Picture a little house two windows broad, number 5 in the Piazza di Spagna, that catches the sun all day, then the room on its first floor in which there stands a good Viennese piano, on the table lie portraits of Palestrina, Allegri, and so on, and the scores of their music, also a Latin psalm book out of which to compose Non nobis; this is my personal residence. It was too far off by the Capitol, and I had my fears of the coldness of the air, which gives no trouble here, when I look out over the square in the morning and everything stands out so clear cut on the blue sky in the sun-shine. My host was formerly a captain in the French service; the maid has the most magnificent contralto voice I know. Above me there lives a Prussian officer, with whom I exchange courtesies; altogether, my surroundings are excellent. When I come into the room early in the morning and the sun is shining so brightly on my breakfast things you see I am throwing myself away on poetry an amazing cheerfulness takes possession of me, and then I think it is really late in the autumn, and who could make sure of warmth, bright skies or grapes and flowers at home? After breakfast my work goes forward, and I play, sing, and compose till about noon.
Then all the measureless delight of Rome lies as a free gift before me; I proceed with it very leisurely, and every day pick out afresh some great historic object; one day a ramble about the ruins of the ancient city, another day the Borghese Gallery or the Capitol, or else St. Peter’s or the Vatican, so each day is one never to be forgotten, and this sort of
