Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Rome, February 1st, 1831.

I intended not to write to you till my birthday, but possibly two days hence I may not be in a writing mood, and must drive all fancies away by hard work. It does not seem probable that the Papal military band will surprise me in the morning, and as I have told all my acquaintances that I was born on the 25th, I think the day will glide quietly by; I prefer this to a trivial half-and-half celebration. I will place your portrait before me in the morning, and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of you. I shall then play over my military overture, and select my favourite dish for dinner, from the carte at the Lepre. It is not unprofitable to be obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birthdays and other days. I feel isolated enough, and am rather partial to the other extreme. At night the Torlonias are so obliging as to give a ball to eight hundred persons; on Wednesday, the day before, and on Friday, the day after my birthday, I am invited to the house of some English friends. During the previous week, I have been busily engaged in sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known objects;—thus I was in the Vatican, the Farnesina, Corsini, the Villa Lante, Borghese, etc. Two days ago I saw the frescoes for the first time in Bartholdy's house; inasmuch as the English ladies who reside there, and who have transformed the painted saloon into a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, would never hitherto permit me to enter it. So this was my first visit to my uncle's house, where at last I saw his pictures, and the view of the city. It was a noble, regal idea to have these frescoes; and the execution of such a sublime thought, in spite of every kind of impediment and annoyance, simply in order that the design should be carried out, seems to me very charming.

But to turn to an entirely different subject. In many circles here, it is the fashion to consider piety and dulness synonymous, and yet they are very different; our German clergyman here is not behindhand in this respect. There are men in Rome with an amount of fanaticism credible in the sixteenth century, but quite monstrous in the present day; they all wish to make converts, abusing each other in a Christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief of his neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. As if to have simplicity, and to be simple, were the same thing! Unfortunately I must here retract my favourite axiom, that goodwill can effect all things, abilitymust accompany it; but I am soaring too high, and my father will lecture me. I wish this letter were better, but we have snow on the ground; the roofs in the Piazza di Spagna are quite white, and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing can be more odious to us Southerners, and we are freezing. The Monte Pincio is a mass of ice. Your Northern Lights have their revenge on us. Who can write or think with any degree of warmth? I was so pleased at the idea of being a whole winter without snow, but now I must give up that notion. The Italians say that spring breezes will come in a few days; then gay life, and gay letters, will be resumed. Farewell! may you enjoy every good, and think of me.

Felix.