As my evenings here are at my own disposal, I read a little French and English. The "Barricades" and "Les États de Blois" particularly interest me, as while I 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 God that the so highly-prized middle ages are gone never to 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 I feel this to be true. Sterne has become a great favourite of mine. I remembered that Goethe once spoke to me of the 'Sentimental Journey,' and said that it was impossible for any one better to 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 he evidently composed in or near Naples, such as Alexis and Dora; for I daily see from my window how this wonderful work was created. Indeed, which is often 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 Frau," I 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 Baiæ, "eines Tempels Trümmern," and is fully three miles from Cumæ. You may imagine therefore with what new light and truth these poems dawn on me, and the different feeling with which I now regard and study them. I say nothing of Mignon's song at present, but it is singular that Goethe and Thorwaldsen are still living, that Beethoven only died a few years ago, and yet H—— declares that German art is as dead as a rat. Quod non. So much the worse for him if he really feels thus; but when I reflect for a time on his conclusions, they appear to me very shallow. Apropos, Schadow, who returns to Düsseldorf in the course of a few days, has promised to extract, if possible, some new songs for me from Immermann, 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! He 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.
My 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, when I once more resume that Roman tranquillity, and grave serenity, which I alluded to in my former letters from this place. I cannot express how infinitely better I love Rome than Naples. People allege that Rome is monotonous, of one uniform hue, melancholy, and solitary. It is certainly 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 properly 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 my mind the idea of a centre for a great nation, which London offers in such perfection; 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 subordinate; indeed, I may almost say that such a class is not to be found there. It was this that often made 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 wishing, 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 combination 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 grani 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 pedestrians step over him, or shove him aside if he lies right in the middle). He fetches his frutti di mare himself out of the sea, sleeps wherever 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 striving after some end; and he goes on to say, that an Italian was right, who advised him not to think so much, for it would 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 themselves, 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, gentlemen. Thus there is no shop where you are not cheated. Natives of Naples, who have been customers 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.