Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland. Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy

you may have in some degree forgotten that you ought now and then to be forbearing, and not aggressive. My father considers himself both much older and more irritable than, thank God, he really is; but it is our duty always to submit our opinion to his, even if the truth be as much on our side, as it often is on his, when opposed to us. Strive, then, to praise what he likes, and do not attack what is implanted in his heart, more especially ancient established ideas. Do not commend what is new till it has made some progress in the world, and acquired a name, for till then it is a mere matter of taste. Try to draw my father into your circle, and be playful and kind to him. In short, try to smooth and to equalize things; and remember that I, who am now an experienced man of the world, never yet knew any family, taking into due consideration all defects and failings, who have hitherto lived so happily together as ours.

      Do not send me any answer to this, for you will not receive it for a month, and by that time no doubt some fresh topic will have arisen; besides, if I have spoken nonsense, I do not wish to be scolded by you; and if I have spoken properly, I hope you will follow my good advice.

November 23rd.

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      Just as I was going to set to work at the "Hebrides," arrived Herr B——, a musical professor from Magdeburg. He played me over a whole book of songs, and an Ave Maria, and begged to have the benefit of my opinion. I seemed in the position of a juvenile Nestor, and made him some insipid speeches, but this caused me the loss of a morning in Rome, which is a pity. The Choral, "Mitten wir im Leben sind," is finished, and is certainly one of the best sacred pieces that I have yet composed. After I have completed the Hebrides, I think of arranging Händel's Solomon for future performance, with proper curtailments, etc. I then purpose writing the Christmas music of "Vom Himmel hoch," and the symphony in A minor; perhaps also some pieces for the piano, and a concerto, etc., just as they come into my head.

      I own I do sadly miss some friend to whom I could communicate my new works, and who could examine the score along with me, and play a bass or a flute; whereas now when a piece is finished I must lay it aside in my desk without its giving pleasure to any one. London spoiled me in this respect. I can never again expect to meet all together such friends as I had there. Here I can only say the half of what I think, and leave the best half unspoken; whereas there it was not necessary to say more than the half, because the other half was a mere matter of course, and already understood. Still, this is a most delightful place.

      We young people went lately to Albano, and set off in the most lovely weather. The road to Frascati passed under the great aqueduct, its dark brown outlines standing out sharply defined against the clear blue sky; thence we proceeded to the monastery at Grotta Ferrata, where there are some beautiful frescoes by Domenichino; then to Marino, very picturesquely situated on a hill, and proceeding along the margin of the lake we reached Castel Gandolfo. The scenery, like my first impression of Italy, is by no means so striking or so wonderfully beautiful as is generally supposed, but most pleasing and gratifying to the eye, and the outlines undulating and picturesque, forming a perfect whole, with its entourage and distribution of light.

      Here I must deliver a eulogy on monks; they finish a picture at once, giving it tone and colour, with their wide loose gowns, their pious meditative, gait, and their dark aspect. A beautiful shady avenue of evergreen oaks runs along the lake from Castel Gandolfo to Albano, where monks of every order are swarming, animating the scenery and yet marking its solitude. Near the city a couple of begging monks were walking together; further on, a whole troop of young Jesuits; then we saw an elegant young priest in a thicket reading; beyond this two more were standing in the wood with their guns, watching for birds. Then we came to a monastery, encircled by a number of small chapels. At last all was solitude; but at that moment appeared a dirty, stupid-looking Capuchin, laden with huge nosegays, which he placed before the various shrines, kneeling down in front of them before proceeding to decorate them.

      As we passed on, we met two old prelates engaged in eager conversation. The bell for vespers was ringing in the monastery of Albano, and even on the summit of the highest hill stands a Passionist convent, where they are only permitted to speak for a single hour daily, and occupy themselves solely in reading the history of the passion of Christ. In Albano, among girls with pitchers on their heads, vendors of flowers and vegetables, and all the crowd and tumult, we saw a coal-black dumb monk, returning to Monte Cavo, who formed a singular contrast to the rest of the scene. They seem to have taken entire possession of all this splendid country, and form a strange melancholy ground-tone for all that is lively, gay, and free, and the ever-living cheerfulness bestowed by nature. It is as if men, on that very account, required a counterpoise. This is not however my case, and I need no contrast to enable me to enjoy what I see.

      I am often with Bunsen, and as he likes to turn the conversation on the subject of his Liturgy and its musical portions, which I consider very deficient, I am perfectly plain-spoken, and give him a straight-forward opinion; and I believe this is the only way to establish a mutual understanding. We have had several long, serious discussions, and I hope we shall eventually know each other better. Yesterday Palestrina's music was performed at Bunsen's house (as on every Monday), and then for the first time I played before the Roman musicians in corpore. I am quite aware of the necessity in every foreign city of playing so as to make myself understood by the audience. This makes me usually feel rather embarrassed, and such was the case with me yesterday. After the Papal singers finished Palestrina's music, it was my turn to play something. A brilliant piece would have been unsuitable, and there had been more than enough of serious music; I therefore begged Astolfi, the Director, to give me a theme, so he lightly touched the notes with one finger thus:—