Engelberg, August 23rd, 1831.
My heart is so full that I must tell you about it. In this
enchanting valley I have just taken up Schiller's "Wilhelm Tell,"
and read half of the first scene; there is surely no genius like
that of Germany! Heaven knows why it is so, but I do think that no
other nation could fully comprehend such an opening scene, far less
be able to compose it. This is what I call a poem, and a beginning;
first the pure, clear verse, in which the lake, smooth as a mirror,
and all else, is so vividly described, and then the slow
commonplace Swiss talk, and Baumgarten coming in,--it is quite
glorious! How fresh, how powerful, how exciting! We have no such
work as this in music, and yet even that sphere ought one day to
produce something equally perfect. It is so admirable in him too,
to have created an entire Switzerland for himself, inasmuch as he
never saw it, and yet all is so faithful and so strikingly
truthful; the people and life, the scenery and nature. I was
delighted when the old innkeeper here, in a solitary mountain
village, brought me from the monastery the book with the well-known
characters and old familiar names; but the opening again quite
surpassed all my expectations. It is now more than four years since
I read it. I mean presently to go over to the monastery, to work
off my excitement on the organ.
Afternoon.
Do not be astonished at my enthusiasm, but read the scene through
again yourself, and then you will find my excitement quite natural.
Such passages as those where all the shepherds and hunters shout
"Save him! save him!" in the close at the Gruetli, when the sun is
about to rise, could indeed only have occurred to a German, and
above all to Schiller; and the whole piece is crowded with similar
passages. Let me refer to that particular one at the end of the
second scene, where Tell comes with the rescued Baumgarten to
Stauffacher, and the agitating conference closes in such
tranquillity and peace: this, along with the beauty of the thought,
is so thoroughly Swiss. Then the beginning of the Gruetli--the
symphony which the orchestra ought to play at the end I composed in
my mind to-day, because I could do nothing satisfactory on the
little organ: altogether a variety of plans and ideas occurred to
me. There is a vast deal to do in this world, and I mean to be
industrious. The expression that Goethe made use of to me, that
Schiller could have _supplied_ two great tragedies every year, with
its business-like tone, always inspired me with particular respect:
but not till this morning did the full force of its signification
become clear to me, and it has made me feel that I must set to work
in earnest. Even the mistakes are captivating, and there is
something grand in them; and though certainly Bertha, Rudenz, and
old Attinghausen, seem to me great blemishes, still Schiller's idea
is evident, and he was in a manner forced to do as he has done; and
it is consolatory to find that even so great a man could for once
commit such an egregious mistake.
I have passed a most enjoyable morning, and I feel in the kind of
mood which makes you long to recall such a man to life, in order to
thank him, and inspiring an earnest desire, one day, to compose a
work which shall impress others with similar feelings.
Probably you do not understand what induced me to take up my
quarters here in Engelberg. It happened thus:--I have not had a
single day's rest since I left Untersee, and therefore wished to
remain for a day at Meiringen, but was tempted by the lovely
weather in the morning, to come on here. The usual rain and wind
assailed me on the mountains, and so I arrived very tired. This is
the nicest inn imaginable,--clean, tidy, very small and rustic,--an
old white-haired innkeeper; a wooden house, situated in a meadow, a
little apart from the road; and the people so kind and cordial,
that I feel quite at home. I think this kind of domestic comfort is
only to be found among those who speak the German tongue; at all
events, I never met with it anywhere else; and though other nations
may not feel the want of it, or scarcely care about it, still _I_
am a native of Hamburg, and so it makes me feel happy and at home.
It is not therefore strange that I decided on taking my day's rest
here with these worthy old people. My room has windows on every
side, commanding a view of the valley: the room is prettily
panelled with wood; some coloured texts and a crucifix are hanging
on the walls; there is a solid green stove, and a bench encircling
it, and two lofty bedsteads. When I am lying in bed I have the
following view:--
[Illustration]
I have failed again in my buildings, and in the hills too, but I
hope to make a better sketch of it for you in my book, if the
weather is tolerable to-morrow. I shall always consider this valley
to be one of the loveliest in all Switzerland. I have not yet seen
the gigantic mountains by which it is encompassed, as they have
been all day shrouded in mist; but the beautiful meadows, the
numerous brooks, the houses, and the foot of the hills, so far as I
could see them, are exquisitely lovely. The green of the
Unterwalden is more brilliant than in any other canton, and it is
celebrated for its meadows even among the Swiss. The previous
journey too from Sarnen was enchanting, and never did I see larger
or finer trees, or a more fruitful country. Moreover the road is
attended with as few difficulties as if you were traversing a large
garden; the declivities are clothed with tall slender beeches; the
stones overgrown by moss and herbs; then there are springs, brooks,
small lakes, and houses: on one side is a view of the Unterwalden
and its green plains; and shortly after a view of the whole vale of
Hasli, the snowy mountains, and cataracts leaping down from rocky
precipices; the road too is shaded the whole way by enormous trees.
Yesterday, early, as I told you, I was tempted by the bright sun to
cross the Genthel valley to ascend the Joch, but on the summit the
most dreadful weather set in; we were obliged to make our way
through the snow, and this was sometimes anything but pleasant. We
speedily, however, emerged out of the sleet and snow, and an
enchanting moment ensued, when the clouds broke, while we were
still standing in them; and far beneath us, we saw through the
mists as through a black veil, the green valley of Engelberg. We
soon made our way down, and heard the silvery bell of the monastery
ring out the Ave Maria. We next saw the white building on the
meadow, and arrived here after an expedition of nine hours. I need
not say how acceptable at such a time is a comfortable inn, and how
good the rice and milk seems, and how long you sleep next morning.
