[22] Ludwig Berger, Mendelssohn's instructor on the piano.
Righi Culm, August 30th, 1831.
I am on the Righi! I need say no more, for you know this mountain.
What can be more grand or superb? I left Lucerne early this
morning. All the mountains were obscured, and the weather-wise
prophesied bad weather. As however I have always found that the
very opposite of what the wise people say invariably occurs! I
tried to make out signs for myself, though hitherto, in spite of
their aid, I have found my predictions quite as false as those of
the others; but this morning I really thought the weather very
tolerable; still, as I did not wish to begin my ascent while all
was still shrouded in vapour (for the Faulhorn had taught me
caution), I spent the whole morning in sauntering round the foot
of the Righi, gazing eagerly upwards, to see if the mists were
likely to clear off. At last, about twelve o'clock, at Kuessnacht, I
stood on the cross path leading towards the Righi to the right, and
Immensee to the left; and making up my mind not to see the Righi on
this occasion, I took a tender farewell of it, and went through the
Hohle Gasse to the Lake of Zug, along a charming path, past the
water, to Arth; but could not resist frequently glancing at the
summit of the Righi Culm, to see if it was becoming clearer; and
while I was dining at Arth it did clear up. The wind was very
favourable, the clouds lifted on every side; so I made up my mind
to begin the ascent.
There was no time to lose, however, if I wished to witness the
sunset; so I went along at a steady mountain pace, and in the
course of two hours and three-quarters I reached the Culm, and the
well-known house. I then became aware that there were about forty
men standing on the top, uplifting their hands in admiration, and
making signs in a state of the greatest excitement. I ran up, and a
new and wondrous sight it was. All the valleys were filled with
fogs and clouds, and above them the lofty, snowy crests of the
mountains and the glaciers and black rocks stood out bright and
clear. The mists swept onwards, veiling a portion of the scenery;
then came forth the Bernese Alps, the Jungfrau, the Moench, and the
Finsteraarhorn; then Titlis, and the Unterwalden mountains. At last
the whole range was distinctly visible; the clouds in the valleys
now also began to roll away, disclosing the lakes of Lucerne and
Zug, and towards the hour of sunset, only thin streaks of bright
vapour still floated on the landscape. Coming from the Alp, and
then looking towards the Righi, it was as if the overture and other
portions were repeated at the end of an opera. All the spots whence
you have seen such sublime scenery, the Wengern Alp, the Wetter
Hoerner, the valley of Engelberg, here meet the eye once more in
close vicinity, and you can take leave of them all. I had imagined
that it was only at first, when still ignorant of the glaciers,
that so great an impression was made, from the influence of
surprise, but I think the effect at the last is even more striking
than ever.
Schwytz, August 31st.
Yesterday and to-day I gratefully recalled the happy auspices under
which I first made acquaintance with this part of the world. The
remembrance of your profound admiration of these wonders, elevating
you above every-day life, has contributed not a little to awaken
and to quicken my own perception of them. I often to-day recurred
to your delight, and the deep impression it made on me at the time.
So the Righi is evidently disposed to be gracious to our family,
and in consequence of this kindly feeling towards us, conferred on
me to-day a sunrise quite as brilliant and splendid as when you
were here. The waning moon, the lively Alpine horn, the
long-protracted rosy dawn which first stole over the cold.
shadowy, snowy mountains, the white clouds on the Lake of Zug, the
clear, sharp peaks bending towards each other in all directions,
the light which gradually crept on the heights, the restless,
shivering people, wrapped in coverlets, the monks from Maria zum
Schnee, nothing was wanting.
I could not tear myself away from this spectacle, and remained on
the summit for six consecutive hours, gazing at the mountains. I
thought that when next I saw them there might be many changes, so I
wished to imprint the sight indelibly on my memory. People came and
went, and talked of these anxious, troubled times, of politics, and
of the grand mountain range before us.
Thus the morning passed away, and at last, at half-past ten
o'clock, I was obliged to go; indeed it was high time, as I wished
to get to Einsiedel the same day, by Hacken. On my way, however, in
the steep path leading to Lowerz, my trusty old umbrella, which
also served me as a mountain staff, broke to pieces; this detained
me, so that I preferred remaining here, and to-morrow I hope to be
quite fresh for a start.
Wallenstadt, September 2nd.
