is 
 cloudy, and it is raining hard, but what a spring 
 this will be ! 
 
 December list. 
 
 This is the shortest day, and very gloomy, as might 
 have been anticipated; so to-day nothing can be 
 thought of but fugues, chorals, balls, etc. But I 
 must say a few words about Guide's ' Aurora," 
 which I often visit; it is a picture the very type of 
 haste and impetus; for surely no man ever imagined 
 such hurry and tumult, such sounding and clashing. 
 Painters maintain that it is lighted from two sides, 
 they have my full permission to light theirs from 
 throe if it. will improve them, but the difference 
 lies elsewhere.
 
 94 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 I really cannot compose a tolerable song here, for 
 who is there to sing it to me ? But 1 am writing a 
 grand fugue. " Wir glauben all," and sing it to my- 
 self in such a fashion that my friend the Captain 
 rushes downstairs in alarm, puts in his head, and 
 asks what I want. I answer a counter theme. 
 But how much I do really want ; and yet how much 
 I have got ! Thus life passes onwards. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Rome, December zSth, 1830. 
 
 Rome in wet weather is the most odious, uncom- 
 fortable place imaginable. For some days past we 
 have had incessant storms and cold, and streams of 
 water from the sky ; and I can scarcely comprehend 
 how, only one week ago, I could write you a letter 
 full of rambles and orange-trees and all that is 
 beautiful : in such weather as this everything be- 
 comes ugly. Still, I must write to you about it, 
 otherwise my previous letter would not have the 
 advantage of contrast, and of that there is no lack. 
 If in Germany we can form no conception of the 
 bright winter days here, quite us little can we realize 
 a reallv wet winter day in Home; everything is 
 arranged for fine weather, so the bad is borne like a 
 public calamity, and in the hope of better times 
 There is no shelter anywhere; in my room, which is 
 usually so comfortable, the water pours in through
 
 ROME IX WET WEATHER. 95 
 
 the windows, which will not shut fast ; the wind 
 whistles through the doors, which will not close ; the 
 stone floor chills you in spite of double mattings, 
 and the smoke from the chimney is driven into the 
 room, because the fire will not burn; foreigners 
 shiver and freeze here like tailors. 
 
 All this is, however, actual luxury when compared 
 with the streets ; and when I am obliged to go out, 
 I consider it a positive misfortune. Rome, as every 
 one knows, is built on seven large hills ; but there 
 are a number of smaller ones besides, and all the 
 streets are sloping, so the water pours down them, 
 and rushes towards you ; nowhere is there a raised 
 footpath, or a trot loir; at the stair of the Piazza di 
 Spagna, there is a flood like the great water-works 
 in Willielms-Hohe ; the Tiber has overflowed its 
 banks, and inundated the adjacent streets: this, 
 then, is the water from below. From above come 
 violent showers of rain, but that is the least part. 
 The houses have no water-spouts, and the long roofs 
 slant precipitously, but. being of different lengths, 
 this causes an incessant violent inundation on both 
 sides of the street, so that go where you will, close 
 to the houses, or in the middle of the streets, beside 
 a barber's shop or a palace, you are sure to be del- 
 uged, and. quite unawares, you find yourself standing 
 under a tremendous shower-bath, the water pelting 
 on your umbrella, while a stream is runnini;' before 
 you that you cannot jump over, so you are obliged 
 to return the way you came : this is the water over- 
 head. Then the carriages drive as rapidly u.s possi-
 
 96 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS 
 
 ble, and close to the houses, so that you must retreat 
 into the doorways till they are past ; they not only 
 splash men and houses, but each other, so that when 
 two meet, one must drive into the gutter, which, 
 being a rapid current, the consequences are lamenta- 
 ble. Lately I saw an Abbate hurrying along, whose 
 umbrella chancing to knock off the broad-brimmed 
 hat of a peasant, it fell with the crown exposed to 
 one of these deluges, and when the man went to pick 
 it up, it was quite filled with water. "Scusi," said 
 the Abbate. " Padrone," replied the peasant. The 
 hackney coaches moreover only ply till five o'clock, 
 so if you go to a party at night, it costs you a scudo. 
 Fiat j until ia el pcrcat mundus Home in rainy 
 weather is vastly disagreeable. 
 
 I see by a letter of Devrient's, that one I wrote 
 to him from Yen ice, and which I took to the post 
 myself on the 17th of October, had not reached 
 him on the 19th of November. It would appear 
 also, that another which I sent the same day to 
 Munich had not arrived ; both these letters con- 
 tained music, and this accounts fo" the loss. At 
 that very time in Venice they carried off all my 
 manuscripts to the Custom-house, after visiting my 
 effects at night, shortly before the departure of the 
 post, and I only received them again here, after 
 much worry and writing backwards and forwards. 
 Kvcry one assured me that the cause of this was a 
 secret correspondence being suspected in cipher in 
 the manuscript music. 1 could scarcely credit such 
 intolerable stupidity ; but as my two letters from
 
 97 
 
 Venice containing music have not arrived, and 
 these only, the thing is clear enough. I intend 
 to complain of this to the Austrian ambassador 
 here, but it will do no good, and the letters are 
 lost, which I much regret. Farewell ! 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Rome, January lyth, 1831. 
 
 For a week past we have had the most lovely 
 spring weather. Young girls are carrying about 
 nosegays of violets and anemones, which they 
 gather early in the morning at the Villa Pamfili. 
 The streets and squares swarm with gaily attired 
 pedestrians ; the Avc Maria has already been 
 advanced twenty minutes, but what is become of 
 the winter ? Some little time ago it indeed re- 
 minded me of my work, to which I now mean to 
 apply steadily, for 1 own that during the gay social 
 life of the previous weeks, I had rather neglected 
 it. I have nearly completed the arrangement of 
 ' Solomon," and also my Christmas anthem, which 
 consists of five numbers ; the two symphonies also 
 begin to assume a more definite form, and I particu- 
 larly wish to finish them here. Probably I shall be 
 able to accomplish this during Lent, when parties 
 cease (especially balls) and spring begins, and then 
 I shall have both time and inclination to compose, 
 in which case 1 hope to have a good store of new
 
 98 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 works. Any performance of them here is quite out 
 of the question. The orchestras are worse than 
 any one could believe ; both musicians, and a right 
 feeling for music, arc wanting. The two or three 
 violin performers play just as they choose, and join 
 in when they please; the wind instruments are 
 tuned either too high or too low; and they execute 
 flourishes like those we are accustomed to hear in 
 farm-yards, but hardly so good ; in short the whole 
 forms a Dutch concert, and this applies even to com 
 positions with which they are familiar. 
 
 The question is, whether all this could be radi- 
 cally reformed by introducing other people into the 
 orchestra, by teaching the musicians time, and by 
 instructing them in first principles. I think in that 
 case the people would no doubt take pleasure in it ; 
 so long, however, as this is not done, no improve- 
 ment can be hoped for. and every one seems so in- 
 different on the subject, that there is not the 
 slightest prospect of such a thing. 1 heard a solo 
 on the flute, where the flute was more than a quartei 
 of a tone too high ; it set my teeth on edii'e. but no 
 one remarked it, and when at the end a shake 
 came, they applauded mechanically. If it were 
 even a shade better with regard to singing ! Tho 
 great singers have left the count rv. Lablache, 
 David, Lalande. I'isaroni. etc., sing in Paris, and 
 the minor ones who remain, copy their inspired 
 moments, which they caricature in the \nost insup 
 portable manner. 
 
 We in Germany may perhaps wish to accomplish
 
 ROMAN MUSICIANS. 99 
 
 something 1 false or impossible, but it is, and always 
 will be, quite dissimilar; and just as a cicisbeo 
 will for ever be odious and repulsive to my feelings, 
 so is it also with Italian music. I may be too 
 obtuse to comprehend either ; but T shall never feel 
 otherwise ; and recently, at the Philharmonic, after 
 the music of Pacini and Bellini, when the Cavaliere 
 Ricci begged me to accompany him in "Non pi ft 
 andrai," the very first notes were so utterly different 
 and so infinitely remote from all the previous music, 
 that the matter was clear to me then, and never will 
 it be equalized, so long as there is such a blue sky, 
 and such a charming winter as the present. In the 
 same way the Swiss can paint no beautiful scenery, 
 precisely because they have it the whole day before 
 their eves. " Les Allemands traitent la musique 
 comme une affaire d'6tat," says Spontini, and I 
 accept the axiom. 1 lately heard some musicians 
 here talking of their composers, and I listened in 
 silence. One quoted , but the others interrup- 
 ted him, saying he could not be considered an 
 Italian, for the German school still clung to him, 
 and he had never been able to get rid of it ; conse- 
 quently he had lever been at home in Italy: we 
 Germans say precisely the reverse of him, and it 
 nr.ist be not a little trying to find yourself so cut re 
 ih >!,c. and without any fatherland. Bo far as I am 
 concerned I stick to my own colours, which are 
 quite honourable enough for me. 
 
 Last night a theatre that Torlonia has undertaken 
 and organized, was opened with a new opera of Pa-
 
 dill S. 
 
 \villi handsome, well-dressed people; young Torlouia 
 appeared in ;i stage-box \villi his mother, the old 
 Ihichess. and they were immensely applauded. The 
 audience called out Bravo, Torlonia, gnizic,grazie I 
 Opposite to him was Jerome, with his suite, and 
 covered with orders : in the next box Countess 
 Hamoiiow, etc. Over the orchestra is a picture of 
 Time pointing to the dial of the clock, which re- 
 volves slowly, and is enough to make any one melan- 
 choly. Pacini then appeared at the piano, and was 
 kindly welcomed, lie had prepared no overture, so 
 the opera began with a chorus, accompanied by 
 strokes on an anvil tuned in the proper key. The 
 Corsair fume forward, sang his aria, and was ap- 
 plauded, on which the Corsair above, and the 
 Maestro below, bowed (this pirate is a contralto, 
 and sung by Mademoiselle Mariani) ; a variety of 
 airs followed, and the piece became very tiresome. 
 This seemed to be also the opinion of the public, for 
 when Pacini's grand finale began, the whole pit 
 stood up, talking to each other as loud as they 
 ^ould. laughing and turning their backs on the stage. 
 Madame Hamoilow fainted in her box. and was car- 
 ried out. Pacini glided away from the piano, and 
 at the end of the act. the curtain fell in the midst 
 of a great tumult. Then came the grand ballet of 
 llnrltc, llli'Hi', followed by the last act of the opera, 
 As the audience were now in a mood for if. they 
 hissed the whole ballet from the very beginning, and 
 accompanied the second act also with hooting and
 
 NEW OPERA BY PACINI. 101 
 
 laughter. At the close Torlonia was called for, but 
 he would not appear. 
 
 This is the matter-of-fact narrative of a first perfor- 
 mance at the opening of a theatre in Rome. I had 
 anticipated much amusement, so I came away con- 
 siderably out of humour ; still, if the music had made 
 furore, I should have been very indignant, for it is 
 so wretched that it really is beneath all criticism. 
 But that they should turn their backs on their fa- 
 vourite Pacini, whom they wished to crown in the 
 Capitol, parody his melodies, and sing them in a 
 ludicrous style, this does, I confess, provoke me not 
 a little, and is likewise a proof of how low such a 
 musician stands in the public opinion. Another 
 time they will carry him home on their shoulders; 
 but this is no compensation. They would not act 
 thus in France with regard to Boieldieu ; indepen- 
 dent of all love of art, a sense of propriety would 
 prevent their doing so: but enough of this subject, 
 for it is too vexatious. 
 
 Why should Italy still insist on being the land of 
 Art, while it is in reality the Land of Nature, thus 
 delighting every heart ! I have already described 
 to you my walks to the Monte Pincio. I continue 
 them daily. I went lately with the Vollards to 
 Ponte Nomentano, a solitary dilapidated bridge in 
 the spacious green Campagna. Many ruins from 
 the days of ancient Home, and many watch-towers 
 from the Middle Ages, are scattered over this long 
 succession of meadows ; chains of hills rise towards 
 
 the horizon, now partially covered with .-now, and 
 0-
 
 102 MEXDELSSOnx's LETTERS. 
 
 fantastically varied in form and colour by the 
 shadows of the clouds. And there is also the en- 
 chanting, vapoury vision of the Alban hills, which 
 change their hues like a chameleon, as you ga/e at 
 them, where yon can see for miles little white 
 chapels glittering on the dark ground of the hills, 
 as far as the Passionist Convent on the summit, 
 and whence you can trace the road winding through 
 thickets, and the hills sloping downwards to the 
 Lake of Albano. while a hermitage peeps through 
 the trees. The distance is equal to that from Ber- 
 lin to Potsdam, say I as a good Berliner ; but that 
 it is a lovely vision. I suy in earnest. Xo lack of 
 music there; it echoes and vibrates there on every 
 side; not in the vapid, tasteless theatres. So we 
 rambled about, chasing each other in the Campagna, 
 and jumping over the fences, and when the sun went 
 down we drove home, feeling so weary, and yet so self- 
 satisfied and pleased, as if we had done great things; 
 and so we have, if we riijhlh/ apprcf'iaie.il it all. 
 
 I have now applied myself a '.rain to drawing, and 
 have latterly put in some tints, as I should be glad 
 to bo able to recall some of these bright hues, and 
 practice quickens the perceptions. I must now 
 tell you. dear mother, of a great, very great pleasure 
 I recently enjoyed, because you will rejoice with 
 me. Two /lays ago I was for the first time in a 
 small circle with Horace Vernot, and played there, 
 lie had previously told me that his most favourite 
 and esteemed music was "Don Juan/' especially 
 the Duet and the Commeudatore at the end ; and as
 
 HORACE YERXET. 103 
 
 I highly approved of such sentiments on his part, 
 the result was, that while playing 'a prelude to 
 Wener's Cuncert-S u<-k. I imperceptibly glided fur- 
 ther into extemporizing thought I would please 
 him by taking these themes, and so 1 worked them 
 up fancifully for some time. This caused him a 
 degree of delight far beyond what I ever knew my 
 music produce in any one, and we became at once 
 more intimate. Afterwards lie suddenly came up 
 to me. and whispered that we must make an ex- 
 change, for that he also was an improvisatore ; and 
 when I was naturally curious to know what he 
 meant, he said it was his secret. He is however 
 like a little child, and could not conceal it for more 
 than a quarter of an hour, when he came in again, 
 and takintr me into the next room, he asked me if I 
 had any tim? to spare, as he had stretched and 
 prepared a canvas, and proposed painting my por- 
 trait on it. which 1 was to keep in memory of this 
 day, or roll it up and send it to you. or take it with 
 me, just as I chose. lie said he should have no 
 easy task with his improvisation, but at all events 
 he would attempt it. I was only too glad to give 
 my consent, and cannot tell you how much I was 
 enchanted with the delight and enthusiasm he evi- 
 dently felt in my playing. 
 
 It was in every respect a happy evening; as I 
 ascended the hill with him, all was so still and 
 peaceful, and only one window lit up in the large 
 dark villa.* Fragments of music floated on the 
 
 * Vernet lived in the V lla. Meuici.
 
 104 ME.VDELSSOII.V'S LETTERS. 
 
 air, and its echoes in the dark night, mingled with 
 the murmuring of fountains, were swifter than I can 
 describe. Two young- students were drilling in the 
 anteroom, while the third acted the part of lieuten- 
 ant, and commanded in good form. In another 
 room my friend Montfort, who gained the prize for 
 music in the Conservatorium, was seated at a piano, 
 and others were standing round, singing a chorus; 
 but it went very badly. They urged another young 
 man to join them, and when he said that he did not 
 know how to sing, his friend rejoined, " Qu'est-ce 
 quo c,a fait? c'est toujours line voix de plus!" I 
 helped them as I best could, and we were well 
 amused. Afterwards we danced, and I wish you 
 could have seen Louisa Vcrnet dancing the Salta- 
 rella with her father. When at length she was 
 forced to stop for a few moments, and snatched up 
 a tambourine, playing with the utmost spirit, 
 and relieving us, who could really scarcely any 
 longer move our hands, I wished 1 had been a 
 painter, for what a superb picture she would have 
 made ! Her mother is the kindest creature in the 
 world, and the grandfather, Charles Yernet (who 
 paints such splendid horses), danced a quadrille the 
 same evening with so much ease, making so many 
 entrechats, and varying his steps so gracefully, that 
 it is a sad pity he should actually be seventy-two 
 years of age. Every day he rides, and tires out two 
 horses, paints and draws a little, and spends the 
 evening in society. 
 
 In my next letter I must tell you of my acquaiu
 
 BIRTH-DAY. 105 
 
 tance with Robert, who has just finished an admira- 
 ble picture, "The Harvest," ind also describe my 
 lecent visits with Bunsento the studios of Cornelius, 
 Koch, Overbeck, etc. My time is fully occupied, 
 for there is plenty to do and to see ; unluckily 1 can- 
 not make time elastic, however much I may strive to 
 extend it. I have as yet said nothing of Raphael's 
 portrait as a child, and Titian's ' Nymphs Bathing," 
 who in a piquant enough fashion are designated 
 "Sacred and Profane Love," one being in full gala 
 costume, while the other is devoid of all drapery,* 
 or of my exquisite "Madonna di Foligno," or of 
 Francesco Francia, the most guileless and devout 
 painter in the world ; or of poor Guido Ileni, whom 
 the bearded painters of the present day treat with 
 such contempt, and yet he painted a certain Aurora, 
 and many other splendid objects besides ; but what 
 avails description? It is well for me that I can 
 revel in the sight of them. When we meet, I may 
 perhaps be able to give you a better idea of them. 
 Your 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Rome, February 1st, 1831. 
 
 I intended not to write to you till my birthday, but 
 possibly two days hence I may not be in a writing 
 mood, and must drive all fancies away by hard work. 
 It does not seem probable that the Papal mill- 
 
 * This picture is in the Borghese Gallery.
 
 106 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 tary band will surprise me in the morning,* and as 1 
 have told all my acquaintances that I was born on 
 the 25th, I think the day will glide quietly by ; I 
 prefer this to a trivial half-and-half celebration. I 
 will place your portrait before me in the morning, 
 and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of 
 you. I shall then play over my military overture, 
 and select my favourite dish for dinner, from the 
 carte at the L>>pre. It is not unprofitable to be 
 obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birth- 
 days and other days. I feel isolated enough, and am 
 rather partial to the other extreme. At night the 
 Torlonias are so obliging as to give a ball to eight 
 hundred persons ; on Wednesday, the day before, 
 and on Friday, the day after my birthday, I am in- 
 vited to the house of some English friends. During 
 the previous week, I have been busily engaged in 
 sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known objects ; 
 - thus I was in the Vatican, the Farnesina, Corsini, 
 the Villa Lante, Borghese, etc. Two days ago I 
 saw the frescoes for the first time in Bartholdy's 
 house;f inasmuch as the English ladies who reside 
 there, and who have transformed the painted saloon 
 into a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, 
 would never hitherto permit me to enter it. So this 
 was my first visit to my uncle's house, where at last 
 I saw his pictures, and the view of the city. It was
 
 \VIXTKI; ix ROME. 107 
 
 a noble, regal idea to have these frescoes ; and the 
 execution ol' such a sublime thought, in spite of every 
 kind of impediment and annoyance, simply in order 
 that the design should be carried out, seems to me 
 
 Uut to turn to an entirely different subject. In 
 many circles here, it is the fashion to consider piety 
 and dulness synonymous, and yet they are very dif- 
 ferent ; our (Jerman clergyman here is not behind- 
 hand in this respect. There are men in Rome with 
 an aim unit of fanaticism credible in the sixteenth 
 century, but quite monstrous in the present day; 
 they all wish to make converts, abusing each other 
 in a Christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief 
 of his neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. 
 As if to have simplicity, and to be simple, were the 
 same thing! Unfortunately I must here retract my 
 favourite axiom, that yotxlwHl can effect all things, 
 a } i/u'i/ must accompany it ; but I am soaring too 
 high, and my father will lecture me. I wish this 
 letter were better, but we have snow on the ground : 
 the roofs in the Piazza di Spagna arc quite white, 
 and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing 
 can be more odious to us Southerners, and we are 
 freezing. The Monte Pincio is a mass of ice. Your 
 Northern Lights have their revenge on us. AVho 
 can write or think with any degree of warmth? I 
 was so pleased at the idea of being a whole winter 
 without snow, but now I must give up that notion. 
 The Italians say that spring breezes will come in a 
 few days ; then gay life, and gay letters, will be re-
 
 108 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS, 
 
 sumed. Farewell ! may you enjoy every good, and 
 think of me. FKLIX. 
 
 Rome, February 8th, 1831. 
 
 The Pope is elected : the Pope is crowned. He 
 performed mass in St. Peter's on Sunday, and con- 
 ferred his benediction ; in the evening the dome 
 was illuminated, succeeded by the Girandola ; the 
 Carnival began on Saturday, and pursues its head- 
 long course in the most motley forms. The city 
 has been illuminated each evening. Last night 
 tl'>re was a ball at the French Embassy ; to-day the, 
 Spanish Ambassador gives a grand entertainment. 
 Next door to me they sell coufdti, and how they do 
 shout ! And now 1 might as well stop, for why 
 attempt to describe what is, in fact, indescribable ? 
 You ought to make ITensel tell you of these splen- 
 did fetes, which in pomp, brilliancy, and animation, 
 surpass all the imagination can conceive, for my 
 sober pen is not equal to the task. What a differ- 
 ent aspect everything has assumed during the last 
 eight days, for now the mildest and most genial sun 
 is shining, and we remain in the balcony enjoying 
 the air till after sunset. Oh, that I could enclose 
 for you, in this letter, only one quarter of an hour of 
 all this pleasure, or tell y<m how life actually flies in 
 Rome, every minute bringing its own memorable de- 
 lights ! Jt is not difficult to give/2/es here; if the 
 simple architectural outlines are lighted up, the
 
 ELECTION OF THE POPE. 109 
 
 dome of St. Peter's blazes forth in the dark purple 
 atmosphere, calmly shining-. Jf there are fireworks, 
 they brighten the gloomy solid walls of the Castle 
 of St. Angelo. and fall into the Tiber; when they 
 commence their fantastic ftles in February, the most 
 lustrous sun shines down on them and beautifies 
 them. It is a wondrous land. 
 
 But I must not forget to tell you that I spent my 
 birthday very differently from what I expected. I 
 must however be brief, for an hour hence I go to 
 join the Carnival in the Corso. My birthday had 
 three celebrations the eve, the birthday itself, and 
 the day after. On the 2nd of February, Santini 
 was sitting in my room in the morning, and in 
 answer to my impatient questions about the Con- 
 clave, he replied with a diplomatic air. that there 
 was little chance of a Pope being elected before 
 Easter, llerr Brisbane also called, and told me 
 that after leaving Berlin, he had been in Constanti- 
 nople, and Smyrna, etc., and inquired after all his 
 acquaintances in Berlin, when suddenly the report 
 of a cannon was heard, and then another, and the 
 people rushed across the Piazza di Spagna. shouting 
 with all their might. We three started off, Heaven 
 knows how, and ran breathlessly to the Quirinal, 
 where the man was just retreating, who had shouted 
 through a broken window "Annuncio vobis gau- 
 dium magnum; habemus Papam K. E. dominum 
 L'apellari, qui nomeu assumsit Gregorius XVI." 
 All the Cardinals now crowded into the balcony, to 
 breathe fresh air, and laughed, and talked together 
 10
 
 110 MENDELSSOHN'S I.KTTERS. 
 
 It was the first time they had been in the open air 
 for fifty days, and yet they looked so gay, their red 
 caps shining brightly in the sun; the whole Piazza 
 was filled with people, who clambered on the obelisk, 
 and on the horses of Phidias, and the statues pro- 
 jected far above in the air. Carriage after carriage 
 drove up, amid jostling and shouting. Then the 
 new Pope appeared, and before him was borne the 
 golden cross, and ho blessed the crowd for the first 
 time, while the people at the same moment prayed, 
 and cried ' Hurrah ! " All the bells in Koine were 
 ringing, and there was firing of cannons, and flour- 
 ishes of trumpets, and military music. This was 
 the eve of my birthday. 
 
 Next morning 1 followed the crowd down the long 
 street to the Piazza of St. Peter's, which looked 
 finer than I had ever seen it, lit up brightly by the 
 sun, and swarming with carriages ; the Cardinals iu 
 their red coaches, driving in state to the sacristy, 
 with servants in embroidered liveries, and people 
 innumerable, of every nation, rank, and condition ; 
 and high above them the dome and the church 
 seeming to float in blue vapour, for there was con- 
 siderable mist in the morning air. And I thought 
 that Capellari would probably appropriate all this 
 to himself when lie saw it; but I knew better. It 
 was all to celebrate my birthday; and the election of 
 the Pope, and the homage, a mere spectacle in honour 
 of me; but it was well and naturally performed; and 
 so long as 1 live, I shall never forget it. 
 
 The Church of St. Peter's was crowded to the
 
 BEGINNING OF THE CARNIVAL. Ill 
 
 door. The Pope was borne in on his throne, and 
 fans of peacocks' feathers carried before him, and 
 then set down on the High Altar, when the Papal 
 singers intoned, " Tn es sacerdos mag ttus." I only 
 hoard two or three chords, but it required no more; 
 the sound was enough. Then one Cardinal suc- 
 ceeded another, kissing the Pope's foot and his 
 hands, when he in turn embraced them. After sui 
 veying all this for a time, standing closely pressed 
 by a crowd, and unable to move, to look suddenly 
 alolt to the dome, as far as the lantern, inspires a 
 singular sensation, i was with Diodati, among a 
 throng of Capuchins ; these saintly men are far from 
 being devotional on an occasion of this kind, and by 
 no means cleanly. But I must hasten on ; the Car- 
 nival is beginning, and I must not lose any portion 
 of it. 
 
 At night, (in honour of my birthday.) barrels of 
 pitch were burned in all the streets, and the Propa- 
 ganda illuminated. The people thought this was 
 owing to its being the former residence of the Pope, 
 but /knew it was because 1 lived exactly opposite, 
 and I had only to lean out of my window to enjoy it 
 all. Then came Torlonia's ball, and in every corner 
 were seen glimpses of red caps above, and red stock- 
 ings below. The following day they worked very 
 hard at scaffoldings, platforms, and stages for the 
 Carnival; edicts were posted up about horse-racing, 
 and specimens of masks were displayed at the 
 windows, and (in celebration of the day following my 
 birthday) the illumination of the dome, and the Gi-
 
 112 MENDELSSOHN'S LKTTKRS. 
 
 randola were fixed for Sunday. On Saturday all the 
 world went to the Capitol, to witness the form of the 
 Jews' supplications to be suffered to remain in the 
 Sacred City for another year; a request which is 
 refused at the foot of the hill, but after repeated 
 entreaties, granted on the summit, and the Ghetto is 
 assigned to them. It was a tiresome affair ; we 
 waited two hours, and after all, understood the 
 oration of the Jews as little as the answer of the 
 Christians. I came down again in very bad humour, 
 and thought that the Carnival had commenced 
 rather unpropitiously. So I arrived in the Corso 
 and was driving along, thinking no evil, when I was 
 suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I 
 looked up ; they had been flung by some young ladies 
 whom 1 had seen occasionally at balls, but scarcely 
 knew, and when in my embarrassment 1 took off my 
 hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. 
 Their carriage drove on, and in the next was Miss 
 
 T , a delicate young Englishwoman. I tried to 
 
 bow to her, but she pelted me too, so 1 became quite 
 desperate, and clutching the confetti, 1 flung them 
 back bravely; there were swarms of my acquaint- 
 ances, and my blue coat was soon as white as that of 
 
 a miller. The B s were standing on a balcony, 
 
 flinging cmifcfli like hail at my head; and thus pelt- 
 ing and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers, and 
 the most extravagant masks, the day ended with 
 races. 
 
 The following day there was no carnival, but as a 
 compensation, the Pope conferred his benediction
 
 CARNIVAL. 113 
 
 from the Loggia, in the Piazza of St. Peter's ; he 
 was consecrated as Bishop in the Church, and at 
 night the dome was lighted up. The sudden, nay 
 instantaneous change the illumination of the building 
 effects, you must ask Hensel to paint or to describe, 
 whichever he prefers. Nothing can be more startling 
 than the sudden and surprising vision, of so many 
 hundred human beings, previously invisible, now re- 
 vealed as it were in the air, working and moving 
 about and the glorious Giraudola,- but who can 
 conceive it! Now the gaieties recommence. Fare- 
 well ! in my next letter I mean to continue my de- 
 scription. Yesterday, at the Carnival, flowers and 
 bonbons were indiscriminately thrown, and a mask 
 gave me a bouquet, which I have dried, and mean to 
 bring home for you. All idea of occupation is out 
 of the question at present ; I have only composed 
 one little song ; but when Lent comes, I intend to be 
 more industrious. Who can at such a moment think 
 either of writing or music ? I must go out, so fare, 
 well, dear ones. FELIX. 
 
 Rome, February 22nd, 1831. 
 
 A thousand thanks for your letter of the 8th, 
 which I received yesterday, on my return from 
 Tivoli. I cannot tell you, dear Fanny, how much 1 
 am delighted with your plan about the Sunday music. 
 This idea of yours is most brilliant, and I do entreat 
 of you, for Heaven's sake, not to let it die away 
 again ; on the contrary, pray give your travelling 
 10*
 
 114 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 brother a commission to write something new for 
 you. He will gladly do so, for he is quite charmed 
 with you, and with your project. You must let me 
 know what voices you have, and also take counsel 
 witli your subjects as to what they like best (for 
 the people, Fanny, have rights). I think it 
 would be a good plan to place before them some- 
 thing easy, interesting and pleasing, for instance, 
 the Litany of Sebastian Bach. But to speak seri- 
 ously, I recommend the " Shepherd of Israel," or 
 the ' Dixit Dominus," of Hsendel. 
 
 Do you mean to play something during the inter- 
 vals to those people? I think this would not be 
 unprofitable to either party, for they must have time 
 to take breath, and you must study the piano, and 
 thus it would become a vocal and instrumental con- 
 cert. I wish so much that I could be one of the 
 audience, and compliment you afterwards. Be dis- 
 creet and indulgent, and avoid fatiguing either 
 yourself or the voices of your singers. Do not be 
 irritable when things go badly; say very little on the 
 subject to any one. Lastly, above all, endeavour tc 
 prevent the choir feeling any tedium, for this is the 
 principal point. One of my pieces certainly owes 
 its birth to this Sunday music. When you wrote to 
 me about it lately, I reflected whether there was any- 
 thing I could send vou, thus reviving an old favourite 
 Bcheme of mine, which has however now assumed 
 such vast proportions, that 1 cannot let you have 
 
 any part of it by E , but you shall have it at 
 
 Bome future time.
 
 " SVALPURGIS NIGHT." 115 
 
 Listen and wonder ! Since I left Vienna I have 
 partly composed Goethe's first " Walpurgis Night," 
 but have not yet had courage to write it down. The 
 composition has now assumed a form, and become 
 a grand Cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn 
 out well. At the opening there are songs of spring, 
 etc., and plenty of others of the same kind. After- 
 wards, when the watchmen with their " Galie'm, und 
 Zacken, und Eulen," make a great noise, the fairy 
 frolics begin, and you know that I have a particular 
 foible for them ; the sacrificial Druids then appear, 
 with their trombones in C major, when the watch- 
 men come in again in alarm, and here I mean to 
 introduce a light mysterious tripping chorus ; and 
 lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. 
 Do you not think that this might develop into a 
 new style of Cantata ? I have an instrumental in- 
 troduction, as a matter of cour.se. and the effect of 
 the whole is very spirited. 1 hope it will soon be 
 finished. I have once mure begun to compose with 
 fresh vigour, and the Italian symphony makes rapid 
 progress; it will be the most sportive piece I have 
 yet composed, especially the last movement. I 
 have not yet decided on the adayin, and think I 
 shall reserve it for Naples. "Verleih tins Frieden" 
 is completed, and "Vrir glanben all" will also be 
 ready in a fuw days. The -Scotch symphony alone 
 is not yet quite to my liking-; if any brilliant idea- 
 occurs to me, I will seize it at once, quickly write it 
 down, and finish it at last. FELIX.
 
 110 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Rome, March 1st, 1831. 
 
 AVhlle 1 write this date, 1 shrink from the thought 
 of how time flics. Before this month is at an end 
 the Holy Week begins, and when it is over, my stay 
 in Hume will be drawing to a close. I now try to 
 reflect whether I have made the best use of my time, 
 and on every side 1 perceive a deficiency. If J 
 could only compass one of my two symphonies ! I 
 must and will reserve the Italian one till 1 have seen 
 Naples, which must play a part in it, lint the other 
 also seems to elude my grasp ; the more 1 try to 
 seize it, and the nearer the end of this delightful 
 quiet Roman period approaches, the more- am 1 per- 
 plexed, and the less do I seem to succeed. 1 feel as 
 if it will be long indeed before 1 can write again as 
 freely as here, and so 1 am eager to finish what I 
 have to do, but I make no progress. The ' Wa(- 
 purgis Night" alone gets on quickly, and I hope it 
 will soon be accomplished. Besides, I cannot resist 
 every day sketching, that I may carry away with me 
 reminiscences of my favourite haunts. There is still 
 much that I wisli to see, so I perfectly well know 
 that this month will suddenly come to an end, and 
 much remain undone ; and indeed it is quite too 
 beautiful here. 
 
 Home is considerably changed, and neither so gay 
 nor so cheerful as formerly.* Almost all my ac- 
 quaintances are gone ; the promenades and streets 
 
 * Romo disturbances had in tho meantime brjkeu out in the 
 Ecclesiastical States, at Bologna.
 
 GERMAN PAINTERS AT ROME. 117 
 
 are deserted, the galleries closed, and it is impossi- 
 ble to gain admittance into them. All news from 
 without almost entirely fails us. (for we saw the 
 details about Bologna first in the ' Allgemeine 
 Zeitung' yesterday;) people seldom or never congre- 
 gate together; in fact, everything has subsided 
 into entire rest; but then the weather is lovely, and 
 no one can deprive us of this warm, balmy atmos- 
 phere. Those who are most to be pitied in the 
 present state of affairs are the Ye met ladies, who 
 are unpleasantly situated here. The hatred of the 
 entire Roman populace is. strangely enough, directed 
 against the French Pensionaries, believing that 
 their influence alone could easily effect a revolution. 
 Threatening anonymous letters have been repeatedly 
 sent to Yernet ; indeed he one day found an armed 
 Transteverin stationed in front of the windows of 
 his studio, who however took to flight when Yernet 
 fetched his gun: and as the ladies are now entirely 
 alone, and isolated in the villa, their family are 
 naturally very uneasy. Still all continues quiet and 
 serene within the city, and I am quite convinced it 
 will remain so. 
 
 The German painters are really more contemp- 
 tible than I can tell you. Xot only have they cut 
 off their whiskers and moustaches, and their long 
 hair and beards, openly declaring that as soon as all 
 danger is at an end they will let them grow again, 
 but these tall stalwart fellows go home as soon as it 
 is dark, lock themselves in, and discuss their fears 
 together. They call Horace Yernet a braggart,
 
 118 MEXDKLSSOIIX'S LETTERS. 
 
 nnd yet he is very different from those miserable 
 creatures, whose conduct makes mo cordially despise 
 thorn. Latterly I occasionally visited some of the 
 modern studios. Thonvaldsen has just finished a 
 statue in clay of Lord Byron. lie is seated amidst 
 ancient ruins, his feet resting on the capital of a 
 column, while he is gazing into the distance, 
 evidently about to write something on the tablets 
 he holds in his hand. He is represented not in 
 Roman costume, but in a simple modern dress, and 
 I think it looks well, and does not destroy the 
 general effect. The statue has the natural air and 
 easy pose so remarkable in all this sculptor's works, 
 and yet the poet looks sufficiently gloomy and 
 elegiac, though not affected. I must some day write 
 you a whole letter about the 'Triumph of Alex- 
 ander,' for never did any piece of sculpture make 
 such an impression on me ; I go there every week, 
 and stand gazing at that alone, and enter Babylon 
 along with the Conqueror. 1 lately called on 
 
 A ; he has brought with him some admirable 
 
 pencil sketches from Naples and Sicily, so I should 
 be glad to take some hints from him, but I fear that 
 he is a considerable exaggerator, and does not 
 sketch faithfully. His landscape of the Colosseum, 
 at II. B., is a beautiful romance; for I cannot say 
 that in the original I ever perceived woods of large 
 cypresses and orange-trees, or fountains or thickets 
 in the centre, extending to the ruins. Moreover, 
 his moustaches have also disappeared. 
 
 I have something amusing to tell you in conclu-
 
 DISCORDANT CONCERT. 119 
 
 sion. I wish. my Fanny, that as a contrast to 
 your Sunday harmony you had heard the music we 
 perpetrated last Sunday evening. We wished to 
 sing the Psalms of Marcello, being Lent, and the 
 best dilettanti consequently assembled. A Papal 
 singer was in the middle, a rnaeKt.ro at the piano, 
 and we sang. AVhen a soprano solo came, all the 
 ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, 
 KT it was executed as a luff/.. The tenor by my side 
 never alighted on the right note, and rambled about 
 in the most insecure regions. When I chimed in as 
 second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when I 
 tried to assist him. lie seemed to think that was my 
 original part, and kept steadily to his own. The 
 Papal singer at one instant sang in the soprano 
 falsetto, and presently took the first bass; soon 
 after he quaked out the all, and when all that was 
 of no avail, he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and 
 we nodded mysteriously to each other. The ma<-stro, 
 i.i striving to set us all right, repeatedly lost his 
 own place, being a bar behind, or one in advance, 
 and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, 
 just as we thought fit. Suddenly came a very 
 solemn solo passage for the bass, which nil attacked 
 valiantly, but at the second bar broke into a chorus 
 of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, 
 8> the affair ended in high good-humour. The 
 p-'ople who had come as audience talked at the 
 pitch of their voices, and then went out and dis- 
 persed. J'Jynard came in and listened to our music 
 for a t/mo.) then made a horrid grimace, and was
 
 120 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 seen no more. Farewell ! Health and happiness 
 attend you all ! FEIJT 
 
 Rome, March I5th, 1831. 
 
 The letters of introduction that R sent me, 
 
 have been of no use to me here. L likewise, 
 
 to whom I was presented by Biinscn. has not taken 
 the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the. 
 other way when we meet. I rather suspect the 
 man is an aristocrat. Albani admitted me, so I 
 had the honour of conversing for half an hour with 
 a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, 
 he asked me if I was a pensioner of the King ot 
 Hanover. " No," said I. He supposed that 1 must 
 have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I knew 
 Meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure 
 his music; it was too scientific for him; indeed, 
 everything he wrote was so learned, and so devoid 
 of melody, that you at once saw that he was a 
 German, and the Germans, mmi ami. have not the 
 most remote conception of what melody is ! "No.' 1 
 said 1. "In ?//;/ scores." continued he, "allying; not 
 only the voices sing, but also the first violin sings, 
 and the second violin also, and the oboe sings, and 
 so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the 
 double-bass sings too." I was naturally desirous, in 
 all humility, to see some of his music; he WHS 
 modest, however, and would show me nothing, but 
 he said that wishing to make my stav in Home a
 
 M1ZKIEWTCZ. 121 
 
 agreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit 
 to his villa, and I might take as many of my 
 friends with me as I chose. It was near such and 
 such a place. I thanked him very much, and sub- 
 sequently boasted considerably of this gracious 
 permission ; but presently discovered that this villa 
 is open to the public, and any one can go there 
 who chooses. Since that time 1 have heard no 
 more of him. and as this and some other instances 
 have inspired me with respect, mingled with aver- 
 sion, towards the highest Roman circles, I resolved 
 not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was satis- 
 fied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed 
 out to me on the promenade, where I met them 
 daily. 
 
 I think Mizkicwicz very tiresome. He possesses 
 that kind of indifference which bores both himself 
 and others, though the ladies persist in designating 
 it melancholy and lassitude ; but this makes it nc 
 better in my eyes. If he looks at St. Peter's, he de- 
 plores the times of the hierarchy ; if the sky is blue 
 and beautiful, he wishes it were dull and gloomy; if 
 it is gloomy, he is freezing; if he sees the Colosseum, 
 he wishes he had lived at that period. I wonder 
 what sort of a figure he would have made in the days 
 of Titus ! 
 
 Yon inquire about Horace Yernet, and this is, 
 indeed, a pleasant theme. I believe I may say that 
 I have learned something from him, and every one 
 may do the same. He produces with incredible 
 facility and freshness. When a form -neets his eye 
 11
 
 122 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 which touches his feelings, he instantly adopts it, 
 and while others are deliberating whether it can be 
 called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he has 
 long completed his work, entirely deranging our 
 ajsthetical standard. Though this facility cannot be 
 acquired, still its principle is admirable, and the 
 serenity which springs from it, and the energy it 
 calls forth in working, nothing else can replace. 
 
 Among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this 
 season of blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in 
 the midst of the shrubberies and gardens of the Villa 
 Medicis, stands a small house, in which as you ap- 
 proach you invariably hear a tumult, shouting and 
 wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the 
 barking of dogs ; this is Vernet's atelier. The most 
 picturesque disorder everywhere prevails ; gun?, a 
 hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a couple of dead 
 hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures, 
 finished and unfinished. " The Investiture of the 
 National Cockade" (an eccentric picture which does 
 not please me), portraits recently begun of Thor- 
 waldsen, Eynard, Latour-Maubourg, some horses, a 
 sketch of Judith, and studies for it; the portrait of 
 the Pope, a couple of Moorish heads, bagpipers, 
 Papal soldiers, my unworthy self, Cain and Abel, 
 and last of all a drawing of the interior of the place 
 itself, all hang up in his studio. 
 
 Lately his hands were quite full, owing to the 
 number of portraits bespoken from him ; but in the 
 street he saw one of the Campagna peasants, who 
 are armed aud mounted by Government, and ride
 
 HORACE VER.VET. 123 
 
 about Rome. The singular costume caught the 
 artist's eye. and next day he began a picture repre- 
 senting a similar peasant, sitting on his horse in bad 
 weather in the Campagna, and seizing his gun ill 
 order to take aim at .some one with it ; in the distance 
 are visible a small troop of soldiers, and the desolate 
 plain. The minute details of the weapon, where the 
 peasant peeps through the soldier's uniform, the 
 wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the dis- 
 comfort prevalent throughout, and the Italian 
 phlegm in the bearded fellow, make a charming little 
 picture ; and no one can help envying him, who sees 
 the real delight with which his brush traverses the 
 stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little 
 rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a button on the 
 saddle; then lining the soldier's grent-eoat with 
 green. Numbers of people come to look on : during 
 my first sitting twenty persons, at least, arrived one 
 
 after the other. Countess E asked him to allow 
 
 her to be present when he was at work ; but when he 
 darted on it as a hungry man does on food, her 
 amazement was great. The whole family are, as I 
 told you, good people, and when old Charles talks 
 about his father Joseph, you must feel respect for 
 them, and I maintain that they are noble. Good-bye, 
 for it is late, and I must send my letter to the Post. 
 
 FELII.
 
 124 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Rome, March 29th, 1831. 
 
