Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Wyler, the 9th, morning.

  To-day the weather is worse than ever. It has rained the whole night through, and this morning too it is pouring. I have however intimated that I shall not set out in such weather, and if it continues I shall write to you again to-night from Wyler. In the meantime I have an opportunity of making acquaintance with my Swiss host. They are very primitive. I could not get on my shoes, because they had shrunk, owing to the rain. The landlady asked if I wished to have a shoe-horn; and as I said I did, she brought me a tablespoon; but it answered the purpose. And moreover they are eager politicians. Over my bed hangs a horrible distorted face, under which is written. "Brinz Baniadofsgi." If he had not a kind of Polish costume, it would be difficult to discover whether it is intended for a man or a woman, for neither the portrait itself nor the inscription throw much light on the subject.  

Evening, at Untersee.

All jesting is turned into sad earnest, which in these days may easily be the case. The storm has raged furiously, and caused great damage and devastation; the people here say that they remember no more violent storm and rain for many years; and the hurricane rushes on with such incredible rapidity. This morning early the weather was merely wet and disagreeable, and yet this afternoon all the bridges are swept away, and every passage blocked up for the moment. There has been a landslip at the Lake of Brienz, and everything is in an uproar.

I have just heard here that war has been proclaimed in Europe; so the world certainly bears a wild, bleak aspect at this time, and I ought to feel thankful, that at all events for the present I have a warm room here, and a comfortable roof over my head. The rain ceased for a time early this morning, and I thought that the clouds were fairly exhausted; so I left Wyler, but soon found that the roads were sadly cut up; but worse was to come; the rain began again gently, but came down so violently about nine o'clock, and in such sudden squalls, that it was evident something strange was brewing. I crept into a half built hut, where a great mass of fodder was lying, and nestled comfortably among the fragrant hay. A soldier of the Canton, who was on his way to Thun, also crept in from the other side, and in the course of an hour, as the weather did not improve, we went on our different paths.

I was obliged to take shelter again under a roof at Leisengen, and waited there a long time; but as my luggage was at Interlaken, a distance of only two hours from thence, I thought that I would set the weather at defiance; so about one o'clock I set out for Interlaken. There was literally nothing to be seen but the grey surface of the lake,—no mountains, and seldom even the outlines of the opposite shore. The little springs, which as you may remember often run along by the footpaths, had swollen into streams, through which I was obliged to wade; and where the road was hilly, the waters accumulated in the hollows and formed a pool, so I was forced to jump over dripping hedges, into marshy meadows; the small blocks of wood—by means of which brooks are crossed here—lay deep under the water; at one moment I found myself between two of these brooks, which had run into each other, and for a considerable time I was obliged to walk against the current, above my ankles in water. All the streams are black, or chocolate-brown, looking like earth flowing along. Torrents poured down from above; the wind shook down the water from the dripping walnut-trees; the waterfalls which tumble into the lake thundered frightfully from both shores. You could trace the course of the brown muddy streaks, rushing along through the pure waters of the lake, which, in the midst of all this uproar, remained perfectly tranquil, its surface scarcely ruffled, quietly receiving all the blustering streams that poured into its bosom.

A man now came up, who had taken off his shoes and stockings, and turned up his trowsers. This made me feel rather nervous. Presently I met two women, who said that I could not go through the village, for all the bridges were gone. I asked how far it was to Interlaken. "A good hour," they said. I could not make up my mind to turn back, so I went on towards the village, where the people shouted to me from the windows, that I could come no further, because the waters were rushing down so impetuously from the mountains; and certainly there was a fine commotion in the middle of the village. The muddy stream had swept everything along with it, eddying round the houses, and running along the meadows and footpaths, and finally thundering down into the lake. Luckily there was a little boat there, in which I was ferried across to Neuhaus, though this expedition in an open boat, in torrents of rain, was far from pleasant. My condition, when I arrived at Neuhaus, was miserable enough; I looked as if I wore long black boots over my light-coloured trowsers, my shoes and stockings quite up to my knees, dark brown; then came the original white, then a soaked blue paletôt; even my sketch-book, that I had buttoned under my waistcoat, was wet through.

I arrived in this plight at Interlaken, where I was very ill received, for the people there either could not or would not find room for me, and so I was forced to return to Untersee, where I am famously lodged, and most comfortable. Singularly enough, I had been all along anticipating with such pleasure revisiting the inn at Interlaken, of which I had so many reminiscences, and I drove up in my little Neuhaus carriage to the Nuss-Baum Platz, and saw the well-known glass gallery; the pretty landlady, too, came to the door, but somewhat aged and altered. Neither the dreadful storms, nor the various discomforts I had endured, annoyed me half so much as not being able to remain at Interlaken, consequently for the first time since I left Vevay I was out of humour for half an hour, and obliged to

sing Beethoven's adagio in A flat major, three or four times over, before I could recover my equanimity. I learned here, for the first time, the damage the storm had already done, and may yet do, for the rain is still incessant.

Half-past Nine o'clock at Night.—The bridge at Zweilütschenen is carried away; the vetturini from Brienz, and Grindelwald, will not encounter the risk of driving home, from the fear of some rock falling on their heads. The water here has risen to within a foot and a half of the Aar bridge; the gloom of the sky I cannot describe. I mean to wait here patiently; besides, I do not require the aid of localities, to enable me to summon up my reminiscences. They have given me a room where there is a piano; it indeed bears the date of the year 1794, and somewhat resembles in tone the little old "Silbermann" in my room at home, so I took a fancy to it at the very first chord I struck, and it also recalls you to my mind. This piano has outlived many things, and probably never dreamt that I was likely to compose by its aid, as I was not born till 1809, now fully two-and-twenty years ago; in the meantime, the piano, though seven-and-thirty years old, has plenty of good material in it yet.

I have some new "Lieder" in hand, dear sisters. You have not seen my favourite one in E major "Auf der Reise,"—it is very sentimental. I am now composing one which will not, I fear, be very good; but it will, at all events, please us three, for it is at least well intended. The words are Goethe's, but I don't say what they are; it is very daring in me to compose for this poetry, and the words are by no means suitable for music, but I thought them so divinely beautiful, that I could not resist singing them to myself. Enough for to-day; so good night, dear ones.