(Year of rains and storms.) Motto of the copper-smith--"If you
can't sing a new song, then begin the old one afresh." Here am I
again in the midst of fogs and clouds, unable to go either
backwards or forwards, and if fortune specially favours us, we may
have a slight inundation into the bargain. When I crossed the lake,
the boatmen prophesied very fine weather, consequently the rain
began half an hour later, and is not likely soon to cease, for
there are piles of heavy, gloomy clouds, such as you can only see
on the mountains. If it were twice as bad three days hence, I
should not care, but it would be grievous indeed if Switzerland
were to take leave of me with so ill-omened an aspect.
I have this moment returned from the church, where I have been
playing the organ for three hours, far into the twilight: an old
man, a cripple, blew the bellows for me, and except him, there was
not a single soul in the church. The only stops I found available,
were a very weak croaking flute, and a quavering deep pedal
diapason, of sixteen feet. I contrived to extemporize with these
materials, and at last subsided into a choral melody in E minor,
without being able to remember what it was. I could not get rid of
it, when all at once it occurred to me that it was a Litany, the
music of which was in my head because the words were in my heart,
so then I had a wide field, and plenty of food for extemporizing.
At length the consumptive deep bass resounded quite alone in E
minor, thus:--
[Music]
etc. and then came in its turn the flute, high up in the treble,
with the choral in the same key, and so the sounds of the organ
gradually died away, and I was obliged to stop, from the church
being so dark.
In the meantime there was a terrible hurricane of wind and rain
outside, and not a trace of the grand lofty rocky precipices; the
most dreary weather! and then I read some dreary newspapers, and
everything wore a grey hue. Tell me, Fanny, do you know Auber's
"Parisienne?" I consider it the very worst thing he has ever
produced, perhaps because the subject was really sublime, and for
other reasons also. Auber alone could have been guilty of composing
for a great nation, in the most violent state of excitement, a
cold, insignificant piece, quite commonplace, and trivial. The
_refrain_ revolts me every time I think of it,--it is as if
children were playing with a drum, and singing to it--only more
objectionable. The words also are worthless; little antitheses and
points are quite out of place here. Then the emptiness of the
music! a march for acrobats, and at the end a mere miserable
imitation of the "Marseillaise." Such music is not what this epoch
demands. Woe to us _if_ it be indeed what suits this epoch,--if a
mere copy of the Marseillaise Hymn be all that is required. What in
the latter is full of fire, and spirit, and impetus, is in the
former ostentatious, cold, calculated, and artificial. The
"Marseillaise" is as superior to the "Parisienne" as everything
produced by genuine enthusiasm must be, to what is made for a
purpose, even if it be with a view to promote enthusiasm; it will
never reach the heart, because it does not come from the heart.
By the way, I never saw such a striking identity between a poet and
a musician, as between Auber and Clauren. Auber faithfully renders
note for note, what the other writes word for word--braggadocio,
degrading sensuality, pedantry, epicurism, and parodies of foreign
nationality. But why should Clauren be effaced from the literature
of the day? Is it prejudicial to any one that he should remain
where he is? and do you read what is really good with less
interest? Any young poet must indeed be degenerate, if he does not
cordially hate and despise such trash; but it is only too true that
the people like him; so it is all very well, it is only the
people's own loss. Write me your opinion of the "Parisienne." I
sometimes sing it to myself for fun, as I go along; it makes a man
walk like a chorister in a procession.
Sargans, September 3rd, noon.
Wretched weather! it has rained all night, and all the morning too,
and the cold as severe as in winter; deep snow is lying on the
adjacent hills. There has been again a tremendous inundation in
Appenzell, which has done the greatest damage, and destroyed all
the roads. At the Lake of Zurich, there are numbers of pilgrimages,
and processions, on account of the weather. I was obliged to drive
here this morning, as all the footpaths were covered with mud and
water. I shall remain till to-morrow, when the diligence passes
through at an early hour, and I intend to go with it up the valley
of the Rhine, as far as Altstetten.
To-morrow I shall probably have reached, or crossed, the boundaries
of Switzerland, for my pleasure excursion is now over. Autumn is
arrived, and I have no right to complain if I pass a few tiresome
days, after so many enchanting ones, that I can never forget. On
the contrary, I think I almost like it; there is always enough to
be done, even in Sargans, (a wretched hole,) and in a regular
deluge, like that of to-day--for happily an organ is always to be
found in this country; they are certainly small, and the lower
octave, both in the key-board and the pedal, imperfect, or as I
call it, crippled; but still they are organs, and that is enough for
me.