 In the midst of the Holy Week. To-morrow for 
 the first time I am to hear the Miserere, and while 
 you last Sunday performed " The Passion," the Car- 
 dinals and all the priesthood here received twisted 
 palms and olive-branches. The Stabat Mater of 
 Palestrina was sung, and there was a grand proces- 
 sion. My work has got on badly during the last 
 few days. Spring is in all her bloom ; a genial blue 
 sky without, such as we at most only dream of, 
 and a journey to Naples in my every thought ; so 
 
 even a quiet time to write is not to be found. C , 
 
 who is usually a cool follow, has written me such a 
 glowing letter from Naples ! The most prosaic mer 
 become poetical when they speak of it. The finest 
 season of the year in Italy, is from the 15th of April 
 to the 15th of May. Who can wonder that I find it 
 impossible to return to my misty Scotch mood ? I 
 have therefore laid aside the Scotch symphony for 
 the present, but hope to write out the " Walpurgis 
 Night" here. I shall manage to do so if I work hard 
 to-day and to-morrow, and if we have bad weather, 
 for really a fine day is too great a temptation. As 
 soon as an impediment occurs, I hope to find some 
 resource in the open air, so I go out, and think of 
 anything and everything but my composition, and do 
 nothing but lounge about, and when the church bells 
 begin to ring, it is the Ave Maria already. All [ 
 want now is a short overture. If 1 can accomplish 
 this, the thing is complete, and I can write it out in a
 
 FRENCH ACQUAINTANCES. 125 
 
 couple of days. Then I have done -with music, and 
 leaving all music-paper here, I shall go off to Naples, 
 where, please God. I mean to do nothing. 
 
 Two French friends of mine have tempted me to 
 fliiner with them a good deal of late. When they 
 are together, it is either a perpetual tragedy, or 
 
 comedy, as you will. Y distorts everything, 
 
 without a spark of talent, always groping in the 
 dark, but esteeming himself the creator of a new 
 world; writing moreover the most frightful things, 
 and yet dreaming and thinking of nothing but 
 Beethoven, Schiller, and Goethe ; a victim at the 
 same time to the most boundless vanity, and looking 
 down condescendingly on Mozart and Haydn, so 
 that all his enthusiasm seems to me very doubtful. 
 Z has been toiling for three months at a little 
 rondo on a Portuguese theme ; he arranges neatly 
 and brilliantly, ami according to rule, and he now 
 intends to set about composing six waltzes, and is 
 ih a state of perfect ecstasy if 1 will only play him 
 over a number of Vienna waltzes, lie has a high 
 esteem for Beethoven, but also for Rossini and for 
 Bellini, and no doubt for Auber, in short, for 
 everybody. Then my turn comes to be praised, 
 
 who would be only too glad to murder Y , till 
 
 he chances to eulogize Gluck, when I can quite 
 agive witli him. I like nevertheless to walk about 
 with these two, for they are the only musicians 
 here, and both very pleasant, amiable persons. All 
 this forms an amusing contrast. 
 
 You say, dear mother, that Y must have a 
 
 11*
 
 126 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 fixed aim in his art ; but this is far from being my 
 opinion. I believe he wishes to be married, and is 
 in fact worse than the other, because he is by far 
 the most affected of the two. I really cannot stand 
 his obtrusive enthusiasm, and the gloomy despond- 
 ency he assumes before ladies, this stereotyped 
 genius in black and white ; and if he were not a 
 Frenchman, (and it is always pleasant to associate 
 with them, as they have invariably something inter- 
 esting to say.) it would be beyond endurance. A 
 week hence, I shall probably write you my last 
 letter from Rome, and then you shall hear of me 
 from Naples. It is still quite uncertain whether I 
 go to Sicily or not; I almost think not. as in any 
 event I must have recourse to a steamboat, and it 
 is not yet settled that one is to go. 
 
 In haste, yours, FELIX. 
 
 Rome, April 4th, 1831. 
 
 The Holy Week is over, and my passport to 
 Naples prepared. My room begins to look empty, 
 and my winter in Rome is now among my reminis- 
 cences, of the past. I intend 1o leave this in a few 
 days, and my next letter (I). V.) shall be from 
 Naples. Interesting and amusing as the winter in 
 Rome has been, it has closed with a truly memora- 
 ble week ; for what I have seen and heard i'ar 
 surpassed my expectations, and being the conclu- 
 sion, I will endeavour in this, my last letter from
 
 CEREMONIES OF THE HOI.Y WEEK. 12 1 
 
 Rome, to give you a full description of it all. Peo- 
 ple have often both zealously praised and censured 
 the ceremonies of the Holy Week, and have yet 
 omitted, as is often the case, the chief point, namely 
 its perfection as a complete whole. My father may 
 probably remember the description of Mdlle. de 
 
 R , who after all only did what most people do, 
 
 who write or talk about music and art. when in a 
 hoarse and prosaic voice she attempted at dinner to 
 give us some idea of the fine clear Papal choir. 
 Many others have given the mere music, and been 
 dissatisfied, because external adjuncts are required 
 to produce the full effect. Those persons may be 
 in the right; still so long as these indispensable 
 externals are there, and especially in such entire 
 perfection, so long will it impress others; and just 
 as I feel convinced that place, time, order, the vast 
 crowd of human beings awaiting in the most pro- 
 found silence the moment for the music to begin, 
 contribute largely to the effect, so do I contemn the 
 idea of deliberately separating what ought in fact to 
 be indivisible, and this for the purpose of exhibiting 
 a certain portion, which may thus be depreciated. 
 That man must be despicable indeed, on whom 
 the devotion and reverence of a vast assemblage 
 did not make a corresponding impression of devo- 
 tion and reverence, even if they were worshipping 
 the Golden Calf; let him alone destroy this, who 
 can replace it by something better. 
 
 Whether one person repeats it from another, 
 whether it comes up to its great reputation, or ia
 
 128 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 merely the effect of the imagination, is quite the 
 same thing. It suffices that we have a perfect 
 totality, which has exercised the most powerful in- 
 fluence for centuries past, and still exercises it, and 
 therefore I reverence it, as I do every species of real 
 perfection. I leave it to theologians to pronounce 
 on its religious influence, for the various opinions on 
 that point are of no great value. There is more to 
 be considered than the mere ceremonies : for me it 
 is sufficient, as I already said, that in any sphere the 
 object should be fully carried out, so far as ability 
 will permit, with fidelity and conscientiousness, to 
 call forth my respect and sympathy. Thus you must 
 uot expect from me a formal critique on the singing, 
 as to whether they intoned correctly or incorrectly, 
 in tune or out of tune, or whether the compositions 
 are fine. 1 would rather strive to show you, that as 
 a whole the affair cannot fail to make a solemn im- 
 pression, and that everything contributes to this 
 result, and as last week I enjoyed music, forms, and 
 ceremonies, without severing them, revelling in the 
 perfect whole, so I do not intend to separate them 
 in this letter. The technical part, to which I natur- 
 ally paid particular attention, I mean to detail more 
 minutely to Zelter. 
 
 The firs' ceremony was on Palm Sunday, when 
 the concourse of people was so great, that I could 
 not make my way through the crowd to my usual 
 place on what is called the Prelates' Bench, but was 
 forced to remain among the Guard of Honour, 
 where indeed I had a verv good view of the solemui-
 
 MUPIP OF THE HOLY WEEK. 129 
 
 ties, but could not follow the singing properly, as 
 they pronounced the wurds very indistinctly, and on 
 that day I had no book. The result was that on this 
 first day. the various aniiphmis. (jospels. and Psalms, 
 and the mode of chanting, instead of reading, which 
 is employed here in its primitive form, made the 
 riost confused and singular impression on me. I 
 had no clear conception what rule they followed 
 with regard to the various cadences. I took con- 
 siderable pains gradually to discover their method, 
 and succeeded so well, that at the end of the Holy 
 Week I could have sung with them. I thus also 
 escaped the extreme weariness, so universally com- 
 plained of during the endless Psalms before the 
 Miserere ; for 1 quickly detected any variety in 
 the monotony, and when perfectly assured of any par- 
 ticular cadence, I instantly wrote it down; so I made 
 out by degrees (which indeed I deserved) the melodies 
 of eiii'ht Psalms. I also noted down the antiphons, 
 etc.. and was thus incessantly occupied and interested. 
 The first Sunday, however, as I already told you, 
 [ could not make it all out satisfactorily : I only 
 knew that the choir sang " Hosanna in excelsis," and 
 intoned various hymns, while twisted palms were 
 offered to the Pope, which he distributed among the 
 Cardinals. These palms are long branches decorated 
 with buttons, crosses, and crowns, all entirely made 
 of dried palm-leaves, which makes them look like 
 gold. The Cardinals, who are seated in the Chapel 
 in the form of a quadrangle, with the abbati at their 
 feet, now advance each in turn to receive their
 
 130 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 palms, with which they return to their places; then 
 come the bishops, monks, abbati. and all the other 
 orders of the priesthood; the Papal singers, the 
 knights, and others, who receive olive-branches 
 entwined with palm-leaves. This makes a long 1 pro- 
 cession, during which the; choir continues to sing 
 unremittingly. The abbati hold the long palms of 
 their cardinals like the lances of sentinels, slanting 
 them on the ground before them, and at this moment 
 there is a brilliancy of colour in the chapel that I 
 never before saw at any ceremony . There were 
 the Cardinals in their gold embroidered robes and 
 red caps, and the violet abbati in front of them, 
 with golden palms in their hands, and further in 
 advance, the gaudy servants of the Pope, the Greek 
 priests, the patriarchs in the most gorgeous attire ; 
 the Capuchins with long white beards, and all the 
 other religious Orders; then again the Swiss, in 
 their popinjay uniforms, all carrying green olive- 
 branches, while singing is going on the whole time ; 
 though certainly it is scarcely possible to distinguish 
 what is being sung, yet the mere sound is sufficient 
 to delight the car. 
 
 The Pope's throne is then carried in, on which he 
 is elevated in all procossions, and where I saw Pius 
 VI I J. enthroned on the day of my arrival (cnlc the 
 ' Ileliodorus ' of Raphael, where he is portrayed) 
 The Cardinals, two and two, with their palms, head 
 the procession, and the folding doors of the chapel 
 being thrown open, it slowly defiles through them. 
 The singing, which has hitherto incessantly prevailed,
 
 Mrsir OF THE HOLY WEEK. 131 
 
 n clement, becomes fainter and fainter, for the 
 
 only indistinctly heard, the sound dying away in the 
 distance. Then a choir in the chapel bursts forth 
 with a query, to which the distant one breathes a 
 faint response; and so it goes on for a time, till the 
 procession again draws near, and the choirs reunite. 
 Let them sing how or what they please, this cannot 
 fail to produce a fine effect; and though it is quite 
 true that nothing can be more monotonous, and even 
 devoid of form, than the hymns all' unisono, being 
 without any proper connection, and sung fortissimo 
 throughout, still I appeal to the impression that as 
 a ichol 1 '. it must make on every one. After the pro- 
 cession returns, the Gospel is chanted in the most 
 singular tone, and is succeeded by the Mass. I must 
 not omit here to make mention of my favourite mo- 
 ment ; I mean the Credo. The priest takes his place 
 for the first time in the centre, before the altar, and 
 after a short pause, intones in his hoarse old voice 
 the Credo of Sebastian Bach. When he has fin- 
 ished, the priests stand up, the Cardinals leave 
 their seats, and advance into the middle of the 
 chapel, where they form a circle, all repeating the 
 continuation in a loud voice, " Patrem omnipoten- 
 tem," etc. The choir then chimes in, singing the 
 same words. When I for the first time heard my 
 well-known 
 
 Cre da in a num De um
 
 132 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 and all the grave monks round me began to recite 
 in loud and eager tones, I felt quite excited, for this 
 is the moment I still like the best of all. After 
 the ceremony, Santini made me a present of his 
 olive-branch, which 1 carried in my hand the whole 
 day when I was walking about, for the weather was 
 beautiful. The Stabat Mater which succeeds the 
 Credo, made much less effect; they sang it incor- 
 rectly and out of tune, and likewise curtailed it 
 considerably. The 'Sing Akademie' executes it in- 
 finitely better. There is nothing on Monday or 
 Tuesday ; but on Wednesday, at half-past four, the 
 nocturns begin. 
 
 The Psalms are sung in alternate verses by two 
 choirs, though invariably by one class of voices, 
 basses or tenors. For an hour and a half, therefore, 
 nothing but the most monotonous music is heard ; 
 the Psalms arc only once interrupted by the Lamen- 
 tations, and this is the first moment when, after a 
 long time, a complete chord is given. This chord 
 is very softly intoned, and the whole piece sung 
 pianissimo, while the Psalms are shouted out as much 
 as possible, and always upon one note, and the words 
 uttered with the utmost rapidity, a cadence occur- 
 ring at the end of each verse, which defines the 
 different characteristics of the various melodies. 
 It is not therefore surprising that the mere soft 
 sound (in G major) of the first Lamentation, should 
 produce so touching an effect. Once more the 
 single tone recommences; a wax light is extin- 
 guished at the end of each Psalm, so that in the
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 133 
 
 course of an hour and a half the fifteen lights round 
 the altar are all out ; six large-sized candles still 
 burn in the vestibule. The whole strength of the 
 choir, with alti and soprani, etc., intone fortissimo 
 and unisono, a new melody, the " Canticum Zacha- 
 riai," in D minor, singing it slowly and solemnly in 
 the deepening gloom ; the lust remaining lights are 
 then extinguished. The Pope leaves his throne, 
 and fulls on his knees before the altar, while all 
 around do the same, repeating a paternoster sub 
 stlentio; that is, a pause ensues, during which you 
 know that each Catholic present says the Lord's 
 Prayer, arid immediately afterwards the Miserere 
 begins pianissimo thus : 
 
 gPP 
 
 This is to- me the most sublime moment of the 
 whole. You can easily picture to yourself what 
 follows, but not this commencement. The continu- 
 ation, which is the Miserere of Allegri. is a simple 
 sequence of chords, grounded either on tradition, 
 or what appears to me much more probable, merely 
 embellishments, introduced by some clever maestro 
 for the fine voices at his disposal, and especially for 
 a very high soprano. These embellimenti always 
 12
 
 /, MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS. 
 
 recur on the same chords, and as the} 7 ' are cleverly 
 constructed, and beautifully adapted for the voice, 
 it is invariably pleasing- to hear them repeated. J 
 could not discover anything 1 unearthly or mysterious 
 in the music; indeed, I am perfectly contented that 
 its beauty should be earthly and comprehensible. 
 I refer you. dearest Fanny, to my letter to Zelter. 
 On the first day they sang Baini's Miserere. 
 
 On Thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, the 
 solemnities recommenced, and lasted till one o'clock. 
 There was High Mass, and afterwards a procession. 
 The Pope conferred his benediction from the Loggia 
 of the Quirinal, and washed the feet of thirteen 
 priests, who are supposed to represent the pilgrims, 
 and were seated in a row, wearing white gowns and 
 white caps, and who afterwards dine. The crowd 
 of English ladies was extraordinary, and the whole 
 affair repugnant to my feelings. The Psalms began 
 again in the afternoon, and lasted on this occasion 
 till half past seven. Some portions of the Miserere 
 were taken from Baini, but the greater part were 
 Allegri's. It was almost dark in the chapel when 
 the Miserere commenced. I clambered up a tall 
 ladder standing there by chance, and so I had the 
 whole chapel crowded with people, and the kneeling 
 Pope and his Cardinals, and the music, beneath me. 
 It had a splendid effect. On Friday forenoon the 
 chapel was stripped of every decoration, and the 
 Pope and Cardinals in mourning. The history of 
 the Passion, according to St. John, the music by 
 Vittoria, was sung- ; then the Improperia of Pales-
 
 CEREMONIES OF THE HOLT WEEK. 135 
 
 trina, during- which the Pope and all the others, 
 taking off their shoes, advance to the cross and 
 adore it. In the evening Baini's Miserere was 
 j.-Lven, which they sang infinitely the best. 
 
 Early un Saturday, in the baptistery of the Lateran, 
 Heathens. Jews, and Mahomedaus were baptized, all 
 represented by a little child, who screeched the whole 
 time, and subsequently seme young priests received 
 consecratii n fir the first time. On Sunday the Pope 
 himself performed High .Muss in the Quinual. and 
 subsequently pronounced his benedictii.ii en the 
 people, and then all was over. It is now Saturday, 
 the Oth of April, and to-morrow at an early hour I 
 get into a carriage rind set oil' f'rr Naples, where a 
 new style of beauty awaits me. You will perceive by 
 the end of this letter that I write in haste. This is 
 my last day. and a great deal yet to be d< ne. J do 
 not therefore finish my letter to Zelter. but will send 
 it from Naples. I wish my descriptkn to be correct, 
 and my approaching journey distracts my attention 
 sadly. Thus I am oil' to Naples ; the weather is clear- 
 ing up. and the sun shining, which it has iii.t d< ue for 
 some days past. My passport is prepared, the car- 
 riage ordered, and 1 am looking forward to the months 
 of spring. Adieu! FELIX. 
 
 Xa;!e-, A;:ril I 3th, i^-^i. 
 Dear Rebecca. 
 
 This must stand in liou of a birthday letter : may 
 it wear a holiday aspect f. ; r you 1 It arrivi-s late iii
 
 136 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 the day, but with equally sincere good wishes. Youi 
 birthday itself I passed in a singular but delightfiu 
 manner, though I could not write, having neither 
 pens nor ink ; in fact, I was in the very middle of the 
 Pontine Marshes. May the ensuing year bring you 
 every happiness, and may we meet somewhere ! If 
 you were thinking of me on that day. our thoughts 
 must have met either on the Brenner or at Inspruck ; 
 for I was constantly thinking of you. Even without 
 looking at the date of this letter, you will at once 
 perceive by its tone that I am in Naples. I have not 
 yet been able to compass one serious quiet reflection. 
 there is everywhere such jovial life here, inviting you 
 to do nothing, and to think of nothing, and even the 
 example of so many thousand people has an irresisti- 
 ble influence. I do not indeed intend that this should 
 continue, but I see plainly that it must go on for the 
 first few days. I stand for hours on my balcony, 
 gazing at Vesuvius and the Bay. 
 
 But I must now endeavour to resume my old de- 
 scriptive style, or my materials will accumulate so 
 much that I shall become confused, and I fear you 
 may not be able to follow me properly. So much 
 that is novel crowds on me, that a journal would be 
 requisite to detail to you my life and my state of ex- 
 citement. So I bejjin by acknowledging that I deeply 
 regretted leaving Home. My life there was so quiet, 
 and yet so full of interest, having made many kind 
 and friendly acquaintances, with whom 1 had become 
 so domesticated, that the last days of my stay, with 
 all their discomforts and perpetual running about,
 
 FROM ROME TO NAPLES. 137 
 
 seemed doubly odious. The last evening I went to 
 Vernet's to thank him for my portrait, which is now 
 finished, and to take leave of him. "We had some 
 music, talked politics, and played chess, and then I 
 went down the Monte Pincio to my own house, 
 packed up my thing's, and the next morning drove 
 off with my travelling companions. As 1 gazed out 
 of the cabriolet at the scenery. 1 could dream to my 
 heart's desire. When \v<- arrived at our night quar- 
 ters, we all went out walking. The two days glided 
 past more like a pleasure excursion than a journey. 
 
 The road from Home to Naples is indeed the 
 most luxuriant that I know, and the whole mode of 
 travelling most agreeable. You fly through the 
 plain; fur a very slight gratuity the postilions gallop 
 their horses like mad, which is very advisable in 
 the Marshes. If you wish to contemplate the 
 scenery, you have only to abstain from offering any 
 gratuity, and you are soon driven slowly enough. 
 The road from Albano, by Ariccia and Genzano, as 
 far as Yelletri, runs between hills, and is shaded by 
 trees of every kind ; uphill and downhill, through 
 avenues of elms, past monasteries and shrines. On 
 one side is the Campagna, with its heather, and its 
 bright hues; beyond comes the sea, glittering charm- 
 ingly in the sunshine, and above, the clearest sky ; 
 for since Sunday morning the weather has been 
 
 */ O 
 
 glorious. 
 
 "Well ! we drove into Velletri, our night quarters, 
 where a great Church festival was going on. Hand- 
 some women with primitive faces were pacing the 
 12*
 
 138 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 alleys in groups, and men were standing together 
 wrapped in cloaks, in the street. The church was 
 decorated with garlands of green leaves, and as we 
 drove past it we heard the sounds of a double 
 bass and some violins ; fireworks were prepared in 
 the square ; the sun went down clear and serene, 
 and the Pontine Marshes, with their thousand col- 
 ours, and the rocks rearing their heads one by one 
 against the horizon, indicated the course we were 
 to pursue on the following day. After supper I 
 resolved to go out again for a short time, and dis- 
 covered a kind of illumination; the streets were 
 swarming with people, and when I at, last came to 
 the spot where the church stood, I saw, on turning 
 the corner, that the whole street had burning 
 torches on each side, and in the middle the people 
 were walking up and down, crowding together, and 
 pleased to see each other so distinctly at night. I 
 cannot tell you what a pretty sight it was. The 
 concourse was greatest before the church; 1 pressed 
 forward into it along with the rest. The little 
 building was filled with people kneeling, adoring 
 the Host, which was exposed; no one spoke a word, 
 nor was there any music. This stillness, the lighted 
 church, and the many kneeling women with white 
 handkerchiefs on their heads, and white gowns, had 
 a striking effect. When I left the church a shrewd, 
 handsome Italian boy explained the whole festival, 
 assuring me that it would have been far finer had 
 it not been for the recent disturbances, for they had 
 been the cause of depriving the people of the horse-
 
 THE PONTINE MARSHES. 139 
 
 races, and barrels of pitch, etc., and on this account 
 it was unlucky that the Austrians had not come 
 
 sooner. 
 
 The following morning, at six o'clock, we pursued 
 our way through the Pontine Marshes. It is a spe- 
 cies of Bergstrasse. You drive through a straight 
 avenue of trees along a plain. On one side of the 
 avenue is a continued chain of hills, on the other 
 the Marshes. They are, however, covered with 
 innumerable flowers, which smell very sweet; but 
 in the long-run this becomes very stupefying, and I 
 distinctly felt the oppression of the atmosphere, in 
 spite of the tine weather. A canal runs along 
 beside the chausse, constructed by the orders of 
 Pius YI. to form a conduit for the marshes, where 
 we saw a number of buffaloes wallowing, their heads 
 emerging out of the water, and apparently enjoying 
 themselves. The straight, level road has a singular 
 appearance. You see the chain of hills at the end 
 of the avenue when you come to the first station, 
 and again at the second and third, the only differ- 
 ence being that as you advance so many miles 
 nearer, the hills loom gradually larger. Terracina, 
 which is situated exactly at the end of this avenue, 
 is invisible till you come quite close to it. On 
 making a sudden turn to the left, round the corner 
 of a rock, the whole expanse of the sea lies before 
 you. Citron-gardens, and palms, and a variety of 
 plants of Southern growth, clothe the declivity iii 
 front of the town; towers appearing above the 
 thickets, and the harbour projecting into the sea.
 
 140 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 To me, the finest object in nature is, and always will 
 be, the ocean. I love it almost more than the sky. 
 Nothing in Naples made a more enchanting impres- 
 sion on my mind than the sea, and I always feel 
 happy when I see before me the spacious surface of 
 waters. 
 
 The South, properly speaking, begins at Tcrracina. 
 This is another land, and every plant and every 
 bush reminds you of it. Above all, the two mighty 
 ridges of hills delighted me, between which the road 
 runs ; they were totally devoid of bushes or trees, 
 but clothed entirely with masses of golden wall- 
 flowers, so that they had a bright yellow hue, and 
 the fragrance was almost too strong. There is a 
 great want of grass and large trees. The old rob- 
 bers' nests of Fondi and Itri looked very piratical 
 and gloomy. The houses are built against the walls 
 of the rocks, and there are likewise some large towers 
 of the date of the Middle Ages. Many sentinels and 
 posts were stationed on the tops of the hills ; but we 
 made out our journey without any adventure. "We 
 remained all night in Mola di (Jaeta; there we saw 
 the renowned balcony whence you look over orange 
 and citron groves to the blue sea. with Vesuvius and 
 the islands in the far distance. This was on the llth 
 of April. As 1 had been celebrating your birthday 
 all day long in my own thoughts, 1 could not in the 
 evening resist informing my companions that it was 
 your birthday; so your health was drunk again and 
 again. An old Englishman, who was of the party, 
 wished me a " happy return to my sister." I emptied
 
 MOLA DI OAETA. 141 
 
 the glass to your health, and thought of you. EC- 
 main unchanged till we meet again. 
 
 "With such thoughts in my head, I went in the 
 evening to the citron-garden, close to the sea-shore, 
 and listened to the waves rolling in from afar, and 
 breaking on the shore, and sometimes gently rippling 
 and splashing. It was indeed a heavenly night. 
 Among a thousand other thoughts, Urillparzer's 
 poem recurred to my memory, which it is almost im- 
 possible to set to music ; for which reason, I suppose, 
 Fanny has composed a charming melody on it; but I 
 do not jest when I say that I sang the song over re- 
 peatedly to myself, for I was standing on the very 
 spot lie describes. The sea had subsided, and was 
 now calm, and at rest ; this was the first song. The 
 second followed next day, for the sea was like a 
 meadow or pure ether as you gazed at it, and pretty 
 Momen nodded their heads, and so did olives and 
 cypresses ; but they were all equally brown, so I re- 
 in-lined in a poetic mood. 
 
 "What is it that shines through the leaves, and 
 glitters like gold? Only cartridges and sabres; for 
 the King had been reviewing some troops in Sant' 
 Agata, and soldiers defiled on both sides of the 
 path, who hud the more merit in my eyes because 
 they resembled the Prussians, and for a long time 
 past 1 have seen only Pupal soldiers. Some carried 
 dark-lanterns on their muskets, as they had been 
 inarching all night. The whole effect was bold and 
 gay. We now came to a short rocky pass, from 
 which you descend into the valley of Campana, the
 
 142 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 most enchanting spot I have ever seen ; it is like a 
 boundless garden, covered entirely with plants and 
 vegetation as far as the eye can reach. On one side 
 are the blue outlines of the sea, on the other an 
 undulating range of hills above which snowy peaks 
 project ; and at a great distance Vesuvius and the 
 islands, bathed in blue vapours, start up on the level 
 surface ; large avenues of trees intersect the vast 
 space, and a verdant growth forces its way from 
 under every stone. Everywhere you see grotesque 
 aloes and cactuses, and the fragrance and vegeta- 
 tion are quite unparalleled. 
 
 The pleasure we enjoy in England through men, 
 we here enjoy through nature ; and as there is no 
 corner there, however small, of which some one has 
 not taken possession in order to cultivate and adorn 
 it, so here there is no spot which Nature has not 
 appropriated, bringing forth on it flowers and herbs, 
 and all that is beautiful. The Canipana valley is 
 fruitfulness itself. On the whole of the vast im- 
 measurable surface bounded in the far distance by 
 blue hills and a blue sea, nothing but green meets 
 the eye. At last you come to Capua. I cannot 
 blame Hannibal for remaining too long there. 
 From Capua to Naples the road runs uninterruptedly 
 between trees, with hanging vines, till at the end of 
 the avenue, Vesuvius, and the sea. with Capri, and 
 a mass of houses, lie before you. 1 am living here 
 in St. Lucia'as if in heaven ; for in the first place I 
 Bee before me Vesuvius, and the hills as far as Cas- 
 tellamare, and the bay, and in the second place, J
 
 ARRIVAT, AT NAPLES. 143 
 
 am liar.g up three stories high. Unfortunately that 
 traitor Vesuvius does not smoke at all, and look?, 
 precisely like any other fine mountain ; Imt at night 
 the people float in lighted boats on the Bay, to 
 catch sword-fish. This has a pretty enough effect 
 Farewell ! FKLIX. 
 
 Naples, April 2Oth, 1831. 
 
 "We are so accustomed to find that everything 
 turns out quite differently from what we expected 
 and calculated, that you will feel no surprise when 
 instead of a letter like a journal, you receive a very 
 short one, merely saying that I am quite well, and 
 little else. 
 
 As for the scenery, I cannot describe it. and if 
 you have no conception of what it really is, after all 
 that has been said and written on the subject, there 
 is little chance of my enlightening you ; for what 
 makes it so indescribably beautiful, is precisely that 
 it is not of a nature to admit of description. Any 
 other detail I could send you would be about my 
 life here ; but it is so simple, that a very few words 
 suffice to depict it. I do not wish to make any ac- 
 quaintances, for I am resolved not to remain here 
 longer than a few weeks. I intend to make various 
 excursions to see the country, and all I desire here, 
 is to become thoroughly intimate with nature : so I 
 go to bed at nine o'clock, and rise at five, to refresh 
 myself by gazing from my balcony at Vesuvius, the
 
 144 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 sea, and the coast of Sorrento, in the bright morn- 
 ing light. 1 have also taken very long solitary 
 rambles, discovering beautiful views for myself, and 
 I have infinite satisfaction in finding that what I 
 consider tlu loveliest spot of all is almost entirely 
 unkirown to the Neapolitans. During these excur- 
 sions I sought out some house on a height, to which 
 I scrambled up ; or else merely followed any path I 
 fancied, allowing myself to be surprised by night 
 and moonshine, and making acquaintance with vine- 
 dressers, in order to learn my way back ; arriving 
 at last at home about nine o'clock, very tired, 
 thrciigh the Villa Reale. The view from this villa, 
 of the sea and the enchanting Capri by moonlight, 
 is truly charming, and so is the almost overpowering 
 fragrance of the acacias in full bloom, and the fruit- 
 trees scattered all over with rose-coloured blossoms, 
 looking like trees with pink foliage, all this is 
 indeed quite indescribable. 
 
 As I live chiefly with and in nature, I can write 
 less than usual ; perhaps we may talk it over when 
 we meet, and the sketches in our sitting-room at 
 home will furnish materials and reminiscences for 
 conversation. One thing I must not however omit, 
 dear Fanny, which is. that 1 quite approve of your 
 taste when 1 recall what you told me years ago that 
 your favorite spot was the island of Xisida. Per- 
 haps you may have forgotten this, but I have not. 
 It looks as if it were made expressly for pleasure- 
 grounds. On emerging from the thicket of Bagnuolo, 
 Nisida has quite a startling effect, rising out of the
 
 NAPLES. 145 
 
 sea. so near, so large and so green ; while the other 
 islands, Procida. Ischia. and Capri, stand afar off, 
 and indistinct in their blue tints. After the murder 
 of Crcsar, Brutus took refuge in this island, and 
 Cicero visited him there ; the sea lay between them 
 then, and the rocks, covered with vegetation, bent 
 over the sea, just as they do now. Thvsc are the 
 antiquities that interest me, and are infinitely more 
 suggestive than crumbling' mason-work. There is a 
 degree of innate superstition and dishonesty among 
 the people here that is totally inconceivable, and 
 this has often even marred my pleasure in nature ; 
 for the Swiss, of whom my father complained so 
 much, are positively guileless, primitive beings, 
 compared with the Neapolitans. My landlord in- 
 variably gives me too little change for a piastre, 
 and when I tell him of it, he coolly fetches the re- 
 mainder. The only acquaintances I intend to make 
 here are musical ones, that I may leave nothing 
 incomplete. for instance Fodor, who does not sing 
 in public, Donizetti, Coccia, etc. 
 
 1 now conclude by a few words to you, dear 
 Father. You write to me that you disapprove of 
 my going to Sicily; I have consequently given up 
 this plan, though I cannot deny that I do so with 
 great reluctance, for it was really more than a mere 
 whim on my part. There is no danger to be appre- 
 hended, and, as if on purpose to vex me, a steamer 
 leaves this city on the 4th of May, which is to make 
 the entire tour ; and a good many Germans, and pro- 
 bably the minister here, are to take advantage of it. 
 13
 
 .146 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 I should have liked to see a mountain vomiting forth 
 flames, as Vesuvius has been hitherto so unkind aa 
 not even to smoke. Your instructions however 
 have till now so entirely coincided with my own in- 
 clinations, that I cannot allow the first opportunity 
 I have of showing my obedience to your wishes 
 (even when opposed to my own), to pass without 
 complying with them, so I have effaced Sicily from 
 try travelling route. Perhaps we may meet sooner 
 in consequence of this ; and now farewell, for I am 
 
 going to walk to Capo di Monte. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Naples, April 2yth, 1831. 
 
 It is now nearly a fortnight since I have heard 
 from you. I do earnestly hope that nothing un- 
 pleasant has occurred, and every day I expect the 
 post will bring me tidings of you all. 3Iy letters 
 from Naples arc of little value, for I am too deeply 
 absorbed here to be able easily to extricate myself, 
 and to write descriptive letters. Besides, when we 
 had bad weather lately, I took advantage of it to 
 resume my labours, and zealously applied myself to 
 my "Walpurgis Night," which daily increases in 
 interest for me, so I employ every spare moment, in 
 completing it. 1 hope to finish it in a few days, and 
 1 think it will turn out well. If f continue in my 
 present mood, I shall finish my Italian symphony 
 also in Itah, in which case 1 shall have a famous
 
 VISIT TO POMPEII. 14 J 
 
 store to bring home with me, the fruits of this win- 
 ter. Moreover every day I have something new to 
 see. I generally make my excursions with the 
 Scliadows. 
 
 Yesterday we went to Pompeii. It looks as if it 
 had been burnt down, or like a recently deserted 
 city. As both of these always seem to me deeply 
 affecting, the impression made on me was the most 
 melancholy that I have yet experienced in Italy. 
 It is as if the inhabitants had just gone out, and yet 
 almost every object tells of another religion and 
 another life; in short, of seventeen hundred years 
 ago ; and the French and English ladies scramble 
 about as gaily as possible, and sketch it all. It is 
 the old tragedy of the Past and the Present, a 
 problem I never can solve. Lively Naples is indeed 
 a pleasant contrast; but it is painful to see the 
 crowd of wretched beirgars who waylay you in every 
 street and path, swarming round the carriage the 
 instant it stops. The old white-haired men particu- 
 larly distress me, and such a mass of misery exceeds 
 all belief. If you are walking on the sea-shore, and 
 gazing at the islands, and then chance to look round 
 at the land, you find yourself the centre of a group 
 of cripples, who make a trade of their infirmities ; 
 or you discover (which lately happened to me) that 
 you are surrounded by thirty or forty children, all 
 whining out their favourite phrase. "Muoio di fame." 
 and rattling their jaws to show that they have noth- 
 ing to eat. All this forms a most repulsive contrast; 
 and yet to me it is still more repugnant that you
 
 148 MEXDELSSOIIX'S LETTERS. 
 
 must entirely renounce the great pleasure of seeing 
 happy faces; for even when you have given the 
 richest gratuities to euards. waiters, or workpeople, 
 in short, to whom yon will, the invariable rejoinde? 
 is. "Nienti di p'u. ?" in which case you may be very 
 sure that you have given too much. If it is the 
 proper sum, they give it back with the greatest 
 apparent indignation, and then return and beg to 
 have it again. These are trifles, certainly, but they 
 show the lamentable condition of the people. I 
 have even gone so far as to feel provoked with the 
 perpetual smiling aspect of nature, when in the 
 most retired spots troops of beggars everywhere 
 assailed me. some even persisting in following me a 
 long way. It is only when I am quietly seated in 
 my own room, gazing down on the Bay, and on 
 Vesuvius, that being totally alone with them 1 feel 
 really cheerful and happy. 
 
 To-day we are to ascend the hill to visit the 
 Cama'.doli Monastery, and to-morrow, if the weather 
 permits, we proceed to Procida and Ischia. J go 
 this evening to Madame Fodor's with Donizetti, 
 Benedict, etc. She is very kind and amiable to- 
 wards me. and her singing has ^iven me great pleas- 
 ure, for she has \vonderful facility, and executes her 
 fioritiirt, with so much taste, that it is easv to see 
 how many tilings Soimtag acquired from her, es- 
 pecially the in<::zii vucc, which Fodi.r, who.;e voice 
 is no longer full and fresh, most prudently and 
 judiciously introduces into many passages. As she 
 is not singing at the theatre, I am most fortunate in
 
 SIXGERS AT NAPLES. 149 
 
 having made her acquaintance personally. The 
 theatre is now closed for some weeks, because the 
 blood of St. Januarius is shortly to liquefy. AYhat 
 I heard at the opera previously did not repay the 
 trouble of going. The orchestra, like that in Rome, 
 was worse than in any part of Germany, and not 
 even one tolerable female singer. Tamburini alone, 
 with his vigorous bass voice, imparted some life to 
 the whole. Those who wish to hear Italian operas, 
 must now-a-days go to Paris or London. Heaven 
 grant that this may not eventually be the case with 
 German music also ! 
 
 I must however return to my " "Witches," so you 
 must forgive my not writing any more to-day. This 
 whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather 
 1 do so in my " "Walpurgis Night," whether I am 1o 
 introduce the big drum or not. " Zacken. Gabeln, 
 und wilde Klapperstucke," seem to force me to the 
 big drum, but moderation dissuades me. I certainly 
 am the only person who ever composed for the scene 
 on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, 
 but I can't help regretting the big drum, and before 
 T can receive Fanny's advice, the " Walpurgis 
 Night" will be finished and packed up. I shall 
 then set off again on my travels, and Heaven knows 
 what I may have in my head by that time. I feel 
 convinced that Fanny would say yes ; still, I feel 
 very doubtful ; at all events a vast noise is indis- 
 pensable. 
 
 Oh, Rebecca ! can you not procure the words of 
 Borne songs, and send them to rne ? I feel quite in 
 13*
 
 150 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS 
 
 the humour for them, and you must require some- 
 thing new to sing. If you can furnish me with some 
 pretty verses, old or new, gay or grave, I will coin- 
 pose something in a style to suit your voice. I am 
 at your service for any compact of this kind. Pray 
 do send me wherewithal to work at, during my jour- 
 ney, in the inns. Now, farewell to you all! May 
 you be as happy as I ever wish you to be, and think 
 of me ! FKI.IX. 
 
 Naples, May lyth, 1831. 
 
 On Saturday, the 14th of May, at two o'clock, I 
 told my driver to turn the carriage. We were oppo- 
 site the Temple of Ceres at Pai'stum, the most 
 southern point of my journey. The carriage conse- 
 quently turned towards the north, and from that 
 moment, as I journey onwards, I am every hour 
 drawing nearer to you. Jt is about a year now since 
 I travelled with my father to Dessau and Leipzig; 
 the time in fact exactly corresponds, for it was 
 about the half-year. 1 have made good use of the 
 past year. 1 have acquired considerable experience 
 and many new impressions. Both in Rome and here 
 I have been very busy, but no change has occurred 
 in my outward circumstances; and till the begin- 
 ning of the new year, in fact so long as I am in 
 Italy, it will probably be the same. This period 
 haa not however been less valuable to me than some 
 when outwardly, aiid in the opiuiou of others, I have
 
 EXPERIENCE GAINED. 151 
 
 appeared to make greater progress ; for there must 
 always be a close connection between the two. If 
 ] have gathered experience, it cauaot fail to influ- 
 ence me outwardly, and 1 shall allow no opportunity 
 to escape to show that it has done so. Possibly 
 some such may occur before the end of my journey, 
 so L may for the present continue to enjoy nature, 
 and the blue sky, during the months that still re- 
 main I'or me in Italy, without thinking of anything 
 else ; for there alone lies true art, now in Italy, 
 thcrt and in her monuments; and there it will ever 
 remain; and there we shall ever find it, for our in- 
 struction and delight, so long as Vesuvius stands, 
 and so long as the balmy air, and the sea, and the 
 trees do not pass away. 
 
 Ju spite of all this, 1 am enough of a musician to 
 own that I do heartily long once more to hear an 
 orchestra or a full chorus where there is at least 
 some sound, for here there is nothing of the sort 
 This is unr peculiar province, and to be so long 
 deprived of such an element, leaves a sad void. 
 The orchestra and chorus here are like those in our 
 second-rate provincial towns, only more harsh and 
 incorrect. The first violinist, all through the opera, 
 beats the four quarters of each bar on a tin candle- 
 stick, which is often more distinctly heard than the 
 voices (it sounds somewhat like i.hb'iijnii castanets, 
 only louder); and yet in spite of this the voices are 
 never tog.'ther. Kvery little instrumental solo is 
 adorn jd with old-fashioned flourishes, and a bad 
 tone pervades the whole performance, which is
 
 152 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 totally devoid of genius, fire, or spirit. The singers 
 are the worst Italian ones I ever heard anywhere 
 (except, indeed, in Italy), and those who wish to 
 have a true idea of Italian singing must go to Paris 
 or to London. Even the Dresden company, whom I 
 heard last year in Leipzig, are superior to any here. 
 This is but, natural, for in the boundless misery that 
 prevails in Naples, where can the bases of a theatre 
 be found, which of course requires considerable 
 capital ? The days when every Italian was a born 
 musician, if indeed they ever existed, are long gone 
 by. They treat music like any other fashionable 
 article, with total indifference ; in fact, they scarcely 
 pay it the homage of outward respect, so it is not 
 to be wondered at that every single person of tak-ni 
 should, as regularly as they appear, transfer them- 
 selves to foreign countries, where they are better 
 appreciated, their position better defined, and where 
 they find opportunities of hearing and learning 
 something profitable and inspiriting. 
 
 The only really good singer here is Tamburini ; 
 he lias, however, long since been heard in Vienna 
 and Paris, and I believe in London also ; so now, 
 when he begins to discover that his voice is on the 
 decline, he comes back to Italy. I cannot admit 
 either that the Italians alone understand the art of 
 singing; for there is no music, however florid. 1 
 have ever heard executed by Italians, that Sonntug 
 cannot accomplish, and in even greater perfection. 
 She certainly, as she acknowledges, learned much 
 from Fodor ; but why should not another German
 
 DECLINE OF MUSIC IX ITAI T. 153 
 
 in turn learn the same from Sonntag? and Malibran 
 is a Spaniard. Italy can no longer claim the glori- 
 ous appellation of "the land of music ;" in truth, 
 she has already lost it, and possibly she may yet do 
 so even in the opinion of the world, though this 
 is problematical. I was lately in company with 
 some professional musicians, who were speaking of 
 a new opera by a Neapolitan, Coccia ; and one of 
 them asked if it was clever. ' Probably it is," said 
 another, '-for Coccia was long in England, where he 
 studied, and some of his compositions are much 
 liked there." This struck me as very remarkable, for 
 in England they would have spoken exactly in the 
 same way of Italy; but quo me rapis ? I say 
 nothing to you. dear sisters, in this letter, but in the 
 course of a few days I mean to send you a little 
 pamphlet dedicated to you. Do not be alarmed, it 
 is not poetry ; the thing is simply entitled "Journal 
 of an Excursion to the Islands, in May." 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Naples, May 28th, 1831. 
 My dear Sisters, 
 
 As my journal is become too stupid and uninter- 
 esting to send you, I must at least supply you with 
 an (ibr&jA of my history. You must know, then, 
 that on Friday, the 'JUth of May. we breakfasted in 
 corpore at Naples, on fruit, etc. ; this in corpore in- 
 cludes the travelling party to Ischia, consisting of
 
 154 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Ed. Bcndemann, T. Ilildebrand, 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 
 il is all the more painful to witness the horrible col- 
 lection of cripples, blind men, beggars, and galley 
 slaves, in short, the poor wretches of every descrip- 
 tion who there await you, amid the holiday aspect 
 of nature. 
 
