Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Naples, April 27th, 1831.

It is now nearly a fortnight since I have heard from you. I do earnestly hope that nothing unpleasant has occurred, and every day I expect the post will bring me tidings of you all. My letters from Naples are of little value, for I am too deeply absorbed here to be able easily to extricate myself, and to write descriptive letters. Besides, when we had bad weather lately, I took advantage of it to resume my labours, and zealously applied myself to my "Walpurgis Night," which daily increases in interest for me, so I employ every spare moment in completing it. I hope to finish it in a few days, and I think it will turn out well. If I continue in my present mood, I shall finish my Italian symphony also in Italy, in which case I shall have a famous store to bring home with me, the fruits of this winter. Moreover every day I have something new to see. I generally make my excursions with the Schadows.

Yesterday we went to Pompeii. It looks as if it had been burnt down, or like a recently deserted city. As both of these always seem to me deeply affecting, the impression made on me was the most melancholy that I have yet experienced in Italy. It is as if the inhabitants had just gone out, and yet almost every object tells of another religion and another life; in short, of seventeen hundred years ago; and the French and English ladies scramble about as gaily as possible, and sketch it all. It is the old tragedy of the Past and the Present, a problem I never can solve. Lively Naples is indeed a pleasant contrast; but it is painful to see the crowd of wretched beggars who waylay you in every street and path, swarming round the carriage the instant it stops. The old white-haired men particularly distress me, and such a mass of misery exceeds all belief. If you are walking on the sea-shore, and gazing at the islands, and then chance to look round at the land, you find yourself the centre of a group of cripples, who make a trade of their infirmities; or you discover (which lately happened to me) that you are surrounded by thirty or forty children, all whining out their favourite phrase, "Muoio di fame," and rattling their jaws to show that they have nothing to eat. All this forms a most repulsive contrast; and yet to me it is still more repugnant that you must entirely renounce the great pleasure of seeing happy faces; for even when you have given the richest gratuities to guards, waiters, or workpeople, in short, to whom you will, the invariable rejoinder is, "Nienti di più?" in which case you may be very sure that you have given too much. If it is the proper sum, they give it back with the greatest apparent indignation, and then return and beg to have it again. These are trifles, certainly, but they show the lamentable condition of the people. I have even gone so far as to feel provoked with the perpetual smiling aspect of nature, when in the most retired spots troops of beggars everywhere assailed me, some even persisting in following me a long way. It is only when I am quietly seated in my own room, gazing down on the Bay, and on Vesuvius, that being totally alone with them I feel really cheerful and happy.

To-day we are to ascend the hill to visit the Camaldoli Monastery, and to-morrow, if the weather permits, we proceed to Procida and Ischia. I go this evening to Madame Fodor's with Donizetti, Benedict, etc. She is very kind and amiable towards me, and her singing has given me great pleasure, for she has wonderful facility, and executes her fiorituri with so much taste, that it is easy to see how many things Sonntag acquired from her, especially the mezza voce, which Fodor, whose voice is no longer full and fresh, most prudently and judiciously introduces into many passages. As she is not singing at the theatre, I am most fortunate in having made her acquaintance personally. The theatre is now closed for some weeks, because the blood of St. Januarius is shortly to liquefy. What I heard at the opera previously did not repay the trouble of going. The orchestra, like that in Rome, was worse than in any part of Germany, and not even one tolerable female singer. Tamburini alone, with his vigorous bass voice, imparted some life to the whole. Those who wish to hear Italian operas, must now-a-days go to Paris or London. Heaven grant that this may not eventually be the case with German music also!

I must however return to my "Witches," so you must forgive my not writing any more to-day. This whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather I do so in my "Walpurgis Night," whether I am to introduce the big drum or not. "Zacken, Gabeln, und wilde Klapperstöcke," seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation dissuades me. I certainly am the only person who ever composed for the scene on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but I can't help regretting the big drum, and before I can receive Fanny's advice, the "Walpurgis Night" will be finished and packed up. I shall then set off again on my travels, and Heaven knows what I may have in my head by that time. I feel convinced that Fanny would say yes; still, I feel very doubtful; at all events a vast noise is indispensable.

Oh, Rebecca! can you not procure the words of some songs, and send them to me? I feel quite in the humour for them, and you must require something new to sing. If you can furnish me with some pretty verses, old or new, gay or grave, I will compose something in a style to suit your voice. I am at your service for any compact of this kind. Pray do send me wherewithal to work at, during my journey, in the inns. Now, farewell to you all! May you be as happy as I ever wish you to be, and think of me!

Felix.