Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Naples, May 17th, 1831.

On Saturday, the 14th of May, at two o'clock, I told my driver to turn the carriage. We were opposite the Temple of Ceres at Pæstum, the most southern point of my journey. The carriage consequently turned towards the north, and from that moment, as I journey onwards, I am every hour drawing nearer to you. It is about a year now since I travelled with my father to Dessau and Leipzig; the time in fact exactly corresponds, for it was about the half-year. I have made good use of the past year. I have acquired considerable experience and many new impressions. Both in Rome and here I have been very busy, but no change has occurred in my outward circumstances; and till the beginning of the new year, in fact so long as I am in Italy, it will probably be the same. This period has not however been less valuable to me than some when outwardly, and in the opinion of others, I have appeared to make greater progress; for there must always be a close connection between the two. If I have gathered experience, it cannot fail to influence me outwardly, and I shall allow no opportunity to escape to show that it has done so. Possibly some such may occur before the end of my journey, so I may for the present continue to enjoy nature, and the blue sky, during the months that still remain for me in Italy, without thinking of anything else; for there alone lies true art, now in Italy,—there and in her monuments; and there it will ever remain; and there we shall ever find it, for our instruction and delight, so long as Vesuvius stands, and so long as the balmy air, and the sea, and the trees do not pass away.

In spite of all this, I am enough of a musician to own that I do heartily long once more to hear an orchestra or a full chorus where there is at least some sound, for here there is nothing of the sort. This is our peculiar province, and to be so long deprived of such an element, leaves a sad void. The orchestra and chorus here are like those in our second-rate provincial towns, only more harsh and incorrect. The first violinist, all through the opera, beats the four quarters of each bar on a tin candle-stick, which is often more distinctly heard than the voices (it sounds somewhat like obbligati castanets, only louder); and yet in spite of this the voices are never together. Every little instrumental solo is adorned with old-fashioned flourishes, and a bad tone pervades the whole performance, which is totally devoid of genius, fire, or spirit. The singers are the worst Italian ones I ever heard anywhere (except, indeed, in Italy), and those who wish to have a true idea of Italian singing must go to Paris or to London. Even the Dresden company, whom I heard last year in Leipzig, are superior to any here. This is but natural, for in the boundless misery that prevails in Naples, where can the bases of a theatre be found, which of course requires considerable capital? The days when every Italian was a born musician, if indeed they ever existed, are long gone by. They treat music like any other fashionable article, with total indifference; in fact, they scarcely pay it the homage of outward respect, so it is not to be wondered at that every single person of talent should, as regularly as they appear, transfer themselves to foreign countries, where they are better appreciated, their position better defined, and where they find opportunities of hearing and learning something profitable and inspiriting.

The only really good singer here is Tamburini; he has, however, long since been heard in Vienna and Paris, and I believe in London also; so now, when he begins to discover that his voice is on the decline, he comes back to Italy. I cannot admit either that the Italians alone understand the art of singing; for there is no music, however florid. I have ever heard executed by Italians, that Sonntag cannot accomplish, and in even greater perfection. She certainly, as she acknowledges, learned much from Fodor; but why should not another German in turn learn the same from Sonntag? and Malibran is a Spaniard. Italy can no longer claim the glorious appellation of "the land of music;" in truth, she has already lost it, and possibly she may yet do so even in the opinion of the world, though this is problematical. I was lately in company with some professional musicians, who were speaking of a new opera by a Neapolitan, Coccia; and one of them asked if it was clever. "Probably it is," said another, "for Coccia was long in England, where he studied, and some of his compositions are much liked there." This struck me as very remarkable, for in England they would have spoken exactly in the same way of Italy; but quo me rapis? I say nothing to you, dear sisters, in this letter, but in the course of a few days I mean to send you a little pamphlet dedicated to you. Do not be alarmed, it is not poetry; the thing is simply entitled "Journal of an Excursion to the Islands, in May."

Felix.