 1 seated myself quietly on the mole and sketched, 
 while the others plodded and toiled through the 
 Temple of Serapis, the theatres, the hot tprings. 
 I'.ml extinct volcanoes, which I had already seen to 
 satiety on three different occasions. Then, like youth- 
 ful patriarchs or in mads, 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 Bai;u, as far as the 
 Lake of Avernus, where you are obliged to buy fish 
 for dinner; we crossed the hill to Cum as (ride 
 Goethe's 'Wanderer') and descended on Baire, 
 where we ate and rested. AVe 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 iun 
 fully occupied, so we resolved to go 011 to Doii Tom-
 
 DON TOMMASO. 155 
 
 mfiso's ; a journey of two hours nominally, but which 
 we performed in an hour and a quarter. The evening 1 
 was dcliciously cool, and innumerable glow-worms, 
 who allowed us to catch them, were scattered on the 
 vine-branches, and fig-trees, and shrubs. AVhen we 
 at last arrived, somewhat fatigued, at Don Tom- 
 maso'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 aheap of cherries till midnight. The 
 next morning the weather was bad. and the rain inces- 
 sant, 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, llight 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 step? 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 back- 
 ground 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 ther? under shelter, and
 
 156 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 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 tremen- 
 dously 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 stand- 
 ing 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 ver- 
 dure and vegetation. As we climbed liigher. the 
 sky became overcast and gloomy, and by the time 
 we reached the most elevated peaks of the rocks, a
 
 CAPRI. 157 
 
 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 com- 
 menced, and as it was impossible to remain, and 
 wait as you do on lhe Riglri, we were obliged to take 
 leave of Kpomeo without having made his acquain- 
 tance. We ran down in the rain, one rushing after 
 the other, and 1 do believe that we were scarcely an 
 hour in returning. 
 
 Next day \ve 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 circum- 
 14
 
 158 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 ference of the grotto, the rocks rest on the sea in 
 all their breadth, or rather arc sunk prccip.tously 
 into it, and ascend thence to the vault of the cav- 
 ern. 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 open- 
 ing 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 skill' 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 specie's 
 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,
 
 OROTTO AT CAPRI. 159 
 
 where they fire 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 singu- 
 larly 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 
 "owns and with gloomy countenances, were seated 
 in a gay arbour of vines, evidently enjoying them- 
 selves, and made a good picture. Then we crossed 
 the sea to Pozzuoli, and through the grotto of 
 Posilippo again home. 
 
 1 cannot write to Paul about his change of resi- 
 d'Micc. 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 resi- 
 dence ; my heart glows when I even think of it, 
 and I paint to myself my return there, passing
 
 160 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTKRS. 
 
 through Paris, and finding Paul independent, alone, 
 and another man, in the dear old haunts; when ho 
 will present me to his new friends, and I will pre- 
 sent him to my old ones, and we shall live and dwell 
 together : so even at this moment I am all impa- 
 tience soon to go there. I see by some newspapers 
 my friends have sent me, that my name is not for- 
 gotten, 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, 1 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 Eials de I>lois" particularly interest me, 
 as while f 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 (iod that the so highly-prized middle ages 
 are gone never 1o 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 1 feel this to be true. Sterne has become a
 
 STERNE'S SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.' 161 
 
 great favourite of mine. 1 remembered that Goethe 
 once spoke to me of the 'Sentimental Journey, 1 
 and said that it was impossible for any one better 
 tn 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 
 lie evidently composed in or near Naples, such as 
 Alexis and Dora ; for 1 daily see from my window 
 how this wonderful work was created. Indeed, 
 which is ofien 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 
 Fran," 1 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 Trlim- 
 mern/' 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 1 now regard and study them. 
 I say nothing of Miguon's song at present, but it ia 
 14*
 
 162 MKXnKLSSOTIN's LETTERS. 
 
 singular that Goethe and Thonvaldsen arc still 
 living, that Beethoven only died a few years ago, 
 
 and \et. II declares that German art is as dead 
 
 as a rat. Quod r,<,n. So much the worse for him 
 if he really feels thus ; hut when 1 reflect for a time 
 on his conclusions, they appear to me very shallow. 
 Apropos, Schadow, who returns to IMlsseldorf in 
 the course of a few days, has premised to extract, 
 if possible, some new songs for me from Immennann, 
 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 ! ITe 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. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Rome, June 6th, 1831. 
 Mv 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, wl en I once more resume that Roman trau-
 
 RETURN TO ROMK. 163 
 
 quillity. and grave serenity, which I alluded to in my 
 former letters from this place. I cannot express 
 how infinitely better 1 love Rome than Naples. 
 People allege that Rome is monotonous, of one 
 uniform hue, melancholy, and solitary. It is cer- 
 tainly 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 prop- 
 erly 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 mv mi ml the idea of a centre for a 
 great nation, which London offers in such perfec- 
 tion ; 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 subordi- 
 nate ; indeed. I may almost say that such a class is 
 not to be found there. It was this that often made
 
 164 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 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 wish- 
 in?, 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 combina- 
 tion 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 <jmni 
 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 pedes- 
 trians step over him, or shove him aside if he lies 
 right in the middle). He fetches kisfrulti di mare
 
 ' DOLCE FAR MENTE.' 165 
 
 himself out of the sea, sleeps wheuver 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 striv- 
 ing a;'ter some end ; and he goes on to say, that an 
 Italian was right, who advised him not to think so 
 much, for it Mould 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 them-
 
 106 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 selves, 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, gentle- 
 men. Thus there is no shop where you are not 
 cheated. Natives of Naples, who have been custo- 
 mers, 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 com- 
 petition, 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 some- 
 times 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 
 oij^e more to divert himself, and once more to write 
 trash. Their painters, in Ihe 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. 
 Lut what does it matter? the pictures are bright in 
 colour, the music makes plenty of noise, the build
 
 NEAPOLITAN ARTISTS. 167 
 
 ings give plenty of shade, and the Neapolitan gran- 
 dees ask no more. 
 
 ily physical mood was similar to theirs, every, 
 thing inspiring me with a wish to be idle, and to 
 lounge about, ami sleep ; yet 1 was constantly say- 
 ing 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, 
 whore nature is so divine, making every man feel 
 giatefu! and cheerful. I did not neglect the musi- 
 cians, and we had a great deal of music, out I cared 
 liitlo in reality for their Mattering encomiums 
 Fodor is hiiherto the only genuine artist, male, or 
 female, that 1 have seen in Italy ; elsewhere I should 
 probably have found a great many faults with her 
 singing, but I overlooked them all. because wheu 
 she sings it is real music, and after such a long pri- 
 vation, that was most acceptable. 
 
 Now however 1 am once more in old Rome, where 
 life is very different. There are processions daily, for 
 last week was the Ci rpus Domini; and just as 1 left 
 the ciiy during the celebration of the week follow- 
 ing the Holy Week. 1 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 ihe interim assumed such an aspect 
 of summer: on all sides booths with lemons and 
 iced water, the people in light dresses, th- 1 windows 
 ouen, and the jaloc^its closed. You sit at the
 
 168 MENDELSSO.IN'S LETTERS. 
 
 doors of coffee-houses, and eat gelato in quanti- 
 ties ; the Corso swarms with equipages, for people 
 no longer walk much, and though iu 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. 
 
 Rome, June 16, 1831. 
 Dear Professor, 
 
 It was my intention some time ago to have written 
 you a description of the music during the Holy 
 Week, but my journey to Naples intervened, and 
 during my stay there, I was so constantly occupied 
 in wandering among the mountains, and in gazing 
 at the sea, that I had not a moment's leisure to 
 write ; hence arose the delay fur which 1 now beg to
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 169 
 
 apologize. Since then I have not heard a single 
 note worth remembering; in Naples the mnsic is 
 most inferior. During the last two months, there- 
 fore, I have no musical reminiscences to send you, 
 save those of the Holy Week, which however made 
 so indelible an impression on my mind, that they 
 will be always fresh in my memory. I already des- 
 cribed to my parents the effect of the whole cere- 
 monies, and they probably sent you the letter. 
 
 It was fortunate that 1 resolved to listen to the 
 various Offices with earnest and close attention, and 
 still more so, that from the very first moment I felt 
 sensations of reverence and piety. I consider such 
 a mood indispensable for the reception of new ideas, 
 and no portion of the general effect escaped me, 
 although I took care to watch each separate detail. 
 
 The ceremonies commenced on Wednesday, at half 
 past four o'clock, with the antiphon "Zelus domus 
 tua?." A little book containing the Offices for the 
 Holy "Week explains the sense of the various solem- 
 nities. " Each Xocturn contains three Psalms, 
 ' signifying that Christ died for all, and also sym- 
 " bolical of the three laws, the natural, the written, 
 " and the evangelical. The ' Dornine labia mea' and 
 "the L Deus in adjutoriunv were not sung on this 
 " occasion, when the death of our Saviour and Mas- 
 " ter is deplored, as slain by the hands of wicked 
 " godless men. The fifteen lights represent the 
 'twelve apostles and the three Marys." (In this 
 manner the book contains much curious information 
 on this subject, so I mean to bring it with me for you.) 
 15
 
 170 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTLRS. 
 
 The Psalms are chanted fortissimo by all the male 
 voices of two choirs. Each verse is divided into 
 two parts, like a question and answer, or rather, 
 classified into A and 13 ; the first chorus sings A, 
 and the second replies with 13. All the words, with 
 the exception of the last, are sung- with extreme ra- 
 pidity on one note, but on the last they make a short 
 " melisma," which is different in the first and second 
 verse. The whole Psalm, with all its verses, is sung 
 on this melody, or tono as they call it, and I wrote 
 down seven of these toni, which were employed 
 during the three days. You cannot conceive how 
 tiresome and monotonous the effect is, and how 
 harshly and mechanically they chant through the 
 Psalms. The first tonns which they sang was 
 
 CORO I. f 
 
 In - C - xus bum iu li - mo pro-fun - di 
 
 CORO II. f 
 
 c~\" * <* * - * - 
 
 2:~-~-: 
 
 et nun est sub-stau tia 
 
 Thus the whole forty-two verses of the Psalm are 
 Bung in precisely the same manner ; one half of the 
 verse ending in G, A, G, the other in G, E, G. 
 They sing with the accent of a number of men 
 quarrelling violently, and it sounds as if they were 
 shouting out furiously one against another. The 
 closing words of each Psalm are chanted mere
 
 MUSIC OF TIIE HOLY WEEK. 171 
 
 slowly and impressively, a long " triad " being sub- 
 stituted for the "melisma," sung piano. For in- 
 stance, this is the first : 
 
 di - li - guilt no - men e - ju 
 
 ~-Him. irs~~ p ^ 
 
 ha - bi - ta - bunt in e - 
 
 An antiphon, and sometimes more than one, 
 serves as an introduction to each Psalm. These 
 are generally sung by two counter-tenor voices, in 
 canto fi-rmo, in harsh, hard tones; the first half of 
 each verse in the same style, and the second respon- 
 ded to by the chorus of male voices that I already 
 described. I have kept the several antiphons that 
 I wrote down, that you may compare them with the 
 book. On the afternoon of Wednesday, the GSth, 
 60th, and Tilth Psalms were sung. ( By the bye, 
 this division of the verses of the Psalms sung in 
 turns by each chorus, is one of the innovations that 
 I'linsvn has introduced into the Evangelical Church 
 here: he also ushers in each choral by an antiplion, 
 composed by Georg. a musician who resides here, 
 in the style of canti ftrmi. first sunir by a few 
 voices, succeeded by a choral, such as "Em' feste 
 Burg ist miser Gott.") After the 70th Psalm 
 comes a paternoster sub aileaUu that is, all present
 
 172 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 stand up, and a short silent inward prayer ensues, 
 and a pause. 
 
 Then commences the first Lamentation of Jere- 
 miah, sung in a low subdued tone, in the key of G 
 major, a solemn and fine composition of Palestrina's 
 The solos are chanted entirely by high tenor voices, 
 swelling and subsiding alternately, in the most de- 
 licate gradations, sometimes floating almost inau- 
 dibly, and gently blending the various harmonies ; 
 being sung without any bass voices, and immedi- 
 ately succeeding the previous harsh intonation of the 
 Psalms, the effect is truly heavenly. It is rather 
 unfortunate however that those very parts which 
 ought to be sung with the deepest emotion and 
 reverence, being evidently those composed with 
 peculiar fervour, should chance to be merely the 
 title? of the chapter or verse, aleph, beth, gimel, etc., 
 and that the beautiful commencement, which sounds 
 as if it came direct from Heaven, should be precisely 
 on these words, " Incipit Lamentatio Jeremias Pro- 
 phet a,- Lectio I." This must be not a little repul- 
 sive to every Protestant heart, and if there be any 
 design to introduce a similar mode of chanting into 
 our churches, it appears to me that this will always 
 be a stumbling-block ; for any one who sings 
 "chapter first" cannot possibly feel any pious emo- 
 tions, however beautiful the music may be, let him 
 strive as he will. 
 
 My little book indeed says, " Vedendo profetizzato 
 il crocifiggimento con gran piet&, si cantano eziau- 
 dio molto lamentevolmente aleph, e le altre simili
 
 MCJSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 173 
 
 parole, che sono le lettere dell' alfabeto Ebreo, 
 1 ere lie erano in costume di porsi in ogui canzone in 
 luugo di lamento, come e questa. Ciascuna Icttcra 
 ha iu so, tutto il sentimento di quel versetto che la 
 segue, ed e come un argomeuto di esso ; " but this 
 explanation is not worth much. After this the Tlst, 
 Tliiul, and "3rd Psalms are sung- in the same man- 
 ner, with their antiphons. These are apportioned 
 to the various voices. The soprano begins, ' In 
 monte Oiiveti." on which the bass voices chime in 
 forte, " Oravit ad Patrem : Pater," etc. Then follow 
 the lessons, from the treatise of Saint Augustine on 
 the Psalms. The strange mode in which these are 
 chanted appeared to me very extraordinary when I 
 heard them for the first time on Palm Sunday, with- 
 out knowing what it meant. A solitary voice is 
 heard reciting on one note, not as in the Psalms, 
 but very slowly and impressively, making the tone 
 ring out clearly. 
 
 There are different cadences employed for the 
 (liHerrnt punctuation of the words, to represent a 
 comma, interrogation, and full stop. Perhaps you 
 are already acquainted with these : to me they were 
 a novelty, and appeared very singular. The first, 
 for example, was chanted by a powerful bass voice 
 in G. If a comma occurs, he sings so, on the last 
 word . 
 
 s r^, 
 
 syz=i=-=* 11 
 
 ___JZI ~ u I [ 
 
 15
 
 174 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 an interroation thus : 
 
 c;)U - juu - ga. - mus o - ra - ti - o - nem. 
 
 I cannot describe to you how strange the falling 
 cadence from A to C sounds ; especially when the 
 bass is followed by a soprano, who begins on D, and 
 makes the same falling cadence from E to G ; then 
 an alto does the same in his key ; for they sang 
 three different lessons alternately with the canto 
 fermo. I send you a specimen of the mode in which 
 they render the canto fermo, regardless both of the 
 words and the sense. The phrase "better he had 
 never been born " was thus sung : 
 
 TUTTI. Allegro, f 
 
 ?~_^\ 
 
 Me - li - us il - li e - rat si 
 
 9-"-i-^J=4 -~f -~H- P3 : 
 
 tus noli in
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 175 
 
 qnitQ fortissimo and monotonously. Then came the 
 Psalms 74. 75. and 7G. followed by three lessons, 
 succeedi'd by the .Miserere, sung in the same style 
 as the preceding Psalms, in the following tonus : 
 
 
 i - ni - qui - ta - tern 
 
 It will be long before you can improve on this. 
 Then followed Psalms 8, 62. and GG ; "Canticum 
 Moysi " in its own tone. Psalms 148, 149. and 150 
 came next, and then antiphons. During this time 
 the lights on the altar are all extinguished, save one 
 which is placed behind the altar. ix wax candles 
 still continue to burn high above the entrance, the 
 rest of the space is already dim. and now the whole 
 chorus unixuno intone with the full strength of their 
 voices the ' Canticu-rn Zacharise," during which the 
 last remaining lights are extinguished. The mighty 
 swelling chorus in the gloom, and the solemn \ibra- 
 tion of so many voices, have a wonderfully fine 
 effect.
 
 176 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 The melody (in I) minor) is also very beautiful. 
 At the close all is profound darkness. An antiphon 
 begins on the sentence, ''Now he that betrayed him 
 gave them a sign," and continues to the words "that 
 same is he, hold him fast." Then all present fall on 
 their knees, and one solitary voice softly sings, 
 "Cluisius factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad 
 mortem;" on the second day is added, '-mortem 
 autem crucis;" and on (Jood Friday. " propter 
 quod et Deus exaltavit ilium, ct dedit illi Nomen, 
 quod est super omne nomen." A pause ensues, 
 during which each person repeats the Paternoster 
 to himself. During this silent prayer, a death-like 
 si'ence prevails in the whole church ; presently the 
 Miserere commences, with a chord softly breathed 
 by the voices, and gradually branching off into two 
 choirs. This beginning, and its first harmonious 
 vibration, certainly made the deepest impression on 
 me. For an hour and a half previously, one voice 
 alone had been heard chanting almost without any 
 variety ; after the pause came an admirably con- 
 structed chord, which has the finest possible effect, 
 causing every one to feel in their hearts the power 
 of music ; it is this indeed that is so striking. The 
 best voices are reserved for the Miserere, which is 
 sung with the greatest variety of effect, the voices 
 swelling and dying away, from the softest piano to 
 the full strength of the choir. No wonder that it 
 should excite deep emotion in every heart. More- 
 over they do not neglect the power of contrast; 
 verse after verse being chanted by all the male
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 177 
 
 voices in unison, forle. and harshly. At the begin- 
 ning of the subsequent verses, the lovely, rich, soft 
 sounds of voices steal on the ear, lasting only for a 
 shi'i't space, and succeeded by a chorus of male 
 voices. During the verses sung in monotone, every 
 one knows how beautifully the softer choir are about 
 to uplift their voices; soon they are again heard, 
 again to die away too quickly, and before the 
 thoughts can be collected, the service is over. 
 
 On the first day. when the- Miserere of Baini was 
 given in the key of B miuf-r. they sang thus: 
 "Miserere mei Deus v to " misericordiam tuam" from 
 the music, with solo voices, two choirs using the 
 whole strength of voices at their command; then all 
 the bass singers commenced tutti forte by F sharp, 
 chanting on that note "et secundum mult itudiuem'' 
 to * iniquitatem nu-am." which is immediately suc- 
 ceeded by a soft chord in B minor, and so on. to the 
 last verse of ail. which they sing with their entire 
 strength; a second short silent prayer ensues, when 
 all the Cardinals scrape their feet noisily on the pave- 
 nvut. which betokens the close of the ceremony. My 
 little book says. "This noise is symbolical of the 
 tumult made by the Hebrews in seizing Christ.'' It 
 :r,:iy lie so, but it sounded exactly like the commotion 
 iu the pit of a theatre, when the beginning of a play 
 is delayed, or when it is finally condemned. The 
 single taper still burning, is then brought from behind 
 the altar, and all silently disperse by its solitary light. 
 
 On leaving the chapel, I must not omit- to mention 
 the striking effect of the blazing chandelier lighting
 
 178 MKXDELSSOnx's LETTKKS. 
 
 up the great vestibule, when the Cardinals and their 
 attendant priests traverse the iliumin ;1ed t^uirinal 
 through ranks of Swiss Guards. The Miserere sung 
 on the first day was Baini's, a composition entirely 
 devoid of life or power, like all his works ; still it had 
 chords and music, and so it made a certain impres- 
 sion. 
 
 On the second day they gave some pieces by Al- 
 legri and Bai. On Good Friday all the music was 
 Bai's. As Allegri composed only one verse, on 
 which the rest are chanted, I heard the three compo- 
 sitions which they gave on that day. It is however 
 quite immaterial which they sing, for the finbi'.llimcii 1 i 
 are pretty much the same in all three. Karh chord 
 has its embe'limento, thus very little of the original 
 composition is to be discovered. How these cinln-Ui- 
 mcnti have crept in they will not say. It is main 
 tained that they are traditional : but this I entirely 
 disbelieve. In the first place no musical tradition, is 
 to be relied on; besides, how is it p<>.-sib!c to carry 
 down a five-part movement to the present time, from 
 mere hearsay? It does not sound like it. It is evi- 
 dent that they have been more recently added ; and 
 it appears to me that the director, having had good 
 high voices at his command, and wishing to employ 
 them during the Holy Week, wrote down for their 
 use ornamental phrases, founded on the simple un- 
 adorned chords, to enable them to give full srope 
 and effect to their voices. They certainly are not of 
 ancient date, but are composed with infinite talent 
 and taste, and their effect is admirable ; one in par-
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 179 
 
 ticular is often repeated, and makes so deep an im- 
 pression, that when it begins, an evident excitement 
 pervades all present ; indeed, in any discussion as to 
 the mode of executing this music, and when people 
 pay that the voices do not seem like the voices of 
 men. but those of angels from on high, and that these 
 s n;nds can m-ver be lu'-ard elsewhere, it is this pur- 
 lieular < 'ntl>t'lliin''nl<> to which they invariably allude. 
 For example, in tlit, Miserere, whether that of Bai 
 <">r A'llegri (i'i>r thev .lave recourse to the same cm 
 bi'lliincn.'i in both) these are the coiisecutive 
 chords : 
 
 
 Instead of this, thev sing it so :- 
 
 v O 
 
 CV'TTI l-^ I " & '[ "^ 
 
 3s& z3
 
 
 The soprano intones the liiu;h (' in a pure soft 
 voice, allowing 1 it to viliraic for a lime, and slow'y 
 rlidiui: down, while the alto holds the (_' steadily, so 
 thai at first I was under the delusion that the hiuh 
 (' was still held by the soprano; the skill, loo. will) 
 which the harmony is gradually developed, is truly 
 admiraMe. The other embHlimeiifi are achpted in 
 Ihe same way to llie consecutive chords; but 1l:e 
 lirsi one is by far Ihe most beautiful. J can uive no 
 opinion a- to the particular mode of executing iho. 
 inr.sic; but what 1 once read, that some particular 
 acoustic contrivance caused (he continued vibration 
 of the sounds, is an entire fable, quite as much so as 
 the assertion that they sin:r from tradiiioii. and with- 
 out any (ixed time, one voice simply following the 
 oilier: for I saw plainly enough the shadow of Hariri's 
 l.<nL'- arm moving up and down : indeed, he sometimes 
 Struck 'iis music-desk (jiiite audibly. There is no 
 lack of mystery too. on the part of the singers and 
 -'liers: for example. I hey never sav Itel'orehand 
 \\hat particular Miserere they intend to sinir. but 
 that it will be decided at the moment, etc.. etc. 
 The key in which they sing, depends on the purity
 
 MCSIf! OF TOE HOLY WEEK. 181 
 
 of ihe voices. r l'!ie first day it was in B minor, the 
 second and third in E minor, but each time they 
 finished almost in ]! liat minor. 
 
 The chief soprano, Mariano, came from the moun- 
 tains to Rome expressly to sing on this occasion, 
 and it is to him I owe hearing the embeliimenli with 
 their highest notes. However careful and attentive 
 the singers may be, still the negligence and bad 
 habits of the whole previous year have their revenge, 
 consequently the most fearful dissonance sometimes 
 occurs. 
 
 1 must not forget to tell you that on the Thursday, 
 when the Miserere was about to begin, 1 clambered 
 up a ladder leaning against the wall, and was thus 
 placed close to the roof of the chapel, so that I 
 had the music, the priests, and the people far be- 
 neath me in gloom and shadow. Seated thus alone 
 without the vicinity of any obtrusive stranger, the 
 impression made on me was very profound. But to 
 proceed : you must have had more than enough of 
 Misereres in these pages, and I intend to bring you 
 more particular details, both verbal and written. 
 
 On Thursday, at half-past ten o'clock, High Mass 
 was celebrated. They sang an eight-part composi- 
 tion of Fazzini's, in no way remarkable. I reserve 
 for you some ca nti fi-rmi and antiphons, which I 
 wrote down at the time, and my little book describes 
 the order of the various services and the meaning ot 
 the different ceremonies. At the " Gloria in Kxccl- 
 sis" all the bells in Home peal forth, and are not 
 rung again till after Good Friday. The hours are 
 16
 
 182 MEXDELSSOHX'S LETTERS. 
 
 marker! in the churches by wooden clappers. The 
 words of ihe "Gloria." the signal for all the strange 
 tiimiilt of liells. were chanted from the altar by old 
 Cardinal Pacca, in a feeble trembling voice; this 
 being succeeded by the choirs and all the bells, had a 
 striking effect. After the "Credo'' they sang the 
 " Fratres ego enim" of Palcstrina, but in the most 
 unfinished and careless manner. The washing of 
 the pilgrims' feet followed, and a procession in which 
 all the singers join ; liaini beating time from a large 
 book carried before him, making signs first to one, 
 and then to another, while the singers pressed for- 
 ward to look at the mu.-ic. counting the time as they 
 walked, and then chiming in. the Pope being borne 
 aloft in his state chair. All this 1 have already de- 
 scribed to my parents. 
 
 In the evening there were Psalms, Lamentations, 
 Lessons, and the Miserere again, scarcely differing 
 from those of the previous day. One lesson was 
 chanted by a soprano solo on a peculiar melody, that 
 J mean to bring home with me. It is an adagio, in 
 long-drawn notes, and la>ts a quarter of an hour at 
 least. There is no pause in the music, and the 
 melody lies very high, and yet it was executed with 
 the most pure, clear, and even intonation. The 
 singer did not drop his tone so much as a single 
 comma, the very last notes swelling and dying away 
 as even and full as at. the beginning; it was, indeed, a 
 masterly performance. 1 was struck" with the meaning 
 they attach to the word ctppo'jyiuttii'a. If the melody 
 goes from C to D, or from C to E, they sing thus :
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 183 
 
 or t < 
 
 rrj 
 
 and this they call an appoggtatura, "Whatever they 
 may choose to designate it. the effect is most dis- 
 agreeable, and it must require long habit not to be 
 discomposed by this strange practice, which reminds 
 mo very nuich of our old women at home in church ; 
 moreover the- effect is the same. I saw in my book 
 t'a.it the Tenebnu'' was to lie sung-, and thinking 
 that it \vn;;]<i interest you to know lu.iv,- it is given in 
 the Papal chapel. 1 was on the watch with a sharp- 
 pointed pencil when it commenced, and send yon 
 herewith the principal parts. It was sunjr very 
 quick, and fni-t<: throughout, without exception. 
 The bi'iriuniim 1 was : - 
 
 Te - ne - bra fac 
 
 T^TV 2 T jfi '- . i 1 
 
 dum 
 
 
 sum Ja - dss - i.
 
 184 
 Then 
 
 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 2LJZ rJ~ ' : *_ '-C~mc~ ~~^T-~~ 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 Do - us me - - us, ut quid me 
 
 a:* >--?-?=:**- 
 
 2l 
 
 j _ iznw^i^.^^* __ ^<^ . 
 
 ue re - li - qui - sti] 
 
 SOPKA.M./. 
 
 maus Je - sus vo 
 
 maz - na a - it : 
 
 ter, in ma - 
 
 _|t ' f f * I ?_1"_1? I * ' * '----i 
 
 iius tu - a.s com - men - do spi - ri - turn 
 
 
 I cannot help it, but I own it does irritate me to 
 hear such holy and touching' words sung to such 
 dull, dra\vliug mutic. They say it is canto fernio,
 
 JirSIC OF THE Iini.T WEEK. 1 S 5 
 
 Gregorian, etc.: no matter. If at that period there 
 was neither the feeling nor the capability to write 
 in u different style, at all events we have now the 
 power to do so. and certainly this mechanical mo- 
 notonv is not to be found in the scriptural words ; 
 they are ail truth and freshness., and moreover ex- 
 pressed in the most simple and natural manner. 
 Why then make them sound like a mere formula'! 
 and. in truth, such singing as this is nothing more ! 
 The word "Pater'' with a little flourish, tin? "meum" 
 with a little shake, the "lit quid me" can this lie 
 called sacred, music '.' There is certainly no false 
 expression in it. because there is none of any kind; 
 but does not tlrs very fact prove the desecratjon of 
 the words? A hundred times during the ceremony 
 I was driven wild by such things as these; and then 
 came people in a state of ecstasy, saying how splen- 
 did it had all been. This sounded to me like a bad 
 joke, and yet they were quite in earnest ! 
 
 At Mass early on Friday morning, the chapel is 
 stripped of all its decorations, the altar uncovered, 
 and the Pope and Cardinals in mourning. The 
 'Passion." from ^t. John, was sung 1 , composed by 
 Vittoria. but the words of the people in the clients 
 alone are his. the rest are chanted according to an es- 
 tablished formula: but more of this hereafter. The 
 whole appeared to me too trivial and monotonous. 
 I was quite out of humour, and. in fact, dissatisfied 
 with tiie a'l'air altogether. One of the two following 
 modes ought to be adopted. The " Passion " ought 
 either to be recited quietly by the priest, as St. 
 16*"
 
 186 MEXDELSSOIIX'S LETTERS. 
 
 John relates it, in which case there is no occasion 
 (or the chorus to sing "Crucifige eum." nor for tlie 
 alto to represent Pilate or else the scene should be 
 so thoroughly realized, that it ought to make me feel 
 as if I were actually present, and saw it all myself. 
 In that event, Pilate ought to sing just as he would 
 have spoken, the chorus shout out Crucifigc " in a 
 tone anything but sacred ; and then, through the 
 impress of entire truth, and the dignity of the object 
 represented, the singing would become sacred church 
 music. 
 
 I require no under-current of thought when I hear 
 music, which is not to me "a mere medium to elevate 
 the mind to piety," as they say here, but a distinct 
 language speaking plainly to me ; for though the 
 sense is expressed by the words, it is equally con- 
 tained in the music. This is the case with the 
 'Passion" of Sebastian Bach; but as they sing it 
 here, it is very imperfect, being neither a simple 
 narrative, nor yet a grand solemn dramatic truth. 
 The chorus sings Burabbam " to the same sacred 
 chords as "et in terra pax." Pilate speaks exactly 
 in the same; manner as the Evangelist. The voice 
 that represents our blessed Saviour commences 
 always piano, in order to have one definite distinc- 
 tion, but when the chorus breaks loose, shouting out 
 their sacred chords, it seems entirely devoid of 
 meaning. Pray forgive these strictures. I now 
 proceed to simple narration again. The Evangelist 
 is a tenor, and the nicde of chanting, the same as 
 that of the Lessuus. with a peculiar falling cadence
 
 MUSIC OF THE HOLY WEEK. 187 
 
 at the comma, interrogation, and full stop. The 
 Evangelist intones on I), and sings thus at a full 
 
 stop : 
 
 Allay io. ^ 
 
 at a comma : 
 
 and at the conclusion, when another personage 
 enters, so : 
 
 ]i- -- g- 
 
 zl.l _ ; 
 
 = ,^ = . = = =! . = s =f= = 
 
 ^i~ ^ 
 
 : : :_ ~ t 
 
 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 :
 
 lOO MENDELSSOHN S LETTERS. 
 
 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 : 
 
 Allegro. 
 
 ~ & h~~ I 
 
 Cm - ci - fl - 
 
 ^ J 1_ I 
 
 The " ISurabbnm" too is most singular; very 
 tame Jews indeed ! ]>nt my letter is already tou 
 long, so I shall discuss the subject no further. 
 Prayers arc then offered up for all nations and insti- 
 tutions, eaeli separately designated. When the 
 prayer for I lie Jews is uttered, no one kneels, as 
 they do at all lire others, nor is Amen said. They 
 pray pro perfidis ./</av,s-, and the author ol my 
 book discovers an explanation of this also. Then 
 follows the Adoration of the Cross; a small crucifix
 
 ML'SK- OF THE HOLY WEKK. 18P 
 
 h }-':-c- d in the centre of the chapel, and all up. 
 pnvi'-h barefooted (without shoes), fall down before 
 ii and kiss it; during this time the "Improperia" 
 are sung. 1 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 loo con- 
 spicuous one chord blending softly with the other. 
 Moreover, the ceremony is very solemn and digni- 
 ii''d, and the most profound silence reigns in the 
 chapel. 
 
 They sing the oft-recurring Creek "Holy" in 
 the most admirable manner, each time with the 
 same sit oothness and expression. You will be not 
 a little surprised, however, when you see it written 
 down, for they sing as follows 
 
 f * 
 
 \\ ** '- -"T u ~ : s=^-"^~"" 
 
 A gi - os The 
 * 
 
 p -'*-
 
 190 MEXDELSSOIIN'S LETTERS. 
 
 CORO II. f\ 
 
 -+-. + *- ** 
 
 
 .Da Capo 3 
 
 Such passages as that at the commencement, 
 where all the voices sing the very same embellish 
 ment, repeatedly occur, and the ear becomes ac- 
 customed 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 
 ibis occasion the crowd was not very great, J un- 
 luckily hud not the opportunity of hearing it as 
 often as T could have wished. 
 
 I quite understand why the " Improperias " pro- 
 duced 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 fol- 
 lows to fetch the Host, which had been exposed and
 
 .Ml'SIO OF THE HOLY WEEK. 191 
 
 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 fcnno. At half-past three in the 
 afternoon the iirst 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. 
 
 1 was anxious, dear Professor, to describe the 
 Holy Week to you minutely, as they were memora- 
 ble days to me, every hour bringing with it some- 
 thing 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 impres- 
 sion on me, as if I had been quite free from all 
 previous prejudice or prepossession. I thus saw the 
 inith confirmed, that perfection, even in a sphere 
 tli'- most foreign to us, leaves its own stamp on the 
 mind. May you read this long letter with even half 
 the pleasure 1 feel in recalling the period of the 
 Holy Week at Home. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTIIOLDT.
 
 192 
 
 Florence, June 2.5th, 1831. 
 Dear Sisters, 
 
 (Ju such a day as this iny paternal home and those 
 I love are much in my thoughts ; rny feelings on 
 this point are rather singular. If 1 feel at anytime 
 utnvell, or fatigued, or out of humour, I have no 
 particular longing for my own home or for my 
 family; hut when brighter days ensue, when every 
 hour makes an indeliltle impression, and every 
 moment brings with it glad and pleasant sensations 
 then I ardently wish that I were with you, or you 
 wiih me ; and no minute passes without my thinking 
 of one or other of you, to whom I have something 
 pai'iicular 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 sa\v, 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. ] now 
 iirst 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 Pa- 
 la/./.o degli LTii/i was crowded with people who had 
 coup 1 into the citv to see the races, and to visit the 
 far-lamed gallery: chiefly peasants, male and female, 
 in their country costumes. All the apartments 
 were thrown open, and as I was about to contcm-
 
 193 
 
 plate them for the last t'me. I contrived to slip 
 quk'tly through the crowd, and to remain quite 
 solitary, for I kne\v that I had not one acquaintance 
 ar.jong them. 
 
 The busis of the various princes who founded and 
 enriched this collection, are placed near the entrance, 
 at the tp of the staircase. 1 suppose I must have 
 been peculiarly susceptible to-day, for the faces of 
 th" Medici interested me exceedingly; they looked 
 ?o 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 de- 
 lightfully smaH 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'Arro- 
 tiu'j). ami taking possession of it, 1 enjoyed myself 
 for a couple of hours ; for here, at one glance, I had 
 the ''Madonna del Cardellino."" Pope Julius II.," a 
 fvinale portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely 
 Holy Family, by Porugino ; and so close to me that 
 I could have touched the statue with my hand, the 
 Venus do' Medici; beyond, that of Titian; on the 
 other side, the "Apollino" and the "Wrestlers" 
 (L'.-tta'ori] ; 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 
 suuiid, while treading with his foot on a kind of 
 17
 
 194 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Pan's pipes, as an accompaniment : what a clown he 
 is! The space between is occupied by other pic- 
 tures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a Domeni- 
 chino, 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. 1 was especially 
 struck with the genius of the monk Fra Bartolom- 
 meo, who must have been a man of the most devout, 
 tender, and earnest spirit. There is a small picture 
 of his here, which 1 discovered for myself. ]t is 
 about the size of this sheet of paper, in two divisions, 
 and represents the " Adoration" and the " Presenta- 
 tion 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 mi- 
 nute details; probably with the view of giving it 
 away, to gratify some friend. AVe 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 Cardeilino," 
 which Raphael painted as a wedding-gift, and a sur-
 
 PORTRAITS OF THE GRFAT 1 MXTERS. 195 
 
 prise for his friend I could not help meditating on 
 all these "Teat 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. 
 
 AVhile 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 care- 
 ful 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. 1 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 1 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 bv it : this is Raphael youthful, very pale 
 and delicate, and with such onward aspirations, 
 such longing and wisti'ulness 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 ia
 
 19G MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 written on his mournful, suffering 1 , yet fervid coun- 
 tenance, 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 han~" 
 above it ; that of Michael Angelo. an ugly, muscular, 
 savage, rugged fellow, in all the vigour (.if life, look- 
 ing 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 sta1r.es 
 makes the greatest impression on me; and back 
 again to my painters, and to the Tribune, and 
 through the Corridors, where the Roman Kmperors, 
 with their dignified yet knavish physiognomies, 
 stare you in the face; and last of all I took a linal 
 leave of the Medici family. 
 
 ]t was indeed a morning never to be forgotten. 
 
 June a6th. 
 
 Do not suppose however that I mean to asseri 
 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
 
 THE KOMAX TETTURTXO. 19 t 
 
 hates you is most painful and oppressive. Stch a 
 being is the Reman cclturiito: lie grants you no 
 sleep ; expose? you to hunger and thirst ; at night, 
 when he is hound to provide you with your prcmzo, 
 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 b\nn$ fortissimo. 
 
 I was very badly oil' 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 Ve- 
 netian hidy. 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 en. 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 
 Campairna 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 Peruginn, or 
 Giotto, or C'invibue, enchanted our eyes; and >o we 
 passed from irritation to delight, and then to irrita- 
 tion again. This was a wretched state to be in. ] 
 IT*
 
 198 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 was net in the least amused by it all ; and if Xutiire 
 had not bestowed on us bright moonshine at the 
 Lake of Thrusymene. and if the scenery had not 
 been so wonderfully line, 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 sec 1 1 am not easily satisfied. 
 
 The route however was beautiful, and I must new 
 describe my arrival in Florence, which also includes 
 my whole Italian life of the previous days. At In- 
 cisa. hali' a day's journey from Florence, my rcttii- 
 rtno 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 \\ha1ever have misled. 
 This is just the kind of thing that the Italians take 
 advantage of, so the landlady at Jncisa offered me a 
 carriage at four times the proper fare. When 1 re- 
 fused to take it, she said 1 might try to procure 
 another; and sol 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 dis- 
 gust, that they were at my landlady's, and that she 
 had wished to mala 1 me pay an exorbitant price for 
 them. 1 went back and demanded horses. .She 
 said, if 1 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
 
 HIRING A CARRIAGE. 199 
 
 ivftR 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 occa- 
 sion, fur I seized her and pushed her back into a 
 room (fur 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 
 becamo every instant more disagreeable, the crowd 
 of boys at my heels increasing at every step. Fortu- 
 n.iteiy 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 sym- 
 pathized 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 hor.se after me. and 
 shouting that I was mad : but the carriage drove up, 
 atu; 1 threw a few scudi to an old beggar, on which 
 they all called out that I was a bravo S-'i'jnore, and 
 \\ished me bnon via<j<jio. 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 hiils 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 com- 
 fortably as during those few hours, having left all 
 annoyances behind me, and before me the prospect 
 of the beautiful fete.
 
 200 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 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 1 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 pass 
 ing, 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 ser- 
 vice to me, enabling me to recall various scenes 
 connected with fair Italy.
 
 LETTER TO FRAU VOX PEREIRA. 201 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO FRAU vox PEREIRA, 
 
 IX VlEXXA. 
 
 Genoa, July, 1831. 
 
 At first I resolved not to answer your letter until 
 I had fulfilled your injunctions, and composed 
 ' Xu|>oleon'.s Midnight llevu-w ; '' and now I have 
 to ask your forgiveness fur not having done so, 
 but there is u pi'euliarity in this matter ] take 
 music in a very serious light, and 1 consider it qui.e 
 inadmissible to compose anything that I do net 
 thoroughly feel. It is just as if I were to utter a 
 falsehood; for notes have as distinct a meaning as 
 words, perhaps even a more definite sense. Now it 
 appears to me almost impossible to compose for a 
 descriptive poem. The mass of compositions of tins 
 nature do not militate against this opinion, but 
 rather prove its truth : for I am not acquainted with 
 one single work of the kind that has been successful. 
 You are placed between a dramatic conception or a 
 mere narrative ; the one. in the " Krl Koiiig," causes 
 the willows to rustle, the child to shriek, and the 
 horse to gallop. The other imagines a ballad singer, 
 calmly narrating the horrible tale, as you would a 
 ghost story, and this is the most accurate view of 
 the two ; Reichardt almost invariably adopted this 
 reading, but it does not suit me ; the music stands 
 in my way. I feel in a far more spectral spirit when 
 I read such a poem quietly to myself, and imagine 
 the rest, than when it is depicted, or related to me. 
 
 It does not answer to look on ' Napoleon's Mid-
 
 2'JZ MENDELSSOHN S LETTERS. 
 
 night Review" as a narrative, inasmuch as no 
 particular person speaks, and the poem is not written 
 in the style of a ballad. It seems to me more like a 
 clever conception than a poem; it strikes me that 
 the poet himself placed no great faith in his misty 
 forms. 
 
 1 could indeed have composed music for it in the 
 same descriptive style, as Neukomm and Fischhof, 
 in Vienna. I might have introduced a very novel 
 rolling of drums in the bass, and blasts of trumpets 
 in the treble, and have brought in all sorts of hob- 
 goblins. But I love my serious elements of sound 
 too well to do anything of the sort ; for this kind of 
 thing always appears to me a joke ; somewhat like 
 the paintings in juvenile spelling-books, where 
 the roofs are coloured bright red, to make the 
 children aware they are intended for roofs ; and I 
 should have been most reluctant to write out and 
 send you anything incomplete, or that did not en- 
 tirely please myself, because I always wish you to 
 have the best 1 can accomplish. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Milan, July I4th, 1831. 
 
 This letter will probably be the last (P.V.) that I 
 shall write to you from an Italian city ; I may possi- 
 bly send you another from the Borromean Islands, 
 which I intend to visit in a few days, but do not reljf 
 on this.
 
 MILAN. 203 
 
 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 uuerly un- 
 known 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 ; 
 f>r as yet 1 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 troinbon.-s sounding behind him. diverted 
 me immensely, and so 1 passed two forenoons very 
 happily. 
 
 1 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 (ioetho. is so dreamy, harmonious, and tender, its 
 sweet melody delighting the ear. Your favourite 
 passage, dear father. " Kra la notte allor." struck me 
 as very beautiful, but the stanzas that I admi-e 
 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 com<
 
 204 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 posed than true to nature ; they contain too many 
 clever ideas and antitheses; and even the words of 
 the hermit, which soothe him, sound mure like a 
 censure on the hermit himself. 1 should infallibly 
 have killed him on the spot, if he had talked to me 
 in such a strain. 
 
 liecently I was reading' the episode of ' Annida' 
 in a carriage, surrounded by a compauv of Italian 
 actors, who were incessantly singing liossini's "Ma 
 trema, trema," when suddeniv there recurred to mv 
 thoughts Gluck's "Vous m'allez quitter," and lli- 
 naido'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 cor- 
 dially hate the present licentious style. Do not take 
 it amiss ; your'molto is. Without hatred, no love, 
 and T <?id 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. 1 
 think I have invented this kind of eccentric pro- 
 ceeding, 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 litqu>u'i dc j/lare 
 named General Krtmann. I instantly thought of 
 Beethoven's Sonata in A major, and its dedication; 
 and as I had heard all that was good of Madame
 
 GENERAL ERTMAXX. 205 
 
 Ertmann, from those who knew her; that she was 
 en kind, and had bestowed such loving care on 
 Beethoven, and played hersell' so beautifully, I, next 
 iih ruing, at a suitable hour for a visit, put on a 
 b'ack coat, desired that the Government-house 
 should be pointed out to me, and occupied myself 
 on the way thither l>y composing some pretty 
 speeches for the General's lady, and went on boldly. 
 