To-day we have had very disagreeable weather, so they brought me
"Wilhelm Tell" from the library of the monastery, and the rest you
know. I was much struck by Schiller having so completely failed in
portraying Rudenz, for the whole character is feeble, and without
sufficient motive, and it seems as if he had resolved purposely to
represent him throughout, in the worst possible light. His words,
in the scene with the apple, might tend to redeem him, but being
preceded by that with Bertha, they make no impression. When he
joins the Swiss, after the death of Attinghausen, it might be
supposed that he is changed, but he instantly proclaims that his
Bertha is carried off, so again he has as little merit as ever. It
occurred to me that if he had uttered the very same manly words
against Gessler, without the explanation with Bertha having
previously taken place, and if such a result had arisen out of this
in the following act, the character would have been much better,
and the explanatory scene not so merely theatrical as it now is.
This is certainly very like the egg and the hen, but I should like
to hear your opinion on the subject. I dare not speak to one of our
learned men on such matters; these gentlemen are a vast deal too
wise! If however I chance some of these days to meet one of those
youthful modern poets, who look down on Schiller, and only partly
approve of him; so much the worse for him, for I must infallibly
crush him to death.
Now, good night; I must rise very early to-morrow; it is to be a
grand fete to-day in the monastery, and a solemn religious service,
and I am to play the organ for them. The monks were listening this
morning while I was extemporizing a little, and were so pleased,
that they invited me to play the people in and out at their
festival to-morrow. The father organist has also given me the
subject on which I am to extemporize; it is better than any that
would have occurred to an organist in Italy.
[Music]
I shall see to-morrow what I can make of this. I played a couple of
new pieces of mine on the organ this afternoon in the church, and
they sounded rather well. When I came past the monastery the same
evening, the church was closed, and scarcely were the doors shut,
when the monks began to sing nocturns fervently, in the dark
church; they intoned the deep B, which vibrated splendidly, and
could be heard far down the valley.
August 24th.
This has been another splendid day--the weather bright and
enjoyable, and the bluest sky that I have seen since I left
Chamouni; it was a holiday in the village, and in all the
mountains. After long-continued fogs, and every variety of bad
weather, once more to see from the window in the morning the clear
range of mountains and their pinnacles, is indeed a grand
spectacle. They are acknowledged to be finest after rain, and
to-day they looked as fresh as if newly created. This valley is not
surpassed by any in Switzerland. If I ever return here this shall
be my head-quarters, for it is even more lovely, and more spacious
and unconfined than Chamouni, and more free than Interlaken. The
Spann-oerter are incredibly grand peaks, and the round Titlis
heavily laden with snow, the foot of which lies in the meadows, and
the effect of the Urner rocks in the distance, are also well worth
seeing: it is now full moon, and the valley is clothed in beauty.
This whole day I have done nothing but sketch, and play the organ:
in the morning I performed my duties as organist--it was a grand
affair. The organ stands close to the high altar, next to the
stalls for the "patres;"--so I took my place in the midst of the
monks, a very Saul among the prophets. An impatient Benedictine at
my side played the double bass, and others the violins; one of
their dignitaries was first violin. The _pater praeceptor_ stood in
front of me, sang a solo, and conducted with a long stick, as thick
as my arm. The _eleves_ in the monastery formed the choir, in their
black cowls; an old decayed rustic played on an old decayed oboe,
and at a little distance two more were puffing away composedly at
two huge trumpets with green tassels; and yet with all this the
affair was gratifying. It was impossible not to like the people,
for they had plenty of zeal, and all worked away as well as they
could. A mass, by Emmerich, was given, and every note of it
betrayed its "powder and pigtail." I played thorough-bass
faithfully from my ciphered part, adding wind instruments from time
to time, when I was weary; made the responses, extemporized on the
appointed theme, and at the end, by desire of the Prelate, played a
march, in spite of my repugnance to do this on the organ, and was
then honourably dismissed.
This afternoon I played again alone to the monks, who gave me the
finest subjects in the world--the "Credo" among others--a
_fantasia_ on the latter was very successful; it is the only one
that in my life I ever wished I could have written down, but now I
can only remember its general purport, and must ask permission to
send Fanny, in this letter, a passage that I do not wish to forget.
By degrees various counter subjects were introduced in opposition
to the _canto fermo_; first dotted notes, then triplets, at last
rapid semiquavers, through which the "Credo" was to work its way;
quite at the close, the semiquavers became very wild, and arpeggios
followed on the whole organ in G minor. I proceeded to take up the
theme on the pedal in long notes (during the continued arpeggios),
so that it ended with A. On the A, I made a pedal point in
arpeggios, and then it suddenly occurred to me to play the
arpeggios with the left hand alone, so that the right hand could
introduce the "Credo" again in the treble with A, thus:--
[Music]
etc.
This was followed by a stop on the last note, and a pause, and then
it concluded. I wish you had heard it, for I am sure you would have
been pleased. It was time for the monks to go to _complines_, and
we took leave of each other cordially. They wished to give me
letters of introduction for some other places in Unterwalden, but I
declined this, as I intend to go to Lucerne early to-morrow, and
after that I expect not to be more than five or six days longer in
Switzerland.--Your