I have been playing all this morning, and really begun to practise,
for it is a shame that I cannot play Sebastian Bach's principal
works. I intend, if I can manage it, to practise for an hour every
day in Munich, as after a couple of hours' work to-day, I certainly
made considerable progress with my feet (_nota bene_, sitting).
Ritz once told me that Schneider, in Dresden, played him the D
major fugue, in the "wohl-temperirten Clavier," on the organ,
supplying the bass with the pedal.
[Music]
This had hitherto appeared to me so fabulous, that I could never
properly comprehend it. It recurred to me this morning when I was
playing the organ, so I instantly attempted it, and I at least see
that it is far from being impossible, and that I shall accomplish
it. The subject went pretty well, so I practised passages from the
D major fugue, for the organ, from the F major toccata, and the G
minor fugue, all of which I knew by heart. If I find a tolerable
organ in Munich, and not an imperfect one, I will certainly conquer
these, and feel childish delight at the idea of playing such pieces
on the organ. The F major toccata, with the modulation at the
close, sounded as if the church were about to tumble down; what a
giant that Cantor was!
Besides organ-playing, I have a good many sketches to finish, in my
new drawing book, (one was entirely filled in Engelberg) and then I
must eat like six hundred wrestlers. After dinner I practise the
organ again, and thus a rainy day passes at Sargans. It seems
prettily situated, with a castle on the hill, but I cannot go a
step beyond the door.
_Evening._--Yesterday at this time, I still projected a pedestrian
tour, and wished at all events to go through the whole of the
Appenzell. It was a strange feeling when I learned that all
mountain excursions were probably at an end for this year: the
heights are covered with deep snow, for just as it has rained here,
in the valley, for thirty-six hours, it has snowed incessantly on
the hills above. The flocks have been obliged to come down into the
valley from the Alps, where they ought to have remained for a
whole month yet, so that all idea of any footpaths is out of the
question. Yesterday I was still on the hills, but now they will be
inaccessible for six months to come. My pedestrian excursions are
over; wondrously beautiful they were, and I shall never forget
them.
I mean to work hard at music, and high time that I should. I played
on the organ till twilight, and was trampling energetically on the
pedal, when we suddenly became aware that the deep C sharp in the
great diapason, went buzzing softly on without ceasing; all our
pressing, and shaking, and thumping on the keys, was of no avail,
so we were obliged to climb into the organ among the big pipes. The
C sharp continued gently humming,--the fault lay in the bellows;
the organist was in the greatest perplexity, because to-morrow is a
fete day; at last I stuffed my handkerchief into the pipe, and
there was no more buzzing, but no more C sharp either. I played
this passage incessantly, all the same:--
[Music]
and it did very well.
I am now going to finish my sketch of the Glacier of the Rhone, and
then the day will be at my own disposal; which means that I am
going to sleep. I will write to you on the next page to-morrow
evening wherever I am, for to-day I have no idea where I shall be.
Good night! Eight is striking in F minor, and it is raining and
blowing in F sharp minor or G sharp minor; in short, in every
possible sharp key.
[Music]
St. Gall, the 4th.
Motto--"Vous pensez que je suis l'Abbe de St. Gall" (Citoyen).[23]
I do feel so comfortable here, after braving such storms and
tempests. During the four hours when I was crossing the mountains
from Altstetten to this place, I was engaged in a regular battle
with the elements; when I tell you that I never experienced
anything like the storm, nor even imagined anything approaching to
it, this does not say much; but the oldest people in the Canton
declare the same: a large manufactory has been demolished, and
several persons killed. To-morrow, in my last letter from
Switzerland, I will tell you of my being again obliged to travel on
foot, and arriving here, after crossing by Appenzell, which looked
like Egypt after the seven plagues. The bell is now ringing for
dinner, and I mean to feast like an abbot.
[23] Mendelssohn jokingly alludes to a poem of _Buerger_,--Der Abt
von St. Gallen.
Lindau, September 5th.
Opposite me lies Switzerland, with her dark blue mountains,
pedestrian journeys, storms, and glorious heights and valleys. Here
ends the greatest part of my journey, and my journal also.
