Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 9
FROM A LETTER TO HIS FAMILY.
People have tried to persuade me that my imagination had exaggerated the vastness of the Swiss mountains, the unearthly forms of which hover among the recollections of my childhood, and that a snow mountain was not so imposing as I fancied. I was almost afraid to find myself disillusioned, but when I reached the Lake of Como, and saw the outposts of the Alps covered with cloud, with brilliant white snow and precipitous black peaks showing here and there, and their steep descent to the water, the trees and villages at their feet, then the mossy slopes and the cold barren rocks above furrowed with snowy clefts, the old feeling came back as at first, and I saw my memory had exaggerated nothing of it. I have just come back from visiting the gardens of the castle in a downpour of rain. I wanted to have it like Albano,[1] and sent for a barber to bleed me; but he did not understand, and shaved me instead, which no doubt was a very excusable mistake. Boats are arriving at the island from all sides, as there is a great festival, which is to be honoured by musicians and singers from Milan. The gardiner asked me if I knew what a wind instrument was. I assured him with a good conscience that I did, and then he said I must imagine thirty of them together with fiddles and bass viols as well, but indeed, he went on, I couldn’t imagine it, one must hear a thing like that before one could believe it. It was sound that seemed to descend from heaven, and all brought about by “Philharmonics.” What he understood by this I cannot tell, but it had made more impression on him than the best orchestra would make on many musical critics….
Another very pleasant acquaintance I made at Milan was that of Herr Mozart, who is an official there, but a musician at heart. He must have a great resemblance to his father, especially in character, for the things, he says, continually recall to one’s mind the naïveté and frankness of his father’s letters, and one’s heart goes out to him at once. I very much admire his jealousy for his father’s reputation, as though he was now commencing his career. One evening at the Ertmann’s, after we had played a great deal of Beethoven, the baroness whispered to me that it was time to have something by Mozart, otherwise the son would be unhappy, and when I had played the overture to Don Juan, he thawed completely, and begged to hear “his father’s Zauberflöte.” At this last he was as pleased as a child; one could not but like him. He gave me letters to his friends about Como. So I have caught a glimpse of Italian provincial life, and have found much entertainment with the doctor, the apothecary, the magistrate, and other of the inhabitants. There were lively discussions about Sand, and some admired him greatly. It seemed curious to me, for the story is somewhat old, and people have almost left off disputing about it. They talked also of Shakespere’s plays, which are now translated into Italian. The doctor affirmed that the tragedies were good, but there were certain tales of magic among them, and these were very childish. One especially, “The Midsummer Night Dream.” This introduced the antiquated subject of a rehearsal for the stage, and the whole of it was full of anachronisms and puerile ideas. All the company agreed it was very inane. I should do better not to read it! I was mournfully silent, and attempted no defence.[2]