August 10th.
The weather this morning is clear and bright, and the storm has passed away; would that all storms ended as quickly, and were as soon allayed! I have passed a glorious day, sketching, composing, and inhaling fresh air. In the afternoon I went on horseback to Interlaken, for no man can go there on foot at this moment. The whole road is flooded, so that even on horseback I got very wet. In this place, too, every street is inundated and impassable. How beautiful Interlaken is! How humble and insignificant we feel when we see how splendid the good Lord has made this world; and nowhere can you see it in greater magnificence than here. I sketched for my father one of the walnut-trees he so much admires, and for the same reason I mean to send him a faithful drawing of one of the Bernese houses. Various parties of ladies and gentlemen, and children, drove past and stared at me; I thought to myself that they were now enjoying the same luxury I formerly did, and would fain have called out to them not to forget this! Towards evening, the snowy mountains were glowing in the clearest outlines and in the loveliest hues.
When I came back. I asked for some music paper, and they referred me to their Pastor, and he to the Forest-ranger, whose daughter gave me two pretty neat sheets. The "Lied" which I alluded to yesterday is now finished; I cannot help after all telling you what it is—but you must not laugh at me—it is actually,—but don't think I am seized with hydrophobia—a sonnet, "Die Liebende schreibt."[21] I am afraid its merit is not great; I think it was more inwardly felt than outwardly well expressed; still there are some good passages in it, and to-morrow I am going to set to music a little poem of Uhland's; a couple of pieces for the piano are also in progress. I can unfortunately form no judgment of my new compositions; I cannot tell whether they are good or bad; and this arises from the circumstance that all the people to whom I have played anything for the last twelve months, forthwith glibly declared it to be wonderfully beautiful, and that will never do. I really wish that some one would let me have a little rational blame once more, or what would be still more agreeable, a little rational praise, and then I should find it less indispensable to act the censor towards myself, and to be so distrustful of my own powers. Nevertheless, I must go on writing in the meantime.
When I was at the Forest-ranger's, I heard that the whole country was devastated, and the most sad intelligence comes from all sides. All the bridges in the Hasli valley are entirely swept away, and also many houses and cottages. A man came here to-day from Lauterbrunnen, and he was up to his shoulders in water; the high road is ruined, and what sounded most dismal of all to me, a quantity of furniture and household things were seen floating down the Kander, coming no one knows whence. Happily the waters are beginning to subside, but the damage they have done cannot so easily be repaired. My travelling plans have also been considerably disturbed by these inundations, for, if there be any risk, I shall certainly not go into the mountains.
The 11th.
So I now close the first part of my journal, and send it off to you. To-morrow I shall begin a new one, for I intend then to go to Lauterbrunnen. The road is practicable for pedestrians, and not an idea of any danger; travellers from thence have come here to-day, but for carriages, the road will not be passable during the remainder of the year. I purpose, therefore, proceeding across the Lesser Scheideck to Grindelwald, and by the Great Scheideck to Meiringen; by Furka and Grimsel to Altorf, and so on to Lucerne; storms, rain, and everything else permitting,—which means, if God will. This morning early, I was on the Harder, and saw the mountains in the utmost splendour. I never remember the Jungfrau so clear and so glowing as both yesterday evening and at early dawn to-day. I rode back to Interlaken, where I finished my sketch of the walnut-tree. After that I composed for a time, and wrote three waltzes for the Forest-ranger's daughter on the remaining music-paper she had given me, politely presenting them to her myself. I have just returned from a watery expedition to an inundated reading-room, as I wished to see how the Poles are getting on—unluckily there is no reference to them in the papers. I must now occupy myself till the evening in packing, but I am most reluctant to leave this room, where I am so comfortable, and shall sadly miss my little piano. I intend to sketch the view from this window with my pen on the back of my letter, and also to write out my second "Lied," and then Untersee will soon also belong to my reminiscences. "Ach! wie schnell!" I quote myself, which is not over-modest, but these lines recur to me but too often when the days are shortening, the leaves of the travelling map turned over, and first Weimar, then Munich, and lastly Vienna, are all things of the past year. Well! here you have my window! [Vide page [246].]
An hour later.—My plans are altered, and I stay here till the day after to-morrow. The people say that by that time the roads will be considerably better, and there is plenty here both to see and to sketch. The Aar has not risen to such a height for seventy years. To-day people were stationed on the bridge, with poles and hooks, watching to catch any fragments of the broken-down bridges. It did look so strange to see a black object come swimming along in the distance from the hills, which was at last recognized to be a piece of balustrade, or a cross-beam, or something of the sort, when all the people made a rush at it, and tried to fish it up with their hooks, and at length succeeded in dragging the monster out of the water. But enough of water,—that is, of my journal. It is now evening, and dark. I am writing by candle-light, and should he so glad if I could knock at your door, and take my seat beside you at the round table. It is the old story over again. Wherever it is bright and cheerful, and I am well and happy, I most keenly feel your absence, and most long to be with you again. Who knows, however, whether we may not come here together in future years, and then think of this day, as we now do of former ones? But as none can tell whether this may ever come to pass, I shall meditate no longer on the subject, but write out my "Lied," take another peep of the mountains, wish you all happiness and good fortune, and thus close my journal.
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.