 I cannot however denyth-.it 1 felt rather dismayed 
 when 1 was told that the General lived in the first 
 story, facing the street; and when I was fairly in 
 t'u> splendid vaulted hall, I was seized with a sudden 
 pi;i:c. and would fain luve 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 
 tiieii to send in my name to the lady. Unluckily 
 the man replied, "J am General Ertmann: what is 
 your pleasure?" This was unpleasant, as I was 
 forced to have recourse to the speech I had pre- 
 pared. The General, however, did not seem parti- 
 cularly edilied by my statement, and wished to 
 know whom lie 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, acd in 
 18
 
 206 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 the meantime went to the Brera, where I passed the 
 time in studying the ' Sposalizio ' of llaphacl, and 
 at two o'clock 1 presented myself to Freifrau 
 Dorothea, von Ertmann. She received me with 
 much courtesy, and was most obliging, plaving me 
 
 * ' O O " A i/ O 
 
 Beethoven's Sonata in (! sharp minor, and the one 
 in D minor. The old (leneral. 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 (leneral shows me 
 all the remarkable objects in Milan; in the after- 
 noon 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 1 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
 
 207 
 
 I scarcely ever mot with, except in my father. The 
 General has been now nil officer for six-and-forty 
 years, and you should really sec him galloping be- 
 side his wife's carriage in the park. the old gentle- 
 man 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 eman- 
 ates 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 play- 
 ing ; " 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 in- 
 terestino- anecdotes of Beethoven, and that when 
 she was playing to him in the evening he not u infre- 
 quently used the snuffers as a tooth-pick ! bhe 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 
 Baying, ' Let us speak to each other by music," ha
 
 208 
 
 pluved on for more than an hour, and. as she ex- 
 pressed it. ''lie said much to me. and at last gave 
 mo consolation." In short 1 am no\v 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 Kreutzcr Sonata yesterday 
 with violin accompaniment, and when the violin- 
 player (an Austrian cavalry officer) made a long 
 flourish, a (a Paganini. at the beginning of the 
 adagio, the old General made such a desperate 
 grimace, that I nearly fell oif my chair from 
 laughing. 
 
 1 called on Teschner, as you, dear mother, dvsired 
 me to do so ; such a musician however is as depress- 
 ing as a thick fog. Madame Krtmann 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 enthu- 
 siasm of last winter, when Pasta and Kubini sang 
 here, but say that they were ir.iserably supported, 
 and the orchestra and choruses bad. 1 however 
 heard Pasta six years ago in Paris, and I can do the 
 same every year, with the addition of a good orches- 
 tra and a good chorus, and many other advantages; 
 so it is evident that if I wish to hear Italian music. 
 1 must go to Paris or to England. The Germans 
 however take it amiss when you say this, and persist 
 p-ir furc.u in singing, playing, and acquiring new 
 ideas here, declaring this is the laud of inspiration ;
 
 THEATRE AT MILAN*. 209 
 
 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, 
 ami was well 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 thai places if you 
 come early ; the stage is like every other stage, but 
 there is no roof cither 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 dilem- 
 mas 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. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM TWO LETTERS TO EDWARD DEVRIEXT. 
 
 Milan, July ifth, 1831. 
 
 You reproach me with being two-and-twenty with- 
 out having yet acquired fame. To this I can only 
 reply, had it been the will of Providence that I 
 should be renowned at the age of two-and-twenty, I 
 no doubt should have been so. I cannot help it, for 
 18*
 
 210 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 I no more write to gain a name, than to obtain a 
 Kapellmeister's place. It would be a good thing it 
 I could secure both. But so long as I do not 
 actually starve, so long is it my duly to write only 
 as I feel, and according to what is in my heart, and 
 to leave the results to Him who disposes of other 
 and greater matters. 1C very day, however, I am 
 more sincerely anxious to write exactly as 1 feel, 
 and to have even less regard than over to external 
 views; and when I have composed a piece just as it 
 sprang from my heart, then I have done my duty 
 towards it ; and whether it brings hereafter fame, 
 honour, decorations, or snuff-boxes, etc.. is a matter 
 of indifference to me. If you mean, however, that [ 
 have neglected, or delayed perfecting myself, or my 
 compositions, then I beg you will distinctly and 
 clearly say in what respect and wherein I have done 
 so. This would be indeed a serious reproach. 
 
 You wish me to write operas, and think T am 
 unwise not to have done so long ago. I answer, 
 place a right libretto in my hand, and in two months 
 the work shall be completed, for every day I feel 
 more eager to write an opera. I think that it may 
 become something fresh and spirited, if I begin it 
 now ; but I have got no words yet, and I assuredly 
 never will write music for any poetry that does not 
 inspire me with enthusiasm. If you know a man 
 capable of writing the libretto of an opera, for 
 Heaven's sake tell me his name, that is all I want. 
 But till I have the words, you would not wish me to 
 be idle even if it were possible for me to be so ?
 
 COMPOSITION* OF SACRED MUSIC. 211 
 
 I have recently written a good deal of sacred 
 music; that is quite as much a necessity to me, as 
 the impulse that often induces people to study some 
 particular book, the Bible, or others, as the only 
 reading they care for at the time. If it bears any 
 resemblance to .Sebastian Bach, it is again no fault 
 of mine, for I wrote it just according to the mood I 
 was in; and if the words inspired me with a mood 
 akin to that of old Bach, I shall value it all the 
 more, for I am sure yon do not think that 1 would 
 merely copy his form, without the substance; if it 
 were so, I should feel s:u-h disgust and such a void, 
 that I could never again finish a composition. 
 Since then I have written a grand piece of music 
 which will probably impress the public at large 
 the first ' AValpurgis Night" of Goethe. ] began 
 it simply because it pleased me, and inspired me 
 with fervour, and never thought that it was to be 
 performed ; but now that it lies finished before me. I 
 see that it is quite suitable for a great Concertstiick, 
 and you must sing the Bearded Pagan Priest at my 
 first subscription concert in Berlin. I wrote it ex- 
 pressly to suit your voice ; and as I have hitherto 
 found that the pieces I have composed with least 
 reference to the public are precisely those which 
 pave them the greatest satisfaction, so no doubt it 
 will be on tins occasion also. I only mention this 
 to prove to you that I do not neglect the practical. 
 To be sure this is invariably an after-thought, for 
 who the deuce could write music, the most unpracti- 
 cal thing in the world the very reason why 1 love
 
 212 MENDELSSOHN'S I.F.TTKP.S. 
 
 it so dearly and yet think all the time of tlie prac- 
 tical! Jt is just as if a lover were to bring n 
 declaration of love lo his mistress in rlnme and 
 verse, and recite it to her. 
 
 I am now going' to Munich, where they have 
 oll'.-red me an opera, to see if I can find a man tin-re 
 who is a poet, for I will only have a man who has 
 a certain portion of fire and genius. J do not ex- 
 pect a giant, and if I fail in meeting with a poet 
 tlr.-re. 1 shall probably make IinmeFinaiiu's acquain- 
 tance for this express purpose, and if he is not the 
 m. MI either, I shall try for him in London. I alwaxs 
 fancy that the right man has not yet appeared ; hut 
 what can i do to find him out? He certainly does 
 not live in the Reichmann Hotel, nor next door; so 
 where does he live? Pray write to me on tin-; sub- 
 ject ; although 1 firmly believe that a kind Provi- 
 dence, wlio sends us all things in due time wh.cn we 
 stand in need of them, wiil supply this also if 
 necessary; still we must do our duty, and look 
 round us and I do wisli the libretto were found. 
 
 In the meantime I write as good music as 1 can. 
 and hope to make progress, and we already agreed, 
 wiicn discussing this a Hair in my room. that, as J 
 said before. I am not responsible for the rest. But 
 eiii ugh now of this dry tone. 1 reallv have become 
 once :>:on' almost morose and impatient, and yet] 
 had so firmly resolved never again to be so!
 
 PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 213 
 
 Lucerne, August 27th, 1831. 
 
 I quite feel that any opera I were to write now, 
 would not be nearly so good as any second one I 
 might compose afterwards; and that I must first 
 enter on the new path I propose to myself, and pur- 
 sue it for some little time, in order to discover 
 whither it will lead, and how far it will go, whereas 
 in instrumental music I already begin to know ex- 
 actly what I really intend. Having worked so much 
 in this sphere. I feel much more clear and tranquil 
 wiih regard to it. in short, it urges me onwards. 
 Besides. I have been made very humble lately, by a 
 chance occurrence that still dwells On my mind. 
 
 In the valley of Engelberg I found Schiller's 
 'Wilhelm Tell." and on reading it over again, I 
 was anew enchanted and fascinated by such a glor- 
 ious work of art. and by all the passion, fire, and 
 fervour it displays. An expression of Goethe's 
 suddenly recurred to my mind. In the course of 
 a long conversation about .Schiller, he said that 
 Schiller had been able to supply two great tragedies 
 every year, besides other poems. This business-like 
 term .<u]>ply. struck me as the more remarkable on 
 reading this fresh, vigorous work ; and such energy 
 seemed to me so wonderfully grand, that I felt as if 
 in the course of my life I had never yet produced 
 anything of importance ; all my works seem so 
 isolated. I feel as if I too must one day supply 
 something. Pray do not think this presumptuous ; 
 but rather believe that I only say so because I know 
 what ought to be, and what is not. Where I am
 
 214 
 
 to find the opportunity, or even a glimpse of one, is 
 hitherto to me quite a mystery. I!' however it be 
 my mission, I firmly believe that, the opportunity 
 will be granted, and if 1 do not profit by it another 
 will ; but in that case 1 cannot divine why I feel 
 such an impulse to press onwards. If you could 
 succeed in not thinking about singers, decorations, 
 and situations, but feel solely absorbed in represent- 
 ing men,' nature, and life, 1 am convinced that you 
 would yourself write the best libretto of any one 
 living; for a person who is so familiar with the 
 stage as you are. could not possibly write anything 
 undramatic, and 1 really do not know what, you 
 could wish to change in your poetry. If there be 
 an innate feeling for nature and melody, the verses 
 cannot fail to be musical, even though they sound 
 rather lame in the libretto; but so far as I am con- 
 cerned, you may write prose if you like, I will 
 compose music for it. But when one form is to be 
 moulded into another, when the verses are to bo 
 made musically, but not fdt musically, when fine 
 words are to replace outwardly what is utterly 
 deficient in fine feeling inwardly there you are 
 right this is a dilemma from which no man can 
 extricate himself; for as surely as pure metre, 
 happy thoughts, and classical language do not 
 suffice to make a good poem, unless a certain flash 
 of poetical inspiration pervades the whole, so an 
 opera can only become thoroughly musical, and 
 aci ordingly thoroughly dramatic, by a vivid feeling 
 of .ife in all the characters.
 
 MUSIC AND POETRY. 215 
 
 There is a passage on this subject in Beau- 
 marchais. who is censured because he makes his 
 personages utter too iV\v fine thoughts, and has put 
 too lew poetical phrases into their mouths. He 
 answers, that this is not his fault. Ife must confess 
 that during the whole time: lie was writing the piece, 
 lie was engaged in the most lively conversation with 
 his di'timd'is personoe : that while seated at his wri- 
 ting table he was exclaming. " Figaro, prends garde, 
 le Comte sait tout ! Ah ! Comtesse. quelle impru- 
 dence ! vite. sauve-toi. petit page:" and then he 
 wrote down their answers, whatever they chanced 
 to be. nothing more. This strikes me as being 
 be 'h true and charming. 
 
 The sketch of the opera introducing an Italian 
 Carnival, and the close in Switzerland. I already 
 knew, but was not aware that it was yours. Be so 
 good however as to describe Switzerland with great 
 vigour, and immense spirit. If you arc to depict 
 an effeminate Switzerland, with /orfe/H and languish- 
 ing, such as I saw here in the theatre last night in 
 the ' Swiss Family.' when the very mountains and 
 Alpine horns became sentimental. I shall lose all 
 patience, and criticize you severely in Spener's 
 paper. I beg you will make it full of animation, 
 and write to me again on the subject. 
 
 Isola Bella, July 24th, 1831. 
 
 You no doubt imagine that you inhale the fra- 
 grance of ^range-flowers, see blue sky, and a bright
 
 21G MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 sun, and a clear lake, when you merely read the 
 date of this letter. Not at all ! The weather is 
 atrocious, rain pouring down, and claps of thunder 
 heard at intervals ; the hills look frightfully bleak, 
 as if the world were enshrouded in clouds; the lake 
 is grey, and the sky sombre. I can smell no orange- 
 flowers, and this island might quite as appropriately 
 be called " Isola Brut t a!" and this has gone on for 
 three days! My unfortunate cloak! I am con- 
 fessedly the "spirit of negation" (F refer to my 
 mother), and as it is at present the fashion with 
 every one not to consider the Borromcan Islands 
 "by any means so beautiful." and somewhat formal ; 
 and as the weather seems resolved to disgust me 
 with this spot, from a spirit of opposition 1 main- 
 tain that it is perfectly lovely. The approach to 
 these islands, where you see crowded together green 
 terraces with quaint statues, and many old-fashioned 
 decorations, along with verdant foliage, and every 
 species of southern vegetation, has a peculiar charm 
 for me, and yet something affecting and solemn too. 
 For what I last year saw in all the luxuriance and 
 exuberance of wild nature, and to which my eve had 
 become so accustomed. T find now cultivated by art. 
 and about to pass away from me for ever. There 
 are citron-hedges and orange-bushes ; and sharp- 
 pointed aloes shoot up from the walls it is just as 
 if, at the end of a piece, the beginning were to bo 
 repeated; and this, as you know. I particularly like. 
 In the steamboat was the first peasant girl I have 
 seen here in .Swiss costume ; the people speak a bad
 
 LA(JO MAGGIORE. 217 
 
 half-French Italian. This is mj fast letter froni 
 Jtaly, hut be.i've me the Italian lakes are not the 
 least interesting objects in this country; unzi, 1 
 never saw any inure beautiful. People tried to per- 
 suade me that the gigantic forms of the .Swiss Alps 
 that have haunted me from my childhood* had been 
 exaggerated by my imagination, and that after all 
 a snowy mountain was not in reality so grand as 1 
 thought. I almost divaded being undeceived, but 
 at iirst sight of the foreground of the Alps from the 
 Lake of Como. veiled in clouds, with here and there 
 a surface of bright snow, sharp black points rearing 
 their heads, and sinking precipitously into the lake, 
 the hills Iirst scattered over with trees and villages, 
 and covered with moss, and then bleak and deso- 
 laie, and on every side deep ravines filled with 
 snow, 1 felt just as 1 formerly did, and saw that I 
 had exaggerated nothing. 
 
 In the Alps all is more free, more sharply defined; 
 more uncivilized, if yon will : yet I always feel there 
 but'ii healtiii :T and happier. I have just returned 
 from the gardens of the Palace, which I visited iu 
 the midst of the rain. 1 wished to imitate Albano.f 
 and sent for a barber to open a vein : he however 
 misunderstood my purpose, and shaved mo instead, 
 a very pardonable mistake. Gondolas are landing 
 on every part of the island, for to-il>y is the fete 
 following th;> invat festival of yesterday, in honour 
 of which the P. P. Px.rn.meo sent for singers and 
 
 * The whole family had been iu Switzerland iu the year 1821. 
 t In the 'Titau ' of Jean 1'tuii 
 
 19
 
 218 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 musicians from Milan, to sing and play to the 
 islanders. The gardener asked me if 1 knew what 
 a wind instrument was. I said with a clear con- 
 science that I did; and he replied that I ought to 
 try to imagine the effect of thirty such instruments, 
 and violins andbasses, all played at once; but indeed 
 1 could not possibly imagine it, for it must be heard 
 to be believed. The sounds (continued he) seemed 
 to come from Heaven, and all this was produced by 
 philharmoin/. What he meant by this term I know 
 not; but the music had evidently made more impres- 
 sion on him, than the best orchestra often does on 
 musical connoisseurs. At this moment some one 
 has just begun to play the organ in the church for 
 Divine service, in the following strain:
 
 THE BOKROMEAX ISLANDS. 219 
 
 Full organ in the bass, Bourdon 1G. and rood stops, 
 have a very fine effect. The fellow has come all the 
 way from Milan, too, expressly to make this distur- 
 bance in the church. I must go there f tr a little, 
 so farewell for a few moments. I intend to remain 
 here for the night, instead of crossing the lake 
 again, for 1 am so much pleased with this little 
 island. I certainly cannot say that 1 have slept 
 soundly for the last two nights ; one night owing to 
 the innumerable daps of thunder, the next owing to 
 the innumerable tleas ; and. in all probability, 1 have 
 to-night the prospect of both combined. l>ut as the 
 following morning 1 shall be speaking French, and 
 have left Italy, and crossed the Simplon, 1 mean to 
 ramble about all this day and to-morrow in true 
 Italian fashion. 
 
 I must now relate to you historically how I hap- 
 pened to come here. At the very last moment of 
 my stay in Milan, the Krtmanns came to my room to 
 bid me farewell, and we took leave of each other 
 more cordially than I have done of any one for 
 many a long day. I promised to send you many 
 kind wishes from them, though they are unacquainted 
 with you, and I also agreed to write to them oc- 
 casionally. Another valued acquaintance I made 
 there, is Herr Mozart, who holds an office in Milan ; 
 but he is a musician, heart and soul. lie is said to 
 bear the strongest resemblance to his father, es- 
 pecially in disposition; for the very same phrases 
 that affect the feelings in his father's letters, from 
 their candour and simplicity, constantly recur in the
 
 220 MENDELSSOHN'S LET-ERS. 
 
 conversation of the son, whom no one can fail to 
 love from the moment he is known. For instance, 
 I consider it a very charming trait in him, that he is 
 as jealous of the fame and name of his father, as if 
 he were an incipient young musician ; and one even- 
 ing, at the Ertmanns', when a great many of 
 Beethoven's works had been played, the Baroness 
 asked me in a whisper to play something of Mozart's, 
 otherwise his son would be quite mortified ; so when 
 I played the overture to " Don Juan," he began to 
 thaw, and begged me to play also the overture to 
 the ' Flauto Magico " of his l; Vatter" and seemed 
 to feel truly filial delight in hearing it : it is impossi- 
 ble not to like him. 
 
 lie gave me letters to some friends near the Lake 
 of Como. which procured me for once a glimpse of 
 Italian provincial life, and I amused myself famously 
 there for a few days with the Doctor, the Apothecary, 
 the Judge, and other people of the locality. There 
 were very lively discussions on the subject of Sand, 
 und many expressed great admiration of him; this 
 appeared strange to me. as the occurrence is of such 
 distant date that no one any longer argues on the 
 subject. They also spoke of Shakspeare's plays, 
 which are now being translated into Italian. The 
 Doctor said that the tragedies were good, but that 
 there were some plays about witches that were too 
 stupid and childish: one. in particular, "11 Sunno 
 ci' una Nolle di Alez/a Stale." In it the stale devii e 
 occurred of a piece being rehearsed in the play, 
 and it was full of anachronisms and childish ideas ;
 
 THE 'MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAX 22t 
 
 on which they all chimed in that it was very silly 
 ami advised me not to read it.* I remained meekly 
 silent, and attempted no defence ! I bathed fre 
 quently in the Lake, and sketched, and yesterday 
 rowed on the Lake of Lugano, which frowned 
 sternly on us with its cascades and dark canopy of 
 clouds; then across the hills to Luvino, and to-day 
 1 came here by steam. 
 
 pj/.-cnii'tf). I have this moment returned from the 
 Iso'a Mad re, and most splendid it is; spacious, and 
 full of terraces, citron-hedges, and evergreen shrubs. 
 The weather has at last become less inclement ; thus 
 lh" large white house on the island, with its ruins 
 and terraces, looked very pretty. It is indeed a 
 ujique land, and 1 only wish I could bring with me 
 to Berlin a portion of the same balmy air that I in- 
 haied when in the boat to-day. You have nothing 
 lik.' it, and 1 would rather you enjoyed it. than all 
 tlh' people who imbibe it here. A fiercely mous- 
 tarhios'd (ierman was with me in the boat, who ex- 
 amined :ui the beautiful scenery as if he were about 
 to purchase it and thought it too d<>ar. Presently 
 .1 heard a trait quite in the style of Jean Paul. 
 Wh'-n we were walking on the island, surrounded by 
 verdure, an Italian, who was of the party, observed 
 tha! this was a spot well adapted for lovers to ram- 
 ble in. and to enjoy the charms of nature. "Ah! 
 yes ' " said I, in a languishing tone. " It was on 
 
 * The overture to the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was com- 
 posed by Mendelssohn, as early H.S i.he year 1526. 
 
 19*
 
 222 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 this account," continued he, "that I separated from 
 my wife ten years ago ; I established her at Venice 
 in a small tobacconist's shop, and now I live as I 
 please. You must one day do the same." 
 
 The old boatman told us that he had rowed Gen- 
 eral Bonaparte on this lake, and related various 
 anecdotes of him and Murat. He said Murat was 
 a most extraordinary man ; all the time that he was 
 rowing him on the lake, he never ceased singing to 
 himself for a single moment, and once when setting 
 off on a journey he gave him his spirit-flask, and said 
 he would buy another for himself in Milan. T can- 
 not tell why these little traits, especially the singing, 
 seemed to realize the man in my mind more than 
 many a book of history. 
 
 The " AValpurgis Xacht" is finished and revised, 
 and the overture will soon be equally far advanced. 
 The only person who has heard it as yet, is Mozart, 
 and he was so delighted with it that the well-known 
 composition caused me fresh pleasure; he insisted 
 on my publishing it immediately. Pray forgive this 
 letter, written in true student phraseology. You no 
 doubt perceive from its style thnt I have not worn a 
 neckcloth for a week past; but I wished you to 
 know how gay and happy I have been during the 
 days spent among the mountains, and with what 
 pleasure 1 look forward to those that yet await mo. 
 Yours, FELIX.
 
 OH AMOUNT. 223 
 
 A rUnion-prieure de Chamounix, en. of July, 1831. 
 My dear Parents, 
 
 I cannot refrain from writing 1 to you from time to 
 time, to thank you for my wondrou.sly beautiful 
 journey; and if I ever did so before, I must do so 
 a train now. for more delightful days than those on 
 my journey hither, and during my stay here, I never 
 experienced. Fortunately you already know this 
 valley, so there is no occasion for me tu describe it 
 to you ; indeed, how could 1 possibly have done so? 
 But this I may say. that nowhere has nature in all 
 her glory met my eyes in such brightness as here, 
 both when I saw it with you fur the lirst time and 
 now; and as every one who sees it, ought to thank 
 (Jod for having given him faculties to comprehend, 
 and to appreciate such grandeur, so I must also 
 thank you for having supplied me with the means of 
 enjoying such a pleasure. 
 
 I had been told that I exaggerated the forms of 
 the mountains in my imagination; but yesterday, at 
 the hour of sunset, I was pacing up and down in 
 front of the house, and each time that I turned my 
 back on the mountains, I endeavoured vividly to 
 represent to myself these gigantic masses, and each 
 time when I again faced them, they far exceeded my 
 previous conceptions. Like the morning that we 
 drove away from this when the sun was rising* (no 
 doubt you remember it) the hills have been clear 
 and lovely ever since I arrived. The snow pure, 
 and sharply deGned, and apparently near in the dark 
 
 * la the year 1S21.
 
 224 MKXPELSSOHX'S T.KTTEIIS. 
 
 blue atmosphere; tlie glaciers thundering unromit' 
 tingly. us tin 1 ice is melting: when clouds gather, 
 they lie lightly on the base of the mountains, the 
 summits of which stand forth clear above. Would 
 that wo could see them together! I have passed 
 this whole day here quietly, and entirely alone. I 
 wished to sketch the outlines of the mountains, so I 
 went, out and found an admirable point of view, but 
 when I opened my book, the paper seemed so very 
 small that I hesitated about attempting it. 1 have 
 indeed succeeded in giving the outlines what is 
 called cijrri.-clli/, but every stroke looks so formal, 
 when compared with the grace and freedom which 
 everywhere here pervade nature. And then the 
 splendour of colour! In short, this is the most 
 brilliant point of my travels ; and the whole of my 
 excursion on foot, so solitary, independent, and 
 enjoyable, is something new to me. and a hitherto 
 unknown pleasure. 
 
 I must however relate how I came here, otherwise 
 my letter at last will contain nothing- but exclama- 
 tions. As I previously wrote to you. 1 had the most 
 odious weather on the Lago Maggiore, and the 
 Islands. It continued so incessantly stormy, cold, 
 and wet. that the same evening I took my place in 
 the diligence in rather a sulky humour, and we drove 
 on towards the Simplon. Scarcely had we been 
 journeying for half an hour, when the moon came 
 out. the clouds dispersed, and next morning the 
 weather was most bright and beautiful. I felt almost 
 ashamed of this undeserved good fortune, and I
 
 THE SIMPLOX ROAD. 225 
 
 could DOW thoroughly enjoy the glorious scenery; 
 the r f 'vd winding lirst through high green valleys, 
 then through rocky ravines and meadows, and at 
 last past glaciers and snowy mountains. I had with 
 me a little French book on the subject of the Sim- 
 plon road, which both pleased and affected me ; for 
 the subject was Napoleon's correspondence with the 
 Directoii-e about the projected work, and the first 
 report of the General who crossed the mountain. 
 With what spirit and vigour these letters are 
 written ! and yet a litlle swagger too. but with such 
 a glow of enthusiasm that it quite touched me, as I 
 was driven along this capital level road by an 
 Austrian postilion. 1 compared the fire and poetry 
 displayed in every description contained in these 
 letters (I mean those of the subaltern General) with 
 the eloquence of the present day, which leaves you 
 so terribly cold and is so odiously prosaic in all its 
 philanthropic views, and so lame where there is 
 plenty offunfaronna.de, but no genuine youth and 
 I could not but feel that a great epoch has passed 
 away for ever. I was unable to divest myself of the 
 idea that Napoleon never saw this work one of his 
 favourite conceptions for he never crossed the 
 hfiniplon when the road was finished, and was thus 
 deprived of this great gratification. High up, in 
 tli" Siuiplon village, all is bleak, and I actually 
 shivered from cold for the first time during the last. 
 } ear and a half. A neat civil Frenchwoman keeps 
 ti.e inn on the summit, and it would not be easy to 
 describe the sensation of satisfiictiou caused by ita
 
 226 MEXDELSSOIIX'S LETTERS. 
 
 thrifty cleanliness, which is nowhere to be found in 
 Italy. 
 
 AVe then descended into the Valais, as far as 
 Brieg, where I stayed all night, overjoyed to find 
 myself once more among honest, natural people, who 
 could speak German, and who plundered me into 
 the bargain in the most infamous manner. The 
 following day I drove through the Yalais an en- 
 chanting journey : the road all along, like those you 
 have seen ia Switzerland, ran between two lofty 
 ranges of mountains, their snowy peaks starting up 
 at intervals, and through avenues of green, leafy 
 walnut-trees, standing in front of pretty brown 
 houses, below, the wild grey Rhone, past Lenk, 
 and every quarter of an hour a village with a little 
 church. From Martigny I travelled for the first 
 time in my life literally on foot, and as I found the 
 guides too dear I went on quite alone, and started 
 with my cloak and knapsack on my shoulders. 
 About a couple of hours later I met a stout peasant 
 lad, who became my guide, and also carried my knap- 
 sack ; and so we went on past Forclas to Trient, a 
 little dairy village, where I breakfasted on milk and 
 honey, and thence to the Col de Balme. 
 
 The whole valley of Chamouni, and Mont Blanc, 
 with all its precipitous glaciers, lay before me bathed 
 in sunshine. A party of gentlemen and ladies (one 
 of the latter very pretty and young) came from the 
 opposite side on mules, with a number of guides; 
 scarcely had we all assembled under one roof, when 
 subtle vapours began to rise, shrouding first the
 
 JOfRNKY THROUGH SWlTZKiU, AXT>. 227 
 
 mountain and then the valley, and at last thickly 
 covering every object, so that soon nothing was to 
 be seen. The ladies were afraid of going out into 
 the fog. just as if they were not already in the midst 
 of it; at last they set oil', ami from the window 1 
 watched the singular spectacle of the caravan 
 leaving the house, all laughing, and talking loudly 
 in French and English and patois. The voices 
 presently became indistinct; then the figures like- 
 wise ; and last of all I saw the pretty girl in her wide 
 Scotch cloak; then only glimpses of grey shadows 
 at intervals, and they all disappeared. A few min- 
 utes later I ran down the opposite side of the moun- 
 tain with my guide ; we soon emerged once more into 
 sunshine, and entered the green valley of t'hainouni 
 with its glaciers; and at length arrived here at the 
 Union. I have just returned from a ramble to 
 Montanvert. the Mer de Glace, and to the source of 
 the Arveiron. You know this splendid scenery, and 
 so you will forgive me. if. instead of going to Geneva 
 to-morrow, I first make the tour of Mont I51anc, that 
 I may become acquainted with this personage from 
 the southern side also, which is I hear the most 
 striking. Farewell, dear parents ! May we have a 
 happy meeting ! Yours, FELIX. 
 
 Charney, August 6th, 1831. 
 My dear Sisters. 
 
 You have, I know, read Hitter's "Afrika" from 
 beginning to enl, but still I do not think you know
 
 228 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 where Charney is situated, so fetch out Keller's old 
 travelling map. Unit you may be able to accompany 
 me on my wanderings. Trace with your finger a 
 line from Yevay to Clarens, and thence to the Dent 
 de Jaman ; this line represents a footpath ; and where 
 your finger has been my legs also went this morning 
 for it is now only half-past seven, and I am still 
 fasting. 1 mean to breakfast here, and am writing 
 to you in a neat wooden room, waiting till the milk 
 is made warm for me ; without, I have a view of the 
 bright blue lake ; and so I now begin my journal, and 
 mean to continue it as I best can during my pedes- 
 trian tour. 
 
 After breakfast. Heavens ! here is a pretty busi- 
 ness. My landlady has just told me with a long 
 face, that there is not a creature in the village to 
 show me the way across the Dent, or to carry my 
 knapsack, except a young girl ; the men being all at 
 work. I usually set off every morning very early 
 and quite alone, with my bundle on my shoulders, 
 because I find the guides from the inns both too 
 expensive and too tiresome ; a couple of hours later 
 I hire the first honest-looking lad I see, and so I 
 travel famously on foot. I need not say how en- 
 chanting the lake and the road hither were ; you 
 must recall for yourself all the beauties you once 
 enjoyed there. The footpath is in continued shade. 
 under walnut-trees and up hill,- past villas and 
 castles. along the lake which trlitters through the 
 foliage ; villages everywhere, and brooks and streams 
 rushiug along from every nook, in every village ;
 
 TRAVELLING ON FOOT. 229 
 
 then the neat tidy houses, it is all quite too charm- 
 ing, and you feel so fresh and so free. Here comes 
 the girl with her steeple hat. I can tell you she is 
 vastly pretty into the bargain, and her name is 
 Pauline ; she has just packed my things into her 
 wicker basket. Adieu ! 
 
 Evening, Chateau d'Oex, candle-light. 
 
 I have had the most delightful journey. "\Vhat 
 would I not give to procure you such a day ! But 
 then you must first become two youths and be able to 
 climb actively, and drink milk when the opportunity 
 offered, and treat with contempt the intense heat, 
 the many rocks in the way. the innumerable holes in 
 the path, and the still larger holes in your boots, 
 and I i'rar you are rather too dainty for this; but it 
 was most lovely! I shall never forget my journey 
 with Pauline; she is one of the nicest girls 1 ever 
 met. so pretty and healthy-looking, and naturally 
 intelligent; she told me anecdotes about her village, 
 and I in return told her about Italy; but I know 
 who was the most amused. 
 
 The previous Sunday, all the young people of difi- 
 tini'tinn in her village had gone to a place far across 
 the mountain, to dance there in the afternoon. They 
 set off shortly after midnight, arrived while it was 
 still dark, lighted a large fire and made coffee. To- 
 wards morning the men had running and wrest'ing 
 matches before the ladies, (we passed a broken hedge- 
 testifying to the truth of this ;) then they danced, and 
 were at home again by Sunday evening, and early on 
 20
 
 230 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Monday rr.orning they all resumed their labours in 
 the vineyards. By Heavens, I felt a strong inclina- 
 tion to become a Vaudois peasant, while I was listen- 
 ing- to Pauline, when from above she pointed out to 
 me the villages where they dance when the cherries 
 are ripe, and others where they dance when the cows 
 go to pasture in the meadows and give milk. To- 
 morrow they are to dance in St. Gingolph : they row 
 across the lake, and any one who can play, takes his 
 instrument with him ; but Pauline is not to be of the 
 party, because her mother will not allow it, from 
 dread of the wide lake, and many other girls also 
 do not go for the same reason, as they all cling to- 
 gether. 
 
 She then asked my leave to say good-day to a 
 cousin of hers, and ran down to a neat cottage in the 
 meadow ; soon the two girls came out together and 
 sat on a bench and chattered; on the Col de Jaman 
 above, I saw her relations busily mowing, and herding 
 the cows. 
 
 What cries and shouts ensued ! Then those above 
 began to jodcl. on which they all laughed. I did not 
 understand one syllable of their pa'.ois, except the 
 beginning, which was, Adieu Pierrot! All these 
 sounds were taken up by a merry mad echo, that 
 shouted and laughed and jo'lnllcd too. Towards 
 noon we arrived at Alliere. When I had rested for 
 a time, I nice mere shouldered my knapsack, for a 
 fat old man provoked me by offering to carry it for 
 me; then Pau'.inj and I shook hands, ami we took 
 lea"? 3 of each other. 1 descended into the meadows,
 
 CAXTOX DE VAUD. 231 
 
 and if you do not care about Pauline, or if I have 
 bored you with her, it is not my fault, but that of the 
 mode in which I have described her ; nothing could 
 be more pleasant in reality, and so was my further 
 journey. I came to a cherry-orchard, where the 
 people were gathering the fruit, so I lay down on the 
 grass and ate cherries for a time along with them. 
 I took my mid-day rest at Latinc, in a clean wooden 
 house. The carpenter who built it gave me his com- 
 pany to some roast lamb, and pointed out to me with 
 pride every table, and press, and chair. 
 
 At length 1 arrived here, at night, through dazzling 
 green meadows, interspersed with houses, surrounded 
 by fir-trees and rivulets : the church here stands on a 
 velvet green eminence; more houses in the distance, 
 and still further away, huts and rocks ; and in a 
 ravine, patches of snow still lying on the plain. It 
 is one of those idyllic spots such as we have seen 
 together in Wattwyl, but the village smaller and the 
 mountains more green and lofty. I must conclude 
 however to-day by a high eulogy on the Canton de 
 Vaud. Of all the countries I know this is the most 
 beautiful, and it is the spot where I should most like 
 to live when I become really old. The people are so 
 contented, and look so well, and the country also. 
 Coming from Italy it is quite touching to see the 
 honesty that still exists in the world. happy faces, 
 a total absence of beggars, or saucy officials : in short, 
 there is the most complete contrast between the two 
 Lations. I thank God for having created so much 
 that is beautiful ; and may it be His gracious will to
 
 232 MENDELSSOUX'S LETTERS. 
 
 permit us all, whether in Berlin, England, cr in the 
 Chateau d'Ocx, to enjoy a happy evening and a 
 tranquil night ! 
 
 Boltigen, August yth, evening. 
 
 The lightning and thunder are terrific outside, and 
 torrents of rain besides; in the mountains you first 
 learn respect for weather. I have not gone further, 
 for it would have been such a pity to traverse the 
 lovely Simmon valley under an umbrella. It was 
 grey morning, but delightfully cool for walking in 
 the forenoon. The valley at Saniien, and the whole 
 road, is incredibly fresh and gay. I am never weary 
 of looking at the verdure. I do believe that if 
 during a long life I were always gazing at undu- 
 lating verdant meadows, dotted over with reddish. 
 brown houses, I should always experience the same 
 pleasure in looking at them. The road winds the 
 whole way through meadows of this kind, and past 
 running streams. 
 
 At noon I dined at Zweisimmen, in one of those 
 enormous Bernese houses, where everything glitters 
 with neatness and cleanliness, and where even the 
 smallest detail is carefully attended to. I there 
 dispatched my knapsack by the diligence to Inter- 
 laken, and am now about to walk as a regular 
 pedestrian through the country; a shirt in my 
 pocket, a brush and comb, and my sketch-book, this 
 is all I require ; but I am very tired. May the 
 Weather be fine to-morrow !
 
 233 
 
 Wimmis, the 8th. 
 
 A pretty affair ! the weather is three times as had 
 as ever. I must give up my plan of going to Inter- 
 laken to-day, as there is no possibility of getting 
 on. For the last few hours the water has been 
 pouring straight down, as if the clouds above had 
 been fairly squeezed out ; the roads are as soft as 
 leather-beds ; only occasional shreds of the moun- 
 tains arc to be seen, and even these but rarely. T 
 almost thought sometimes that I was in the Murgra- 
 vate of Brandenburg, and the Simmen valley looked 
 perfectly flat. 1 was obliged to button my waist- 
 coat tight over my sketch-book, for very soon my 
 umbrella was of no use whatever, and so I arrived 
 here to dinner about one o'clock. I had my break- 
 fast in the following place. [ Vide pa^e 2.'M.] 
 
 Weissenburg, August 8th. 
 
 I sketched this on the spot with a pen. so do not 
 laugh at the bold stream. I passed the night very 
 uncomfortably at Boltigen. There was no room in 
 the inn, owing to a fair, so I was obliged to lodge 
 in an adjacent house, where there were swarms of 
 vermin quite as bad as in Italy, a creaking house 
 clock, striking hoarsely every hour, and a baby that 
 screeched the whole night. I really could not help 
 for a time noticing the child's cries, for it screamed 
 in every possible key. expressive of every possible 
 emotion ; first angry, then furious, then whining, and 
 when it could screech no longer, it grunted in a 
 deep bass. Let no one tell me that we must wish 
 to return to the days of our childhood, because chil- 
 20*
 
 234 
 
 MENDELSSOHN S LETTERS. 
 
 
 dren are so happy. I am convinced that such a 
 little mortal as this, flies into a rage just as we do, 
 and lias also his sleepless nights, and his passions, 
 and so forth. 
 
 This philosophical view occurred to me this morn- 
 ing 1 , while I was sketching \Vcissenburg, and so I 
 wished to communicate it to you on the spot ; but ]
 
 SIEBETHAL. 235 
 
 took up the 'Constitutional,' in which I read that 
 Casimir Perier wishes to resign, and many other 
 things that furnish matter for reflection ; among 
 others a most remarkable article on the cholera, 
 which I should like to transcribe, for it is so extra- 
 ordinary. The existence of this disease is totally 
 and absolutely denied; only one person had it in 
 Dantzic. a Jew, and he got well. Then followed 
 a number of "Ilegelisms" in French, and the elec- 
 tion of the deputies oh world ! As soon as I had 
 finished reading the paper, I was obliged to set off 
 again in the rain through the meadows. No such 
 enchanting country as this is to be seen, even in a 
 dream ; in the worst weather, the little churches, and 
 the numerous houses, and shrubs, and rills are still 
 truly lovely. The verdure to-day was quite in its 
 element. Dinner has been long over, and it is still 
 pouring. I intend to go no further than Spiez this 
 evening. I regret much that I can neither see this 
 place, which seems beautifully situated, nor Spiez, 
 which I know from Rb'scl's sketches. This is, in 
 fact, the climax of the whole Simmen valley, and 
 thence the old song savs : 
 
 fu;b tie tt ftcn SI I pen i.n ie- be t[;al, cie be
 
 236 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 
 <ie - be - tljal, te be . il;at, Sie . be . tl;al. 
 
 I sang this the whole day while walking along. 
 The Siebethal, however, showed no gratitude for the 
 compliment, and the rain continued unremittingly. 
 
 Wyler, evening. 
 
 They could not take me in at Spiez, for thare is 
 no inn there where you can lodge, so T was obliged 
 to return here. I very much admired the situation 
 of Spicz; it is built on a rock, which projects into 
 the lake, with numbers of turrets, and gables, and 
 peaks. There I saw a manor-house, wilh an oran- 
 gery; a sulky-looking nobleman with two sporting 
 dogs at his heels; a little church, and terraces with 
 bright flowers. It was all very lovely. To-morrow 
 I shall see it from the other side, if the weather per- 
 mits. To-day it has rained for three hours consecu- 
 tively, and I was well soaked on the way here. The 
 mountain streams are superb in such weather, for 
 they leap and rage furiously. I crossed one of these 
 demons, the Kander, which seemed to have taken 
 leave of its senses, leaping and blustering, and 
 foaming; the water looked quite brown, and scat- 
 tered its yellow spray in all directions. A black 
 peak of the mountains was here and there visible 
 through the rain-laden clouds, which hung deeper 
 into the valley than I ever before saw them. Yet 
 the day was most enjoyable.
 
 WYLKR. 237 
 
 Wyler, the 9th, morning. 
 
 To-day the M'eather is worse than ever. It has 
 rained the whole night through, and this morning 
 too it is pouring. I have however intimated that 
 I shall not set out in such weather, and if it con- 
 tinues I Uiall write to you again to-night from 
 "\Vyler. la the meantime I have an opportunity 
 of making acquaintance with my Swiss host. They 
 are very primitive. 1 could not get on my shoes, 
 because + hey had shrunk, owing to the rain. The 
 landlady asked if I wished to have a shoe-horn; and 
 as I said 1 did. she brought me a tablespoon; but 
 it answered the purpose. And moreover they are 
 eaLi'er politicians. Over my bed hangs a horrible 
 distorted face, under which is written. " Brinz 
 Baniadofsgi." If he had not a kind of Polish cos- 
 tume, it would be difficult to discover whether it is 
 inH'uded fora manor a woman, for neither the por- 
 trait itself nor the inscription throw much light on 
 the subject. 
 
 Evening, at Untersee. 
 
 All jesting is turned into sad earnest, which in 
 these days may easily be the case. The storm has 
 raged furiously, and caused great damage and 
 devastation ; the people here say that they remem- 
 ber no more violent storm and rain for many years ; 
 and the hurricane rushes on with such incredible 
 rapidity. Tins morning early the weather was 
 m'Tely wet and disagreeable, and yet this afternoon 
 all the bridges are swept away, and every passage 
 blocked up for the moment. There has been a
 
 238 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 landslip at the Lake of Brienz, and everything is ID 
 an uproar. 
 
 1 have just heard here that war has been pro- 
 claimed in Europe ; so the world certainly bears a 
 wild, bleak aspect at this time, and 1 ought to feel 
 thankful, that at all events for the present I have a 
 warm room here, and a comfortable roof over my 
 head. The rain ceased for a time early this morn- 
 ing, and I thought that the clouds were fairly 
 exhausted ; so I left Wyler, but soon found that 
 the roads were sadly cut up ; but worse was to 
 come; the rain began again gently, but came down 
 so violently about nine o'clock, and in such sudden 
 squalls, that it was evident something strange was 
 brewing. I crept into a half built hut, where a 
 great mass of fodder was lying, and nestled com- 
 fortably among the fragrant hay. A soldier of the 
 Canton, who was on his way to Thun, also crept in 
 from the other side, and in the course of an hour, as 
 the weather did not improve, we went on our differ- 
 ent paths. 
 
