Rome—Christmas-day.
On Christmas-day I saw the Pope and the whole consistory in S. Peter's, where he celebrated high mass partly before and partly from his throne. It is of its kind an unequalled sight, splendid and dignified enough, but I have grown so old in my Protestant Diogenism, that this pomp and splendour revolt more than they attract me. I, like my pious forefathers, am disposed to say to these spiritual conquerors of the world, "Hide not from me the sun of higher art and purer humanity."
Yesterday, which was the Feast of Epiphany, I saw and heard mass celebrated after the Greek rite. The ceremonies appeared to me more solemn, more severe, more suggestive, and yet more popular than the Latin.
But there, too, I also felt again that I am too old for anything, except for truth alone. Their ceremonies and operatic music, their gyrations and ballet-like movements—it all passes off from me like water from an oilskin cloak. A work of nature, however, like that of a Sunset seen from the Villa Madonna—a work of art, like my much honoured Juno, makes a deep and vivid impression on me.
And now I must ask you to congratulate me with regard to theatrical matters. Next week seven theatres will be opened. Anfossi himself is here, and will act "Alexander in India." A Cyrus also will be represented, and the "Taking of Troy" as a ballet. That assuredly must be something for the children!
Rome, Jan. 10, 1787.
Here, then, comes the "child of sorrows," for this surname is due to "Iphigenia" in more than one sense. On the occasion of my reading it out to our artists, I put a mark against several lines, some of which I have in my opinion improved, but others I have allowed to stand—perhaps Herder will cross a few of them with his pen.
The true cause of my having for many years preferred prose for my works, is the great uncertainty in which our prosody fluctuates, in consequence of which many of my judicious, learned friends and fellow artists have left many things to taste, a course, however, which was little favourable to the establishing of any certain standard.
I should never have attempted to translate "Iphigenia" into iambics, had not Moritz's prosody shone upon me like a star of light. My conversation with its author, especially during his confinement from his accident, has still more enlightened me on the subject, and I would recommend my friends to think favourably of it.