To see these alone would be worth a journey to Venice; for the fruitfulness, genius, and devotion of the great men who painted these pictures, seem to emanate from them afresh as often as you gaze at their works, and I do not much regret that I have scarcely heard any music here; for I suppose I must not venture to include the music of the angels, in the "Assumption," encircling Mary with joyous shouts of welcome; one gaily beating the tambourine, a couple of others blowing away on strange crooked flutes, while another charming group are singing—or the music floating in the thoughts of the cithern player. I have only once heard anything on the organ, and miserable it was. I was gazing at Titian's "Martyrdom of St. Peter" in the Franciscan Church. Divine service was going on, and nothing inspires me with more solemn awe than when on the very spot for which they were originally created and painted, those ancient pictures in all their grandeur, gradually steal forth out of the darkness in which the long lapse of time has veiled them.
As I was earnestly contemplating the enchanting evening landscape with its trees, and angels among the boughs, the organ commenced. The first sound was quite in harmony with my feelings; but the second, third, and in fact all the rest, quickly roused me from my reveries, and sent me straight home, for the man was playing in church and during divine service, and in the presence of respectable people, thus:
[Listen]
with the "Martyrdom of St. Peter" actually close beside him! I was therefore in no great hurry to make the acquaintance of the organist. There is no regular Opera here at this moment, and the gondoliers no longer sing, Tasso's stanzas; moreover, what I have hitherto seen of modern Venetian art, consists of poems framed and glazed on the subject of Titian's pictures, or Rinaldo and Armida, by a new Venetian painter, or a St. Cecilia by a ditto, besides various specimens of architecture in no style at all; as all these are totally insignificant, I cling to the ancient masters, and study how they worked. Often, after doing so, I feel a musical inspiration, and since I came here I have been busily engaged in composition.
Before I left Vienna, a friend of mine made me a present of Luther's Hymns, and on reading them over I was again so much struck by their power, that I intend to compose music for several next winter. I have nearly completed here the choral "Aus tiefer Noth," for four voices a capella; and the Christmas hymn, "Vom Himmel hoch," is already in my head. I wish also to set the following hymns to music: "Ach Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein," "Wir glauben all' an einen Gott," "Verleih uns Frieden," "Mitten wir im Leben sind," and finally "Ein' feste Burg." The latter, however, it is my intention to compose for a choir and orchestra. Pray write to me about this project of mine, and say whether you approve of my retaining the ancient melodies in them all, but not adhering to them too strictly: for instance, if I were to take the first verse of "Vom Himmel hoch" as a separate grand chorus. Besides this, I am hard at work at an orchestral overture, and if an opportunity for an opera offered it would be most welcome.
I finished two pieces of sacred music in Vienna—a choral in three movements for chorus and orchestra ("O! Haupt voll Blut und Wunden") and an Ave Maria for a choir of eight voices, a capella. The people I associated with there were so dissipated and frivolous, that I became quite spiritually-minded, and conducted myself like a divine among them. Moreover, not one of the best pianoforte players there, male or female, ever played a note of Beethoven, and when I hinted that he and Mozart were not to be despised, they said, "So you are an admirer of classical music?"—"Yes," said I.
To-morrow I intend to go to Bologna to have a glance at the St. Cecilia, and then proceed by Florence to Rome, where I hope (D. V.) to arrive eight or ten days hence. I will then write to you more satisfactorily. I only wished to make a beginning to-day, and to beg you not to forget me, and kindly to accept my heartfelt wishes for your health and happiness. Your faithful
Felix.
Florence, October 23rd, 1830.
Here am I in Florence, the air warm and the sky bright; everything is beautiful and glorious, "wo blieb die Erde," as Goethe says. I have now received your letter of the 3rd, by which I see that you are all well, that my anxiety was needless, that you are all going on as usual, and thinking of me; so I feel happy again, and can now see everything, and enjoy everything, and am able to write to you; in short, my mind is at rest on the main point. I made my journey here amid a thousand doubts and fears, quite uncertain whether to go direct to Rome, because I did not expect any letters at Florence. Fortunately, however, I decided on coming here, and now it is of no consequence how the misunderstanding arose, that caused me to wait for letters in Venice, while you had written to Florence; all I can promise is to endeavour in future to be less over-anxious. My driver pointed out a spot between the hills, on which lay a blue mist, and said "Ecco Firenze!" I eagerly looked towards the place, and saw the round dome looming out of the mist before me, and the spacious wide valley in which the city is situated. My love of travel revived when at last Florence appeared. I looked at some willow-trees (as I thought) beside the road, when the driver said, "Buon olio," and then I saw that they were hanging full of olives.
My driver, as a genus, is undoubtedly a most villanous knave, thief, and impostor; he has cheated me and half-starved me, and yet I think him almost amiable from his enthusiastic animal nature. About an hour before we arrived in Florence he said that the beautiful scenery was now about to commence; and true it is that the fair land of Italy does first begin then. There are villas on every height, and decorated old walls, with sloping terraces of roses and aloes, flowers and grapes and olive leaves, the sharp points of cypresses, and the flat tops of pines, all sharply defined against the sky; then handsome square faces, busy life on the roads on every side, and at a distance in the valley, the blue city.
So I drove confidently into Florence in my little open carriage, and though I looked shabby and dusty, like one coming from the Apennines, I cared little for that. I passed recklessly through all the smart equipages from which the most refined English ladies looked at me; while I thought it may one day actually come to pass that you who are now looking down on the roturier, may shake hands with him, the only difference being a little clean linen and so forth. By the time that we came to the battisterio, I no longer felt diffident, but gave orders to drive to the Post, and then I was really happy, for I received three letters—yours of the 22nd and the 3rd, and my father's also. I was now quite delighted, and as we drove along beside the Arno, to Schneider's celebrated hotel, the world seemed once more a very pleasant world.
October 24th.
The Apennines are really not so beautiful as I had imagined; for the name always suggested to me richly wooded, picturesque hills, covered with vegetation, whereas they are merely a long chain of melancholy bleak hills; and the little verdure there is, not gratifying to the eye. There are no dwellings to be seen, no merry brooks or rills; only an occasional stream, its broad bed dried up, or a little water-channel. Add to this the shameful roguery of the inhabitants: really, at last, I became quite confused and perplexed, by their incessant cheating, and could scarcely discover for what object they were lying. I therefore, once for all, invariably protested against every demand they made, and declared that I would not pay at all if they asked more than I chose to give; so in this way I managed very tolerably.
Last night I was again in grand quarters: I had made an agreement with the vetturino for board and lodging, and all I required. The natural consequence was, that the fellow took me to the most detestable little inns, and actually starved me. So late yesterday we arrived at a solitary pothouse, the filth of which no pen can describe. The stair was strewed with heaps of dead leaves and firewood; moreover the cold was intense, and they invited me to warm myself in the kitchen, which I agreed to do. A bench was placed for me beside the fire; a whole troop of peasants were standing about, also warming