 I was obliged to take shelter again under a roof 
 at Leisengen, and waited there a long time; bat as 
 my luggage was at Interlaken, a distance of only 
 two hours from thence, I thought that I would set 
 the weather at defiance ; so about one o'clock I set 
 out for Interlaken. There was literally nothing to 
 be seen but the grey surface of the lake. no moun 
 tains, and seldom even the outlines of the opposite 
 shore. The little springs,which as you may remember 
 ofton run along by the footpaths, had swollen into
 
 KAfX AM) FLOODS. . 239 
 
 stream?, through which 1 was obliged to wade; and 
 where the road was hilly, the waters accumulated 
 in the hollows and funned a pool, so 1 was forced to 
 jump over dripping hedges, into marshy meadows; 
 the small blocks of wood by means of which 
 brooks are crossed her, '-lay deep under (he water ; at 
 one moment I found myself between two of these 
 brooks, which had run into each other, and for a 
 considerable time 1 was obliged to walk against the 
 current, above my ankles in water. All the streams 
 are black, or chocolate-brown, looking like earth 
 (lowing along. Torrents poured down from above ; 
 the wind shook down the water from the dripping 
 walnut-trees ; the waterfalls which tumble into the 
 lake thundered frightfully from both shores. You 
 could trace the course of the brown muddy streaks, 
 rushing along through the pure waters of the lake, 
 which, in the midst of all this uproar, remained per- 
 fectly tranquil, its surface scarcely niftled, quietly 
 receiving all the blustering streams that poured 
 into its bosom. 
 
 A man now came up, who had taken off his shoes 
 and stockings, and turned up his trowsers. This 
 made me feel rather nervous. Presently I met two 
 women, who said that I could not go through the 
 village, for ail the bridges were gone. I asked how 
 far it was to Interlaken. "A good hour," they said. 
 I could not make up my mind to turn back, so I went 
 on towards the village, where the people shouted to 
 me from the windows, that I could come no further, 
 because the waters were rushing down so impetuously
 
 240 MEXDKLSSOIIX'S LETTF.RS. 
 
 IV; -in the mountains; and certainly there was a fine 
 commotion in the middle o(' the village. The muddy 
 stream had swept every tiling along with it. eddying 
 round the houses, and running along the meado\\H 
 and footpaths!, and finally thundering down into the, 
 lake. Luckily there was a little boat there, in which 
 i was ferried across to Xeuhaus. though this expedi- 
 tion in an open bout, in torrent,s of rain, was far from 
 pleasant. My condition, when I arrived at Xeu- 
 haus, was miserable enough ; I looked as if 1 wore 
 long black boots over my light -coloured trowsers, 
 my shoes and stockings quite up to my knees, dark- 
 brown ; then came the original white, then a soaked 
 nine paletot; even my sketch-book, that I had but- 
 toned under my waistcoat, was wet through. 
 
 I arrived in this plight at Interlaken. where I 
 was very ill received, for the people there either 
 could not or would not find room for me, and so 1 
 was forced to return to Untersee, where I am 
 famously lodged, and most comfortable. Singularly 
 enough,! had been all along anticipating with such 
 pleasure revisiting the inn at hiterlaken. of which 
 I had so many reminiscences, and I drove up in my 
 little Xeuhaus carriage to the Xuss-Baum Platz, 
 and saw the well-known glass gallery; the pretty 
 landlady, too, came to the door, but somewhat aged 
 and altered. Xeither the dreadful storms, nor the 
 various discomforts 1 had endured, annoyed me half 
 so much as not being able to remain at Interlaken, 
 consequently for the first time since I left Vevay I 
 was out of humour for half an hour, and obliged to
 
 IXTI:KLAKEN T 241 
 
 
 sing Beethoven's adagio in A flat major, three or 
 four times over, before I could recover my equan- 
 imity. I learned here, for the first time, the damage 
 the storm had already done, and may yet do, for the 
 min is still incessant. 
 
 Ili(f-pa*t Xine o'clock at Xiyhl. The bridge at 
 Zweiliitsclienen is carried away; the vctturini from 
 Urk-nz. and Grindehvald. will not encounter the risk 
 of driving home, from the fear of some rock falling 
 on their heads. The water here has risen to within 
 a foot and a half of the Aar bridge ; the gloom of 
 the sky I cannot describe. I mean to wait here pa- 
 tiently ; besides, I do nut require the aid of localities, 
 to enable me to summon up my reminiscences. They 
 have given me a room where there is a piano ; it 
 indeed bears the date of the year 1794, and some- 
 what resembles in tone the little old ' Silbermann" 
 in my room at home, so I took a fancy to it at the 
 very first chord I struck, and it also recalls you to 
 my mind. This piano has outlived many things, and 
 probably never dreamt that I was likely to compose 
 by its aid. as I was not born till 1809, now fully 
 two-und-t\vei)ty years ago ; in the meantime, the 
 piano, though seven-and-thirty years old, has plenty 
 of good material in it yet. 
 
 I have some new "Liedcr" in hand, dear sisters 
 You have not seen my favourite cue in E major 
 21
 
 242 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 " Auf der Reise," it is very sentimental. I arc, now 
 composing one which will not, I fear, be very good; 
 but it will, at all events, please us three, for it is at 
 least well intended. The words are Goethe's, but I 
 don't say what they are ; it is very daring in me to 
 compose for this poetry, and the words are by no 
 means suitable for music, but I thought them so 
 divinely beautiful, that I could not resist singing 
 them to myself. Enough for to-day ; so good night, 
 dear ones. 
 
 August loth. 
 
 The weather this morning is clear and bright, and 
 the storm has passed away ; would that all storms 
 ended as quickly, and were as soon allayed ! I have 
 passed a glorious day, sketching, composing, and 
 inhaling fresh air. In the afternoon I went on horse- 
 back to Intcrlaken, for no man can go there on foot 
 at this moment. The whole road is flooded, so that 
 even on horseback I got very wet. In this place, 
 too, every street is inundated and impassable. How 
 beautiful Intcrlaken is! How humble and insignifi- 
 cant we feel when we see how splendid the good 
 Lord has made this world ; and nowhere can you see 
 it in greater magnificence than here. 1 sketched for 
 my father one of the walnut-trees he so much ad- 
 mires, and for the same reason I mean to send him a 
 faithful drawing of one of the Bernese houses. Va- 
 rious parties of ladies and gentlemen, and children, 
 drove past and stared at me; I thought to myself 
 that they were now enjoying the same luxury 1 
 formerly did, and would fain have called out to them
 
 INTERLAKEX. 243 
 
 not to forgot this ' Towards evening, the snowy 
 mountains were glowing in the clearest outlines arid 
 b the loveliest hues. 
 
 "\Vhcn I came buck. I asked for some music paper, 
 and they referred me to their Pastor, and he to the 
 Forest-ranger, whose daughter gave me two pretty 
 neat sheets. The " Lied'' which I alluded to yesterday 
 is now finished; I cannot help after all telling you 
 what it is but you must not laugh at me it is actu- 
 ally, but don't think I am seized with hydrophobia 
 a sonnet, " Die Licbende schrcibt."* I am afraid 
 its merit is not great : I think it was mere inwardly 
 felt than outwardly well expressed; still there are 
 some good passages in it, and to-morrow I am going 
 to set to music a little poem of Uh'.aud's ; a couple 
 of pieces for the piano are also in progress. I can 
 unfortunately form no judgment of my new composi- 
 tions; I cannot tell whether they are good or bad; 
 and this arises from the circumstance that all the 
 people to whom 1 have played anything for the last 
 twelve months, forthwith glibly declared it to be 
 wonderfully beautiful, and that will never do. I 
 really wish that some < ue would let me have a little 
 rational blame once more, or what would be still 
 more agreeable, a little rati'/nal praise, and then I 
 should find it less indispensable to act the censor 
 towards myself, and to be so distrustful of my own 
 powers. Nevertheless, I must go on writing in the 
 meantime. 
 
 * In tho " Liederheft," Opus 15 of his posthumous wovk?.
 
 244 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 When 1 was at the Forest-ranger's, I heard that 
 the whole country was devastated, and the m^st sad 
 intelligence conies from all sides. All the bridges in 
 the liasli valley are entirely swept away, and also 
 many houses and cottages. A man came here to-day 
 from Lautcrbrunnen, and he was up to his shoulders 
 in water ; the high road is ruined, and what sounded 
 most dismal of all to me, a quantity of furniture and 
 household things were seen floating down the Kan- 
 der, coming no one knows whence. Happily the 
 waters are beginning to subside, but the damage they 
 have done cannot so easily be repaired. My travel- 
 ling plans have also been considerably disturbed by 
 these inundations, for, if there be any risk, I shall 
 certainly not go into the mountains. 
 
 The nth. 
 
 So I now close the first part of my journal, and 
 send it off to you. To-morrow I shall begin a new 
 one, for I intend then to go to Lautcrbrunnen. The 
 road is practicable for pedestrians, and not an idea 
 of any danger; travellers from thence have come 
 here to-day, but for carriages, the road will not bo 
 passable during the remainder of the year. I pur- 
 pose, therefore, proceeding across the Lesser Schei- 
 deck to Crimh'lwald. and by the Croat Scheideck 
 to Meiringcu; by Furka and Crimsel to Altnrf. and 
 so on to Lucerne ; storms, ram, and everything else 
 permitting. which means, if Cod will. This morn- 
 ing early, I was on the Harder, and saw the moun- 
 tains in the utmost splendour. I never remember 
 the Juugfrau so clear and so glowing as both yester-
 
 JOURXE? THROUGH SWITZERLAND. 245 
 
 day evening and at early dawn to-day. I rode back 
 to Interlaken. where I finished my sketch of the 
 walnut-tree. After that I composed for a time, and 
 wrote three waltzes for the .Forest-ranger's daughter 
 on the remaining music-paper she had given me, 
 politely presenting them to her myself. I have just 
 returned from a watery expedition to an inundated 
 reading-room, as I wished to see how the Poles are 
 petting on unluckily there is no reference to them 
 in the papers. I must now occupy myself till the 
 evening in packing, but I am most reluctant to leave 
 this room, where I am so comfortable, and shall 
 sadly miss my little piano. I intend to sketch the 
 view from this window with my pen on the back of 
 my letter, and also to write out my second " Lied," 
 and then Untorsee will soon also belong to my 
 reminiscences. " Ach ! wie schnell ! " I quote 
 myself, which is not over-modest, but these lines 
 recur to me but too often when the days are short- 
 ening, the leaves of the travelling map turned over, 
 and first Weimar, then Munich, and lastly Vienna, 
 are all things of the past year. AVell ! here you 
 have my window ! [Vide page 246.] 
 
 A// /;?(/ later. My plans are altered, and I stay 
 here til! the day after to-morrow. The people say that 
 by that time the roads will be considerably better, and 
 there is plenty here both to see and to sketch. The 
 Aar has not risen to such a height for seventy years. 
 To-day people were stationed on the bridge, with 
 poles and hooks, watching to catch any fragments 
 of the broken-down bri Iges. It did look so strange
 
 246 
 
 MENDELSSOHN S LETTERS. 
 
 - * OT~ -j-- *-^ 1SJ 
 
 to see a h!:ick object come swimming alon^ in the 
 distance from the bills, which was at last recognized 
 to bo a piece of balustrade, or a cross-beam, or 
 something of the sort, when all the people made a 
 rush at it, and tried to fish it up with their hooks, 
 and at lenji'lli succeeded in drawing' the monster 
 out of the water. Bui enough of water. that is, 
 of i;iy joiirn.il. It is now evening', and dark. I am 
 writini:' by ciiirl'.e-liirht. and should be so f^'ad if 1 
 could knock at ynr.r doer, and tu!\e my seat beside 
 yon at the round table. It is the old story over 
 again. \Vhercver it is bright and cheerful, aud I
 
 INUNDATION'S. 247 
 
 am well and happy, I most keenly feel your absence, 
 and most long to be with you again. AVho knows, 
 however, whether we may not come here together in 
 future years, and then think of this day, as we now 
 do of former ones ? But as none can tell whether 
 this may ever come to pass, I shall meditate no 
 longer on the subject, but write out my " Lied," 
 take another peep of the mountains, wish you all 
 happiness and good fortune, and thus close my 
 journal. 
 
 Lauterbrunnen, August i 3th, 1831. 
 
 I have just returned from an expedition on foot 
 to the Schrnadri Bach, and the Breithorn. All that 
 you can by possibility conceive as to the grandeur 
 aud implying forms of the mountains here, must fall 
 far short of the reality of nature. That Goethe could 
 write nothing- in .Switzerland but a few weak poems 
 and still weaker lette.rs, is to me as incomprehensi- 
 ble as many other things in this world. The road 
 here is again in a lamentable state; where, six days 
 ago. there was the must beautiful highway, there is 
 now oniy a desolate mass of rocks; numbers of 
 huge blocks lyui" 1 about, and heaps of rubbish and 
 sand. Xo trace whatever of human hands to be 
 seen. The waters, indeed, have entirely subsided, 
 but 1h>-'y are still in a troubled state, for from time 
 to time you can hear the stones tossed about, and 
 the waterfalls also in the midst of their white foam, 
 roll down black stones into the valley. 
 
 My guide pointed or,t to me a pretty new house, 
 standing i;i the midst of a wild turbulent stream;
 
 248 SIEXDELSSOJX'S LETTERS. 
 
 he said that it belonged to his brother-in-law and 
 formerly stood in a beautiful meadow, which had 
 been very profitable ; the man was obliged to leave 
 the house during the night ; the meadow has disap- 
 peared for ever, and masses of pebbles and stones 
 have usurped its place. "He never was rich, but 
 now he is poor," said he, in concluding his sad story. 
 The strangest thing is, that in the very centre of 
 this frightful devastation, the Liitschine having 
 overflowed the whole extent of the valley among 
 the marshy meadows, and masses of rocks, where 
 there is no longer even a trace of a road, stands a 
 char-d-banc and is likely to stand for some time 
 to come. It chanced that the people in it wished 
 to drive through at the very time of the hurricane ; 
 then came the inundation, so they were forced to 
 leave the carriage and everything else to fate, thus 
 the c/tar-d-banc is still standing waiting there. It 
 was a very frightful sight when we reached the spot, 
 where the whole valley, with its roads and embank- 
 ments, is a perfect rocky sea; and my guide, who 
 went first, kept whispering to himself, " 'sisc'b 
 furchtbar !'' The torrent had carried into the mid- 
 dle of the stream some large trunks of trees, which 
 are standing aloft; for at the same moment some 
 huge fragments of rocks having been flung against 
 them, the bare trees were closely wedged m betwixt 
 them, and they now stand nearly perpendicular in 
 the bed of the river. 
 
 I should never come to an end were T to try to 
 tell you all the va~ : ous forms of havoc which 1 saw
 
 THE VALLEY OF I.ACTERBRUXXEX. 249 
 
 between this place and Untersee. Still the beauty 
 of the valley made a stronger impression on me 
 than I can describe. It is much to be legrettod, 
 that when you were in this country, you went 
 no further than Staubbach ; for it is from there 
 that the valley of Lauterbrunnen really begins. 
 The Scliwarzer Munch, and all the other snowy 
 mountains in the background, become more mighty 
 and grand, and on every side bright foaming cas- 
 cades tumble into the valley. You gradually ap- 
 proach the mountains covered with snow, and the 
 glaciers in the background, through pine woods, 
 and oaks, and maple-trees. The moist meadows, 
 too, were covered with a profusion of brilliant 
 flowers snakewort. the wild scabious, campanulas, 
 and many others. The Llitschine had accumulated 
 masses of stones at the sides, having swept along 
 fragments of rocks, as my guide said, "bigger than 
 a stove," then the carved brown wooden houses, and 
 the hedges ; it is all beautiful beyond measure ! 
 Unfortunately we could not get to the Schmadri 
 Bach, as bridges, paths, and fords, were all gone ; 
 but it was a walk I can never forget. 
 
 I also tried to sketch the Monch; but what can 
 you hope to do with a small pencil? Hegel indeed 
 says, ' that every single human thought is more 
 sublime than the whole of Nature; " but in this place 
 I consider that too presumptuous ; the axiom sounds 
 indeed very fine, but is a confounded paradox never- 
 theless. I am quite contented, in the meantime, to 
 adhere to Nature, which is the safest of the two.
 
 250 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 You know the situation of the inn hero, and if you 
 cannot recall it. refer to my former Swiss drawing 
 book, where you will find it sketched, badly enough, 
 and where I put in a footpath in front, from imagina- 
 tion, which made me laugh heartily to-day, when I 
 thought of it. I am at this moment looking out of 
 the same window, and gazing at the dark mountains, 
 for it is late in the evening, that is. a ouartor to 
 eight o'clock, and 1 have an idea, which is "more 
 sublime than the whole of Nature" I mean to go 
 to bed ; so good night, dear ones. 
 
 The 14-th, ten o'clock in the forenoon. 
 
 From the dairy hut on the Wcngern Alp, in 
 heavenly weather, I send you my greetings. 
 
 Grindelwald, evening. 
 
 I could not write more to you early this morning; 
 I was most reluctant to leave the Jungfrau. AVhat 
 a day this has been for me ! Ever since we were 
 here together I have wished to see the Lesser 
 Scheideck once more. So I woke early to-day, with 
 some misgivings, for so much might intervene bad 
 weather, clouds, rain, fogs but none of these 
 occurred. It was a day as if made on purpose for 
 me to cross the Wengorn Alp. The sky was flecked 
 with white clouds, floating far above the highest 
 snowy peaks ; no mists below on any of the moun- 
 tains, and all their pinnacles glittering brightly in 
 the morning air ; every undulation, and the face of 
 every hill, clear and distinct. AYhy should I even 
 attempt to portray it? You have already seen the
 
 GRIXDELWALD. 2ol 
 
 Wcngern Alp. but at that time we had bad weather, 
 whereas to-day the whole mountain range was in 
 holiday attire. Nothing was wanting-; from thun- 
 dering avalanches, to its being Sunday, and people 
 dressed in their best going to church, just as it was 
 then. 
 
 The hills had only dwelt in my memory as gigantic 
 peaks, for their great altitude had entirely absorbed 
 me. To-day I was struck with amazement at the 
 immense extent of their ba.se. their solid, spacious 
 masses, and the connection of all these huge piles, 
 which seem to lean towards each othrr. and to reach 
 out their hands to one another. In addition to this 
 you must imagine every glacier, and snowy plateau, 
 and point of rock, dazzliugly lighted up and glitier- 
 ing. Then the far summits of distant mountain 
 ranges stretching hither, as if surveying the others. 
 I do believe that such are the thoughts of the 
 Almighty. Those who do not yet know Him. may 
 here see Him. and the nature He created, visibly 
 displayed. Then the fresh, bracing air, which re- 
 freshes you when weary, and cools you when it is 
 worm. and so many springs ! I must at some future 
 time write you a separate treatise on springs, lint 
 i have not time for it to-day, as I have something 
 particular to tell you. 
 
 Now you will say. I suppose, he came down the 
 mountain airain. and is going to inform us once more 
 how beautiful Switzerland is. Not at all. "When I 
 arrived at the herdsman's hut. I was told that in a 
 meadow far up the Alps, there was to be a great fta
 
 252 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 this very day, and I saw people at intervals climbing 
 the mountain. I was not at all fatigued; an Alpine 
 fete is not to be seen every day ; the weather said, 
 T/C.S; the guide was willing. "Let us go to Intra- 
 men," said I. The old herdsman went first, so we 
 were obliged to climb very vigorously; for Intra- 
 mcn is more than a thousand feet higher than the 
 Lesser Scheideck. The herdsman was a ruthless 
 fellow, for he ran on before us like a cat ; he soon 
 took pity on my guide, and relieved him of my cloak 
 and knapsack, but even with them he continued to 
 push forward so eagerly that we really could not 
 keep up with him. The path was frightfully steep; 
 he extolled it. however, saying that there was a much 
 nearer, but much steeper track : he was about sixty 
 years of age, and when my youthful guide and I 
 with difficulty surmounted a hill, we invariably saw 
 him descending the next one. AVe walked on for 
 two hours in the most fatiguing path I ever encoun- 
 tered ; first a steep ascent, then down again into a 
 hollow, over heaps of crumbling stones, and brooks 
 and ditches, across two meadows covered with snow, 
 in the most profound solitude, without a footpath, 
 or the most remote trace of the hand of man ; occa- 
 sionally we could still hear the avalanches from the 
 Jungfrau ; otherwise all was still, and not a tree to 
 be seen. 
 
 When this silence and solitude had continued for 
 some time, and we had clambered to the top of a 
 grassy acclivity, we suddenly came in sight of a vast 
 number of people standing in a circle, laughing,
 
 AN ALPINE FETE. 253 
 
 speaking, and shouting. They were all in gay 
 dresses, and had flowers in their hats ; there were 
 a great many girls, some tables with casks of wine, 
 and all around deep solemn silence, and tremendous 
 mountains. It was singular that while I was in the 
 act of climbing, I thought of nothing but rocks and 
 stones, and the snow and the track; but the moment 
 I saw human beings, all the rest was forgotten, and 
 I only thought of men, and their sports, and the 
 merry fete. It was really a fine sight. The scene 
 was in a spacious green meadow far above the 
 clouds ; opposite were the snowy mountains in all 
 their prodigious altitude, more especially the dome 
 of the great Kiger, the Schreckhorn, and the "Wetter- 
 lii'iriier, and all the others as far as the Bllimli's Alp ; 
 the Lauterbrunneii valley lay far beneath us in the 
 misty depths, quite small, as well as our road of 
 yesterday, with all the little cataracts like threads, 
 the houses like dots, and the trees like grass. Far 
 in the background the Lake of Than occasionally 
 glanced out of the mist. 
 
 The crowd now began wrestling, and singing, and 
 drinking, and laughing ; all healthy, strong men. I 
 was much amused by the wrestling, which I had 
 never before seen. The girls served the men with 
 A'//'.sr '.wrs.se?- and Schnapps the flasks passed from 
 hand to hand, and 1 drank with them, and gave three 
 little children some cakes, which made them quite 
 happy ; a very tipsy old peasant sang me some 
 s'nigs; then they all sang ; then the guide favoured 
 us \vith a modern song; and then little boys fought. 
 22
 
 2D4 MENDELSSOHN S LETTERS. 
 
 Everything pleased me on the Alps, and I remained 
 lying there till towards evening, and made myself 
 quite at home. We descended rapidly into the mea- 
 dows below, and soon descried the familiar inn, and 
 its windows glittering in the evening sun ; a fresh 
 breeze from the glaciers began to blow; this soon 
 cooled us. It is now getting late, and from time to 
 time avalanches arc heard, so thus has my Sunday 
 been spent. A fete-day indeed ! 
 
 On the Faulhorn, August I 5th. 
 
 I am shivering with cold ! Outside thick snow is 
 falling, and the wind raging and blustering. AVo 
 are eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, 
 and a long tract of snow to traverse, but here I am ! 
 Nothing can be seen; all day the weather has been 
 dreadful. AYhen I remember how fine it was yester- 
 day, while I earnestly wish that it may be as fine to- 
 morrow, it reminds me of life, for we are always 
 hovering between the past and the future. Our 
 excursion of yesterday seems as far past and remote, 
 as if I knew it only from old memories, and had 
 scarcely been present myself ; for to-day when during 
 five mortal hours we were struggling on, against 
 rain and fog, sticking in the mud, and seeing nothing 
 round us but grey vapours. I could scarcely realize 
 that it ever was or ever will be again fine weather, 
 or that I ever lay idly stretched on this wet marshy 
 grass. Besides, everything here wears such a wintry 
 aspect; heated stoves, thick snow, cloaks, freezing, 
 shivering people. I am at this moment in the high- 
 est inn in Europe; and just as in St. Peter's, you
 
 THE FAUI.IIORV. 255 
 
 look down on every church, and on the S'implon, 
 upon every road, so from hence I look dowu on all 
 other inns ; but not morally, for this is little more 
 than a few wooden planks. Never mind. I am 
 now Ailing 1 to bed. and I will no lender watch my 
 own breath. Goodnight! ''Tom's a cold.'' 
 
 Hospital, August iSth. 
 
 I have not been aide to open my journal for two 
 or three days, as when night came J had no longer 
 time for anything, but to dry myself and my clothes 
 at the fire, to warm myself, to sigh over the weather, 
 like the stove behind which 1 took refuge, and to 
 sleep a good deal ; besides, I did not wish to try your 
 patience, by my everlasting repetitions of how deep 
 1 had sunk in the mud, and how incessantly it rained, 
 and so forth. During the last few days in reality I 
 went through the most beautiful country, and yet 
 saw nothing but thick fogs, and water in the sky, 
 and from the sky, and on the earth. I passed places 
 that I had long wished to visit, without being able 
 to enjoy them; what also damped my writing mood, 
 was being obliged to battle with the weather, and if 
 it continues the same. I shall only write occasionally, 
 for really I should have nothing to say. but " a grey 
 sky rain and fog." 1 have been on the Faulhorn, 
 the Great Scheidcck, on Grimsel Spital, and to-day 
 I crossed Grimsel and Furka, and the principal ob- 
 jects 1 have seen were the points of my shabby um- 
 brella, and I had not even a glimpse of the huge 
 mountains. At one moment, to-day, the Fiusteraar- 
 horu came to light, but it looked as savage as if it
 
 25G MKNDfcLKSOHX's LETTERS. 
 
 wished to devour us ; and yet if we were a single 
 Halt-hour without rain, it was truly beautiful. A 
 jotiiney on foot through this country, even in the 
 most unfavourable weather, is the most enchanting 
 
 O 
 
 thing you can possibly imagine; if the sky were 
 bright, I think the excess of pleasure would be quite 
 overpowering; 1 must not therefore complain too 
 much of the weather, for I have had my full share 
 of enjoyment. 
 
 During the last few days I felt like Tantalus. 
 "\Yhen I. was on the Schcideck, a glimpse of the 
 lower part of the Wcttcrborn was sometimes visible 
 through the clouds, and it seemed beyond measure 
 magnificent and sublime; but I only saw the base. 
 On the Faulhorn, I could not distinguish objects 
 fifty paces off, although I stayed there till ten 
 o'clock in the morning. We went down to the 
 i^cheideck in a heavy snow-storm, by a very wet and 
 difficult path, which the incessant rain had made 
 worse than usual. We arrived at Grimsel Spital in 
 rain and storm. To-day I wished to have ascended 
 the Sidelhorn, but was obliged to give it up on ac- 
 count of the fog. The Mayenwand wa-s shrouded in 
 grey clouds, and we had only a single peep of the 
 Finsteraarhorn, when we were on the Furka. We 
 also arrived here in a torrent of rain and water 
 everywhere, but all this does not signify. My guide 
 is a capital fellow: if it rains, he sings and jmltlt ; 
 if it is line, so much the better; and though I failed 
 in seeing some of the finest objects, still I saw a 
 great deal that was interesting.
 
 THE GLACIERS. 257 
 
 On this occasion I have formed a particular 
 
 friendship for the glaciers; they art indeed, the 
 
 most marvellous monsters in the world. How 
 
 strangely they are all tumbled about ; here, a row 
 
 of jagged points, there, toppling crags, and above, 
 
 towers and bastions, while on every side, crevices 
 
 and ravines are visible, all of the most wondrous 
 
 pure ice, that rejects all soil of earth, casting up 
 
 again on the surface the stones, sand, and gravel, 
 
 flung down by the mountains. Then the superb 
 
 colouring, when the sun shines on them, and their 
 
 mysterious advance they sometimes move on a foot 
 
 and a half in a single day, so that the people in the 
 
 village are in the greatest anxiety and alarm, when 
 
 the glacier arrives so quietly, and yet with such 
 
 irresistible force, for it, shivers rocks and stones 
 
 when they lie in the way then the ominous crashing 
 
 and thundering, and the rushing of so many springs 
 
 near and round. They arc splendid miracles. I 
 
 was in the Piosenlaui glacier, which forms a kind of 
 
 cave, that you can creep through ; it looks as if 
 
 built, of emeralds, only more transparent. Above, 
 
 around, on all sides, you can see rivulets running 
 
 between the clear ice. In the centre of this narrow 
 
 passage, the ice has left a large round window, 
 
 through which you look down on the valley, and 
 
 issue forth again under an arch of ice, and high 
 
 above, black peaks rear their heads, from which 
 
 nv.i^ses of ice roll down in the boldest undulations. 
 
 The glacier of the Rhone is the most imposing that 
 
 T have seen, and the sun burst forth on it as we 
 
 22*
 
 258 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 passed early this morning. This is a suggestive 
 sight, and you get a casual glimpse of the rocky 
 peak of a mountain, a plateau covered with snow, 
 cataracts, and bridges spanning them, and masses of 
 crumbling stones and rocks ; in short, even if you 
 see little in Switzerland, it is at all events more 
 than is to be seen in any other country. 
 
 I have been drawing very busily, and think I have 
 made some progress. I even tried to sketch the 
 Jungfrau ; it will at least serve as a reminiscence, 
 and I can enjoy the thought that these strokes were 
 actually made on the spot itself. I see people rush- 
 ing through Switzerland, and declaring that they 
 find nothing to admire there, or anywhere elsi; 
 (except themselves) ; not the least affected nor 
 roused, remaining cold and prosaic, even in pre- 
 sence of the mountains ; when I meet such people 
 I should like to give them a good drubbing. 
 Two Englishmen and an English lady are at this 
 moment sitting beside me near the stove; they are 
 as wooden as sticks. We have been travelling the 
 same road for a couple of days, and I declare the 
 people have never uttered a syllable except of abuse , 
 that there were no fireplaces either on the (Jrimsel, 
 or here; but that there are mountain* here, is a fact 
 to which they never allude ; their whole journey is 
 occupied in scolding their guide, who laughs at 
 them, in quarrelling with the innkeepers, and in 
 yawning in each others' faces. They think every- 
 thing commonplace, because they are themsehes 
 commonplace, therefore they are not happier in
 
 swiss SCENERY. 259 
 
 Switzerland than they would be in Bcrnau. I main- 
 tain that happiness is relative; another would thank 
 God that he could see all this, and so I will be that 
 
 other ! 
 
 Fluelen, August 1 9th. 
 
 A day made for a journey ; fine, and enjoyable, 
 and bracing. When we wished to start this morning 
 at six o'clock, there was such a storm of sleet and 
 snow that we were obliged to wait till nine o'clock, 
 when the sun came forth, the clouds dispersed, and 
 we had delightful bright weather as far as this place ; 
 but now sombre clouds, heavy with rain, have col- 
 lected over the lake, so that no doubt to-morrow the 
 old troubles will break loose again. But how glorious 
 this day has been, so clear and sunny we had the 
 most charming journey ! You know the St. (Jothard 
 Road in all its beauty ; you lose much by coming 
 down from above, instead of ascending from this 
 point, for the grand surprise of the Urner Loch is 
 entirely lost, and the new road which has been made, 
 with all the grandeur, as well as convenience, of the 
 Simplon, impairs the e fleet of the Devil's Bridge : 
 inasmuch as close beside it a new arch, much bolder 
 and larger, has been constructed, which makes the 
 old bridge look quite insignificant, but the ancient 
 crumbling walls look much more romantic and pictu- 
 resque. Though the view of Andermatt is thus lost, 
 and the new Devil's Bridge far from being poetical, 
 still you go merrily downhill all day, on a delight- 
 fully smooth road, flying rapidly past the various 
 localities, and instead of being sprinkled by the foam
 
 260 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 of the waterfall on the old bridge as formerly, and 
 endanger 'd by the wind, you now pass uli.ug far 
 above the stream, beUvee.! t\vo ranges of solid 
 parapets. 
 
 We came past (Joschenen and Wasen.and p resent h 
 appeared tlie huge lirs and beech-trees close to Am- 
 steg; then the charming- valley of Aitorf. v.-ith its 
 cottages, meadows, and \voods. its rocks and snowy 
 mountains. AVc rested at Aitorf in a Capuchin 
 ('invent, situated rn a height; and finally, here I 
 am (.11 the hunks of the Vienvald.-tudt Lake. Tu- 
 rn rrow I purpose crossing the lake to Lucerne, 
 where I hope to tind letters from you. I shall then 
 also get rid of a party of yeung people from J'erlin, 
 who have been pursuing almost the same route with 
 me. meeting me at every turn, and boring me terri- 
 bly ; the patriotism of a lieutenant, a d\er, ami a 
 young carpenter, all three bent on destroying 
 France, \vas peculiarly distasteful to me. 
 
 Sarncn, the icth. 
 
 I crossed the Vier.vuldstudt Lake early this morn- 
 ing, in a continued pour of rain, and found your 
 welcome letter of the f)ih in Lucerne. As it con- 
 tained nothing but good tidings. I immediately 
 arranged a tour of three, days to Unterwalden and 
 the I'niuig. I intend to call airi'u at Lucerne fi r 
 your next letter, and then I am <.!!' to the We.-t. and 
 out of Swii/.'iv.ind. 1 shall take leave of it \\V< h 
 deep regret. Tlie country is beautiful beyond ail 
 conception ; and though the weather is again odious, 
 rain and storms the whole day, and all through
 
 261 
 
 the night. yet the Tcllon Plattc. the Grlit.i, Bran- 
 nen and rfchwytz, and the dazzling green of the 
 meadows this evening in Untenvalden, are too lovely 
 ever to be forgotten. The hue of this green is most 
 unique, refreshing the eye and the whole being. I 
 shall certainly attend to your kind precautionary 
 injunctions, dear Mother, but you need be under 
 no apprehensions about me. I am by no means 
 careless with regard to my health, and have not, for 
 a long time, felt so well a.< during my pedestrian 
 excursions in Switzerland. If eaiing, and drinking, 
 and sleeping, and music in one's head, can make a 
 man healthy, then, God be praised. 1 may well call 
 myself so; for my guide and I vie with each other 
 in eating and drinking, and not less so unluckily in 
 singing. In sleeping alone I surpass him; and 
 though I sometimes di>turb him by my trumpet 01 
 oboe tones, he in turn cuts short my morning sleep. 
 Please God, therefore, we shall have a happy meet- 
 ing. Before that time arrives, however, many a page 
 of my journal must yet travel to you ; but even this 
 interval will quickly pass, just as everything quickly 
 passes, except indeed what is best of all ! so let us 
 be true and loving to each other. FELIX. 
 
 Engelberg, August 23rd, 1831. 
 
 My heart is so full that I must tell you about it. 
 In this enchanting valley I have just taken up
 
 2G2 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Schiller's "AVilhelm Tell." and read half of the first 
 scene; there is surely no genius like that of Ger- 
 many! Heaven know.-; why it is so. but I do thiuk 
 that no other nation could fully comprehend such an 
 opening scene, far less be able 1o compose it. This 
 is what I call a poem, and a beginning; first the 
 pure, clear verse, in which the lake, smooth as A 
 mirror, and all else, is so vividly described, and then 
 the slow commonplace Swiss talk, and Baumgarten 
 coining in, it is quite glorious! How fresh, how 
 powerful, how exciting ! We have no such work as 
 this in music, and yet even that sphere ought one 
 day to produce something equally perfect. It is so 
 admirable in him too, to have created an entire 
 Switzerland for himself, inasmuch as he never saw 
 it, and yet all is so faithful and so strikingly truth- 
 ful ; the people and life, the scenery and nature. I 
 was delighted when the old innkeeper here, in a 
 solitary mountain village, brought me from the 
 monastery the book with the well-known characters 
 and old familiar names ; but the opening again quite 
 surpassed all my expectations. It is now more 
 than four years since I read it. I mean presently to 
 go over to the monastery, to work off my excite- 
 ment on the organ. 
 
 Afternoon. 
 
 Do not be astonished at my enthusiasm, but read 
 the scene through again yourself, and then yon will 
 find my excitement quite natural. Such passages 
 as those whjre all the shepherds and hunters shout
 
 . C CIIILI,ER'S ' WILOELM TELL.' 263 
 
 "Save him ! save him ! " in the close at the Gru'tli, 
 when the sun is about to rise, could indeed only 
 have occurred to a German, and above all to 
 Schiller ; and the whole piece is crowded with 
 similar passages. Let me refer to that particular 
 one at the end of the second scene, where Tell comes 
 with the rescued Baumgarten to Staufl'achcr. and 
 the agitating conference closes in such tranquillity 
 and peace : this, along with the beauty of the 
 thought, is so thoroughly Swiss. Then the begin- 
 ning of the Griitli the symphony which the or- 
 chestra ought to play at the end 1 composed in my 
 mind to-day, because I could do nothing satisfactory 
 on the little organ: altogether a variety of plans 
 and ideas occurred to me. There is a vast deal to 
 do in this world, and I mean to be industrious. The 
 expression that Goethe m.ide use of to me, that 
 Schiller could have t<tippli>-d two great tragedies 
 every year, with its business-like tone, always in- 
 spired mi' with particular respect : but not till this 
 morning did the full force of its signification become 
 clear to me. and it has made me feel that I must set 
 to work in earnest. Even the mistakes are capti- 
 vating, and there is something grand in them ; and 
 though certainly Bertha, Rudenz, and old Attiug- 
 hausen, seem to me great blemishes, still Schiller's 
 idea is evident, and he was in a manner forced to do 
 as he has done ; and it is consolatory to find that 
 even so great a man could for once commit such an 
 egregious mistake. 
 
 I lr>.ve passed a most enjoyable morning, and T
 
 264 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 feel in the kind of mood which makes yon long to 
 recall such a man to life, in order to thank him. and 
 inspiring an earnest desire, one day, to compose a 
 work which shall impress others with similar feelings. 
 Probably you do not understand what induced me 
 to take up my quarters here in Kngelbcrg. It hap- 
 pened thus : I have not had a single day's rest 
 since I left Untersee, and therefore wished to remain 
 for a day at Meiringen, but was tempted by the 
 lovely weather in the morning, to come on here. 
 The usual rain and wind assailed me on the moun- 
 tains, and so I arrived very tired. This is the 
 nicest inn imaginable, clean, tidy, very small and 
 rustic, an old white-hailed innkeeper; a wooden 
 house, situated in a meadow, a little apart from the 
 road; and the people so kind and cordial, that I feel 
 quite at home. I think this kind of domestic com- 
 fort is only to be found among those who speak the 
 German tongue ; at all events. I never met with it 
 anywhere else; and though other nations may not 
 feel the want of it. or scarcely care about it. still 1 
 am a native of Hamburg, and so it makes me feel 
 happy and at home. It is not therefore strange that 
 I decided on taking my day's rest here with these 
 worthy old people. My room has windows on every 
 side, commanding a view of the valley : the room is 
 prettily panelled with wood; some coloured texts 
 and a crucifix are hanging on the walls ; there is a 
 solid green stove, and a bench encircling it. and two 
 lofty bedsteads. When 1 am lying in bed 1 have 
 the following view :
 
 COMFORTABLE 
 
 I have failrd ;:^-ain in my buildings, and in the 
 hills too. but 1 hope to make a better sketch of it 
 for you in my book, if the weather is tolerable to- 
 morrow. I shall always consider this valley to be 
 one of the loveliest in ail Switzerland. I have not 
 yet seen the .tntrantic mountains by which it is en- 
 compassed, as they have been all day shrouded in 
 mist; but the beautiful meadows, the numerous 
 brooks, the house-, and the foot of the hills, so far 
 as I could see them, are exquisitely lovely. The 
 green of the Unterwalden is more brilliant than in 
 any other canton, and it is celebrated for its meadows
 
 2GG MENDELSSOHN'S I-ETTERS 
 
 even among the Swiss. The previous journey too 
 from Harncn was enchanting, and never did I see 
 larger or finer trees, or a more fruitful country 
 Moreover the road is attended with as few difficul- 
 ties as if you were traversing a large garden ; the 
 declivities are clothed with tall slender beeches; the 
 stones overgrown by moss and herbs; then there 
 are springs, brooks, small lakes, and houses : on cue 
 side is a view of the Untenvalden and its green 
 plains ; and shortly after a view of the whole vale 
 of llasli, the snowy mountains, and cataracts leaping 
 down from rocky precipices ; the road too is shaded 
 tae whole way by enormous trees. 
 
 Yesterday, early, as I told you, I was tempted by 
 the bright sun to cross the Genthcl valley to ascend 
 the Joch, but on the summit the most dreadful 
 weather set in ; we were obliged to make our way 
 through the snow, and this was sometimes anvthing 
 
 O v O 
 
 but pleasant. We speedily, however, emerged out 
 of the sleet and snow, and an enchanting moment 
 ensued, when the clouds broke, while we were still 
 standing in them ; and far beneath us, we saw 
 through the mists as through a black veil, the 
 green valley of Engelberg. ~\Ve soon made our way 
 down, and heard the silvery bell of the monastery 
 ring out the Ave Maria. We next saw the white 
 building on the meadow, and arrived here after an 
 expedition of nine hours. I need not say how 
 acceptable at such a time is a comfortable inn, and 
 how good the rice and milk seems, and how long yon 
 sleep next moruiug.
 
 SCHILLER'S ' WILHEI.M TELI..' 267 
 
 To-day we have had very disagreeable weather, so 
 they brought me " Wilhelm Toll " from the library 
 of the monastery, and the rest you know. I was 
 much struck by Schiller having so completely failed 
 in portraying lludenz, for the whole character is 
 feeble, and without sufficient motive, and it seems 
 as if he had resolved purposely to represent him 
 throughout, in the worst possible light. His words, 
 in the scene with the apple, might lend to redeem 
 him, but b"ing preceded by that with Bertha, they 
 make no impression. When he joins the Swiss, after 
 the death of Attingbausen. it might be supposed 
 that he is changed, bat he instantly proclaims that 
 his Bertha is curried oil', so again he has as little 
 merit as ever. It occurred to me that if he had 
 uttered the very same manly words against Gessler, 
 without the explanation with Bertha having pre- 
 viously taken place, and if such a result had arisen 
 out of this in the following act, the character would 
 have been much better, and the explanatory scene 
 not so merely theatrical as it now is. This is cer- 
 tainly very like 1he egg and the hen, but I should 
 like to hear your opinion on the subject. I dare not 
 speak to one of our learned men on such matters ; 
 these gentlemen arc a vast deal too wise ! If how- 
 ever I chance some of these days to meet one of 
 those youthful modern poets, who look down on 
 Schiller, and only partly approve of him ; so much 
 the worse for him, for J must infallibly crush him ta 
 death. 
 
 Now, good night ; I must rise very early to-mor-
 
 268 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 row ; it is to be a grand fete to-day in the monastery, 
 and a solemn religious service, and I am to play the 
 organ for them. The monks were listening this 
 morning while I was extemporizing a little, and 
 were so pleased, that they invited me to play the 
 people in and out at their festival to-morrow. The 
 father organist has also given me the subject on 
 which I am to extemporize ; it is better than any 
 that would have occurred to an organist in Italy. 
 
 Adagio. 
 
 I shall see to-morrow what I can make of this. I 
 played a couple of new pieces of mine on the organ 
 this afternoon in the church, and they sounded 
 latherwell. When I came past the monastery the 
 same evening, the church was closed, and scarcely 
 were the doors shut, when the monks began to sing 
 imcturns fervently, in the dark church ; they intoned 
 the deep B. which vibrated splendidly, and could be 
 heard far down the valley. 
 
