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 acquaintances, 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 sea, and the coast of Sorrento, in the bright morning light. I have also taken very long solitary rambles, discovering beautiful views for myself, and I have infinite satisfaction in finding that what I consider the loveliest spot of all is almost entirely unknown to the Neapolitans. During these excursions 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, through 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 I quite approve of your taste when I recall what you told me years ago that your favorite spot was the island of Nisida. Perhaps 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 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 Cæsar, 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. These 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 invariably gives me too little change for a piastre, and when I tell him of it, he coolly fetches the remainder. 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.
I 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 apprehended, 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 probably the minister here, are to take advantage of it. I should have liked to see a mountain vomiting forth flames, as Vesuvius has been hitherto so unkind as not even to smoke. Your instructions however have till now so entirely coincided with my own inclinations, 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 my 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 27th, 1831.
It is now nearly a fortnight since I have heard from you. I do earnestly hope that nothing unpleasant has occurred, and every day I expect the post will bring me tidings of you all. My letters from Naples are 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. I hope to finish it in a few days, and I think it will turn out well. If I continue in my present mood, I shall finish my Italian symphony also in Italy, in which case I shall have a famous store to bring home with me, the fruits of this winter. Moreover every day I have something new to see. I generally make my excursions with the Schadows.
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 beggars who waylay you in every street and path, swarming round the carriage the instant it stops. The old white-haired men particularly 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 nothing to eat. All this forms a most repulsive contrast; and yet to me it is still more repugnant that you must entirely renounce the great pleasure of seeing happy faces; for even when you have given the richest gratuities to guards, waiters, or workpeople, in short, to whom you will, the invariable rejoinder is, "Nienti di più?" 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 I feel really cheerful and happy.
To-day we are to ascend the hill to visit the Camaldoli Monastery, and to-morrow, if the weather permits, we proceed to Procida and Ischia. I go this evening to Madame Fodor's with Donizetti, Benedict, etc. She is very kind and amiable towards me, and her singing has given me great pleasure, for she has wonderful facility, and executes her fiorituri with so much taste, that it is easy to see how many things Sonntag acquired from her, especially the mezza voce, which Fodor, whose 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 having made her acquaintance personally. The theatre is now closed for some weeks, because the blood of St. Januarius is shortly to liquefy. What 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!