At noon to-day, I crossed the wild grey Rhine in a ferry-boat,
above Rheineck, and now here I am, already in Bavaria. I have of
course entirely given up my projected excursion on foot, through
the Bavarian mountains; for it would be folly to attempt anything
of the kind this year. For the last four days it has rained more or
less with incessant vehemence; it seemed as if Providence were
wroth. I passed to-day through extensive orchards, which were not
under water, but fairly submerged by mud and clay; everything looks
deplorable and depressing; you must therefore forgive the doleful
style of this last sheet. I never in any landscape saw a more
dreary sight than the sward of the green hills, covered with deep
snow; while below, the fruit-trees, with their ripe fruit, were
standing reflected in the water. The scanty covering of muddy snow,
which lay on the fir-woods and meadows, looked the personification
of all that was dismal. A Sargans burgher told me that in 1811 this
little town had been entirely burnt down, and recently with
difficulty rebuilt; that they depend chiefly on the produce of
their vineyards, which have been this year destroyed by
hail-storms, and the Alps also were now no longer available; this
gives rise to serious reflections, and to anxious thoughts with
regard to this year.
It is singular enough that if I am obliged to go on foot in such
weather, and fairly exposed to it, I am not in the least annoyed;
on the contrary, I rather rejoice in setting it at defiance. When I
arrived by the diligence yesterday at Altstetten, in freezing
cold, like a day in December, I found that there was no carriage
road to Tourgen, to which place I had unluckily sent on my cloak
and knapsack on the last fine day. I was obliged to have them the
same evening, for the cold was intense, so I did not hesitate long,
but set off once more for the last time to cross the mountains, and
arrived in the Canton of Appenzell.
The state of the woods, and hills, and meadows, and little bridges,
baffles all description; being Sunday, and divine service going on,
I failed in procuring a guide; not a living soul met me the whole
way, for all the people had crept into their houses, so I toiled on
quite alone towards Tourgen. To pass through a wood in such
weather, and along such paths, inspires a wonderful sense of
independence. Moreover I am now quite perfect in the Swiss _jodeln_
and crowing, so I shouted lustily, and _jodelled_ several airs at
the pitch of my voice, and arrived in Tourgen in capital spirits.
The people in the inn there were rude and saucy, so I politely
said, "You be hanged! I shall go on;" and taking out my map, I
found that St. Gall was the nearest convenient place, and in fact
the only practicable route. I could not succeed in persuading any
one to go with me in such horrible weather, so I resolved to carry
my own things, abusing all Swiss cordiality.
Shortly afterwards, however, came the reverse of the medal, which
not unfrequently occurs. I went to the peasant who had brought my
luggage here, and found him in his pretty newly-built wooden house,
and I had thus an opportunity of seeing a veritable and genuine
Swiss interior, just as we imagine it to be. He and his whole
family were sitting round a table, the house clean and warm, and
the stove burning. The old man rose and gave me his hand, and
insisted on my taking a seat; he then sent through the whole place
to try to get me a carriage, or a man to carry my things, but as no
one would either drive or walk, he at last sent his own son with
me. He only asked two _Batzen_ for carrying my knapsack for two
hours. A very pretty fair daughter was sitting at the table sewing,
the mother reading a thick book, and the old man himself studying
the newspapers; it was a charming picture.
When at last I set off, the weather seemed to say, "If you defy me
I can defy you also," for the storm broke loose with redoubled
violence, and an invisible hand appeared to seize my umbrella at
intervals, shaking it and crumpling it together, and my fingers
were so benumbed that I could scarcely hold it fast; the paths were
so desperately slippery that my guide fell sprawling full length
before me in the mud; but what cared we? We _jodelled_ and reviled
the weather to our hearts' content, and at last we passed the
Nunnery, which we greeted by a serenade, and soon after reached St.
Gall.
Our journey was happily over, and yesterday I drove here, and at
night met with a wonderful organ, on which I could play "Schmuecke
dich, O liebe Seele!" to my heart's content.
To-day I proceed to Memmingen, to-morrow to Augsburg; the day
after, God willing, to Munich; and thus, I may now say, I _have
been_ in Switzerland. Perhaps I have rather bored you by all the
trivial occurrences I have detailed. These are gloomy times, but we
need not be so; and when I sent you my journal, it was chiefly to
show you that I thought of you whenever I was pleased and happy,
and was with you in spirit. The shabby, dripping pedestrian bids
you farewell, and a town gentleman, with visiting-cards, fine
linen, and a black coat, will write to you next time. Farewell.