 August 24th. 
 
 This has been another splendid day the weather 
 origlit and enjoyable, and the bluest sky that I have 
 seen since 1 left Chamouni; it was a holiday in the 
 village, and in all the mountains. After long-con- 
 tinued fogs, and every variety of bad weather, encc 
 more to see from the window in the morning the 
 clear range of mountains and their pinnacles, is in-
 
 VALLEY OF EXGELBERG. 269 
 
 deed a grand spectacle. They are acknowledged to 
 be finest after rain, and to-day they looked as fresh 
 as if newly created. This valley is not surpassed 
 liy any in Switzerland. If I ever return here this 
 shall be my head-quarters, for it is even more lovely, 
 and more spacious and unconfined than Chamouni, 
 and more free than Interlaken. The Spann-iirter 
 are incredibly grand peaks, and the round Titlis 
 heavily laden with snow, the foot of which lies in the 
 meadows, and the effect of the Urner rocks in the 
 distance, are also well worth seeing: it is now full 
 moon, and the valley is clothed in beauty. 
 
 This whole day ] have done nothing but sketch, 
 and play the organ : in the morning I performed my 
 duties as organist it was a grand affair. The organ 
 stands clo^e to the high altar, next to the stalls for 
 the "patres;" sol took my place in the midst of 
 the monks, a very Saul among the prophets. An 
 impatient Benedictine at my side played the double 
 bass, and others the violins; one of their dignitaries 
 was first violin. The pater prceceptor stood in front 
 of me. sang a solo, and conducted with a long stick, 
 as thick as- my arm. The &&vcs in the monastery 
 formed the choir, in their black cowls; an old de- 
 cayed rustic played on an old decayed oboe, and at 
 a little distance two mure were pulling away com- 
 posedly at two huge trumpets with green tassels; 
 and yet with all this the affair was gratifying. It 
 was impossible not to like the people, for they had 
 plenty of zeal, and all worked away as well as they 
 could. A mass, by Emmerich, was given, and every 
 23*
 
 270 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 note of it betrayed its "powder and pigtail." I 
 played thorough-bass faithfully from my ciphered 
 part, adding wind instruments from time to lime, 
 when I was weary ; made the responses, extempo- 
 rized on the appointed theme, and at the end, by 
 desire of the Prelate, played a march, in spite of my 
 repugnance to do this on the organ, and was then 
 honourably dismissed. 
 
 This afternoon I played again alone to the monks, 
 who gave me the finest subjects in the world the 
 " Credo" among others a fantasia on the latter was 
 very successful ; it is the only one that in my life I 
 ever wished I could have written down, but now I 
 can only remember its general purport, and must 
 ask permission to send Fanny, in this letter, a pas- 
 sage that I do not wish to forget. By degrees various 
 counter subjects were introduced in opposition to 
 the canto fenno ; first dotted notes, then triplets, 
 at last rapid semiquavers, through which the " Credo" 
 was to work its way ; quite at the close, the semiqua 
 vers became very wild, and arpeggios followed on 
 the whole organ in G minor. I proceeded to take up 
 the theme on the pedal in long notes (during the 
 continued arpeggios), so that it ended with A. On 
 the A, I made a pedal point in arpeggios, and then 
 it suddenly occurred to me to play the arpeggios 
 with the left hand alone, so that the right hand 
 could introduce the " Credo" again in the treble 
 with A, thus :
 
 FANTASIA ON THE CREDO. 
 
 271 
 
 SnE^Jtf :-i^r-q 
 _^JL_f i ,J? d 
 
 
 etc. 
 
 
 This was followed by a stop on the last note, and 
 a pause, and then it concluded. I wish you had 
 heard it, for I a-m sure you would have been pleased. 
 It was time for the monks to i'o to complines, and 
 we took leave of each other cordially. They wished 
 to p'ive me letters of introduction for some other 
 places in Untenvalden, but I declined this, as I in- 
 tend to go to Lucerne early to-morrow, and after 
 that I expect not to be more than five or six days 
 longer in Switzerland. Your FELIX.
 
 ?.T2 MENDELSSOHN'S I.KTTFMIS. 
 
 To "NYiuiKLM TAUBKUT. 
 
 Lucerne, August ayth, 1831. 
 
 I wish to offer you my thanks, but 1 really do not 
 know where to begin first ; whether for the pleasure 
 your songs caused nie in Milan, or for your kind 
 letter which ] received yesterday; both however arc- 
 closely connected, and so I think we have already 
 made acquaintance. ]t is quite as fitting- that we 
 should lie presented to each other through the 
 medium of music-paper, as by a third person in 
 society; indeed 1 think that in the former case you 
 feel even more intimate and confidential. Moreover, 
 persons who introduce any one often pronounce the 
 name so indistinctly, that you seldom know who is 
 standing 1 before you ; and they never say one word 
 as to whether the man is gay and good-humoured, 
 or melancholy and gloomy. So we are infinitely 
 better off. Your songs have pronounced your name 
 clearly and plainly ; they also disclose what you 
 think and what you are; that you love music, and 
 wish to make progress; so thus perhaps I know you 
 better than if we had frequently met. 
 
 "What a source of pleasure it is. and how cheering;, 
 to know there is another musician in the world who 
 has the same purposes and aspirations, and who fol- 
 lows the same path as yourself; perhaps yon cannot 
 feel this so strongly as 1 do at this moment, who 
 have just come from a countn where music no longer 
 exists among the people. I never before could have 
 believed this of any nation, and least of all of Italy,
 
 DECLINE OF MUSK 1 IX ITALY. 273 
 
 with such rich and luxuriant nature, and such 
 glorious, inspiriting antecedents. But alas ! the 
 occurrences I latterly witnessed there, fully proved 
 to me that even more than harmony is dead in that 
 land; it would indeed be marvellous if any niusic 
 could exist where there is no solid principle. At 
 last I was really bewildered, and thought that I 
 must have become a hypochondriac, for all the buf- 
 foonery 1 saw was most distasteful to me, and yet a 
 vast number of serious people and sedate citizens 
 entered into it. When they played me anything of 
 their own, and afterwards praised and extolled my 
 pieces, 1 cannot tell you how repugnant it was to 
 me ; I felt disposed to become a hermit, with beard 
 and cowl, and the whole world was at a discount with 
 me. In Italy you first learn to value a true musi- 
 cian; that is, one whose thoughts are absorbed in 
 r/(.s/c, and not in money, or decorations, or ladies, 
 or fame; it is doubly delightful when you find that, 
 without your being aware of it, your own ideas exist 
 and are developed elsewhere ; your songs therefore 
 gave me especial pleasure, because I could gather 
 from them that you must be a genuine musician, and 
 so let us mutually stretch out our hands across the 
 mountains. 
 
 I beg that you will also look on me in the light 
 of a friend, and not write so formally as to my 
 "counsel" and teaching." This portion of your 
 letter makes me feel almost nervous, and I scarcely 
 know what to say ; the most agreeable part however 
 is your promise to send me something to Munich,
 
 274 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 and to write to me again. I will then tell you 
 frankly and freely my honest opinion, and you shall 
 do the same with regard to my new compositions, 
 and thus I think we shall give each other good 
 counsel. I am very eager to see those recent works 
 of yours that you have promised me, for I do not 
 doubt that I shall receive much gratification from 
 them, and many things which are only foreshadowed 
 in the former songs, will probably in these become 
 manifest and distinct. I shall therefore say nothing 
 to-day of the impression your songs have made on 
 me, because possibly any suggestion or question 
 may be already answered in what you arc about tc 
 send me. I earnestly entreat of you to write to me 
 fully, and in detail, about yourself, in order that we 
 may become better acquainted. I can then write to 
 you what I purpose and what I think, and thus we 
 shall continue in close connection. 
 
 Let me know what you have recently composed 
 and are now composing; your mode of life in Berlin, 
 and your plans for the future; in short all that con- 
 cerns your musical life, which will be of the greatest 
 interest to me. Probably this will be obvious in 
 the music you have so kindly promised me, but for- 
 tunately both may be combined. Have you hitherto 
 composed nothing on a greater scale ; some wild 
 symphony, or opera, or something of the kind ? 1, 
 for my part, feel at this moment the most invincible 
 desire to write an opera, and yet 1 have scarcely 
 leisure even to commence any work, however small. 
 I do believe that if the libretto were to be irivcn to
 
 WISH TO COMPOSE AN OPERA. 275 
 
 me to-day, the opera would be written by to-morrow, 
 so strong is my impulse towards it. Formerly the 
 bare idea of a symphony was so exciting, that I 
 could think of nothing else when one was in my 
 head ; the sound of instruments has such a solemn 
 and glorious effect; and yet for some time past I 
 have laid aside a symphony that I had commenced, 
 in order to compose on a cantata of Goethe's merely 
 because it included, besides the orchestra, voices 
 and a chorus. I intend now, indeed, to complete 
 the symphony, but there is nothing I so strongly 
 covet as a regular opera. 
 
 Where the libretto is to come from I know less 
 than ever since last night, when for the first time 
 for more than a year I saw a German aesthetic 
 paper. The German Parnassus seems in as disor- 
 ganized a condition as European politics. God help 
 us ! 1 was obliged to digest the supercilious Mcnzel, 
 who presumed modestly to depreciate Goethe, and 
 tlie supercilious Grabbe. who modestly depreciates 
 Shakspeare, and the philosophers who proclaim 
 Schiller to be rather trivial ! Is this new, arrogant, 
 overbearing spirit, this perverse cynicism, as odious 
 to you as it is to me? and are you of the same 
 opinion with myself, that the first and most indis- 
 pensable quality of any artist is to feel respect for 
 great men, and to bow down in spirit before them; 
 to recognize their merits, and not to endeavour to 
 extinguish their great flame, in order that his own 
 feeble rushlight may burn a little brighter? If a 
 person be iucapabie of feeling true greatness, I
 
 276 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 should like to know how he intends to make me. feel 
 it? And as all these people, with their airs of 
 contempt, only at last succeed in producing imitu- 
 titms of this or that particular Torn), without any pre- 
 sentiment of free, fresh, creative power, unfettered 
 by individual opinion, or aesthetics or criticism, or 
 the whole world besides; as this is the ease, do they 
 not deserve to be abused? and 1 do abuse them. 
 Pray do not take this amiss ; perhaps I have gone 
 too far. I5ut it was long- since 1 had read anything 
 of the kind, and it vexes me to see that such folly 
 still goes on. and that the philosopher who maintains 
 that art is dead, still persists in declaring' that it is 
 so; as if art could in reality ever die. 
 
 These are truly strange, wild, and troubled times; 
 and let those who feel that art is no more, allow it 
 for Heaven's sake to rest in peace; but however 
 roughly the storm m:iy rage without, it cannot so 
 quickly succeed in sweeping away the dwelling 1 ; and 
 he who works on quietly within, fixing- his thoughts 
 on his own capabilities and purposes, and not on 
 those of others, will sec the hurricane blow over, 
 and afterwards find it difficult to realize that it 
 ever was so violent as it appeared at the time. 1 
 have resolved to act thus so long as I can, and to 
 pursue my path steadily, for at all events no one 
 will deny that music still exists, and that is the chief 
 tiling. 
 
 HMW cheering 1 it is to meet with a person who 1: 2.3 
 chosen the same (.i^cct and the same ni'-ans as 
 yourself! and I would fain tell you hov,' gratifying
 
 THE RIGIII CTLM. 271 
 
 each now corroboration of this is to me, but I 
 scarcely know how to do so. You must imagine it 
 for yourself, and your own thoughts must supply any 
 deficiencies; so farewell! Pray let me hear from 
 you soon, and frequently. I beg to send my kindest 
 wishes to our dear fi iend Berger ;* I have been 
 long intending to write to him, but have never yet 
 accomplished it. I shall certainly however do so 
 one of these days. Forgive this long, dry letter , 
 next time it shall be more interesting, and now once 
 more farewell. Yours, 
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY. 
 
 Righi Culm, August 3oth, 1831. 
 
 I am on the liighi ! I need say no more, for you 
 know this mountain. What can be more grand or 
 superb ? I left Lucerne early this morning. All 
 the mountains were obseured, and the weather-wise 
 prophesied bad weather. As however I have always 
 found that the very opposite of what the wise people 
 say invariably occurs ! I tried to make out signs for 
 myself, though hitherto, in spite of their aid, I have 
 found my predictions quite as false as those of the 
 others; but this morning I really thought the weather 
 very tolerable ; still, as I did not wish to begin my 
 ascent while all was still shrouded in vapour ( for 
 the Faulhorn had taught me caution), 1 spent the 
 
 * Ludwig Berger, Mendelssohn's instructor ou the piano. 
 
 24
 
 273 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 whole morning in sauntering- round the foot of the 
 Ilighi, gazing eagerly upwards, to see if the mists 
 were likely to clear oil'. At last, about twelve 
 o'clock, at Kiissnacht, I stood on the cross palh 
 leading towards the Ilighi to the right, and Jmmen- 
 sce to the lei't ; and making up my mind not to see 
 the Righi on this occasion, 1 took a tender farewell 
 of it, and went through the Ilohle (Jasse to the 
 Lake of Zug. along a charming path, past the water, 
 to Arth ; but could not resist frequently glancing at 
 the summit of the Ilighi Culm, to see if it was be- 
 coming clearer: and while I was dining at Arth it 
 did clear up. The wind was very favourable, the 
 clouds lifted on every side; so I made up my mind 
 to begin the ascent. 
 
 There was no time to lose, however, if I wished to 
 witness the sunset ; so I went along at a steady 
 mountain pace, and in the course of two hours and 
 three-quarters I reached the Culm, and the well- 
 known house. I then became aware that there were 
 about forty men standing'on the top, uplifting their 
 hands in admiration, and making signs in a state of 
 the greatest excitement. I ran up, and a new and 
 wondrous sight it was. All the valleys were filled 
 with fogs and clouds, and above them the lofty, snowy 
 crests of the mountains and the glaciers and black 
 rocks stood out bright and clear. The mists swept 
 onwards, veiling a portion of the scenery ; then came 
 forth the 15erne.se Alps, the Jungfrau, the M cinch, 
 and the Fiusteraarhora ; then Titlis, and the Unter- 
 walden mountains. At last the whole range was
 
 8UXSET FROM THE RIGHT. 27$ 
 
 distinctly visible ; the clouds in the val.eys now also 
 began to roll away, disclosing the lakes of Lucerne 
 and Zug, and towards the hour of sunset, only thin 
 streaks of bright vapour still floated on the land- 
 scape. Coining from the Alp, and then looking 
 towards the Righi, it was as if the overture and 
 other portions were repeated at the end of an opera. 
 All the spots whence you have seen such sublime 
 scenery, the Weugern Alp, the AVetter Homer, 
 the valley of Kngelberg, here meet the eye once 
 more in clo.se vicinity, and you can take leave of 
 them all. I had imagined that it was only at first, 
 when still ignorant of the glaciers, that so great 
 an impression was made, from the influence of sur- 
 prise, hut I think the effect at, the last is even more 
 strik'n }]-.\}} ever. 
 
 Schwytz, August 3151. 
 
 Yesterday and to-day I gratefully recalled the 
 happy auspices under which I first made acquaint- 
 ance with this part of the world. The remembrance 
 of your profound admiration of these wonders, ele- 
 vating you above e very-day life, has contributed not 
 a little to awaken and to quicken my own perception 
 of them. 1 often to-day recurred to your delight, aud 
 the deep impression it made en me at the time. 60 
 the Righi is evidently disposed to be gracious to our 
 family, and in consequence of this kindly feeling 
 towards us, conferred on me to-day a sunrise quite 
 as brilliant and splendid as when you were here. 
 The waning moon, the lively Alpine horn, the long- 
 protracted rosy dawn which first stole over the cold.
 
 280 MENDELSSOHN'S LKTTEKS 
 
 shadowy. snowy mountains, the white clouds on the 
 Lake of Zug. the clear. sharp peaks bending towards 
 each other in all directions, the light which gradually 
 crept on the heights, the restless, shivering people, 
 wrapped in coverlets, the monks from Maria zum 
 Schnee, nothing was wanting. 
 
 ] could not tear myself away from this spectacle, 
 and remained on the summit for six consecutive 
 hours, gazing at the mountains. I thought that 
 when next I saw them there might be many changes, 
 so 1 wished to imprint the sight indelibly on my 
 memory. People came and went, and talked of 
 these anxious, troubled times, of politics, and of the 
 grand mountain range before us. 
 
 Thus the morning passed away, and at last, at 
 half-past ten o'clock, 1 was obliged to go; indeed it 
 was high time, as I wished to get to Einsiedel the 
 same day, by Hackcn. On my way, however, in the 
 steep path leading to Lowerz, my trusty old umbrella, 
 which also served me as a mountain staff, broke to 
 pieces ; this detained me, so that I preferred remain- 
 ing here, and to-morrow I hope to be quite fresh for 
 a start. 
 
 Wallenstadt, September 2nd. 
 
 (Year of rains and storms.) Motto of the copper- 
 smith " If you can't sing a new song, then begin 
 the old one afresh." Here am I again in the midst 
 of fogs and clouds, unable to go either backwards or 
 forwards, and if fortune specially favours us, we may 
 have a slight inundation into the bargain. "\Vhcu I 
 crossed the lake, the boatmen prophesied very fine
 
 IXCKSSANT RAIX. 251 
 
 weather, consequently tho raia begar half an hour 
 later, and is not likely soon to cease, for there arc 
 piles of heavy, gloomy clouds, such as you can only 
 see on the mountains. If it were twice as bad three 
 days hence, I should uot care, but it would be 
 grievous indeed if Switzerland were to take leave of 
 me with so ill-omened an aspect. 
 
 I have this moment returned from the church, 
 where I have been playing the organ for three hours, 
 far into the twilight: an old man, a cripple, blew the 
 bellows for me, and except him. there was not a 
 single soul in the church. The only stops I found 
 available, were a very weak croaking flute, and a 
 quavering deep pedal diapason, of sixteen feet. I 
 cor.trived to extemporize with these materials, and 
 at last subsided into a choral melody in E minor, 
 without being able to remember what it was. 1 
 could not get rid of it, when all at once it occurred 
 to me that it was a Litany, the music of which was 
 in my head because the words were in my heart, so 
 then I had a wide field, and plenty of i'ood for ex- 
 temporizing. At length the consumptive deep bass 
 resounded quite alone in E minor, thus : 
 
 _L__ - __ ,_-__ =_= 
 
 24
 
 282 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 and then came in its turn the flute, high up in the 
 treble, with the choral in the same key, and so the 
 sounds of the organ gradually died away, and I was 
 obliged to stop, from the church being so dark. 
 
 In the meantime there was a terrible hurricane of 
 wind and rain outside, and not a trace of the grand 
 lofty rocky precipices; the most dreary weather ! and 
 then I read some dreary newspaper?, and everything 
 wore a grey hue. Tell me, Fanny, do you know 
 Auber's " Parisienne 1" I consider it the very worst 
 thing he has ever produced, perhaps because the 
 subject was really sublime, and for other reasons 
 also. Auber alone could have been guilty of com- 
 posing for a great nation, in the most violent state 
 of excitement, a cold, insignificant piece, quite 
 commonplace, and trivial. The refrain revolts 
 me every time I think of it, it is as if children 
 were playing with a drum, and singing to it only 
 more objectionable. The words also are worthless ; 
 little antitheses and points are quite out of place 
 here. Then the emptiness of the music ! a march 
 for acrobats, and at the end a mere miserable imita- 
 tion of the " Marseillaise." Such music is not what 
 this epoch demands. Woe to us if it be indeed 
 what suits this epoch, if a mere copy of the Mar- 
 seillaise Hymn be all that is required. What in the 
 latter is full of fire, and spirit, and impetus, is in 
 the former ostentatious, cold, calculated, and artifi- 
 cial. The " Marseillaise " is as superior to the 
 " Farisieuue " as everything produced by genuine 
 enthusiasm must be, to what is made for a purpose,
 
 AUBER'S " PAKISIEXXE." 283 
 
 ven if it bo with a view to promote enthusiasm : it 
 will never reach the heart, because it does not come 
 from the heart. 
 
 By the way, I never saw such a striking identity 
 between a poet and a musician, as between Auber 
 and Clauren. Auber faithfully renders note fcr 
 note, what the other writes word for word brag- 
 gadocio, degrading sensuality, pedantry, epicurism, 
 and parodies of foreign nationality. 13 tit why should 
 Clauren be oH'a.-ed from the literature of the day? 
 Is it prejudicial to any one that he should remain 
 where he is? and do you rend what is really good 
 with less interest ? Any young poet must indeed be 
 degenerate, if he dues not cordially hate and despise 
 such trash ; but it is only too true that the people 
 like him ; so it is all very well, it is only the people's 
 own loss. "\Vritc me your opinion of the "Parisi- 
 enne.'' I sometimes sing it to myself for fun, as I 
 go along; it makes a man walk like a chorister in a 
 procession. 
 
 Sargans, September ^rd, noon. 
 
 Wretched weather ! it has rained all night, and 
 all the morning too, and the cold as severe as in 
 winter; deep snow is lying on the adjacent hills. 
 There has been again a tremendous inundation in 
 Appenzell, which has done the greatest damage, and 
 destroyed all the roads. At the Lake of Zurich, 
 there are numbers of pilgrimages, and processions, 
 on account of the weather. I was obliged to drive 
 here this morning, as all the footpaths were covered 
 with mud and water. I shall remain till to-morrow,
 
 284 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 when the diligence passes through at an early hour, 
 and I intend to go with it up the valley of the Rhine, 
 as far as Altstettcn. 
 
 To-morrow I shall probably have reached, or 
 crossed, the boundaries of Switzerland, for my pleas- 
 ure excursion is now over. Autumn is arrived, and 
 I have no right to complain if I pass a few tiresome 
 days, after so many enchanting ones, that I can 
 never forget. On the contrary, I think I almost like 
 it; there is always enough to be done, even in Sar- 
 gans, ( a wretched hole.) and in a regular deluge, 
 like that of to-day for happily an organ is always 
 to be found in this country ; they are certainly 
 small, and the lower octave, both in the key-board 
 and the pedal, imperfect, or as I call it, crippled; 
 but still they are organs, and that is enough for me. 
 
 I have been playing all this morning, and really 
 begun to practise, for it is a shame that I cannot play 
 Sebastian Bach's principal works. I intend, if I 
 can manage it, to practise for an hour every day in 
 Munich, as after a couple of hours' work to-day, I 
 certainly made considerable progress with my feet 
 (t/ota beiie, sitting). Kitz once told me that 
 Schneider, in Dresden, played him the D major 
 fugue, in the " wohl-temperirten Clavier," on the 
 organ, supplying the bass with the pedal. 
 
 This had hitherto appeared to me so fabulous, that 1 
 could never properly comprehend it, It recurred to
 
 ORGAX-PLAYINO. 285 
 
 mo this morning when I was playing the organ, so I 
 instantly attempted it, and I at least see that it is 
 far froMi being impossible, and that I shall accom- 
 plish it. The subject went pretty well, so I prac- 
 tised passages from the I) major fugue, for the 
 ( rg in. from the F major toccata, and the G minor 
 fugne. all of which. I knew by heart. If I find a 
 lol'-rablo organ in Munich, and not an imperfect 
 one, I will certainly conquer these, and feel childish 
 doiight at the idea of playing- such pieces on the 
 organ. The F major toccata, with the modulation 
 at the close, sounded as; if the church were about 
 to tumble down ; what a giant that Cantor was ! 
 
 Besides organ-playing, I have a good many 
 sketches to finish, in my new drawing book, (one 
 was entirely iiiled in Engelberg) and then I must 
 eat like six hundred wrestlers. After dinner I 
 practise the organ again, and thus a rainy day 
 passes at Sargans. It seems prettily situated, with 
 a castle on the hill, but I cannot go a step beyond 
 the door. 
 
 K>:e)iin<j. Yesterday at this time, I still pro- 
 jected a pedestrian tour, and wished at all events to 
 go through the whole of the Appenzell. It was a 
 strange feeling when I learned that all mountain 
 excursions were probably at an end for this year: 
 the heights are covered with deep snow, for just a? 
 it has rained here, in the valley, for thirty-six hours, 
 it has snowed incessantly on the hills above. The 
 flocks have been obliged to come down into the 
 valley from the Alps, where they ought to have re-
 
 286 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 mained for a whole month yet, so that all idea of 
 any footpaths is out of the question. Yesterday I 
 was still on the hills, but now they will be inaccessi- 
 ble for six months to come. My pedestrian excur- 
 sions are over ; wondrously beautiful they were, and 
 I shall never forget them. 
 
 I mean to work hard at music, and high time 
 that I should. I played on the organ till twilight, 
 and was trampling energetically on the pedal, when 
 we suddenly became aware that the deep C sharp 
 in the great diapason, went buzzing softly on with- 
 out ceasing ; all our pressing, and shaking, and 
 thumping on the keys, was of no avail, so we were 
 obliged to climb into the organ among the big pipes. 
 The C sharp continued gently humming. the I'.^ilt 
 lay in the bellows ; the organist was in the greatest 
 perplexity, because to-morrow is a fete day ; at last 
 I stuffed my handkerchief into the pipe, and there 
 was no more buzzing, but no more C sharp either. 
 I played this passage incessantly, all the same : 
 
 and it did very well. 
 
 I am now going to finish my sketch of the Glacier 
 of the Rhone, and then the day will be at my own 
 disposal ; which means that I am going to sleep. 
 I will write to you on the next page to-morrow even- 
 ing wherever I am, for to-day I have no idea when} 
 I shall be. Good night! Eight is striking in P 
 minor, and it is raining and blowing in F sharp
 
 CONTINUED STORMS. 287 
 
 minor or G sharp minor ; in short, in every possible 
 sharp key. 
 
 ~G ~r z> r si s> ~ i 
 
 ~~ "~r " o ~r & r~g~ g ~r. ^11 
 
 St. Gall, the 4th. 
 
 Motto Vous pensez que je suis 1'Abbe dc St. 
 Gall" (Citoyen).* I do feel so comfortable here, 
 after braving such storms and tempests. During 
 the four hours when I was crossing- the mountains 
 from Altstetten to this place, I was engaged in a 
 regular battle with the elements; when 1 tell you 
 that I never experienced anything like the storm, 
 nor even imagined anything approaching to it, this 
 does not say much ; bat the oldest people in the 
 Canton declare the same : a large manufactory has 
 been demolished, and several persons killed. To- 
 morrow, in my last letter from Switzerland, I will 
 tell you of my being again obliged to travel on 
 foot, and arriving here, after crossing by Appenzell, 
 which looked like Egypt after the seven plagues. 
 The bell is now ringing for dinner, and I mean to 
 feast like an abbot. 
 
 Lindau, September th. 
 
 Opposite me lies Switzerland, with her dark blue 
 mountains, pedestrian journeys, storms, and glorious 
 heights and valleys. Here ends the greatest part of 
 my journey, and my journal also. 
 
 At noon to-day, I crossed the wild grey Rhine in 
 
 * Mondolssohn jokingly alludes to a poem of Bilrger, Dor Ab| 
 vori St. G alien.
 
 288 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 a ferry-boat, above Rheineck, and now here I am 
 already in Uavaria. J have of course entirely given 
 up my projected excursion on foot, through the 
 Bavarian mountains ; Cor it would be folly to attempt 
 anything 1 of the kind this year. For the last four 
 days it has rained more or less with incessant vehe- 
 mence ; it seemed as if Providence were wroth. I 
 passed to-day through extensive orchards, which 
 were not under water, but fairly submerged by mud 
 and clay ; everything looks deplorable and depress- 
 ing; you must therefore forgive the doleful style 
 of this last sheet. I never in any landscape saw a 
 more dreary sight than the sward of the green hills, 
 covered with deep snow; while below, the fruit-trees, 
 with their ripe fruit, were standing reflected in the 
 water. The scanty covering of muddy snow, which 
 lay on the fir-woods and meadows, looked the per- 
 sonification of all that was dismal. A Sargans 
 burgher told me that in 1811 this little town had 
 been entirely burnt down, and recently with diffi- 
 culty rebuilt ; that they depend chiefly on the pro- 
 duce of their vineyards, which have been this year 
 destroyed by hail-storms, and the Alps also were 
 now mi longer available ; this gives rise to serious 
 reflections, and to anxious thoughts with regard to 
 this year. 
 
 Jt is singular enough that if I am obliged to go 
 on foot in such weather, and fairly exposed to it, I 
 am not iu the least annoyed: on the contrary, I 
 rather rejoice in setting it at defiance. AY hen I 
 arrived by the diligence yesterday at Altstetteii, in
 
 BRAT1.NG A STORM. 289 
 
 freezing cold, like a day in December, I found that 
 there was no carriage road to Tourgcn, to which 
 place I had unluckily sent on my cloak and knapsack 
 on the last fine day. I was obliged to have them 
 the same evening, for the cold was intense, so I did 
 not hesitate long, but set off once more for the last 
 time to cross the mountains, and arrived in the 
 Canton of Appenzell. 
 
 The state of the woods, and hills, and meadows, 
 and little bridges, bailies all description; being Sun- 
 day, and divine service going on, I failed in pro- 
 curing a guide; not a living soul met me the whole 
 way. for all the people had crept into their houses 
 so I toiled on quite alone towards Tourgcn. To 
 pass through a woud in such weather, and along 
 such paths, inspires a wonderful sense of indepen- 
 dence. Moreover I am now quite perfect in the 
 Swiss judfln and crowing, so I shouted lustily, and 
 jatlelled several airs at the pitch of my voice, and 
 arrived in Tourgen in capital spirits. The people 
 in the inn there were rude and saucy, so I politely 
 said. "You be hanged ! 1 shall go on;" and taking 
 out my map, 1 found that St. Gall was the nearest 
 convenient place, and in fact the only practicable 
 route. ] could not succeed in persuading any one 
 t; go with me in such horrible weatlur. so I resolved 
 to carry my own things, aliasing all Swiss cordiality. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, however, came the reverse of 
 
 the medal, which not unl'requently occurs. I went to 
 
 the peasant who had brought my luggage here, and 
 
 found him in his pretty newly-built wooden house, 
 
 2fi
 
 290 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTKRH. 
 
 and I had thus an opportunity of seeing a veritable 
 and genuine Swiss interior, just as \vc imagine it to 
 be. lie and his whole family were sitting round a 
 table, the house clean and warm, and the stove 
 burning. The old man rose and gave me his hand, 
 and insisted on my taking a seat; he then sent 
 through the whole place to try to get me a carriage, 
 or a man to carry my things, but as no one would 
 either drive or walk, he at last sent his own son with 
 me. He only asked two Batzen for carrying my 
 knapsack for two hours. A very pretty fair daugh- 
 ter was sitting at the table sewing, the mother read- 
 ing a thick book, and the old man himself studying 
 the newspapers; it was a charming picture. 
 
 AYhen at last I set off. the weather seemed to say, 
 "If you defy me I can defy you also," for the storm 
 broke loose with redoubled violence, and an invisible 
 hand appeared to seize my umbrella at intervals, 
 shaking it and crumpling it together, and my fingora 
 were so benumbed that I could scarcely hold it fast; 
 the paths were so desperately slippery that, my guide 
 fell sprawling full length before me in the mud; but 
 what cared we ? AW jodellcd and reviled the weather 
 to our hearts' content, and at last we passed the 
 Nunnery, which we greeted by a serenade, and soon 
 after reached St. (Jail. 
 
 Our journey was happily over, and yesterday I 
 drove here, and at night met with a wonderful 
 organ, on which I could play "SchmUckc dich, 
 Hebe Seek: !" to my heart's content. 
 
 To-day I proceed to Memmingen, to-morrow to
 
 orrrpATioN AT Mrxirn. 291 
 
 Augsburg; the day aft or, God willing, to Munich; 
 and thus. I may now say. I h<'i>:v le-n in Switzerland. 
 Perhaps I have rather bored you by all the trivial 
 occurrences 1 have detailed. These are gloomy 
 time?, but we need not be so; and when I sent you 
 my journal, it was chiefly to show you that I thought 
 of you whenever I was pleased and happy, and was 
 with you in spirit. The shabby, dripping pedestrian 
 bids you farewell, and a town gentleman, with 
 visiting-cards, fine linen, and a black coat, will write 
 10 you next time. Farewell. FELIX. 
 
 BURGIIER LETTER FROM Mrxirn. 
 
 Munich, OCober 6th, 1831. 
 
 It is a delightful feeling to wake ; n the morning 
 and to know that you are to score a c'raud allegro 
 with all sorts of instruments, and various oboes ant! 
 trumpets, while bright weather holds out the hope 
 of a cheering long walk in the afternoon. 
 
 I have enjoyed these pleasures for a whole week 
 past, so the favourable impression that Munich 
 made on me during my first visit, is now very much 
 enhanced. I scarcely know any place where I feel 
 so comfortable and domesticated as here. It is 
 indeed very delightful to be surrounded by cheerful 
 faces, and your own to be so also, and to knoweve^y 
 man you meet in the streets. 
 
 I am now preparing for my concert, so my hands 
 (ire pretty full ; ray acquaintances every iustap*
 
 292 ME.VDELSSOHX'S LETTERS. 
 
 interrupting me in my work, the lovt.ly wcathei 
 tempting- me to go out, and the copyists, in turn, 
 forcing me to stay at home ; all this constitutes the 
 most agreeable and exciting life. I was obliged to 
 put off my concert, on account of the October fes- 
 tival, which begins next Sunday, and lasts all the 
 week. Every evening there is to be a performance 
 at the theatre, and a ball, so all idea of an orchestra 
 or a concert-room is out of the question. On Mon- 
 day evening, however, the 17th, at half-past six, 
 think of me, for then we dash off with thirty vio- 
 lins, and two sets of wind instruments. 
 
 The first part begins with the symphony in C 
 minor, the second with the "Midsummer Night's 
 Dream." The first part closes with my new concerto 
 in (I minor, and at the end of the second I have un 
 willingly agreed to extemporize. Believe me, I do 
 so very reluctantly, but the people insist upon it. 
 Barmaim has decided on playing again; Breiting, 
 Mile. Vial, Loehle, Bayer, and Pellegrini are the 
 singers who are to execute a piece together. The 
 locality is the large Odeon Hall, and the performance 
 for the benefit of the poor in Munich. The magis- 
 trates invite the orchestra, and the burgomasters the 
 singers. Every morning I am engaged in writing, 
 correcting, and scoring till one o'clock, when I go 
 to Sclieidel's coU'ee-lumse in the Kaufinger Gasse, 
 where I know each face by heart, and find the same 
 people every day in the same position ; two playing 
 chess, three looking on, five reading the newspapers, 
 six eating their dinner, and I am the seventh. After
 
 OCCUPATION AT MUNICH. 293 
 
 dinner Barmann usually comes to fetch me. and we 
 make arrangements about the concert, or after a 
 walk we have cheese and beer, and then I return 
 home and set to work again. 
 
 This time I have declined all invitations for the 
 evening; but there are so many agreeable houses, to 
 which I can go uninvited, that a light is seldom to 
 be seen in my room on the parterre till after eight 
 o'clock. You must know that I lodge on a lnvcl 
 with the street, in a room which was once a shop, so 
 that if I unbar the shutters of my gla.ss door, one 
 step brings me into the middle of the street, and any 
 one passing along, can put his head in at the window, 
 and say good morning. Next to me a Greek lodges, 
 who is learning the piano, and he is truly odious ; 
 but to make up for that, my landlord's daughter, 
 who wears a round silver cap and is very slender, 
 looks all the prettier. 
 
 I have music in my rooms at four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, three times every week : IJilrmann, I'rcit- 
 ing. Staudacher, young Poissl, and others, come 
 regularly, and we have a musical picnic. In this way 
 I become acquainted with operas, which, most un- 
 pardonably, I have not yet either heard or seen : such 
 as Lodoiska. Faniska. Medea ; also the Preciosu, Abu 
 Hassan, etc. The theatre lends us the scores. 
 
 Last Wednesday we had capital fun; several 
 wagers had been lost, and it was agreed that we 
 should en; : oy the fruits of them all together; and 
 after various suggestions, we at last decided on 
 having a musical soiree in my room, and to invite 
 25*
 
 294 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 all the dignitaries; so a list was made out of about 
 thirty persons; several also came uninvited, who 
 were presented to us by mutual friends. There was 
 a sad want of space; at first we proposed placing 
 several people on my bed. but it was surprising the 
 number of patient sheep who managed to cram into 
 my small room. The whole affair was most lively 
 
 raid successful. E was present, as dulcet as 
 
 ever, languishing in all the glory of poetical enthu- 
 siasm, and grey stockings ; in short, tiresome beyond 
 all description. 
 
 First 1 played my old quartett in B minor; then 
 Breiting sang "Adelaide;" Jlerr rf played varia- 
 tions on the violin (doing himself no credit); Bar- 
 maim performed Beethoven's first quartett (in F 
 major), which lie had arranged for t\vo clarionets, 
 coruo di bassctto, and bassoon ; an air from " Eury- 
 anthe" followed, which was furiously encored, and 
 as a finale I extemporized tried hard to get off 
 but they made such a tremendous uproar that nolens 
 I was forced to comply, though I had nothing in 
 my head, but wine-glasses, benches, cold roast meat, 
 and ham. 
 
 The Cornelius ladies were next-door with my land- 
 lord and his family, to listen to me; the Schauroths 
 were making a visit on the first story for the same 
 purpose, and even in the hall, and in the street, 
 people were standing; in addition to all this, the 
 heat of the crowded room, the deafening noise, 
 the gay audience ; and when at last the time for 
 eating and drinking arrived, the uproar was at its
 
 SUMMONED TO COl'RT. 295 
 
 height ; we fraternized glass in hand, and gave 
 toasts ; the more formal guests -\vith their grave 
 faces, sat in the midst of the jovial throng, appa- 
 rently quite contented, and we did not separate till 
 half-past one in the morning. 
 
 The following evening formed a striking contrast. 
 I was summoned to play before the Queen, and the 
 Court ; there all was proper and polite, and polished, 
 and every time you moved your elbow, you pushed 
 against an Excellency; the most smooth and com- 
 plimentary phr.tses circulated in the room, and I, the 
 rhtar<<:r. stood in the midst of them, with my citizen 
 heart, and my aching he-ad] I managed however to 
 get (!! pretty well, and at the end. 1 was commanded 
 to extemporize on Royal themes, which I did. and 
 was mightily commended; what pleased me most 
 was. that when 1 had finished my extempore playing, 
 'he Queen said to me. that it was strange the power 
 I possessed of carrying away my audience, for that 
 during such music, no one could think of anything 
 else ; on which I begged to apologize for carrying 
 away Her Majesty, etc. 
 
 Tiiis. you see, is the mode in which I pass my time 
 in Munich. I forgot, however, to say. that every 
 day at twelve o'clock. I give little Mademoiselle 
 
 L an hour's instruction in double counterpoint, 
 
 and four- part composition, etc.. which makes me 
 realize more than ever the stupidity and confusion 
 of most masters and books on this subject; for 
 nothing can lie more clear than the whole thing 
 when properly explained.
 
 296 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 She is one of the sweetest creatures I ever saw, 
 Imagine a small, delicate-looking, pale girl, with 
 noble but not pretty features, so singular and inter- 
 esting, that it is difficult to turn your eyes from her ; 
 while all her gestures and every word are full of 
 genius. She has the gift of composing songs, and 
 singing them in a way I never heard before, causing 
 me the most unalloyed musical delight I ever ex- 
 perienced. When she is seated at the piano, and 
 begins one of the songs, the sounds are quite unique ; 
 the music floats strangely to and fro, and every note 
 expresses the most profound and refined feeling. 
 When she sings the first note in her tender tones, 
 every one present subsides into a quiet and thought- 
 ful mood, and each, in his own way, is deeply 
 affected. 
 
 If you could but hear her voice ! so innocent, so 
 unconsciously lovely, emanating from her inmost 
 soul, and yet so tranquil ! Last year the genius 
 was all there; she had written no song that did not 
 
 contain some bright flash of talent, and then M 
 
 and I sounded forth her praises to the musical 
 world ; still no one seemed to place much faith in 
 us; but since that time, she has made the most 
 remarkable progress. Those who are not affected 
 by her present singing, can have no feeling at all ; 
 but unluckily it is now the fashion to nog the young 
 girl to sing her songs, and then the lights arc re- 
 moved from the piano, in order that the society may 
 enjoy the plaintive strains. 
 
 This forms an unpleasant contrast, and repeatedly
 
 REMARKABLE GENIUS. 297 
 
 when I was to have played something after her, 1 
 was quite unable, and declined doing so. It is 
 probable that she may one day be spoiled by all this 
 praise, because she has no one to comprehend or to 
 guide her ; and, strangely enough, she is as yet en- 
 tirely devoid of all musical cultivation ; she knows 
 very little, and can scarcely distinguish good music 
 from bad; in fact, except her own pieces, she thinks 
 all else that she hears wonderfully fine. If she were 
 at length to become satisfied as it were with herself, 
 it would be all over with her. I have, for my part, 
 . doue what I could, and implored her parents and 
 herself in the most urgent manner, to avoid society, 
 and not to allow such divine genius to be wasted. 
 Heaven grant that I may be successful! 1 may, 
 perhaps, dear sisters, soon send you some of her 
 songs that she has copied out for me, in token of her 
 gratitude for my teaching her what she already 
 knows from nature : and because I have really led 
 her to good and solid music. 
 
 I also play on the organ every day for an hour, 
 but unfortunately I cannot practise properly, as the 
 pedal is short of iive upper notes, so that I cannot 
 play any of Sebastian Bach's passages on it; but 
 the stops are wonderfully beautiful, by the aid of 
 which you can vary chorals; so I dwell with delight 
 on the celestial, liquid tone of the instrument. 
 Moreover, Fanny. I have here discovered the par- 
 ticular stops which ought to be used in Sebastian 
 Bach's " Selimuckc dich, liebe Seele." They seem 
 actually made for this melody, and sound so touching,
 
 298 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 that a tremor invariably seizes me, when I begin to 
 play it. For the flowing parts I have a flute stop of 
 eight feet, and also a very soft one of four feet, which 
 continually floats above the Choral. You have 
 heard this effect in Berlin; but there is a keyboard 
 for the Choral with nothing but reed stops, so I em- 
 ploy a mellow oboe and a soft clarion (four feet) and 
 a viola ; these give the Choral in subdued and touch- 
 ing tones, like distant human voices, singing from 
 the depths of the heart. 
 
 Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, by the time you 
 will have received this letter, I shall boon the "The- 
 resien AViesc," with eighty thousand other people ; so 
 think of me there, and farewell. FELIX. 
 
 Munich, October l8th, 1831. 
 
 Dear Father, 
 
 Pray forgive me for not having written to you for 
 BO long. The last few days previous to my concert, 
 were passed in such bustle and confusion, that I 
 really had not a moment's leisure ; besides 1 pre- 
 ferred writing to you after my concert was over, 
 that I might tell you all about it, hence the long in- 
 terval between this and my former letter. 
 
 I write to you in particular to-day, because it is 
 so long since 1 have had a single line from you ; I 
 do beg you will soon write to me. if only to say that 
 you are well, and to send inc your kind wishes. 
 You know this always makes me glad and happy ;
 
 CONCERT AT MUNICH. 299 
 
 therefore excuse my addressing this letter, with all 
 the little details of my concert, to you. My mother, 
 and sisters, were desirous to hear them, but I wad 
 anxious to say how eagerly I hope for a few lines 
 from you. Pray let me have them. It is a long 
 time since you wrote to me ! 
 
