Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Rome, February 8th, 1831.

The Pope is elected: the Pope is crowned. He performed mass in St. Peter's on Sunday, and conferred his benediction; in the evening the dome was illuminated, succeeded by the Girandola; the Carnival began on Saturday, and pursues its headlong course in the most motley forms. The city has been illuminated each evening. Last night there was a ball at the French Embassy; to-day the Spanish Ambassador gives a grand entertainment. Next door to me they sell confetti, and how they do shout! And now I might as well stop, for why attempt to describe what is, in fact, indescribable? You ought to make Hensel tell you of these splendid fêtes, which in pomp, brilliancy, and animation, surpass all the imagination can conceive, for my sober pen is not equal to the task. What a different aspect everything has assumed during the last eight days, for now the mildest and most genial sun is shining, and we remain in the balcony enjoying the air till after sunset. Oh, that I could enclose for you, in this letter, only one quarter of an hour of all this pleasure, or tell you how life actually flies in Rome, every minute bringing its own memorable delights! It is not difficult to give fêtes here; if the simple architectural outlines are lighted up, the dome of St. Peter's blazes forth in the dark purple atmosphere, calmly shining. If there are fireworks, they brighten the gloomy solid walls of the Castle of St. Angelo, and fall into the Tiber; when they commence their fantastic fêtes in February, the most lustrous sun shines down on them and beautifies them. It is a wondrous land.

But I must not forget to tell you that I spent my birthday very differently from what I expected. I must however be brief, for an hour hence I go to join the Carnival in the Corso. My birthday had three celebrations—the eve, the birthday itself, and the day after. On the 2nd of February, Santini was sitting in my room in the morning, and in answer to my impatient questions about the Conclave, he replied with a diplomatic air, that there was little chance of a Pope being elected before Easter. Herr Brisbane also called, and told me that after leaving Berlin, he had been in Constantinople, and Smyrna, etc., and inquired after all his acquaintances in Berlin, when suddenly the report of a cannon was heard, and then another, and the people rushed across the Piazza di Spagna, shouting with all their might. We three started off, Heaven knows how, and ran breathlessly to the Quirinal, where the man was just retreating, who had shouted through a broken window—"Annuncio vobis gaudium magnum; habemus Papam R. E. dominum Capellari, qui nomen assumsit Gregorius XVI." All the Cardinals now crowded into the balcony, to breathe fresh air, and laughed, and talked together It was the first time they had been in the open air for fifty days, and yet they looked so gay, their red caps shining brightly in the sun; the whole Piazza was filled with people, who clambered on the obelisk, and on the horses of Phidias, and the statues projected far above in the air. Carriage after carriage drove up, amid jostling and shouting. Then the new Pope appeared, and before him was borne the golden cross, and he blessed the crowd for the first time, while the people at the same moment prayed, and cried "Hurrah!" All the bells in Rome were ringing, and there was firing of cannons, and flourishes of trumpets, and military music. This was the eve of my birthday.

Next morning I followed the crowd down the long street to the Piazza of St. Peter's, which looked finer than I had ever seen it, lit up brightly by the sun, and swarming with carriages; the Cardinals in their red coaches, driving in state to the sacristy, with servants in embroidered liveries, and people innumerable, of every nation, rank, and condition; and high above them the dome and the church seeming to float in blue vapour, for there was considerable mist in the morning air. And I thought that Capellari would probably appropriate all this to himself when he saw it; but I knew better. It was all to celebrate my birthday; and the election of the Pope, and the homage, a mere spectacle in honour of me; but it was well and naturally performed; and so long as I live. I shall never forget it.

The Church of St. Peter's was crowded to the door. The Pope was borne in on his throne, and fans of peacocks' feathers carried before him, and then set down on the High Altar, when the Papal singers intoned, "Tu es sacerdos magnus." I only heard two or three chords, but it required no more; the sound was enough. Then one Cardinal succeeded another, kissing the Pope's foot and his hands, when he in turn embraced them. After surveying all this for a time, standing closely pressed by a crowd, and unable to move, to look suddenly aloft to the dome, as far as the lantern, inspires a singular sensation. I was with Diodati, among a throng of Capuchins; these saintly men are far from being devotional on an occasion of this kind, and by no means cleanly. But I must hasten on; the Carnival is beginning, and I must not lose any portion of it.

At night, (in honour of my birthday,) barrels of pitch were burned in all the streets, and the Propaganda illuminated. The people thought this was owing to its being the former residence of the Pope, but I knew it was because I lived exactly opposite, and I had only to lean out of my window to enjoy it all. Then came Torlonia's ball, and in every corner were seen glimpses of red caps above, and red stockings below. The following day they worked very hard at scaffoldings, platforms, and stages for the Carnival; edicts were posted up about horse-racing, and specimens of masks were displayed at the windows, and (in celebration of the day following my birthday) the illumination of the dome, and the Girandola were fixed for Sunday. On Saturday all the world went to the Capitol, to witness the form of the Jews' supplications to be suffered to remain in the Sacred City for another year; a request which is refused at the foot of the hill, but after repeated entreaties, granted on the summit, and the Ghetto is assigned to them. It was a tiresome affair; we waited two hours, and after all, understood the oration of the Jews as little as the answer of the Christians. I came down again in very bad humour, and thought that the Carnival had commenced rather unpropitiously. So I arrived in the Corso and was driving along, thinking no evil, when I was suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I looked up; they had been flung by some young ladies whom I had seen occasionally at balls, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarrassment I took off my hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. Their carriage drove on, and in the next was Miss T——, a delicate young Englishwoman. I tried to bow to her, but she pelted me too, so I became quite desperate, and clutching the confetti, I flung them back bravely; there were swarms of my acquaintances, and my blue coat was soon as white as that of a miller. The B——s were standing on a balcony, flinging confetti like hail at my head; and thus pelting and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers, and the most extravagant masks, the day ended with races.

The following day there was no carnival, but as a compensation, the Pope conferred his benediction from the Loggia, in the Piazza of St. Peter's; he was consecrated as Bishop in the Church, and at night the dome was lighted up. The sudden, nay instantaneous change the illumination of the building effects, you must ask Hensel to paint or to describe, whichever he prefers. Nothing can be more startling than the sudden and surprising vision, of so many hundred human beings, previously invisible, now revealed as it were in the air, working and moving about—and the glorious Girandola,—but who can conceive it! Now the gaieties recommence. Farewell! in my next letter I mean to continue my description. Yesterday, at the Carnival, flowers and bonbons were indiscriminately thrown, and a mask gave me a bouquet, which I have dried, and mean to bring home for you. All idea of occupation is out of the question at present; I have only composed one little song; but when Lent comes, I intend to be more industrious. Who can at such a moment think either of writing or music? I must go out, so farewell, dear ones.

Felix.