Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Isola Bella, July 24th, 1831.

You no doubt imagine that you inhale the fragrance of orange-flowers, see blue sky, and a bright sun, and a clear lake, when you merely read the date of this letter. Not at all! The weather is atrocious, rain pouring down, and claps of thunder heard at intervals;—the hills look frightfully bleak, as if the world were enshrouded in clouds; the lake is grey, and the sky sombre. I can smell no orange-flowers, and this island might quite as appropriately be called "Isola Brutta!" and this has gone on for three days! My unfortunate cloak! I am confessedly the "spirit of negation" (I refer to my mother), and as it is at present the fashion with every one not to consider the Borromean Islands "by any means so beautiful," and somewhat formal; and as the weather seems resolved to disgust me with this spot,—from a spirit of opposition I maintain that it is perfectly lovely. The approach to these islands, where you see crowded together green terraces with quaint statues, and many old-fashioned decorations, along with verdant foliage, and every species of southern vegetation, has a peculiar charm for me, and yet something affecting and solemn too. For what I last year saw in all the luxuriance and exuberance of wild nature, and to which my eye had become so accustomed, I find now cultivated by art, and about to pass away from me for ever. There are citron-hedges and orange-bushes; and sharp-pointed aloes shoot up from the walls—it is just as if, at the end of a piece, the beginning were to be repeated; and this, as you know, I particularly like.

In the steamboat was the first peasant girl I have seen here in Swiss costume; the people speak a bad half-French Italian. This is my last letter from Italy, but believe me the Italian lakes are not the least interesting objects in this country; anzi,—I never saw any more beautiful. People tried to persuade me that the gigantic forms of the Swiss Alps that have haunted me from my childhood had been exaggerated by my imagination, and that after all a snowy mountain was not in reality so grand as I thought. I almost dreaded being undeceived, but at first sight of the foreground of the Alps from the Lake of Como, veiled in clouds, with here and there a surface of bright snow, sharp black points rearing their heads, and sinking precipitously into the lake, the hills first scattered over with trees and villages, and covered with moss, and then bleak and desolate, and on every side deep ravines filled with snow,—I felt just as I formerly did, and saw that I had exaggerated nothing.

In the Alps all is more free, more sharply defined; more uncivilized, if you will: yet I always feel there both healthier and happier. I have just returned from the gardens of the Palace, which I visited in the midst of the rain. I wished to imitate Albano, and sent for a barber to open a vein: he however misunderstood my purpose, and shaved me instead,—a very pardonable mistake. Gondolas are landing on every part of the island, for to-day is the fête following the great festival of yesterday, in honour of which the P. P. Borromeo sent for singers and musicians from Milan, to sing and play to the islanders. The gardener asked me if I knew what a wind instrument was. I said with a clear conscience that I did; and he replied that I ought to try to imagine the effect of thirty such instruments, and violins and basses, all played at once; but indeed I could not possibly imagine it, for it must be heard to be believed. The sounds (continued he) seemed to come from Heaven, and all this was produced by philharmony. What he meant by this term I know not; but the music had evidently made more impression on him, than the best orchestra often does on musical connoisseurs. At this moment some one has just begun to play the organ in the church for Divine service, in the following strain:—

Full organ in the bass, Bourdon 16, and reed stops, have a very fine effect. The fellow has come all the way from Milan, too, expressly to make this disturbance in the church. I must go there for a little, so farewell for a few moments. I intend to remain here for the night, instead of crossing the lake again, for I am so much pleased with this little island. I certainly cannot say that I have slept soundly for the last two nights; one night owing to the innumerable claps of thunder, the next owing to the innumerable fleas; and, in all probability, I have to-night the prospect of both combined. But as the following morning I shall be speaking French, and have left Italy, and crossed the Simplon, I mean to ramble about all this day and to-morrow in true Italian fashion.

