“Has Mendelssohn arrived yet? His talent is wonderful, extraordinary, sublime. You need not suspect me of partiality in saying this, for he frankly owns that he cannot in the least understand my
The Villa Medici, Rome
music. Greet him for me; he does not think so, but I truly like him thoroughly.”
XIX
IN THE MOUNTAINS
I quickly fell into the Academy routine. A bell called us to meals, and we went as we were—with straw hats, blouses plastered with clay, slippered feet, no ties—in fact, in studio undress.
After breakfast we lounged about the garden at quoits, tennis, target practice, shooting the misguided blackbirds who came within range, or trained our puppies; in all of which amusements M. Horace often joined us.
In the evening, at that everlasting Café Greco, we smoked the pipe of peace with the “men down below,” as we dubbed artists not attached to the Academy. After which we dispersed; those who virtuously returned to the Academy barracks gathering in the garden portico, where my bad guitar and worse voice were in great request, and where we sang Freyschütz, Oberon, Iphigenia or Don Giovanni, for, to the credit of my messmates be it spoken, their musical taste was far from low.