By EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.
After thoroughly “doing” Berne in most approved guide-book fashion;
feeding the bears—hot, dusty looking creatures; standing in the middle
of the street, heads thrown back at the risk of dislocating our necks
to watch the celebrated clock strike, we stand one evening on the hotel
terrace and take our farewell look at the Bernese Alps. Sharply defined
against a sunset-flushed sky, as if cut from alabaster, glittering
fair and white like the pinnacles and domes of a city celestial, rise
the Mönch, Eiger, Wetterhorn, and, serene and august in her icy virgin
beauty, the Jungfrau.
“Too soon the light began to fade,
Tho’ lingering soft and tender;
And the snow giants sank again
Into their calm dead splendor.”
Leaving Berne, we take our way to Fribourg, to see its wonderful
gorges and skeleton bridges, and hear its more wonderful organ. On
our arrival at this quaint old Romanesque town, we are driven to the
most delightful little hotel, hanging on the very edge of the great
ravine, upon the sides of which the town is built. Through the more
closely-built region of the town runs the old stone wall with its high
watch-towers. Spanning the great gulf are the bridges—mere phantoms of
bridges they seem from our windows. A dreary, drizzling rain sets in
soon after we arrive, and some American lads across the court-yard from
time to time send forth in their sweet untrained voices the refrain of
that mournful ballad, the “Soldier’s Farewell,”
“Farewell, farewell, my own true love.”
A prevalent tone of _heimweh_ is in the air; eyes are filling, and
memory is stretching longing hands over the ocean, when fortunately
comes the summons to _table d’hote_. At our plates we find programs
in very bad English of a concert to be given this evening upon the
great organ in the cathedral. Thither we go at dusk, pausing a moment
to look at the grotesque carving of the last judgment over the great
door. Thereon the good, with most satisfied faces, are being admitted
to heaven by St. Peter, a stout old gentleman in a short gown, jingling
a bunch of keys; while the wicked are being carried in Swiss baskets
to a great cauldron over a blazing fire, therein to be deposited, and
to be stirred up by devils armed with pitchforks for that purpose.
We enter. Without, the ceaseless drip of the rain; within, gloom,
darkness—save for the never-ceasing light before the altar, decay.
The air is chill and damp. Around us stretch dark, shadowed aisles.
Tombs of those long dust are on every hand. The air seems peopled with
ghosts. We are seated, and patiently wait for life to be breathed
into that mighty monster looming up in the darkness, above our heads.
Suddenly, with a crash that shakes the building, the organ speaks.
Silenced, overwhelmed, we listen, possessing our souls in patience for
the “Pastorale,” representing a thunder storm among the Alps, which
is to close the evening’s entertainment. We have but recently come
from the everlasting hills, and our souls are still under their magic
enchantment. At last the moment comes. A pause, and there steals upon
the ear a light, sweet refrain. It is spring, the old, ideal spring;
the trees are budding; flowers are smiling from the meadows; we feel
warm south winds blowing; afar in the woods we hear the sylvan pipe of
the shepherd and the songs of birds. A peace is upon everything. Nature
is calm, happy, and full of promise of glad fruition. To this succeeds
a languid, dreary strain—it is a drowsy summer afternoon. A delicious
languor pervades the air; we hear the trees whispering to each other
of their perfect foliage; we hear the laughing waters leaping and
calling to each other through their rocky passes; the flocks are asleep
in the shade; the shadows are stealing and playing over the sides of
the mountains, and the whole world swims in a misty, golden haze. Now
listen closely. Do not we catch the mutter of distant thunder? And
again, do not we hear that clear, bell-like bird-call for rain? The
distant muttering grows louder, a stronger breeze sways the trees;
still we hear distinctly that bird-call. Now louder rolls the thunder,
the wind has arisen, the trees are bending to meet it, and in rage
are tossing their boughs to the overcast sky; and ah! here comes the
rain. Patter, patter, at first, now fast and faster, and now with a mad
rush down it comes in one tremendous, outpouring sheet, and now with a
terrific rumble and crash,
“From peak to peak the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder:
Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers from her misty shroud
Back to the joyous Alps who call on her aloud.”
The wind shrieks and howls, and yet above all this tumult and roar of
the elements, clearly and unmistakably rings that sweet flute-like
bird-call. The storm rages, spends its fury, and dies away, and from a
neighboring cloister come the voices of an unseen choir, raising a “Te
Deum” to him who holds the storms in his hands. Silently we rise and
go, a great peace upon us, for divine notes from the soul of the organ
have entered into ours.
* * * * *
IT is not the nature of man to be always moving forward; it has its
comings and goings. Fever has its cold and hot fits, and the cold
shiver proves the height of the fever quite as much as the hot fit.
The inventions of man from age to age proceed much in the same way.
The good nature and the malice of the world in general have the same
ebbs and flows. “Change of living is generally agreeable to the
rich.”—_Pascal._