I was still in Florence, waiting for the departure of the post, reading a French newspaper, when at the very moment the bell sounded, I read among the advertisements, "Vie de Siebenkäs, par Jean Paul." Many reflections occurred to me as to so many men of renown gradually vanishing from our sight, and our great geniuses having such homage paid to them after their death, and yet during their life, Lafontaine's novels and French vaudevilles alone make any impression on their fellow-countrymen; while we only strive to appreciate the very refuse of the French, and neglect Beaumarchais and Rousseau. However, it matters little after all.
The first thing connected with music that I met with here, was the "Tod Jesu," by Graun, which an Abbate here, Fortunato Santini, has translated faithfully and admirably into Italian. It appears that the music of this heretic has been sent along with the translation to Naples, where it is to be produced this winter at a great festival, and I hear that the musical world there are quite enchanted with it, and are studying the work with infinite love and enthusiasm. I understand that the Abbate has been long impatiently expecting me, because he hopes to obtain considerable information from me about German music, and thinks I may also have the score of Bach's "Passion." Thus music progresses onwards, as sure to pierce through as the sun; if mists still prevail, it is merely a sign that the spring-time has not yet come, but come again it must and will! Farewell! and from my heart I say,—May a merciful Providence preserve you all in health and happiness!
Felix.
Rome, November 8th, 1830.
I must now write to you of my first week in Rome; how I have arranged my time, how I look forward to the winter, and what impression the glorious objects by which I am surrounded have made on me; but this is no easy task. I feel as if I were entirely changed since I came here. Formerly when I wished to check my haste and impatience to press forward, and to continue my journey more rapidly, I attributed this eagerness merely to the force of habit, but I am now fully persuaded that it arose entirely from my anxiety to reach this goal. Now that I have at last attained it my mood is so tranquil and joyous, and yet so earnest, that I shall not attempt to describe it to you. What it is that thus works on me I cannot exactly define; for the awe-inspiring Coliseum, and the brilliant Vatican, and the genial air of spring, all contribute to make me feel thus, and so do the kindly people, my comfortable apartments, and everything else. At all events I am different from what I was. I am better in health and happier than I have been for a long time, and take delight in my work, and feel such an inclination for it, that I expect to accomplish much more than I anticipated; indeed, I have already done a good deal. If it pleases Providence to grant me a continuation of this happy mood, I look forward to the most delightful and productive winter.
Picture to yourself a small house, with two windows in front, in the Piazza di Spagna, No. 5 which all day long enjoys the warm sun, and an apartment on the first floor, where there is a good Viennese grand piano: on the table are some portraits of Palestrina, Allegri, etc., along with the scores of their works, and a Latin psalm-book, from which I am to compose the Non Nobis;—such is my present abode. The Capitol was too far away, besides I had a great dread of the cold air, which here I have no cause to guard against; for when I look out of my window in the morning across the square, I see every object sharply defined in the sunshine against the blue sky. My landlord was formerly a captain in the French army, and his daughter has the most splendid contralto voice I ever heard. Above me lives a Prussian captain, with whom I talk politics,—in short, the situation is excellent.
When I come into the room early in the morning, and see the sun shining so brightly on the breakfast-table (you see I am marred as a poet), I feel so cheerful and comfortable, for it is now far on in the autumn, and who in our country at this season looks for warmth, or a bright sky, or grapes and flowers? After breakfast I begin my work, and play, and sing, and compose till near noon. Then Rome in all her vast dimensions lies before me like an interesting problem to enjoy; but I go deliberately to work, daily selecting some different object appertaining to history. One day I visit the ruins of the ancient city; another I go to the Borghese gallery, or to the Capitol, or St. Peter's, or the Vatican. Each day is thus made memorable, and as I take my time, each object becomes firmly and indelibly impressed on me. When I am occupied in the forenoon I am willing to leave off, and should like to continue my writing, but I say to myself that I must see the Vatican, and when I am actually there, I equally dislike leaving it; thus each of my occupations causes me the most genuine pleasure, and one enjoyment follows another.
Just as Venice, with her past, reminded me of a vast monument: her crumbling modern palaces, and the perpetual remembrance of former splendour, causing sad and discordant sensations; so does the past of Rome suggest the impersonation of history; her monuments elevate the soul, inspiring solemn yet serene feelings, and it is a thought fraught with exultation that man is capable of producing creations, which, after the lapse of a thousand years, still renovate and animate others. When I have fairly imprinted an object like this on my mind, and each day a fresh one, twilight has usually arrived and the day is over.