Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Rome, June 6th, 1831.

My dear Parents,

It is indeed high time that I should write to you a rational, methodical letter, for I fear that none of those from Naples were worth much. It really seemed as if the atmosphere there deterred every one from serious reflection, at least I very seldom succeeded in collecting my thoughts or ideas; and now I have been scarcely more than a few hours here, when I once more resume that Roman tranquillity, and grave serenity, which I alluded to in my former letters from this place. I cannot express how infinitely better I love Rome than Naples. People allege that Rome is monotonous, of one uniform hue, melancholy, and solitary. It is certainly true that Naples is more like a great European city, more lively and varied, and more cosmopolitan; but I may say to you confidentially, that I begin gradually to feel the most decided hatred of all that is cosmopolitan;—I dislike it, just as I dislike many-sidedness, which, moreover, I rather think I do not much believe in. Anything that aspires to be distinguished, or beautiful, or really great, must be one-sided; but then this one side must be brought to a state of the most consummate perfection, and no man can deny that such is the case at Rome.

Naples seems to me too small to be called properly a great city; all the life and bustle are confined to two large thoroughfares—the Toledo, and the coast from the harbour to the Chiaja. Naples does not realize to my mind the idea of a centre for a great nation, which London offers in such perfection; chiefly indeed because it is deficient in a people: for the fishermen and lazzaroni I cannot designate as a people, they are more like savages, and their centre is not Naples, but the sea. The middle classes, by which I mean those who pursue various trades, and the working citizens who form the basis of other great towns, are quite subordinate; indeed, I may almost say that such a class is not to be found there. It was this that often made me feel out of humour during my stay in Naples, much as I loved and enjoyed the scenery; but as a dissatisfied feeling constantly recurred, I think I at last discovered the cause to lie within myself. I cannot say that I was precisely unwell during the incessant sirocco, but it was more disagreeable than an indisposition which passes away in a few days. I felt languid, disinclined for all that was serious,—in fact, lazy. I lounged about the streets all day with a morose face, and would have preferred lying on the ground, without the trouble of thinking, or wishing, or doing anything; then it suddenly occurred to me, that the principal classes in Naples live in reality precisely in the same manner; that consequently the source of my depression did not spring from myself, as I had feared, but from the whole combination of air, climate, etc. The atmosphere is suitable for grandees who rise late, never require to go out on foot, never think (for this is heating), sleep away a couple of hours on a sofa in the afternoon, then eat ice, and drive to the theatre at night, where again they do not find anything to think about, but simply make and receive visits. On the other hand, the climate is equally suitable for a fellow in a shirt, with naked legs and arms, who also has no occasion to move about—begging for a few grani when he has literally nothing left to live on—taking his afternoon's siesta stretched on the ground, or on the quay, or on the stone pavement (the pedestrians step over him, or shove him aside if he lies right in the middle). He fetches his frutti di mare himself out of the sea, sleeps wherever he may chance to find himself at night; in short, he employs every moment in doing exactly what he likes best, just as an animal does.

These are the two principal classes of Naples. By far the largest portion of the population of the Toledo there, consists of gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen, or husbands and wives driving together in handsome equipages, or of those olive sans-culottes who sometimes carry about fish for sale, brawling in the most stentorian way, or bearing burdens when they have no longer any money left. I believe there are few indeed who have any settled occupation, or follow up any pursuit with zeal and perseverance, or who like work for the sake of working. Goethe says that the misfortune of the North is, that people there always wish to be doing something, and striving after some end; and he goes on to say, that an Italian was right, who advised him not to think so much, for it would only give him a headache. I suspect however that he was merely jesting; at all events, he did not act in this manner himself, but, on the contrary, like a genuine Northman. If however he means that the difference of character is produced by nature, and subservient to her influence, then there is no doubt that he is quite in the right. I can perfectly conceive that it must be so, and why wolves howl; still it is not necessary to howl along with them. The proverb should be exactly reversed. Those who, owing to their position, are obliged to work, and must consequently both think and bestir themselves, treat the matter as a necessary evil, which brings them in money, and when they actually have it, they too live like the great, or the naked, gentlemen. Thus there is no shop where you are not cheated. Natives of Naples, who have been customers for many years, are obliged to bargain, and to be as much on their guard as foreigners; and one of my acquaintances, who had dealt at the same shop for fifteen years, told me that during the whole of that period there had been invariably the same battle about a few scudi, and that nothing could prevent it.

Thence it is that there is so little industry or competition, and that Donizetti finishes an opera in ten days; to be sure, it is sometimes hissed, but that does not matter, for it is paid for all the same, and he can then go about amusing himself. If at last however his reputation becomes endangered, he will in that case be forced really to work, which he would find by no means agreeable. This is why he sometimes writes an opera in three weeks, bestowing considerable pains on a couple of airs in it, so that they may please the public, and then he can afford once more to divert himself, and once more to write trash. Their painters, in the same way, paint the most incredibly bad pictures, far inferior even to their music. Their architects also erect buildings in the worst taste; among others, an imitation, on a small scale, of St. Peter's, in the Chinese style. But what does it matter? the pictures are bright in colour, the music makes plenty of noise, the buildings give plenty of shade, and the Neapolitan grandees ask no more.

My physical mood was similar to theirs, everything inspiring me with a wish to be idle, and to lounge about, and sleep; yet I was constantly saying to myself that this was wrong; and striving to occupy myself, and to work, which I could not accomplish. Hence arose the querulous tone of some of the letters I wrote to you, and I could only escape from such a mood by rambling over the hills, where nature is so divine, making every man feel grateful and cheerful. I did not neglect the musicians, and we had a great deal of music, but I cared little in reality for their flattering encomiums. Fodor is hitherto the only genuine artist, male or female, that I have seen in Italy; elsewhere I should probably have found a great many faults with her singing, but I overlooked them all, because when she sings it is real music, and after such a long privation, that was most acceptable.

Now however I am once more in old Rome, where life is very different. There are processions daily, for last week was the Corpus Domini; and just as I left the city during the celebration of the week following the Holy Week, I now return after the Corpus Christi to find them engaged in the same way. It made a singular impression on me to see that the streets had in the interim assumed such an aspect of summer: on all sides booths with lemons and iced water, the people in light dresses, the windows open, and the jalousies closed. You sit at the doors of coffee-houses, and eat gelato in quantities; the Corso swarms with equipages, for people no longer walk much, and though in reality I miss no dear friends or relatives, yet I felt quite moved when I once more saw the Piazza di Spagna, and the familiar names written up on the corners of the streets. I shall stay here for about a week, and then proceed northwards.

The Infiorata is on Thursday, but it is not yet quite certain that it will take place, because they have some apprehensions of a revolution; but I hope I shall witness this ceremony. I mean to take advantage of this opportunity to see the hills once more, and then to set off for the north. Wish me a good journey, for I am on the eve of departure. It is a year this very day since I arrived in Munich, heard 'Fidelio,' and wrote to you. We have not met since then; but, please God, we shall see each other again before another year.

Felix.