I must now relate to you historically how I happened to come here. At the very last moment of my stay in Milan, the Ertmanns came to my room to bid me farewell, and we took leave of each other more cordially than I have done of any one for many a long day. I promised to send you many kind wishes from them, though they are unacquainted with you, and I also agreed to write to them occasionally. Another valued acquaintance I made there, is Herr Mozart, who holds an office in Milan; but he is a musician, heart and soul. He is said to bear the strongest resemblance to his father, especially in disposition; for the very same phrases that affect the feelings in his father's letters, from their candour and simplicity, constantly recur in the conversation of the son, whom no one can fail to love from the moment he is known. For instance, I consider it a very charming trait in him, that he is as jealous of the fame and name of his father, as if he were an incipient young musician; and one evening, at the Ertmanns', when a great many of Beethoven's works had been played, the Baroness asked me in a whisper to play something of Mozart's, otherwise his son would be quite mortified; so when I played the overture to "Don Juan," he began to thaw, and begged me to play also the overture to the "Flauto Magico" of his "Vatter," and seemed to feel truly filial delight in hearing it: it is impossible not to like him.

He gave me letters to some friends near the Lake of Como, which procured me for once a glimpse of Italian provincial life, and I amused myself famously there for a few days with the Doctor, the Apothecary, the Judge, and other people of the locality. There were very lively discussions on the subject of Sand, and many expressed great admiration of him; this appeared strange to me, as the occurrence is of such distant date that no one any longer argues on the subject. They also spoke of Shakspeare's plays, which are now being translated into Italian. The Doctor said that the tragedies were good, but that there were some plays about witches that were too stupid and childish: one, in particular, "Il Sonno d' una Notte di Mezza State." In it the stale device occurred of a piece being rehearsed in the play, and it was full of anachronisms and childish ideas; on which they all chimed in that it was very silly and advised me not to read it. I remained meekly silent, and attempted no defence! I bathed frequently in the Lake, and sketched, and yesterday rowed on the Lake of Lugano, which frowned sternly on us with its cascades and dark canopy of clouds; then across the hills to Luvino, and to-day I came here by steam.

Evening.—I have this moment returned from the Isola Madre, and most splendid it is; spacious, and full of terraces, citron-hedges, and evergreen shrubs. The weather has at last become less inclement; thus the large white house on the island, with its ruins and terraces, looked very pretty. It is indeed a unique land, and I only wish I could bring with me to Berlin a portion of the same balmy air that I inhaled when in the boat to-day. You have nothing like it, and I would rather you enjoyed it, than all the people who imbibe it here. A fiercely moustachioed German was with me in the boat, who examined all the beautiful scenery as if he were about to purchase it and thought it too dear. Presently I heard a trait quite in the style of Jean Paul. When we were walking on the island, surrounded by verdure, an Italian, who was of the party, observed that this was a spot well adapted for lovers to ramble in, and to enjoy the charms of nature. "Ah! yes!" said I, in a languishing tone. "It was on this account," continued he, "that I separated from my wife ten years ago; I established her at Venice in a small tobacconist's shop, and now I live as I please. You must one day do the same."

The old boatman told us that he had rowed General Bonaparte on this lake, and related various anecdotes of him and Murat. He said Murat was a most extraordinary man; all the time that he was rowing him on the lake, he never ceased singing to himself for a single moment, and once when setting off on a journey he gave him his spirit-flask, and said he would buy another for himself in Milan. I cannot tell why these little traits, especially the singing, seemed to realize the man in my mind more than many a book of history.

The "Walpurgis Nacht" is finished and revised, and the overture will soon be equally far advanced. The only person who has heard it as yet, is Mozart, and he was so delighted with it that the well-known composition caused me fresh pleasure; he insisted on my publishing it immediately. Pray forgive this letter, written in true student phraseology. You no doubt perceive from its style that I have not worn a neckcloth for a week past; but I wished you to know how gay and happy I have been during the days spent among the mountains, and with what pleasure I look forward to those that yet await me.

Yours, Felix.