 My concert took place yesterday, and was much 
 more brilliant and successful than I expected. The 
 affair went oil well, and with much spirit. The 
 orchestra played admirably, and the receipts for 
 the beuciil of the poor will be large. A few days 
 after my former letter, I attended a general rehear- 
 sal, where the whole band were assembled, and in 
 addition to the official invitation the orchestra had 
 received, I was obliged to invite them verbally in a 
 polite speech, in the theatre. This, to me, was the 
 most trying part of the whole concert; still 1 did 
 in it object to it, for I really wished to know the 
 sensations of a man who gives a concert, and this 
 ceremony forms part of it. 1 stationed myself there- 
 fore at the prompter's box, and addressed the per- 
 formers very courteously, who took off their hats, 
 and when my speech was finished, there was a 
 general murmur of assent. On the following day 
 there were upwards of seventy signatures to the 
 circular. Immediately afterwards, I had the plea- 
 sure of finding that the chorus singers had ssnt 
 one of their leaders to me, to ask if I had not com- 
 posed some chorus that I should like to be sung, in 
 which case, t!n-y would all be happy to sing it 
 gratis. Although I had decided not to give more
 
 300 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 than three pieces of my composition, still the offer 
 \vas very gratifying, and the hearty sympathy es- 
 pecially delighted me, for even the regimental musi- 
 cians whom I had to engage for ihe English horns 
 and trumpets, positively refused to accept a single 
 kreuzer, and we had above eighty performers in the 
 orchestra. 
 
 Then came all the tiresome minor arrangements 
 about advertisements, tickets, preliminary rehearsals, 
 etc., and in addition to all this, it was the week of 
 the October festival. In Munich the days and hours 
 always glide past so very rapidly, that when they are 
 gone, it really seems as if they had never been, and 
 this is more peculiarly the case during this October 
 festival. Every afternoon about three o'clock you 
 repair to the spacious, green " Thcresien Wiese," 
 which is swarming with people, and it is impossible 
 to get away till the evening, for every one finds 
 acquaintances without end, and something to talk 
 about, or to look at; a fat ox, target-shooting, a 
 race, or pretty girls in gold and silver caps, etc. 
 Any affair you are engaged in, can be concluded 
 there, for the whole town is congregated on the 
 meadow, and not till the mists begin to rise, does 
 the crowd disperse, and return towards the "Fruuen 
 Thurme." The people are in constant motion, run- 
 ning about in all directions, while the snowy moun- 
 tains in the distance look clear and tranquil, each 
 day giving promise of a bright morrow, and fulfilling 
 that promise; and, what after all is the chief thing, 
 none but careless happy faces to be seen, with the
 
 OCTOBER FESTIVAL AT MUNICH. 301 
 
 occasional exception perhaps of a few Deputies, 
 drinking coffee in the open air, and discussing the 
 lamentable condition of the people, while the 
 people themselves are standing round them looking 
 us happy as possible. On the first day the King 
 distributes the prizes himself, taking of!' his hat to 
 each winner of a prize, and giving his hand to the 
 peasants, or laying hold of their arms and shaking 
 them ; now I think this all very proper, as here ex- 
 ternally ut least society appears more blended, but 
 whether it sinks deep into the heart, we can discuss 
 together at some future time. I adhere to my first 
 '.pinion; at all events it is so far well, that the 
 absurd restraints of etiquette should not be too 
 strictly observed outwardly, and so it is always 
 pome-thing gained. 
 
 My first rehearsal took place early on Saturday. 
 We had about thirty-two violins, six double-basses, 
 and double sets of wind instruments, etc.: but, 
 Heaven knows why, the rehearsal went badly; 1 
 was forced to rehearse my symphony in C minor 
 alone for two hours. My concerto did not go at all 
 satisfactorily. We had only time to play over the 
 " Midsummer Night's Dream" once, and even then 
 so hurriedly, that I wished to withdraw it from the 
 bills : but Biirmaim would not hear of this, and as- 
 sured me that they would do it better next time. I 
 therefore was forced to wait in considerable anxiety 
 for the next rehearsal : in the meantime there was 
 happily a great ball on Sunday evening, which was 
 very enjoyable, so I recovered my spirits, and arrived 
 2(5
 
 302 MEXDELPSOI7X'S LETTERS. 
 
 next morning at the general rehearsal in high good 
 humour, and with perfect confidence. I started off 
 at once with the overture; we played it over again 
 and again, till at last it went well, and we did the 
 same with my concerto, so that the whole- rehearsal 
 was quite satisfactory. 
 
 On my way to the concert at night, when I heard 
 the rattling of the carriages, I began to feel real 
 pleasure in the whole affair. The Court arrived at 
 half-past six. I took up my little English baton, and 
 conducted my symphony. The orchestra played 
 magnificently, and with a degree of fire and en- 
 thusiasm that I never heard equalled under my 
 direction; they all crashed in at \\\v forte, and the 
 ifchf.rzo was most light and delicate; it seemed to 
 please the audience exceedingly, and the Iving was 
 always the first to applaud. Then my fat friend. 
 Breiting, sang the air in A flat major from " Eury- 
 anthe," and the public shouted " Da capo ! " and 
 were in good humour, and showed good taste. 
 Breiting was delighted, so he sang with spirit, and 
 quite beautifully. Then came my concerto; 1 was 
 received with long and loud applause; the orchestra 
 accompanied me well, and the composition had also 
 its merits, and gave much satisfaction to the audi- 
 ence; they wished to recall me. in order to give me 
 another round of applause, according to the pre- 
 vailing fashion here, but I was modest, and would 
 not appear. Between the parts the King got hold 
 o f me, and praised me highly, asking all sorts of 
 questions, and whether I was related to the Bartholdy
 
 CONCERT AT MUNICH. 303 
 
 in Rome, to whose house he was in the habit of 
 goiiip-, because it was the cradle of modern art, 
 etc.* 
 
 The second part commenced with the ''Midsum- 
 mer Night's Uream," which went admirably, and 
 excited a great sensation: then I>;irmann played, 
 and after that we had the finale in A major from 
 Lodoiska. I however did not hear either of these, 
 as I was resting and cooling in the anteroom. 
 AVhen I appeared to extemporize, I was again en- 
 thusiastically received. The King- had given me 
 the theme of ' Xon pid andrai." on which I was to 
 iniproci*er. My former opinion is now fully con- 
 firmed, that it is an absurdity to extemporize in 
 public. I have seldom felt so like a fool as when I 
 took my place at the piano, to present to the public 
 the fruits of my inspiration ; but the audience were 
 quite contented, and there was no end of their 
 applause. They called me forward again, and the 
 Queen said all that was courteous ; but I was 
 annoyed, for I was far from being satisfied with my- 
 self, and I am resolved never again to extemporize 
 in public. it is both an abuse and an absurdity. 
 
 So this is an account of my concert of the 17th, 
 which is now among the things of the past. There 
 were eleven hundred people present, so the poor 
 may well be satisfied : but enough of all this. Fare- 
 well ! May every happiness attend you all ! 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 * Vide the letter from Koine of the 1st of February, 1S31.
 
 304 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Paris, December igth, 1831. 
 Dear Father, 
 
 Receive my hearty thanks for your letter of the 
 7th. Though I do not quite apprehend your mean ing 
 on some points, and also may differ from you, still I 
 nave no doubc that this will come all right when we 
 talk things over together, especially if you permit 
 me, as you have always hitherto done, to express 
 my opinion in a straight-forward manner. I allude 
 chiefly to your suggestion, that I should procure a 
 libretto for an opera from some French poet, and 
 then have it translated, and compose the music for 
 the Munich stage.* 
 
 Above all, I must tell you how sincerely I regret 
 that you have only now made known to me your 
 views on this subject. I went to Dlisseldorf, as you 
 know, expressly to consult with Immermann on the 
 point. I found him ready, and willing; he accepted 
 the proposal, promising to send me the poem by the 
 end of May at the latest, so I do not myself see how 
 it is possible for me now to draw back ; indeed I do 
 not wish it. as I place entire confidence in him. I 
 do not in the least understand what you allude 1o 
 in your last letter, about Immermann, and his in- 
 capacity to write an opera. Although 1 by no 
 means agree with you in this opinion, still it would 
 have been mv dutv to have settled nothing without 
 
 * Felix Mendelssohn, during his stay in Munich, received a 
 rommissiou from the director of the theatre, to wrile an opera t'oi 
 Munich.
 
 LIBRETTO FOR AN OPERA. 305 
 
 your express sanction, and I could \\a\e arranged 
 the affair by letter from here, I believed however 
 that I was acting quite to your satisfaction when I 
 made him my offer. lu addition to this, some new 
 poems that he read to me. convinced me more than 
 ever that he was a true poet, and supposing that I 
 had an equal choice in merit. I would always decide 
 rather in favour of a German than a French libretto; 
 and lastly, he has fixed on a subject which has been 
 long' in my thoughts, and which, if I am not mistaken, 
 my mother wished to see made into an opera, I 
 mean tehakspeare's "Tempest;". I was therefore 
 particularly pleased with this, so I shall doubly re- 
 gret if you do not approve of what I have done. In 
 any event, however, I entreat that you will neither 
 be displeased with me. nor distrustful with regard to 
 the work, Dor cease to take any interest in it. 
 
 From what I know of Immermann. I feel assured 
 I may expect a first-rate libretto. "What I alluded 
 to about his solitary life, merely referred to his in- 
 ward feelings and perceptions; for in other respects 
 lie is well acquainted with what is passing in the 
 world. He knows what people like, and what to 
 give them : but above all he is a genuine artist, 
 which is the chief thing; but I am sure I need not 
 say that I will not compose music for any words I do 
 not consider really good, or which do not inspire me, 
 and for this purpose it is essential that I should 
 have your approval. I intend to reflect deeply on 
 the poem before I begin the music. The dramatic 
 interest or (hi the best sense) the theatrical portion 
 26*
 
 30fi MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 I sball of course immediately communicate to yon, 
 and in short look on the affair in the serious light it 
 deserves. The first step however is taken, and I 
 cannot tell you how deeply I should regret your not 
 being pleased. 
 
 There is however one thing which consoles me, 
 and it is that if I were to rely on my own judgment, 
 I would again act precisely as I have now done, 
 though I have had an opportunity of becoming ac- 
 quainted with a great deal of French poetry, and 
 seeing it in the most favourable light. Pray pardon 
 me for saying exactly what I think. To compose 
 for the translation of a French libretto, seems to me 
 for various reasons impracticable, and I have an idea 
 that you are in favour of it more on account of the 
 success which it is likely to enjoy than for its owe 
 intrinsic merit. Moreover I well remember how 
 much you disliked the subject of the "Muette de 
 Portici," a Mudte too who had gone astray, and of 
 ""Wilhclm Tell." which the author seems almost 
 purposely to have rendered tedious. 
 
 The success however these enjoy all over ijer- 
 many does not assuredly depend on the work itself 
 being either good or dramatic, for " Tell " is neither, 
 but on their coming from Paris, and having pleased 
 there. Certainly there is one sure road to fame in 
 Germany, that by Paris and London; still it is 
 not the only one; this is proved not only by all 
 Weber's works, but also by those of Spohr. whose 
 "Faust" is here considered classical music, and 
 which is to be given at the great Opera-house in
 
 IMMORALITY IN OPERAS. 301 
 
 London next season. Besides. I could not possibly 
 take that course, as my groat opera has been be- 
 spoken for Munich, and I have accepted the com- 
 mission, I am resolved therefore to make the 
 attempt in Germany, and lo remain and work there 
 so long as I can continue to do so, and yet maintain 
 myself, for this I consider my first duty. If I find 
 that I cannot do this, then I must leave it for 
 London or Paris, where it is easier to get on. I 
 see indeed where I should be better remunerated 
 and more honoured, and live more gaily, and at 
 my ease, than in Germany, where a man must press 
 forward, and toil, and take no rest, still, if I can 
 succeed there. I prefer the latter. 
 
 None of the new libretti here, would in my opinion 
 be attended with any success whatever, if brought 
 out for the first time on a German stage. One of 
 the distinctive characteristics of them all, is pre- 
 cisely of a nature that I should resolutely oppose, 
 although the taste of the present day may demand 
 it, and I quite admit that it may in general be more 
 prudent to go with the current than to struggle 
 against it. I allude to that of immorality. In 
 " Robert le Diable " the nuns come one after the 
 other to allure the hero of the piece, till at last the 
 abbess succeeds in doing so : the same hero is con- 
 veyed by magic into the apartment of her whom he 
 loves, and casts her from him in an attitude which 
 the public here applauds, and probably all Germany 
 will do the- same ; she then implores his mercy in a 
 grand aria. In another opera a young girl divests
 
 308 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 herself of her garments, and sings a song to the 
 effect that next day at this time she will be married ; 
 all this produces effect, but I have no music for 
 such things. I consider it ignoble, so if the present 
 epoch exacts this style, and considers it indispen- 
 sable, then 1 will write oratorios. 
 
 Another strong reason why it would prove imprac- 
 ticable is that no French poet would undertake to 
 furnish me with a poem. Indeed, it is no easy 
 matter to procure one from them for this stage, for 
 all the best authors are overwhelmed with commis- 
 sions. At the same time I think it quite possible 
 that I might succeed in getting one; still it never 
 would occur to any of them to write a libretto for a 
 German theatre. In the first place it would be 
 much more feasible to give the opera here, and 
 infinitely more rational too; in the second place, 
 they would decline writing for any other stage than 
 the French; in fact they could not realize any other. 
 Above all it would be impossible to procure for them 
 a sum equivalent to what they receive here from the 
 theatres, and what they draw as their share from the 
 part d'autcur. 
 
 I know you will forgive me for having told you 
 my opinion without reserve. You always allowed 
 me to do so in conversation, so I hope you will not 
 put a wrong construction on what 1 have written, 
 and I beg you will amend my views by communi- 
 cating your own. Your FELIX.
 
 LETTER FROM PARIS. 309 
 
 Paris, December 2oth, 1831. 
 
 Dear Rebecca, 
 
 I went yesterday to the Chambrc dcs Dput6s, 
 and I must no\v tell you about it ; but what do you 
 care about the Chambre des Deputes? It is a poli- 
 tical song, and you would rather hear whether I 
 have composed any love songs, or bridal songs, or 
 weJding songs; but it is a sad pity, that no songs 
 but political ones are composed here. I believe I 
 never in niy life passed three such unmusical weeks 
 as these. I feel as if I never could again think of 
 composing: this all arises from the "juste milieu;" 
 but it is still worse to be with musicians, for they do 
 not wrangle about politics, but lament over them. 
 One has lost his place, another his title, a third his 
 money, and they say this all proceeds from the 
 " Milieu." 
 
 Yesterday I saw the " Milieu," in a light grey 
 coat, and with a noble air, ill the first place on the 
 Ministerial bench, lie was sharply attacked by 
 M. Mauguin. who has a very long nose. Of course 
 you don't care for all this; but what of that? I 
 must have a chat with you. In Italy I was lazy, in 
 Switzerland a wild student, in Munich a consumer 
 of cheese and beer, and so in Paris I must talk 
 politics. I intended to have composed various sym- 
 phonies, and to have written some songs for certain 
 ladies in Frankfort, D'dsseldorf. and Berlin ; but aa 
 yet net a :hance of it. Paris obtrudes herself, and 
 as above all things I must now see Paris, so I am 
 busily engaged in seeing it, and am dumb.
 
 310 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 Moreover I am freezing with cold another draw, 
 back. 1 cannot contrive to make my room warm, 
 and I am not to get another and warmer apartment, 
 till New Year's Day. In a dark little hole on the 
 ground floor, overlooking a small damp garden, 
 where my feet are like ice, how can I possibly write 
 music? It is bitterly cold, and an Italian like my- 
 self is peculiarly susceptible. At this moment a 
 man outside my window is singing a political song 
 to a guitar. 
 
 1 live a reckless life out morning, noon, and 
 night: to-day at Baillot's; to-morrow I go to some 
 friends of the Bigots ; the next day, Valentin ; 
 Monday. Fould ; Tuesday, Ililler; Wednesday, Ger- 
 ard; and the pievious week it was just the same. 
 In the forenoon I rush off to the Louvre, and gaze at 
 the Raphaels, and my favourite Titian ; a person 
 might well wish for a dozen more eyes to look at 
 such a picture. 
 
 Yesterday I was in the Chamber of Peers, who 
 were engaged in pronouncing judgment on their own 
 hereditary rights, and I saw M. Pu.squier's wig. The 
 day before I paid two musical visits, to the grumb- 
 ling Clierubini. and the kind Jlerz. There is a large 
 sign-board before the house : " Manufacture de 
 Pianos, par Henri Ilerz. Marchand dc Modes et de 
 Nouveautes." I thought this formed one, not ob- 
 serving that it was a notice of two different firms, so 
 I went in below, and found myself surrounded by 
 gauze, and lace, and trimmings : so, rather abashed. 
 I asked where the pianos were. A number of Herz's
 
 M. HENRI HERZ. 311 
 
 fair scholars with industrious faces, wore waiting 
 upstairs. I sat down by the fire and read your 
 interesting account of our dear father's birth-day, 
 and so forth. ITerz presently arrived, and gave 
 audience to his pupils. We were very loving, re- 
 called old times, and besprinkled each other mutually 
 with great praise. On his pianos is inscribed : 
 'Medaille d'or. Exposition <le 1827." This was 
 very imposing'. 
 
 From thence I went to Erard's, where I tried over 
 hi? instruments, and remarked written on them in 
 largo letters : " Mednille d'or. Exposition de 1827." 
 My respect seemed to diminish. When I -vent home 
 I opened my own instrument by Pleyel, and to be 
 sure there also I saw in large letters : " Medaille d'or. 
 Exposition de 1827." The matter is like the title 
 of " Hofruth." but it is characteristic. It is alleged 
 that the chambers are about to discuss the following 
 proposition: "Tons ies Franqais du sexe masculin 
 out des leur naissance le droit de porter 1'ordre de 
 la Legion d'llonneur." and the permission to appear 
 without the order, can only be obtained by special 
 services. You really scarcely see a man in the 
 street without a bit of coloured ribbon, so it is uo 
 longer a distinction. 
 
 Api-i'iiox. shall I be lithographed full length? 
 Answer what you will. I don't intend to do it. One 
 afternoon in Berlin, when I was standing uiiter den 
 
 Liii'lc/i before Schenk's shop looking at 11 's 
 
 and ~\V 's lithographs, I made a solemn vow to 
 
 myself unheard by man, that I would never allow
 
 312 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 myself to be hung up till I became a great man. 
 The temptation in Munich was strong; there they 
 \v\shcd to drape me with a Carbonaro cloak, a stormy 
 sky in the background, and my fac-simile underneath, 
 but I happily got off by adhering to my principles. 
 Here again I am rather tempted, for the likenesses 
 are very striking, but I keep my vow ; and if, after 
 all, I never do become a great man, though posterity 
 will be deprived of a portrait, it will have an absur- 
 dity the less. 
 
 It is now the 24th, and we had a very pleasant 
 evening at Baillot's yesterday. lie plays beautifully, 
 and had collected a very musical society of attentive 
 ladies and enthusiastic gentlemen, and I have seldom 
 been so well amused in any circle, or enjoyed such 
 honours. It was the greatest possible delight to me 
 to hear my quartett in E flat major (dedicated to B. 
 P.) performed in Paris by Baillot's quartett, and 
 they executed it with fire and spirit. They com- 
 menced with a quintctt by Bocherini, an old-fashioned 
 perruque, but a very amiable old gentleman under- 
 neath it. The company then asked for a sonata of 
 Bach's ; we selected the one in A major ; old familiar 
 tones dawned once more on me, of the time when 
 Baillot played it with Madame Bigot.* AVe urged 
 each other on, the affair became animated, and so 
 thoroughly amused both us and our audience, that 
 we immediately commenced the one in K major, and 
 next time we mean to introduce the four others. 
 
 The lady who instructed Mendelssohn in the piauo in 
 When the family resided there for a time ill 1 51d.
 
 CONGENIAL FRIENDS. 313 
 
 Then my turn came to play a solo. T was in the 
 vein to extemporize successfully, and felt that I did 
 so. The guests being now in a graver mood, I took 
 three themes from the previous sonatas, and worked 
 them up to my heart's content; it seemed to give 
 immense pleasure to those present, for they shouted 
 and applauded like mad. Then IJaillot gave my 
 qmirtett ; his manner towards me has something 
 very kind, and I was doubly pleased, as he is rather 
 cold at first and seldom makes advances to any 
 one. lie appears a good deal depressed by the loss 
 of his situation. I saw a number of old well-known 
 faces, and they asked after you all, and recalled 
 many anecdotes of that former period. 
 
 When I was passing through Louvain two years 
 ago with my ' Liederspiel " in *:iy head, and my 
 injured knee,* I seized the brass handle of a pump 
 to prevent myself from falling ; and when I returned 
 this year in the same miserable diligence, driven by 
 a postilion exactly similar, with a big queue, the 
 "Liederspiel," my knee, and Italy, were all things 
 of the past; and yet the handle of the pump was 
 still hanging there, as clean and brightly rubbed up 
 as ever, having survived 18IJO, and all the revolu- 
 tionary storms, and remaining quite unchanged. 
 This is sentimental ; my father must not read it. for 
 it is the old story of the past and the present, which 
 we discussed so eagerly one fine evening, and which 
 recurs to me among the crov.'d here at every step. 
 
 * Mendelssohn had been thrown out of a cabriolet iu London in 
 1829, and his knee seriously iujnrod. 
 
 27
 
 314 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 I thought of it at the Madeleine, and when I went to 
 
 aunt J 's, and at the Hotel dcs Princes, and at 
 
 the gallery, which my father showed me fifteen years 
 ago, and when I saw the coloured signs, which at 
 that time impressed me exceedingly, and are now 
 grown brown and shabby. 
 
 Moreover this is Christmas Eve ; but I feel little 
 interest in it. or in New Year's Night either. Please 
 God, another year may wear a very different aspect, 
 and I will not then go to the theatre on Christmas 
 Eve, as I am about to do to-night, to hear Lablache 
 and Rossini for the first time. How little I care 
 about it ! I should much prefer Policliindles and 
 apples to-day, and I think it very doubtful whether 
 the orchestra will play as pretty a symphony as my 
 "Kinder-Sinfonie."* I must be satisfied with it 
 however. I am now modulating into the minor key, 
 a fault with which the " Ecole Allemande " are often 
 reproached, and as I profess not to belong to the 
 latter, the French say I am cosmopolite. Heaven 
 defend me from being anything of the kind ! 
 
 And now good-bye; a thousand compliments from 
 Bertin de Yaux, Girod de PAiti, Dupont de 1'Enre, 
 Tracy, Sacy. Passy and other kind friends. I had 
 intended to have told you in this letter how Salverte 
 attacked the Ministers, and how during this time a 
 little 4meute took place on the Pont Neuf ; how I 
 sat in the Chambers along with Franck, in the midst 
 of St. Simoniens ; how witty Dupin was ; but no 
 
 * A " Kinder-Sinfonie," composed by Mendelssohn in the jvar 
 1829, fa a Christinas family fete.
 
 LIFE IX PARIS. 315 
 
 more at present. May you all be well and happy 
 this evening, and thinking of me ! 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Paris, December 28th, 1831. 
 Dear Madam Fanny, 
 
 For three months past I have been thinking of 
 writing you a musical letter, but my procrastination 
 hus its revenge, for though I have been a fortnight 
 here. I don't know whether I shall still be able to do 
 so. I have appeared in every possible mood here ; 
 in that of an inquiring, admiring traveller ; a cox- 
 comb ; a Frenchman, and yesterday actually as a 
 Peer of France ; but not yet as a musician. Indeed 
 there is little likelihood of the latter, for the aspect 
 of music here is miserable enough. 
 
 The concerts in the Conservatoire, which were my 
 great object, probably will not take p-!ace at all, be- 
 cause the Commission of the Ministry wished to give 
 a Commission to the Commission of the society, to 
 deprive a Commission of Professors of their share of 
 the profits; on which the Commission of the Conser- 
 vatoire replied to the Commission of the Ministry, 
 that they might go and be hanged (suspended), and 
 then they would not consent to it. The newspapers 
 make some very severe comments on this, but you 
 need not read them, as these papers are prohibited 
 in Berlin; but you don't lose much by this. The 
 Opera Comique is bankrupt, and so it has had
 
 316 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTEKS. 
 
 reldche since I came ; at the Grand Opera, they 
 only give little operas, which amuse me, though 
 they neither provoke nor excite me. " Armida r> was 
 the last great opera, but they gave it in three acts, 
 and this was two years ago. Chorun's "Institut" 
 is closed, the " Chapelle Royale" is gone out like a 
 light ; not a single Mass is to be heard on Sundays 
 in all Paris, unless accompanied by serpents. Mali- 
 bran is lo appear here next week for the last lime. 
 So much the better, say you : retire within yourself, 
 and write music for " Ach Gott vom Hirnmcl," or a 
 symphony, or the new violin quartctt which you 
 mentioned in your letter to me of the 28th, or any 
 other serious composition ; but this is even more 
 impossible, for what is going on here is most deeply 
 interesting, and entices you out, suggesting matter 
 for thought and memory and absorbing every mo- 
 ment of time. Accordingly I was yesterday in the 
 Chambre des Pairs, and counted along with them 
 the votes, destined to abolish a very ancient privi- 
 lege ; immediately afterwards I hurried off to the 
 Theatre Francais, where Mars was to appear for 
 the first time for a year past ; (she is fascinating 
 beyond conception ; a voice that we shall never hear 
 equalled, causing you to weep, and yet to feel pleas- 
 ure in doing so). To-day I must see Taglioni again, 
 who along with Mars constitutes two Graces ( if I 
 find a third in rny travels, I mean to marry her), 
 and afterwards I mean to go to Gerard's classical 
 salon. I lately went to hear Lablache and Ilubini, 
 after hearing Odillou Barrot quarrel with the Minis-
 
 LIFE IN PARIS. 317 
 
 try. Having seen the pictures in the Louvre in the 
 morning, I went to Baillot's ; so what chance is there 
 of living in retirement? The outer world is too 
 tempting. 
 
 There are moments, however, when my thoughts 
 turn inwards such us on that memorable evening, 
 when Lublache sang so beautifully, or on Christmas- 
 day. when there were no bells and no festivities, or 
 when Paul's letter came from London, inviting me 
 to visit him next spring; the said spring to be 
 passed in England. Then I feel that all that now 
 interests me is merely superficial : that I am neither 
 a politician, nor a dancer, nor an actor, nor a bel 
 ctp r i/, but a musician so I take courage, and am 
 now writing a professional letter to my dear sister. 
 
 My conscience smote me, especially when I read 
 about your new music that you so carefully con- 
 ducted on my father's birthday, and I reproached 
 myself for not having said a single word to you 
 about your previous composition ; but I cannot let 
 you off that, my colleague ! AVhat the deuce made 
 you think of setting your G horns so high? Did 
 you ever hear a G horn take the high G without a 
 squeak? I only put this to yourself! and at the 
 end of this introduction, when wind instruments 
 
 stare you in the face, and do not these deep oboes 
 
 growl away all pastoral feeling, and all bloom ? Do 
 
 you not know that you ousrht to take out a license 
 
 27*
 
 318 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 to sanction your writing the low B for oboes, and 
 that it is only permitted on particular occasions, 
 such as witches, or some great grief? Has not the 
 composer evidently, in the A major air, overloaded 
 the voice by too many other parts, so that the deli- 
 cate intention, and the lovely melody of this other- 
 wise charming piece, with all its beauties, is quite 
 obscured and eclipsed ? 
 
 To speak seriously, however, this aria is very 
 beautiful, and particularly fascinating. But 1 have 
 a remark to make about your two choruses, which 
 indeed applies rather to the text than to you. These 
 two choruses are not sufficiently original. This 
 sounds absurd ; but rny opinion is that it is the ftuilt 
 of the words, that express nothing original ; one 
 single expression might have improved the whole, but 
 as they now stand, they would be equally suitable for 
 church music, a cantata, an offertorium. etc. "Where, 
 however, they are not of such universal application, 
 as for example, the lament at the end, they seem to 
 be sentimental and not natural. The words of the 
 last chorus are too material ("init dem kraf'tlosen 
 Mund. und der sich regenden Zunge"). At the 
 beginning of the aria alone, are the words vigorous 
 and spirited, and from them emanated the whole of 
 your lovely piece of music. The choruses are of 
 course fine, for they are written by you; but in the 
 first place, it seems to me that they might be by any 
 other good master, and secondly, as if they were not 
 necessarily what they are, indeed as if they might 
 have been differently composed. This arises from
 
 FRIEXDT-T CRITICISM. 319 
 
 the poetry not imposing any particular music. I 
 know that the latter is often the case with my own 
 compositions; but though I am fully aware of the 
 beam in my own eyes, I would fain extract, the mote 
 from yours, to relieve you at once from its pressure. 
 
 My resume therefore is, that I would advise you 
 to be more cautious in the choice of your words, 
 because, after all. it is not everything in the Bible, 
 even if it suits the theme, that is suggestive of 
 music; but you have probably obviated these ob- 
 jections of mine in your new cantata, before being 
 aware of them, in which case, I might as well have 
 said nothing. So much the better if it be so. and 
 then you can prosecute me for defamation ! So far 
 a? your music and composition are concerned, they 
 quite suit my taste ; the young lady's cloven foot 
 nowhere peeps forth, and if I knew any Kapellmeister 
 capable of writing such music. I would give him a 
 place at my court. Fortunately I know no such 
 person, and there is no occasion to place you at my 
 right hand at court, as you are there already.* 
 
 "When do you mean to send me something new to 
 cheer me ? Pray do so soon! As far as regards 
 myself, shortly after my arrival here. I had one of 
 those attacks of musical spleen, when all music, and 
 more especially one's own. becomes actually hateful. 
 I felt thoroughly unmusical, and did nothing but cat 
 
 and sleep, and that revived me. F , to whom 1 
 
 complained of my state, instantly constructed a 
 
 * A play upon F^nnv Hensei's house, in a court Xo. 3, Leip* 
 tiger Strasse.
 
 320 
 
 musical theory on (lie subject, proving that it could 
 not be otherwise.; 1 however think exactly the 
 reverse; but though we are so entirely dissimilar, 
 and have as many differences as a Bushman and 
 CafTYe, still we like each other exceedingly. 
 
 With L . too, I get on famously. lie is very 
 
 pleasing, and the most dilettante of all the dilettanti 
 I ever met. lie knows everything by heart, and 
 plays wrong basses to them all ; he is only de 
 ficient in arrogance, for with all his undeniable 
 talent, he is very modest and retiring. I am much 
 with him, because he is a benevolent, kind-hearted 
 man ; we should thoroughly agree on all points, if 
 he would not consider me a doctrinaire, and persist 
 in talking politics (a subject that I wish to avoid 
 for at least a hundred and twenty reasons ; and 
 chiefly because I don't in the least understand it); 
 besides, he delights in hitting at Germany, and in 
 depreciating London in favour of Paris. Both these 
 things are prejudicial to my constitution, and who- 
 ever assails that, I must defend it and dispute with 
 him. 
 
 I was yesterday studying your now music, and 
 enjoying it, when Kalkbrenuer came in, and played 
 various new compositions. The man is become 
 quite romantic, purloins themes, ideas, and similar 
 trifles, from Miller, writes pieces in F sharp minor, 
 practises every day for several hours, and is as he 
 always was, a knowing fellow. Kvery time I see 
 him, he inquires after "my charming sister, whom 
 he likes so much, and who has such a line talent for
 
 LIFE IN PARIS. 321 
 
 playing and composing." My invariable reply is, 
 that she has not given up music, that she is very in- 
 dustrious, and that I love her very much; which is 
 all true. And now farewell, dear sister. May you 
 be well and happy, and may we meet at the New 
 Year. FELIX. 
 
 To CARL IMMERMANN IN DUSSELDOKF. 
 
 Paris, January nth, 1831. 
 
 You permitted me to give you occasional tidings 
 of myself, and since I came here, I have daily in- 
 tended to do so ; the excitement here is however so 
 great, that till to-day I have never been able to write. 
 When I contrast this constant whirl and commotion, 
 and the thousand distractions among a foreign 
 people, with your house in the garden, and your 
 warm winter room, your wish to exchange with me 
 and to come here in my place, often recurs to me, 
 and I almost wish I had taken you at your word. 
 You must indeed in that case have remained all the 
 same in your winter room, so that I might come out 
 to you through the snow, take my usual place in the 
 corner, and listen to the "Schwanritter ;" for there 
 is more life in it than in all the tumult here. 
 
 In a word, I rejoice at the prospect of my return 
 to Germany ; everything there is indeed on a small 
 scale, and homely, if you will, but men live there;
 
 322 MEXDELSSOIIN S LETTERS. 
 
 men who know what art really is, who do not admire, 
 nor praise, in fact who do not criticize, hut create. 
 You do not admit this, but it is only hccause you are 
 yourself among the number. 
 
 I beg you will not however think that I am like 
 one of those German youths with long hair, lounging 
 about listlessly, and pronouncing the French superfi- 
 cial, and Paris frivolous. I only say all this because 
 I now thoroughly enjoy and admire Paris, and am 
 becoming better acquainted with it. and especially 
 as I am writing to you in Dlisseldorf, I have, on the 
 contrary, cast myself headlong into the vortex, and 
 do nothing the whole day but see new objects, the 
 Chambers of Peers and Deputies, pictures and thea- 
 tres, dio- neo- cosmo- and panoramas, constant parties, 
 etc. Moreover, the musicians here are as numerous 
 as the sands on the sea-shore, all hating each other; 
 so each must be individually visited, and wary diplo- 
 macy is advisable, for they are all gossips, and what 
 one says to another, the whole corps know next 
 morning. 
 
 The days have thus flown past hitherto as if only 
 half as long as they were in reality, and as yet I have 
 not been able to compose a single liar ; in a few days, 
 however, this exotic life will cease. My head is now 
 dizzy from all I have seen and wondered at ; but I 
 then intend to collect my thoughts, and set to work, 
 when I shall feel once more happy and domesticated. 
 
 My chief pleasure is going to the little theatres in 
 the evening, because there French life and the 
 French people are truly mirrored; the " Gymuase
 
 LIFE IX PARIS. 323 
 
 Dramatique" is my particular favourite, where 
 nothing is given but small vaudevilles. The ex- 
 treme bitterness and deep animosity which pervade 
 all these little comedies, are most remarkable, and 
 although partially cloaked by the prettiest phrases, 
 and the most lively acting, become only the more 
 conspicuous. Politics everywhere play the chief 
 pnrt. which might have sufficed to make me dislike 
 tlie.se theatres, for we have enough of them dse- 
 iclu-re; but the politics of the " Gymnase " are of a 
 light and ironical description. referring to the oc- 
 currences of the day, and to the newspapers, in order 
 to excite laughter and applause, and at last you 
 can't help laughing and applauding .with the rest. 
 Politics and sensuality are the two grand points of 
 interest, round which everything circles; and in the 
 many pieces I have seen, an attack on the Ministry, 
 and a scene of seduction, were never absent. 
 
 The whole style of the vaudeville, introducing 
 c'-rtain conventional music at the end of tne scene 
 in every piece, when the actors partly sing and 
 partly declaim some couplets with a witty point, is 
 thoroughly French ; we could never learn this, nor 
 in fact wish to do so, for this mode of connecting 
 the wit of the day with an established refrain, does 
 not exist in our conversation, nor in our ideas. I 
 cannot imagine anything more striking and effective, 
 nor yet more prosaic. 
 
 A great sensation has been recently caused here, 
 by a new piece at the Gymnase. " Le Luthier da 
 Lisboune," which forms the delight of the public,
 
 324 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 A stranger is announced in the play-hills; < nrcoly 
 :1; es lie appear \viicn all the audience begin to laugh 
 :uid to applaud, and you le.irn that the actor is a 
 close imitation of Don Miguel, in gestuivs. manner, 
 and costume; he proceeds to announce that he is a 
 king, and the fortune of the piece is made. The 
 more stupid, uncivilized, and uncouth, the Unknown 
 appears, the greater is the enjoyment of the public, 
 who allow none of his gestures or speeches to pass un- 
 observed, lie takes refuge from a riot in the house 
 of this instrument maker, who is the most devoted 
 of all royalists, lint unluckily the husband of a very 
 pretty woman. One of Don Miguel's favourites has 
 forced her to grant him a rendezvous for the ensuing 
 night, and he begs the king who arrives at this 
 moment to give him his aid. by causing the husband 
 to be beheaded. Don Miguel replies, "Tres volon- 
 tiers," and while the huthier recognizes him, and 
 fails at his feet, beside himself from joy. Don Miguel 
 signs his death-warrant, but also that of his favourite, 
 whom he means to replace with the pretty woman 
 At each enormity that he commits, we laugh and 
 applaud, and are immensely delighted with this 
 stupid stage Don Miguel. So ends the first act. 
 In the second, it is supposed to lie midnight; the 
 pretty w'i'e aline and agitated. Don Miguel jump* 
 i:i at the window, and dues all in his power to gain 
 her Favour, ma! ing her dunce and sing to him. but 
 s'.o cannot endure him. and falls at las feet, im- 
 ploring him to spare her; on which he seizes her, 
 and drags her repeatedly round the stage, and if she
 
 ' LE LUTHIER DE LISBOXXE.' 325 
 
 did not make a snatch at a knife, and then a sudden 
 knocking ensue, she might have been in a bad plight; 
 at the close, the worthy Luthier rescues the king 
 from the hands of the French soldiery, who are just 
 arrived, and of whose valour, and love of liberty, he 
 has a great horror. So the piece ends happily. 
 
 A little comedy followed, where the wife betrays 
 her husband, and has a lover ; and another, where 
 the man is faithless to his wife, and is maintained by 
 his mistress ; this is succeeded by a satire on the 
 new constructions in the Tuileries, and on the Minis- 
 try, and so it goes on. 
 
 I cannot say how it may be at the French Opera, 
 for it is bankrupt, so there has been no acting there 
 since I came. In the Academic Royale. however. 
 Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" is played every 
 night with great success: the house is always 
 crowded, and the music has given general satisfac- 
 tion. There is an expenditure of all possible means 
 of producing stage effect, that I never saw equalled 
 on any stage. All who can sing, dance, or act in 
 Paris, sing, dance, and act on this occasion. 
 
 The fiijr-t is romantic ; that is, the devil appears 
 in the piece (this is quite sufficient romance and 
 imagination for the Parisians). It is however very 
 bad ; and were it not I'd* two brilliant scenes of 
 seduction it would produce no effect whatever. 
 The devil is a poor devil, and appears in armour, 
 for the purpose of leading astray his son Robert, a 
 Norman knight, who loves a Sicilian princess. He 
 succeeds iu inducing him to stake his money and all 
 28
 
 326 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 his personal property (that is, his sword) at dice, 
 and then makes him commit sacrilege, giving him a 
 magic branch, which enables him to penetrate into 
 the Princess's apartment, and renders him irresisti- 
 ble. The son does all this with apparent willingness; 
 but when at the end he is to assign himself to his 
 father, who declares that he loves him, and cannot 
 live without him, the devil, or rather the poet 
 Scribe, introduces a peasant girl, who has in her 
 possession the will of Robert's deceased mother, 
 and reads him the document, which makes him 
 doubt the story he has been told; so the devil is 
 obliged 1o sink down through a trap-door at mid- 
 night, with his purpose unfulfilled, on which Robert 
 marries the Princess, and the peasant girl, it seems, 
 is intended to represent the principle of good. The 
 devil is called Bertram. 
 
 I cannot imagine how any music could be com- 
 posed on such a cold, formal extravaganza as this, 
 and so tin: opera docs not satisfy me. It is through- 
 out frigid and heartless ; and where this is the case 
 it produces no effect on me. The people extol the 
 music, but where warmth and truth are wanting. I 
 have no test to apply. 
 
 Michael Beer set off to-day for Havre. It seems 
 he intends to compose poetry there ; and I now re- 
 member that when I met you one day at Schadow's, 
 and maintained that he was no poet, your rejoinder 
 was, " That is a matter of taste." I seldom see 
 Heine, because he is entirely absorbed in liberal 
 ideas and in politics. He has recently published
 
 ' FRCHI.IXGS MEDER.' 327 
 
 sixty "Frlihlings Liedor." Very few of them seem 
 to me either genuine or truthful, but these few are 
 indeed inimitable. Have you read them ? They 
 appeared in the second volume of the ' Ileisebilder." 
 Borne intends to publish some new volumes of let- 
 ters : lie and I are full of enthusiasm for Malibran 
 and Taglioni; all these g'entlemen are abusing and 
 reviling (Jermany and all that is (Jcrman. and yet 
 they cannot speak even tolerable French ; I think 
 this rather provoking. 
 
 Pray excuse my having sent you so much gossip, 
 and for writing to you on such a disreputable margin 
 of paper: but it is long since we met ; and as for a 
 time I could see you every day. it has become quite 
 a necessity to write to you ; so you must not take it 
 amiss. You once promised to send me a few lines 
 in reply : I don't know whether I may venture to 
 remind you of this, but I should really be glad to 
 hear how you pass your time, and what novelty a 
 certain cupboard in the corner contains ; how you 
 get on with ".Merlin," and my Schwanritter," the 
 sound of which still vibrates in my ears like sweet 
 music ; and also whether you sometimes think of me, 
 and of next May, and "The Tempest." It is cer- 
 tuinly expecting a good deal to ask you for an early 
 reply to my letter, but I fear that you had enough 
 of the first, and would rather not receive a second; 
 therefore I take courage, and beg for an answer 
 to this one. But I need not have asked this, for 
 you usually guess my wishes before I can utter 
 them ; and if you are as kindly disposed towards
 
 328 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 me now as you were then, you will fulfil this desi .* 
 of mine as you did all the others. Yours. 
 
 FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY. 
 
 Paris, January I4th, 1832. 
 
 I now first begin to feel at home here, and really 
 to know Paris ; it is indeed the most singular and 
 amusing place imaginable ; but for one who is no 
 politician, it does not possess so much interest. So 
 I have become a doctrinaire, I read my newspaper 
 every morning, form my own opinion about peace 
 and war, and, only among friends, confess that I 
 know nothing of the matter. 
 
 This is however not the case with F , who is 
 
 completely absorbed in the vortex of dilettantism and 
 dogmatism, and really believes himself quite adapted 
 to be a Minister. It is a sad pity, for nothing good 
 will ever come of it. lie has sufficient sense to be 
 always occupied, but not enough to conduct any 
 affair. He is a dilettante on all points, and has a 
 clever knack of criticizing others, but he produces 
 nothing. We continue on the same intimate terms, 
 meeting every day, and liking each other's society, 
 hut inwardly we remain strangers. I suspect that 
 lie writes for the public papers; he is very much 
 with Heine, and chatters abuse against Germany 
 like a magpie ; all this I much dislike, and as 1 
 really have a sincere regard for him, it worries me.
 
 PT. STMOXTEXS. 329 
 
 f suppose I must try to become accustomed to it. 
 but it is really too sad to know where a person is 
 deficient, and yet to be unable to remedy their 
 defects. Moreover he grows visibly older ; so this 
 irregular, unoccupied life is the less suitable for 
 him. 
 
