Letters of Felix Mendelssohn

Lauterbrunnen, August 13th, 1831.

I have just returned from an expedition on foot to the Schmadri Bach, and the Breithorn. All that you can by possibility conceive as to the grandeur and imposing forms of the mountains here, must fall far short of the reality of nature. That Goethe could write nothing in Switzerland but a few weak poems, and still weaker letters, is to me as incomprehensible as many other things in this world. The road here is again in a lamentable state; where, six days ago, there was the most beautiful highway, there is now only a desolate mass of rocks; numbers of huge blocks lying about, and heaps of rubbish and sand. No trace whatever of human hands to be seen. The waters, indeed, have entirely subsided, but they are still in a troubled state, for from time to time you can hear the stones tossed about, and the waterfalls also in the midst of their white foam, roll down black stones into the valley.

My guide pointed out to me a pretty new house, standing in the midst of a wild turbulent stream; he said that it belonged to his brother-in-law and formerly stood in a beautiful meadow, which had been very profitable; the man was obliged to leave the house during the night; the meadow has disappeared for ever, and masses of pebbles and stones have usurped its place. "He never was rich, but now he is poor," said he, in concluding his sad story. The strangest thing is, that in the very centre of this frightful devastation,—the Lütschine having overflowed the whole extent of the valley—among the marshy meadows, and masses of rocks, where there is no longer even a trace of a road, stands a char-à-banc—and is likely to stand for some time to come. It chanced that the people in it wished to drive through at the very time of the hurricane; then came the inundation, so they were forced to leave the carriage and everything else to fate, thus the char-à-banc is still standing waiting there. It was a very frightful sight when we reached the spot, where the whole valley, with its roads and embankments, is a perfect rocky sea; and my guide, who went first, kept whispering to himself, "'sisch furchtbar!" The torrent had carried into the middle of the stream some large trunks of trees, which are standing aloft; for at the same moment some huge fragments of rocks having been flung against them, the bare trees were closely wedged in betwixt them, and they now stand nearly perpendicular in the bed of the river.

I should never come to an end were I to try to tell you all the various forms of havoc which I saw between this place and Untersee. Still the beauty of the valley made a stronger impression on me than I can describe. It is much to be regretted, that when you were in this country, you went no further than Staubbach; for it is from there that the valley of Lauterbrunnen really begins. The Schwarzer Mönch, and all the other snowy mountains in the background, become more mighty and grand, and on every side bright foaming cascades tumble into the valley. You gradually approach the mountains covered with snow, and the glaciers in the background, through pine woods, and oaks, and maple-trees. The moist meadows, too, were covered with a profusion of brilliant flowers—snakewort, the wild scabious, campanulas, and many others. The Lütschine had accumulated masses of stones at the sides, having swept along fragments of rocks, as my guide said, "bigger than a stove," then the carved brown wooden houses, and the hedges; it is all beautiful beyond measure! Unfortunately we could not get to the Schmadri Bach, as bridges, paths, and fords, were all gone; but it was a walk I can never forget.

I also tried to sketch the Mönch; but what can you hope to do with a small pencil? Hegel indeed says, "that every single human thought is more sublime than the whole of Nature;" but in this place I consider that too presumptuous; the axiom sounds indeed very fine, but is a confounded paradox nevertheless. I am quite contented, in the meantime, to adhere to Nature, which is the safest of the two. You know the situation of the inn here, and if you cannot recall it, refer to my former Swiss drawing book, where you will find it sketched, badly enough, and where I put in a footpath in front, from imagination, which made me laugh heartily to-day, when I thought of it. I am at this moment looking out of the same window, and gazing at the dark mountains, for it is late in the evening, that is, a quarter to eight o'clock, and I have an idea, which is "more sublime than the whole of Nature"—I mean to go to bed; so good night, dear ones.