Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland. Felix Mendelssohn-BartholdyЧитать онлайн книгу.
I looked quite regal from my bench on the hearth among this rough set of fellows, who, in their broad-leaved hats, lit up by the fire, and babbling in their incomprehensible dialect, looked vastly suspicious characters. I made them prepare my soup under my own eyes, giving moreover good advice on the subject; but, after all, it was not eatable.
I entered into conversation with my subjects from my throne on the hearth, and they pointed out to me a little hill in the distance incessantly vomiting forth flames, which had a singular effect in the dark ("Raticosa" is the name of the hill), and then I was conducted to my bed-room. The landlord took hold of the sackcloth sheets, and said, "Very fine linen!" but I slept as sound as a bear, and before falling asleep I said to myself, Now you are in the Apennines: and next morning, after getting no breakfast, my vetturino civilly asked me how I liked my night's entertainment. The fellow talked a great deal of nonsense about politics, and the present state of France, abused his horse in German for being born in Switzerland, and spoke French to the beggars who swarmed round the cabriolet, while I corrected many a fault in his pronunciation.
October 25th.
I now intend to go once more to the Tribune, to be inspired with feelings of reverence. There is a particular place where I like to sit, as the little Venus de' Medici is directly opposite, and above, that of Titian, and by turning rather to the left, I have a view of the Madonna del Cardello, a favourite picture of mine, and which invariably reminds me of la belle Jardinière, and seems to me a kindred creation; and also the Fornarina, which made no great impression on me from the first, for I know the engraving, which is very faithful, and the face has, I think, a most disagreeable and even ordinary expression. In gazing thus, however, at the two Venuses, their loveliness inspires a feeling of piety; it is as if the two spirits who could produce such creations, were flying through the hall and grasping you as they passed.
Titian must have been a marvellous man, and enjoyed his life in his works; still the fair Medici is not to be slighted, and then the divine Niobe with all her children: while we gaze at her, we can find no words. I have not yet been to the Pitti Palace, which possesses the Saint Ezekiel, and the Madonna della Sedia, of Raphael. I saw the gardens of the palace yesterday in sunshine; they are superb, and the thick solid stems of the myrtles and laurels, and the innumerable cypresses, made a strange exotic impression on me; but when I declare that I consider beeches, limes, oaks, and firs, ten times more beautiful and picturesque, I think I hear Hensel exclaim, "Oh, the northern bear!"
October 30th.
After the soft rain of yesterday, the air is so mild and genial, that I am at this moment seated at the open window writing to you; and indeed it is pleasant enough to see the people going about the streets, offering the prettiest baskets of flowers, fresh violets, roses, and pinks. Two days ago, being satiated with all pictures, statues, vases, and museums, I resolved to take a long walk till sunset; so after buying a bunch of narcissuses and heliotropes, I went up the hill through the vineyards. It was one of the most delightful walks I ever remember; every one must feel revived and refreshed at the sight of nature in such a garb as this, and a thousand happy thoughts passed through my mind.
First of all, I went to a villa called Bello Sguardo, whence the whole of Florence and its spacious valley are to be seen, and I thoroughly enjoyed the view of the superb city and its massive towers and palaces. But most of all I admired the countless villas, covering every hill and every acclivity as far as the eye can reach, as if the city extended beyond the mountains into the far distance. And when I took up a telescope and looked down on the valley through the blue mists, every portion of it seemed thickly dotted with bright objects and white villas, while such a large circle of dwellings inspired me with a feeling of home and comfort.
I proceeded far over the hills to the highest point I could see, on which stood an ancient tower, and when I reached it I found all the people throughout the building busily engaged in making wine, drying grapes, and repairing casks. It proved to be Galileo's tower, from which he used to make his discoveries and observations; from here also there was a very extensive view, and the girl who took me to the roof of the tower related a number of stories in her peculiar dialect, which I scarcely understood at all; but she afterwards presented me with some of her sweet dried grapes, which I ate with great gusto. And so I went on to another tower I saw at a distance, but could not manage to find my way; and examining my map as I went along, I stumbled on a traveller busily searching his map also; the only difference between us being, that he was an old Frenchman with green spectacles, who addressed me thus, "È questo S. Miniato al Monte, Signor?" With admirable decision I replied, "Sì, Signor;" and it turned out that I was right. A. F—— immediately recurred to my memory, as she had advised me to see this monastery, which is indeed wonderfully fine.
When I tell you I went from there to the Boboli Gardens, where I saw the sun set, and at night enjoyed the brightest moonlight, you may imagine how much I was invigorated by my ramble. I will write to you about the pictures here some other time, for to-day it is too late, as I have still to take leave of the Pitti Palace and the great Gallery, and to gaze once more at my Venus, who is not indeed mentioned before ladies, but whose beauty is truly divine. The courier goes at five o'clock, and God willing, I shall be in Rome the day after to-morrow. From thence you shall hear again.
Felix.
Rome, November 2nd, 1830.
… I refrain from writing longer in this melancholy strain; for just as your letter, after a lapse of fourteen days, has saddened me, my answer will have the same effect on you fourteen days hence. You would write to me in the same style, and so it might go on for ever. As four weeks must pass before I can receive any answer, I feel that I ought to restrict myself to relating events past and present, and not dwell much on the particular frame of my mind at the moment, which is indeed usually sufficiently manifest in the narrative given, and the various occurrences described.
I have scarcely yet arrived at the conviction that I am now actually in Rome; and when yesterday, just as day was breaking, I drove across a bridge with statues, under a deep blue sky, and in dazzling white moonlight, and the courier said, "Ponte Molle," it all seemed to me like a dream, and at the same moment I saw before me my sick-bed in London a year ago, and my rough Scotch journey, and Munich, and Vienna, and the pines on these hills. The journey from Florence to Rome has very few attractions. Siena, which is, I understand worth seeing, we passed through during the night. It was unpleasant to see a regular Government courier compelled to take a military escort, which was doubled at night; still it must be absolutely necessary, as he is obliged to pay for it. In these days this ought not to be the case. In the meantime everything progresses, and there are moments when the bound forwards is actually visible.
I was still in Florence, waiting for the departure of the post, reading a French newspaper, when at the very moment the bell sounded, I read among the advertisements, "Vie de Siebenkäs, par Jean Paul." Many reflections occurred to me as to so many men of renown gradually vanishing from our sight, and our great geniuses having such homage paid to them after their death, and yet during their life, Lafontaine's novels and French vaudevilles alone make any impression on their fellow-countrymen; while we only strive to appreciate the very refuse of the French, and neglect Beaumarchais and Rousseau. However, it matters little after all.
The first thing connected with music that I met with here, was the "Tod Jesu," by Graun, which an Abbate here, Fortunato Santini, has translated faithfully and admirably into Italian. It appears that the music of this heretic has been sent along with the translation to Naples, where it is to be produced this winter at a great festival, and I hear that the musical world there are quite enchanted with it, and are studying the work with infinite