 A has left his parents' house, and gone to the 
 
 Rue Monsigny,* where body and soul are equally 
 engrossed. 1 have in my possession an appeal 
 to mankind from P in which he makes his con- 
 fession of faith, and invites every one to surrender 
 a share of his property, however small, to the St. 
 Simoniens ; calling on all artists to devote their 
 genius in future to tins religion; to compose better 
 music than Rossini or Beethoven; to build temples 
 of peace, and to paint like Raphael or David. 1 have 
 
 twenty copies of this pamphlet, which P desired 
 
 me. di'ar Father, to send to you. I rest satisfied by 
 sending you one, which you will find quite enough, 
 and even that one. by some private hand of course. 
 
 It is a bad sign of the state of the public mind 
 here, that such a monstrous doctrine, in such de- 
 testable prose, should ever have existed, or impressed 
 others ; for it appears that the students of the Poly- 
 technic School take considerable interest in it. It 
 is difficult to say how far it may be carried, whea 
 there is temptation offered on every side, promising 
 honour to one. fame to another ; to me, an admiring 
 public, and to the poor, money ; while by their cold 
 
 At that time the residence of the St. Simoniens. 
 
 28*
 
 330 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 estimate of talent, they check all effort and all 
 progress. And then their ideas as to universal 
 brotherhood, their disbelief in hell, and the devil, 
 and eternal perdition, and of the annihilation of till 
 egotism, ideas, which in our country spring from 
 nature, and prevail in every part of Christendom, 
 and without which I should not wish to live, but 
 which they however regard as a new invention and 
 discovery, constantly repeating that they mean to 
 transform the world, and to render mankind happy. 
 
 A coolly tells me that he docs not require to 
 
 improve himself, but others only ; because he is not 
 at all imperfect, but on the contrary, perfect. They 
 not only praise and compliment each other, but all 
 those whom they wish to gain over; extolling any 
 t.ilent or capability you may possess, and lamenting 
 that such great powers should be lost, by adhering 
 to the old-fashioned notions of duty, vocation, and 
 action, as they were formerly interpreted. When I 
 listen to all this, it does seem to me a melancholy 
 mystification. I attended a meeting last Sunday, 
 where all the Fathers sat in a circle: then came 
 the principal Father and demanded their reports, 
 praising .and blaming them, addressing the assembly, 
 and issuing his commands ; to me it was quite awful ! 
 
 A has completely renounced his parents, and 
 
 lives with the Fathers, his disciples, and is en- 
 deavouring to procure a loan for their benefit; but 
 enough of this subject ! 
 
 A .Pole gives a concert next week, where I am to 
 play in a composition for six performers, along with
 
 ROMANTIC SCHOOL. 331 
 
 Kalkbrenner, Hillcr, and Co. ; do not be surprised 
 therefore if you see my name mutilated, as in the 
 " Messager " lately, when the death of Professor 
 Flegel (Hegel) was announced from Berlin, and all 
 the papers copied it, 
 
 I have set to work again, and live most agreeably. 
 I have not yet been able to write to you about the 
 theatres, although they occupy me very much. How 
 plain are the symptoms of bitterness and excitement 
 even in the most insignificant farce ; how invariably 
 everything bears a reference to politics ; how com- 
 pletely what is called the Romantic School has 
 infected all the Parisians, for they think of nothing 
 on the stage now but the plague, the gallows, the 
 devil, etc., one striving to outstrip the other in 
 horrors, and in liberalism ; in the midst of these 
 mix&res and fooleries, how charming is a talent like 
 that of Leontine Fay, who is the perfection of grace 
 and fascination, and remains unsullied by the ab- 
 surdities she is compelled to utter and to act. How 
 strange all these contrasts are ! but this I reserve 
 for future discussion. FELIX. 
 
 Paris, January 2ist, 1832. 
 
 In every letter of yours I receive a little hit, be- 
 cause my answers are not very punctual, ami so I 
 reply without delay to your questions, dear Fanny, 
 with regard to the new works that I am about to 
 publish.
 
 332 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 It occurred to me that the octett and the quintet! 
 might make a very good appearance among my 
 works, being in fact better than many compositions 
 that already figure there. As the publication of 
 these pieces costs me nothing, but, on the contrary, 
 I derive profit from them, and not wishing to confuse 
 their chronological order, my idea is to publish the 
 following pieces at Easter: quintett and octett 
 ( the latter also arranged as a duet), "Midsummer 
 Night's Dream," seven songs without words, six 
 songs with words ; on my return to Germany, six 
 pieces of sacred music, and finally, if I can get 
 any one to print it, and to pay for it, the symphony 
 in D minor. As soon as I have performed " Meeres- 
 stille " at my concert in Berlin, it will also appear. 
 I cannot however bring out "The Hebrides" here, 
 because, as I wrote to you at the time, I do not 
 consider it finished ; the middle movement forte in 
 D major is very stupid, and the whole modulations 
 savour more of counterpoint, than of train oil and 
 seagulls and salt fish and it ought to be exactly 
 the reverse. I like the piece too well to allow it to 
 be performed in an imperfect state, and I hope 
 soon to be able to work at it, and to have it ready 
 for England, and the Michaelmas fair at Leipzig. 
 
 You inquire also why I do not compose the Italian 
 symphony in A major. Because I am composing the 
 Saxon overture in A minor, which is to precede the 
 " "Walpnrgis Night," that the work may be played 
 with all due honour at the said Berlin concert, and 
 elsewhere.
 
 ENJOYMENT OF LIFE AT PARIS. 333 
 
 You wish me to remove to the Marais. and to 
 write the whole day. My dear child, that would 
 never do ; I have, at the most, only the prospect of 
 three mouths to see Paris, so I must throw myself 
 into the stream; indeed, this is why I came; every- 
 thing here is too bright, and too attractive to be 
 neglected; it rounds off my pleasant travelling 
 reminiscences, and forms a fine colossal key-stone, 
 and so I consider that to see Paris is at this moment 
 my chief vocation. The publishers too are standing 
 on each side of me like veritable Satans, demanding 
 music for the piano, and offering to pay for it. By 
 Heavens! I don't know whether I shall be able to 
 withstand this, or write some kind of trio ; for I hope 
 you believe me to be superior to the temptation of a 
 pot-pourri ; but I should like to compose a couple 
 of good trios. 
 
 On Thursday the first rehearsal of my overture 
 takes place, which is to be performed in the second 
 concert at the " Conservatoire." In the third my 
 symphony in I) minor is to follow. Ilabeneck talks 
 of seven or eight rehearsals, which will be very wel- 
 come to me. Moreover I am also to play something 
 at Krard's concert ; so I shall play my Munich con- 
 certo, but J must first practise it well. Then, a note 
 is lying beside me, " Le President du Conseil, Min- 
 istre de 1'Interieur, et Madame Casimir Perier 
 prient. " etc., on Monday evening to a ball ; this 
 evening there is to be music at Ilabeneck's ; to-mor- 
 row at Schlesinger's ; Tuesday, the first public soiree 
 at Baillot's ; ou Wednesday, Hiller plays his Con-
 
 334 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 certo in the Hotel de Ville, and this alivays lasts till 
 past midnight. Let those who like it, lead a solitary 
 life ! these are all things that cannot be refused. So 
 when am I to compose ? In the forenoon ? Yester- 
 day, first ] Filler came, then Kalkbrcnner. then Ilabe- 
 neck. The day before that, came Baillot, Eichthal_ 
 and Rodrigucs. Perhaps very early in the morning? 
 Well, I do compose then so you are confuted ! 
 
 P - was with me yesterday, talking St. Simo- 
 nienism, and either from a conviction of my stupid- 
 ity, or my shrewdness, he made me disclosures which 
 shocked me so much, that I resolved never again to 
 go either to him or to his confederates. Early this 
 morning Ililler rushed in, and told me he had just 
 witnessed the arrest of the St. Simoniens. He wished 
 to hear their orations; but the Fathers did not 
 come. All of a sudden soldiers made their way in, 
 and requested those present to disperse as quickly 
 as possible, inasmuch as M. Enfant in and the others 
 had been arrested in the Rue Monsigny. A party 
 of National Guards arc placed in the street, and 
 other soldiers marched up there; everything is 
 sealed up, and now the procts will begin. My B 
 minor quartett, which is lying in the Rue Monsigny, 
 is also sealed up. The adagio alone is in the style 
 of the "juste Milieu," all the other parts mou ce- 
 ment. I suppose I shall eventually be obliged to 
 play it before a jury. 
 
 I was lately standing beside the Abb6 Bardin at 
 a large party, listening to the performance of my 
 quartett in A minor. At the last movement my
 
 DEATH OF A FRIEXD. 335 
 
 neighbour pulled my coat, and said : " II a cela dana 
 une de ses sinfonies." " Qui?" said I, rather embar- 
 rassed. " Beethoven, 1'auteur de ce quatuor," said 
 he, with a consequential air. This was a very 
 doubtful compliment! but is it not famous that my 
 quartett should be played in the classes of the 
 Conservatoire, and that the pupils there are prac- 
 tising off their fingers to play ' 1st es wahr ?" 
 
 I have just come from St. Sulpice, where the 
 organist showed off his organ to me ; it sounded 
 like a full chorus of old women's voices ; but they 
 maintain that it is the finest organ in Europe if it 
 were only put into proper order, which would cost 
 thirty thousand francs. The effect of the canto 
 fermo, accompanied by a serpent, those who have 
 not heard it could scarcely conceive, and clumsy 
 bells are ringing all the time. 
 
 The post is going, so I must conclude my gossip, 
 or I might go on in this manner till the day after 
 to-morrow. I have not yet told you that Bach's 
 " Passion" is announced for performance in London, 
 at Easter, in the Italian Opera House. Yours, 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 Paris, February 4th, 1832. 
 
 You will. I am sure, excuse my writing you only 
 a few words to-day : it was but yesterday that I 
 heard of my irreparable loss.* Many hopes, and a 
 
 * The dath of his fr end Edwird Ritz, the violin player.
 
 336 
 
 pleasant bright period of my life have departed with 
 him. and I never again can feel so happy. 1 must 
 now set about forming new plans, and building fresh 
 castles in the air ; the former ones are irrevocably 
 gone, for he was interwoven with them all. 1 shall 
 never be able to think of my boyish days, nor of the 
 ensuing ones, without conaecting him with them, and 
 I had hoped, till no\v, that it might be the same for 
 the future. 1 must endeavour to inure myself to 
 this, but I can recall no one thing without being 
 reminded of him ; I shall never hear music, or write 
 it, without thinking of him ; all this makes the rend- 
 ing asunder of such a tie doubly distressing. The 
 former epoch has now wholly passed away, but not 
 only do I lose that, but also the man I so sincerely 
 loved. If I never had any especial reason for loving 
 him. or if I no longer had such reasons, I must 
 have loved him all the same, even without a reason, 
 lie loved me too, and the knowledge that there was 
 such a man in the world one on whom yon could 
 repose, and -who lived to love you, and whose wishes 
 and aims were identical with your own this is all 
 over : it is the most severe blow I have ever re- 
 ceived, and never can I forget him. 
 
 This was the celebration of my birthday. AYhcn 
 I was listening to Baillot on Tuesday, and said to 
 Ililler that, I only knew one man who could play the 
 
 music I loved for me, L was standing beside me, 
 
 and knew what had happened, but did not give me 
 the letter, lie was not aware indeed that yesterday 
 was my birthday, but he broke it to me by degrees
 
 DKAT71 OF A FPTEXD. 337 
 
 yest"rduv morning, and then I recalled previous 
 anniversaries, and took a rcvic\v of the past, as cverj> 
 one should on hi:; birthday; 1 remembered how inva- 
 riably ou this day he arrived with some special gift 
 which he had Ir.ng thought of. and which was always 
 as pleasing and agreeable and welcome as himself. 
 TLe day was a melancholy one to me : I could neither 
 do anything, nor think of anything, but the one 
 subject. 
 
 To-day I have compelled myself to work, and suc- 
 ceeded. My oveiture in A minor is finished. I thiuk 
 of writing some pieces here, which will be well re- 
 munerated. 
 
 1 beg yon will tell me every particular about him, 
 and every detail, no matter how trilling: it will be a 
 comfort to me to hear of him once more. The octctt 
 parts, so neatly copied by him, are lying before me 
 at this moment, and remind me of him. I hope 
 shortly to recover my usual equanimity, and to be 
 able to write to you in better spirits and more at 
 length. A new chapter in my life has begun, but 
 o-s vet it has no title. Your FELIX. 
 
 Paris, February I 3th, 1832. 
 
 I am now leading a quiet, pleasant life here; 
 neither my present frame of mind, nor the pleasures 
 of society, tempt me to enter into gaiety. Here, and 
 indeed everywhere else, society is uninteresting, and 
 not improving, aucl owing to the lato hours, mouopo- 
 29
 
 338 MKXDELSSOHX'S LETTERS. 
 
 lizing a great dual of time. I do not refuse, however, 
 when there is to be good music. I will write all 
 particulars to Zelter of the first concert in the Con- 
 servatoire. The performers there play quite admira- 
 bly, and in so finished a style, that it is indeed a 
 pleasure to hear them ; they delight in it themselves, 
 and each takes the greatest possible trouble; the 
 leader is an energetic, experienced musician, so they 
 cannot fail to go well together. 
 
 To-morrow my A minor quartett is to be per- 
 formed in public. (Jherubini says of Beethoven's 
 later music, " C-a me fait 6ternuciy" and so I think it 
 probable that the whole public will sneeze to-morrow. 
 The performers are Baillot, Sauzay, Urban, and 
 Norblin the best here. 
 
 My overture in A minor is completed ; it represents 
 bad weather. A few days ago I finished an intro- 
 duction, where it thaws, and spring arrives; I have 
 counted the sheets of the " Walpurgis Night," re- 
 vised the seven numbers a little, and then boldly 
 written underneath Milan, July; Paris, February. 
 I think it will please you. I must now write an 
 adagio for my quintett without delay ; the performers 
 are calling loudly for one, and they are right. 
 
 T do wish you could hear a rehearsal of my 'Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream" at the Conservatoire, where 
 they play it most beautifully. It is not yet certain 
 whether it will be ready by next Sunday; there are 
 to be two more rehearsals before then, but as yet it 
 has only been twice played over. I think however 
 that it will do, and I would rather it was given on
 
 VISIT TO THE THKATRE. 339 
 
 Sunday than at the third concert, because I am to 
 play on behalf of the poor on the 26th (something of 
 "Weber's), and on the 27th at Erard's concert (my 
 Munich Concerto), and at other places, and I sh iud 
 like my composition to appear first at the " Con- 
 servatoire." I am also to play there, and the members 
 are anxious that 1 should give them a Sonata of 
 Beethoven's ; it may seem bold, but I prefer his Con- 
 certo in (jr major, which is quite unknown here. 
 
 I louk forward with the utmost delight to the 
 symphony in ]) minor, which is to be rehearsed next 
 week ; 1 certainly never dreamt that I should hear it 
 in Paris for the fir ft time. 
 
 I often visit the theatre, where I see a great dis- 
 play of wit and talent, but a degree of immorality 
 that almost exceeds belief. It is supposed that no 
 lady can go to the " C-ymnase" still they do go. 
 Depict me to yourself as reading " Notre Dame," 
 dining with one or other of my acquaintances every 
 day. and taking advantage of the lovely bright 
 spring weather after three o'clock, to take a walk, 
 and to pay a few visits, and to look at the gaily- 
 dressed ladies and gentlemen in the splendid gardens 
 of the Tuileries then you will have my day in Paris. 
 Adieu. FELIX. 
 
 Paris, February zist, 1832. 
 
 Almost every letter that I receive from you now 
 announces some sad loss. Yesterday J got the one
 
 340 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 in which you tell me about poor U , whom 1 
 
 shall no longer find with you ; so this is not a time 
 for idle talk ; I feel that I must work, and strive to 
 make progress. 
 
 1 have composed a grand adagio as an intermezzo 
 for the quintett. It is called " Xachruf," and it 
 occurred to rne, as I had to compose something for 
 Baillot, who plays so beautifully, and is so kindly 
 disposed towards me, and who wishes to perform it 
 in public; and yet he is only a recent acquaintance. 
 Two days ago my overture to the "Midsummer 
 Night's Dream" was given for the first time at a 
 concert in the Conservatoire. It caused me great 
 pleasure, for it went admirably, and seemed also to 
 please the audience. It is to be repeated at one of 
 the ensuing concerts, and my symphony, which has 
 been rather delayed on this account, is to be re- 
 hearsed on Friday or Saturday. In the fourth or 
 fifth concert, I am to play Beethoven's Concerto in 
 G major. 
 
 The musicians are all amazement at the honour* 
 conferred on me by the Conservatoire. They played 
 my A minor quartett wonderfully last Tuesday : with 
 such fire and precision, that it was delightful to 
 listen to them, and as I can never again hear Ritz, 
 I shall probably never hear it better given. It ap- 
 peared to make a great impression on the audience, 
 and at the scherzo they were quite uproarious. 
 
 It is now high time, dear father, to write, you a 
 few words with regard to my travelling plans, and 
 on this occasion in a more serious strain than usual,
 
 HAPPY RF.SU. XS. 341 
 
 for many reasons. I must first, in taking a general 
 view of the post, refer to what you designed to be 
 the chief object of my journey ; desiring me strictly 
 to adhere to it. I was closely to examine the 
 various countries. an:l to fix on the one where I 
 wished to live and to work ; I was further to make 
 known my name and capabilities, in order that the 
 people, among whom I resolved to settle, should 
 receive me well, and not be wholly ignorant of my 
 career ; and, finally, I was to take advantage of my 
 own good fortune, and your kindness, to press 
 forward in my subsequent efforts. It is a happy 
 feeiing to be able to say, that I believe this has 
 been the case. 
 
 Always excepting those mistakes which are not 
 discovered till too late, I think I have fulfilled the 
 appointed object. People now know that I exist, 
 and that I have a purpose, and any talent that I 
 display, they are ready to approve and to accept. 
 They have made advances to me here, and proposed 
 to take my music, which they seldom do ; as all the 
 others, even Onslow, have been obliged to fffzr their 
 compositions. The London Philharmonic have re- 
 quested me to perform something new of my own 
 there on the 10th of March. I also got the com- 
 mission from Munich without taking any step what- 
 ever to obtain it, and indeed not till after my concert. 
 It is my intention to give a concert here ( if possible) 
 and certainly in London in April, if the cholera 
 does not prevent my going there ; and this on my 
 own account, in order to make money; I hope, 
 29*
 
 342 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 therefore, I may say that I have also fulfilled this 
 part of your wish that I should make myself known 
 to the public before returning to yoa. 
 
 Your injunction, too, to make choice of the country 
 that I preferred to live in, I have equally performed, 
 at least in a general point of view. That country is 
 Germany. This is a point on which I have now 
 quite made up my mind. I cannot yet, however, 
 decide on the particular city, for the most important 
 of all, which for various reasons has so many attrac- 
 tions for me. I have not yet thought of in this light 
 I allude to Berlin. On my return, therefore. I must 
 ascertain whether I can remain and establish myself 
 there, according to my views and wishes, after having 
 seen and enjoyed other places. 
 
 This is also why I do not endeavour to get the 
 commission for an opera here. If I compose really 
 good music, which in these days is indispensable, it 
 will both be understood and valued in Germany. 
 (This has been the case with all the good operas 
 there.) If I compose indifferent music, it will be 
 quickly forgotten in Germany, but here it would 
 be often performed and extolled, and sent to Ger- 
 many, and given there on the authority of Paris, as 
 we daily see. But 1 do not choose this ; and if I am 
 not capable of composing good music, I have no 
 wish to be praised for it. So I shall first try Ger- 
 many : and if things go so badly that I can no longer 
 live there. I can then have recourse to some foreign 
 country. Besides, few German theatres are so bad 
 or in so dilapidated a condition as the Opera, Comique
 
 A BIRTHDAY LETTER. 343 
 
 hero. Ono bankruptcy succeeds another. When 
 Clicrubini is asked why he does not allow his operas 
 to be -riven there, lie replies, " Je ne sais pas donner 
 des operas, sans chocur, sans orchestre. sans chan- 
 teurs. et suns decorations." The Grand Opera has 
 bespoken operas for years to come, so there is no 
 chance of anything being accepted by it for the 
 next three or four years. 
 
 hi the meantime therefore I intend to return to 
 you to write my "Tempest," and to see how it suc- 
 ceeds. The plan, therefore, dear father, that I 
 wish to lav before yon is this to remain here till 
 the end of .March, or the beginning of April, (the 
 invitation to the Philharmonic for the 10th of March, 
 t have of coarse declined, or rather postponed.) then 
 to go to London for a couple of months. If the 
 Rhenish musical festival takes place, to which I am 
 summoned, I shall go to Dlisseldorf ; and if not, re- 
 turn direct to you by the shortest road, and be by 
 your side in the garden soon after Whitsunday. 
 Farewell ! FELIX. 
 
 Paris, March I5th, 1832. 
 Dear Mother,
 
 344 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 This is the 15th of March, 1832. May every hap. 
 pincss and good attend you on this day. You prefer 
 receiuiiKj my letter on your birthday, to its being 
 written on the day itself: but forgive me for saying 
 that I cannot reconcile myself to this. My father 
 said that no one could tell what might occur subse- 
 quently, therefore the letter ought to arrive on the 
 anniversary of the day; but then I have this feeling 
 in double m'easure, as I neither in that case know 
 what is to occur to y/a on that day, nor to my- 
 self; but if your birthday be actually arrived, then 
 I almost feel as if 1 were beside you, though you 
 cannot hear my congratulations; but I can then 
 send them to you, without any other solicitude than 
 that of absence. This too will soon be over, please 
 God. May lie preserve you, and all at home, happily 
 to me ! 
 
 I have now begun to throw myself in right earnest 
 into a musical life, and as I know this must be satis- 
 factory to you, I will write some details; for a letter 
 ar.cl a sketch-book that I wished to send you some 
 days ago byMortier's aide-de-camp, are still waiting. 
 like all Paris, for the departure of the Marshal, 
 which does not however take place. If the letter 
 and the book do eventually reach you through this 
 man, pray give a kind reception to the whole con- 
 signment, but especially to the man (Count I'cr- 
 thuis), for he is one of the most friendly and amiable 
 persons 1 ever met with. 
 
 1 had told you in that letter, that I am to play 
 Beethoven's Uoucerto in G major two days hence,
 
 A BIRTHDAY LETTER. 345 
 
 in the Conservatoire, and that the whole Court are 
 to be present for the first time at the concert. 
 
 K is read}' to poison me from envy; he at first 
 
 tried by a thousand intrigues to prevent my playing 
 altogether, and when he heard that the Queen was 
 actually coming, he did everything in his power tc 
 get me out of the way. Happily all the other mem 
 bers of the Conservatoire, the all-powerful Habeneck 
 in particular, are my faithful allies, and so he signally 
 failed. lie is the only musician here who acts un- 
 kindly and hypocritically towards me ; and though I 
 never placed much confidence in him, still it is always 
 a very painful sensation to know that you are in the 
 society of a person who hates you, but is careful not 
 to show it. 
 
 The iyth. 
 
 I could not finish this letter, because during the 
 last few days the incessant music I told you of, has 
 been so overwhelming, that I really scarcely knew 
 which way to turn. A mere catalogue therefore of 
 all I have done, and have still to do, must suffice for 
 to-day, and at the same time plead my excuse. 
 
 I have just come back from a rehearsal at the 
 Conservatoire. We rehearsed steadily ; twice yes- 
 terday, and to-day almost everything repeated, but 
 now all goes swimmingly. If the audience to-mor- 
 row are only half as enchanted as the orchestra to- 
 day, we shall do well ; for they shouted loudly for 
 the adagio da capo, and Habeneck made them a 
 little speech, to point out to them that at the close 
 there Tva= a solo bar, which they must be so good aa
 
 340 MKXDELSSOriX'S LETTERS. 
 
 to \vai1 for. You would lie gratified to see all the 
 little kindnesses and courtesies the latter shows me. 
 At the end of each movement of the symphony, lie 
 asks me if there is anything I do not approve of, so 
 1 have been able for the first time, to introduce into 
 the French orchestra some favourite nuances of 
 my own. 
 
 After the rehearsal Baillot played my octctt in his 
 class, and if any man in the world can play it, he is 
 the man. His performance was liner than I ever 
 heard it, and so was that of Urhan, Xorblin, and the 
 others, who all attacked the piece with the most 
 ardent energy and spirit. 
 
 Besides all this, 1 must finish the arrangement of 
 the overture and the octctt, and revise the quintett, 
 as Simrock has bought it. I must write out 
 "Lieder," and enjoy the author's delight of working 
 up my H minor quartett. for it is to be brought out 
 here by two different publishers, who have requested 
 me to make some alterations before it is published. 
 Finally, I have soirees every evening. To-night 
 Bohrer's ; to-morrow a fete, with all the violin 
 gamins of the Conservatoire ; next clay, Rothschild ; 
 Tuesday, the Societe. des Beaux-Arts; AVednesday 
 my octett at the Abbe Bardin's ; Thursday my octett 
 at Madame Kiene's ; Friday, a concert at Erard's ; 
 Sunday, a concert at Leo's; and lastly, on Monday 
 - laugh if you choose my octett is to be performed 
 in a church, at a funeral Mass in commemoration of 
 Beethoven. This is the strangest thing the world 
 ever yet saw, but I could not refuse, and I in some
 
 GOETHE'S DEATH. 347 
 
 degree enjoy the thoughts of being present, when 
 Low Mass is read during the scherzo. 1 can 
 scarcely imagine anything more absurd than a 
 priest at the altar and my scherzo going on. It is 
 like travelling incognito. Last of all Baillot gives 
 a grand concert on the 7th of April, and so I have 
 promised him to remain here till then, and to play 
 a Concerto of Mozart's for him, and some other 
 piece. 
 
 On the 8th I take my place in the diligence, and 
 set off to London, but before doing so I shall have 
 heard my symphony in the Conservatoire, and sold 
 various pieces, and shall leave this, rejoicing in the 
 friendly reception I have met with from the musi- 
 cians here. Farewell ! FEUX. 
 
 Paris, March 3ist, 1832. 
 
 Pray forgive my long silence, but 1 had nothing 
 cheering to communicate, and am always very un- 
 willing to write gloomy letters. Indeed, this being 
 the case, I had better still have remained silent, 
 for I am in anything but a gay mood. But now 
 that we have the spectre here,* I mean to write to 
 you regularly, that you may know that I am well, 
 and pursuing my work. 
 
 The sad news of Goethe's loss makes me feel pocr 
 indeed ! AVhat a blow to the country! It is another 
 of those mournful even's connected with my stay 
 
 * Tho cholera.
 
 348 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 here, which will always recur to my mind at the 
 very mime of Paris : and not all the kindness I have 
 received, nor the tumult and excitement, nor the 
 life and gaiety here, can ever efface this impression. 
 May it please God to preserve me from still worse 
 tidings, and grant us all a happy meeting; this is 
 the chief thing ! 
 
 Various circumstances have induced me to delay 
 my departure from here for at least a fortnight, 
 that is, till the middle of April ; and the idea of my 
 concert has begun to revive in my mind ; I mean to 
 accomplish it too, if the cholera does not deter 
 people from musical, or any other kind of r6unions. 
 We shall know this in the course of a week, and iu 
 any case I must remain here till then. I believe 
 however that everything will go on in the usual 
 regular course, and "Figaro 1 ' prove to be in the 
 right, who wrote an article called u Enfonc6 le 
 cholera," in which he says that Paris is the grave of 
 all reputations, for no one there ever admired any- 
 thing; yawning at Paganini (he does not seem to 
 please much this time), and not even looking round 
 in the street at an Emperor or a Dey ; so possibly 
 this malady might also lose its formidable reputation 
 there. 
 
 Count Pcrthuis has no doubt told you of my 
 playing at the Conservatoire. The French say that 
 it was un beau sitcccs, and the audience were pleased. 
 The Queen, too, sent me all sorts of hue compli- 
 ments on the subject. On Saturday I am again to 
 play twice in public. My octett, in church on Mon-
 
 LETTER FROM LONDON. 349 
 
 day last, exceeded in absurdity anything the world 
 ever saw or heard of. While the priest was officia- 
 ting at the altar during the scherzo, it really sounded 
 like " Fliegenschnauz und Mlickennas, verfluchte 
 Dilettanten." The people however considered it 
 very fine sacred music. 
 
 I am indeed delighted, dear Father, that my quar- 
 tett in B minor pleases you; it is a favourite of 
 mice, and 1 like to play it, although the adagio is 
 much too cloying; still, the scherzo that follows has 
 all the more effect. I can see that you seem rather 
 inclined to deride my A minor quartett, when you 
 pay that there is a piece of instrumental music which 
 has made you rack your brains to discover the corn- 
 poser's thoughts; when, in fact, he probably had no 
 thoughts at all. 1 must defend the work, for I love 
 it : but it certainly depends very much on the way 
 in which it is executed, and one single musician who 
 could perform it with zeal and sympathy, as Taubert 
 did, would make a vast difference. Your 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A LETTER FROM LONDON. 
 
 London, April lyth, 1831. 
 
 I wish I could only describe how happy I feel to 
 be here once more ; how much I like everything, 
 and how gratified I am by the kindness of old 
 friends ; but as it is all going on at this moment, I 
 
 must be brief for to-day. 
 
 30
 
 350 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 I have also a number of people to seek out whom 
 I have not yet seen, whilst 1 have been living with 
 Klingeinann, Rosen, and Moscheles, in as close in- 
 timacy as if we had never been parted. They form 
 the nucleus of my present sojourn ; we see each 
 other every day; it is such a pleasure to me to be 
 once more with good, earnest men, and true friends, 
 with whom I do not require to be on my guard, nor 
 fo study them either. Moscheles and his wife show 
 me a degree of touching kindness, which I value the 
 more as my regard for them increases ; and then the 
 feeling of restored health, as if I lived afresh, and 
 had come anew into this world all these are com- 
 bined.* 
 
 May i ith. 
 
 I cannot describe to you the happiness of these 
 first weeks here. As from time to time every evil 
 seems to accumulate, as it did during my winter in 
 Paris, where 1 lost some of my most beloved fri'uds, 
 and never felt at home, and at last became very ill ; 
 so the reverse sometimes occurs, and thus it is in 
 this charming country, where 1 am once more 
 amongst friends, and am well, and among well- 
 wishers, and enjoy in the fullest measure the sensa- 
 tion of returning health. Moreover it is warm, the 
 lilacs are in bloom, and music is going on : only 
 imagine how pleasant all this is ! 
 
 I must really describe one happy morning last 
 
 * Felix Mendelssohn had an attack of cholera during the last 
 wrecks of his ntay iu Paris.
 
 M. ZEI/TER. 351 
 
 week : of all the flattering demonstrations I have 
 hitherto received, it is the one which has most 
 touched and affect ed me. and perhaps the only one 
 which I shall always recall with fresh pleasure. 
 There was a rehearsal last Saturday at the Philhar- 
 monic, where however nothing of mine was given, 
 my overture not being yet written out. After " Bee- 
 thoven's Pastoral Symphony." during which 1 was 
 in a box, I wished to go into the room to talk to 
 some old friends : scarcely, however, had I gone 
 down below, when one of the orchestra called out, 
 'There is .Mendelssohn!'' on which they all began 
 shouting, and clapping their hands to such a degree, 
 that for a time 1 really did not know what to do; 
 and when this was over, another called out ' Wel- 
 come to him!" on which the same uproar recom- 
 menced, and 1 was obliged to cross the room, and to 
 clamber into the orchestra and return thanks. 
 
 Never can 1 forget it, for it was more precious to 
 me than any distinction, as it showed me that the 
 musicians loved me, and rejoiced at my coming, and 
 I cannot tell you what a glad feeling this was. 
 
 May 1 8th. - 
 Dear Father, 
 
 I have received your letter of the Oth ; God grant 
 that Zelter may by this time be safe, and out of 
 danger ! You say indeed that he already is so, but
 
 3.")2 MKXDEI.SSOHX S LETTEttS. 
 
 I shall anxiously expect your next letter, to see the 
 news of his recovery confirmed. 1 have dreaded 
 this ever since Goethe's death, but when it actually 
 occurs, it is a very different thing. May Heaven 
 avert it ! 
 
 Pray tell me also what you mean by saying "there 
 is no doubt that Zelter both wishes, and requires, to 
 have you with him. because!, at all events for the 
 present, it is quite impossible for him to carry on 
 the Academy, whence it is evident that, if you do not 
 undertake it, another must." Has Zelter expressed 
 this wish to you. or do you only imagine that he en- 
 tertains it? If the former were the case. 1 would 
 instantly, on receiving your reply, write to Zelter, 
 and offer him every service in my power, of every 
 kind, and try to relieve him from all his labours, for 
 as long a period as he desired ; and this it certainly 
 would l)e my dut v to do. 
 
 1 intended to have written to Lichtenstein before 
 my return, about the proposal formerly made to me,* 
 but of course 1 have given up all thoughts of doing 
 so at present ; for on no account would 1 assume 
 that Zelter could not resume his duties, and even iu 
 that event, I could not reconcile myself to discuss 
 the matter with any one but himself; every other 
 mode of proceeding I should consider unfair towards 
 him. If however he requires my services, 1 am 
 r;ady. and shall rejoice if I can be of any use to him, 
 but still more so, if he does not want me, and is en- 
 
 In reference to a situation iu tho siugitoademle.
 
 ZELTER'S DEATH. 353 
 
 tirely recovered. I beg you will write me a few 
 words on this subject. 
 
 I must now inform you of my plans and engage- 
 ments till I leave this. Yesterday I finished the 
 " Rondeau brillant," and I am to play it this day 
 week at Mori's evening concert. The day after I 
 rehearse my Munich Concerto at the Philharmonic, 
 and play it on Monday the 28th at their concert ; on 
 the 1st of June Moscheles 7 concert, where, with him, 
 I play a Concerto of Mozart's for two pianos, and 
 conduct my two overtures, "The Hebrides" and 
 'The Midsummer Night's Dream." Finally, the 
 last Philharmonic is on the llth, where I am to 
 conduct some piece. 
 
 1 must finish the arrangement for Cramer, and 
 some " Lieder" for the piano, also some songs with 
 English words, besides some German ones for my- 
 self, for after all it is spring, and the lilacs are in 
 bloom. Last Monday " The Hebrides" was given 
 for the first time in the Philharmonic ; it went ad- 
 mirably, and sounded very quaint among a variety 
 of Rossini pieces. The audience received both me 
 and my work with extreme kindness. This evening 
 is Mr. Vaughan's concert ; but I am sure you must 
 be quite sick of hearing of so many concerts, so I 
 conclude. 
 
 Norwood, Surrey, May 2jth. 
 
 These are hard times, and many are laid low !* 
 May it please God to preserve you all to me, and 
 
 * He had rcce/ved the news of Zelter's death 
 30*
 
 354 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 to grant us a joyful meeting ! You will receive this 
 letter from the same villa whence I wrote to you 
 three years ago last November, just before my 
 return. 
 
 1 have now come out here for a few days to rest, 
 and to collect my thoughts, just as I did at that 
 time, on account of my health. All is unchanged 
 here ; my room is precisely the same ; even the music 
 in the old cupboard stands exactly in the same spot ; 
 the people are quite as considerate, and quiet, and 
 attentive as formerly, and the three years have 
 passed over both them and their house, as peacefully 
 as if half the world had not been uprooted during 
 that period. 
 
 It is pleasant to see ; the only difference is, that we 
 have now gay spring, and apple-blossoms, and lilacs, 
 and all kinds of flowers, whereas at that time we 
 had autumn, with its fogs and blazing fires ; but how 
 much is now gone for ever, that we then still had; 
 this gives much food for thought. Ji.stas at that 
 time I wrote to you saying little, save farewell till 
 we meet;" so must it be to-day also. It will indeed 
 be a graver meeting, and 1 bring no ' Liederspiel " 
 with me composed in this room, as the former one 
 was. but (iod grant 1 may only find you all well. 
 
 You write, dear Fanny, that 1 ought especially to 
 hasten my return, in order if possible to secure the 
 situation in the Academy ; but this 1 do not choose 
 to do. I shall return as soon as 1 can, because my 
 father writes that be wishes me to do so ; 1 therefore 
 ii'U'iid to set off in about a fortnight, but solely for
 
 SITUATION IX THE ACADEMY. 355 
 
 that reason ; the other motive would rather tend to 
 detain me here, indeed, if any motive could do so; 
 for I will in no manner solicit the situation. 
 
 When I reminded my father formerly of the pro- 
 posal of the Director, the reason which he then 
 advanced against it. seemed to me perfectly just ; he 
 paid that he regarded this place rather as a sinecure 
 for more advanced years, "when the Academy might 
 1)0 resorted to as a harbour of refuse." For the 
 next few years 1 aspire as little to this as to any 
 other situation; my purpose is to live by the fruits 
 of my labours, just as I do here, and my resolve is 
 to be independent. Considering the peculiar posi- 
 tion of the Academy, the small salary they give, and 
 the great influence they might exercise, the place of 
 Director seems to me only an honourable post, which 
 I have no desire to sue for. Jf they were to offer it 
 to me, I would accept it, because I promised formerly 
 to do so : but only for a settled time and on certain 
 conditions; and if they do not intend to offer it, 
 then my presence can be of no possible use. I do 
 not certainly require to convince them of my capa- 
 bility for the office, and I neither will, nor can, 
 intrigue. Besides, for the reasons I mentioned in a 
 previous letter, I cannot leave England till after the 
 llth, and the affair will no doubt be decided before 
 Jiat time. 
 
 I beg that no step of any kind may be taken on 
 my behalf, except that which my father mentioned 
 concerning my immediate return ; but nothing in 
 the smallest degree approaching to solicitation ; and
 
 356 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 when they do make their choice, I only hope that 
 they may find a man who will perform his duties 
 with as much zeal as old Zelter. 
 
 I received the intelligence in the morning just as 
 I was going to write to him ; then came a rehearsal 
 of my new piece for the piano, with its wild gaiety, 
 and when the musicians were applauding and com- 
 plimenting me, I could not help feeling strongly, 
 that I was indeed in a foreign land. I then came 
 here, where I found both men and places unchanged; 
 but Hauser unexpectedly arrived, and we fell into 
 each other's arms, and recalled the happy days we 
 had enjoyed together in South Germany the previous 
 autumn, and all that has passed away for ever, 
 during the last six months. Your mournful news 
 was always present to me in its sad reality so this 
 is the manner in which I have spent the last few 
 days here. Forgive me for not being able to write 
 properly to-day. I go to town this evening to play, 
 and also to-morrow, Sunday, and Monday. 
 
 I have now a favour to ask of you, dear Father, in 
 reference to the cantatas of Sebastian Bach, which 
 Zelter possessed. If you can possibly prevent their 
 being disposed of before my return, pray do so, for 
 I am most anxious at any price to see the entire 
 collection before it is dispersed. 
 
 I might have told you of many agreeable things 
 that have occurred to me during the last few weeks, 
 fur every day brings me fresh proofs that the people 
 like me, and are glad to associate with me ; which is 
 gratifying, and makes my life here easy and pleasant;
 
 SITUATION IX THE ACADEMY. 357 
 
 but to-day I really cannot. Perhaps in mj next 
 letter my spirits may be sufficiently restore.1, to 
 return to my usual narrative style. 
 
 Many remembrances from the Moscheli'S ; they 
 are excellent people, and after so long an interval, 
 it is most cheering once more to meet an artist, 
 who is not a victim to envy, jealousy, or miserable 
 egotism. He makes continued and steady progress 
 in his art. 
 
 The warm sun is shining out-of-doors, so I shall 
 now go down into the garden, to perform some 
 gymnastics there, and to smell the lilacs; this wili 
 show you that I am well. 
 
 London, June 1st. 
 
 On the day that I received the news of Zelter's 
 death, I thought that I should have had a serious 
 illness, and indeed during the whole of the ensuing 
 week I could not shake off this feeling. My mani- 
 fold engagements however have now diverted my 
 thoughts, and brought me to myself, or rather out 
 of myself. I am well again, and very busy. 
 
 First of all I must thank you, dear Father, for 
 your kind letter. It is in a great measure already 
 answered by my previous one, but I will now repeat 
 why I decline sending any application to the com- 
 mittee. 
 
 In the first place. I quite agree with your former 
 opinion, that this situation in the Academy is not 
 desirable at the outset of my career ; indeed I could 
 only accept it for a certain time, and under particu- 
 lar conditions, and even then, solely to perform my
 
 358 MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS. 
 
 previous promise. If I solicit it, I am bound to 
 accept the place, as they choose to give it, and to 
 comply with their conditions as to salary, duties, 
 etc., though I do not as yet even know what these 
 are. 
 
 In the second place, the reason they gave you 
 why I should write, seems to me neither a true nor 
 a straightforward one. They say they wish to be 
 certain I will accept of it, and that on this account 
 I must enroll myself among the candidates ; but they 
 offered it to me three years ago, and Lichtensteiu 
 said they did so to ascertain if I would take it, and 
 begged me to give a distinct answer on this point; 
 at that time I said yes, that I was willing to carry it 
 on, along with Rungenhagen. I am not sure that I 
 should think the same now ; but as I said so then, I 
 can no longer draw back, and must keep my word. 
 It is not necessary to repeat my assent, for as I once 
 gave it, so it must remain : still less can I do so 
 when I should have to offer myself to them for the 
 post they once offered to me. If they were disposed 
 to adhere to their former offer, they would not re- 
 quire me to take a step which they took themselves 
 three years ago ; on the contrary, they would remem- 
 ber the assent I then gave, for they must know that 
 I am incapable of breaking such a promise. 
 
 A confirmation of my former promise is therefore 
 qui'c unnecessary, and if they intend to appoint 
 anotner to the situation, my letter would not prevent 
 their doing so. I must further refer to my letter 
 from Paris, in which I told vou that I wished to
 
 PHILHARMOMC CONCERT. 359 
 
 return to Berlin in the spring, as it was the only city 
 in Germany with which I was still unacquainted. 
 
 This is my well-weighed purpose ; I do not know 
 how I shall get on in Berlin, or whether I shall be 
 able to remain there, that is, whether I shall be 
 able to enjoy the same facilities for work, and pro- 
 gress, that are offered to me in other places. The 
 only house that I know in Berlin is our own, and I 
 feel certain I shall be quite happy there ; but I must 
 also be in a position to be actively employed, and 
 this I shall discover when I return. I hope that all 
 will come to pass as 1 wish, for of course the spot 
 where you live must be nlwavs dearest to me : but 
 till I know this to a certainty I do not wish to fetter 
 myself by any situation. 
 
 I conclude, because I have a vast deal to do to 
 enable me to set off after the next Philharmonic. 
 I must publish several pieces before I go ; I receive 
 numbers of commissions on all sides, and some 
 so gratifying that I exceedingly regret not being able 
 to set to work at once. 
 
 Among others, T this morning got a note from a 
 publisher, who wishes me to give him the score of 
 two grand pieces of sacred music, for morning and 
 evening service: you may imagine how much I am 
 pleased with this proposal, and immediately on my 
 arrival in the Leipziger Strasse I intend to begin 
 them. 
 
 "The Hebrides" I mean to reserve for a time for 
 myself, before arranging it as a duet ; but my new 
 rondo is in hand, and I must finish those everlasting
 
 360 MENDELSSOHN'S LKTTKKS. 
 
 "Liecler" for the piano, as well as various tihcr 
 arrangements, and probably the Concerto. I played 
 it last Monday in the Philharmonic, and I think I 
 never in my life had such success. The audience 
 were crazy with delight, and declared it was iny 
 best work. 
 
 I am now going to Moscheles' concert, to conduct 
 there, and to play Mozart's Concerto, in which I 
 bave inserted two long cadences for each of us. 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 THE END
 
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 1977 
 
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