Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Rome, March 15th, 1831.

The letters of introduction that R—— sent me, have been of no use to me here. L—— likewise, to whom I was presented by Bunsen, has not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other way when we meet. I rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. Albani admitted me, so I had the honour of conversing for half an hour with a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, he asked me if I was a pensioner of the King of Hanover. "No," said I. He supposed that I must have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I knew Meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure his music; it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was a German, and the Germans, mon ami, have not the most remote conception of what melody is! "No," said I. "In my scores," continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings, and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the double-bass sings too." I was naturally desirous, in all humility, to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in Rome a agreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit to his villa, and I might take as many of my friends with me as I chose. It was near such and such a place. I thanked him very much, and subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any one can go there who chooses. Since that time I have heard no more of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest Roman circles, I resolved not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was satisfied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed out to me on the promenade, where I met them daily.

I think Mizkiewicz very tiresome. He possesses that kind of indifference which bores both himself and others, though the ladies persist in designating it melancholy and lassitude; but this makes it no better in my eyes. If he looks at St. Peter's, he deplores the times of the hierarchy; if the sky is blue and beautiful, he wishes it were dull and gloomy; if it is gloomy, he is freezing; if he sees the Colosseum, he wishes he had lived at that period. I wonder what sort of a figure he would have made in the days of Titus!

You inquire about Horace Vernet, and this is, indeed, a pleasant theme. I believe I may say that I have learned something from him, and every one may do the same. He produces with incredible facility and freshness. When a form meets his eye which touches his feelings, he instantly adopts it, and while others are deliberating whether it can be called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he has long completed his work, entirely deranging our æsthetical standard. Though this facility cannot be acquired, still its principle is admirable, and the serenity which springs from it, and the energy it calls forth in working, nothing else can replace.

Among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this season of blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in the midst of the shrubberies and gardens of the Villa Medicis, stands a small house, in which as you approach you invariably hear a tumult,—shouting and wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the barking of dogs; this is Vernet's atelier. The most picturesque disorder everywhere prevails; guns, a hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a couple of dead hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures, finished and unfinished. "The Investiture of the National Cockade" (an eccentric picture which does not please me), portraits recently begun of Thorwaldsen, Eynard, Latour-Maubourg, some horses, a sketch of Judith, and studies for it; the portrait of the Pope, a couple of Moorish heads, bagpipers, Papal soldiers, my unworthy self, Cain and Abel, and last of all a drawing of the interior of the place itself, all hang up in his studio.

Lately his hands were quite full, owing to the number of portraits bespoken from him; but in the street, he saw one of the Campagna peasants, who are armed and mounted by Government, and ride about Rome. The singular costume caught the artist's eye, and next day he began a picture representing a similar peasant, sitting on his horse in bad weather in the Campagna, and seizing his gun in order to take aim at some one with it; in the distance are visible a small troop of soldiers, and the desolate plain. The minute details of the weapon, where the peasant peeps through the soldier's uniform, the wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the discomfort prevalent throughout, and the Italian phlegm in the bearded fellow, make a charming little picture; and no one can help envying him, who sees the real delight with which his brush traverses the stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a button on the saddle; then lining the soldier's great-coat with green. Numbers of people come to look on: during my first sitting twenty persons, at least, arrived one after the other. Countess E—— asked him to allow her to be present when he was at work; but when he darted on it as a hungry man does on food, her amazement was great. The whole family are, as I told you, good people, and when old Charles talks about his father Joseph, you must feel respect for them, and I maintain that they are noble. Good-bye, for it is late, and I must send my letter to the Post.

Felix.