Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland Part 13

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 ma.s.s 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 ma.s.ses 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 Lutschine having overflowed the whole extent of the valley--among the marshy meadows, and ma.s.ses of rocks, where there is no longer even a trace of a road, stands a _char-a-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-a-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 Monch, 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 Lutschine had acc.u.mulated ma.s.ses 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 Monch; 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.

The 14th, ten o'clock in the forenoon.

From the dairy hut on the Wengern Alp, in heavenly weather, I send you my greetings.

Grindelwald, evening.

I could not write more to you early this morning; I was most reluctant to leave the Jungfrau. What a day this has been for me!

Ever since we were here together I have wished to see the Lesser Scheideck once more. So I woke early to-day, with some misgivings, for so much might intervene--bad weather, clouds, rain, fogs--but none of these occurred. It was a day as if made on purpose for me to cross the Wengern Alp. The sky was flecked with white clouds, floating far above the highest snowy peaks; no mists below on any of the mountains, and all their pinnacles glittering brightly in the morning air; every undulation, and the face of every hill, clear and distinct. Why should I even attempt to portray it? You have already seen the Wengern Alp, but at that time we had bad weather, whereas to-day the whole mountain range was in holiday attire. Nothing was wanting; from thundering avalanches, to its being Sunday, and people dressed in their best going to church, just as it was then.

The hills had only dwelt in my memory as gigantic peaks, for their great alt.i.tude had entirely absorbed me. To-day I was struck with amazement at the immense extent of their base, their solid, s.p.a.cious ma.s.ses, and the connection of all these huge piles, which seem to lean towards each other, and to reach out their hands to one another. In addition to this you must imagine every glacier, and snowy plateau, and point of rock, dazzlingly lighted up and glittering. Then the far summits of distant mountain ranges stretching hither, as if surveying the others. I do believe that such are the thoughts of the Almighty. Those who do not yet know Him, may here see Him, and the nature He created, visibly displayed. Then the fresh, bracing air, which refreshes you when weary, and cools you when it is warm,--and so many springs! I must at some future time write you a separate treatise on springs, but I have not time for it to-day, as I have something particular to tell you.

Now you will say, I suppose, he came down the mountain again, and is going to inform us once more how beautiful Switzerland is. Not at all. When I arrived at the herdsman's hut, I was told that in a meadow far up the Alps, there was to be a great fete this very day, and I saw people at intervals climbing the mountain. I was not at all fatigued; an Alpine fete is not to be seen every day; the weather said, _yes_; the guide was willing. "Let us go to Intramen," said I. The old herdsman went first, so we were obliged to climb very vigorously; for Intramen is more than a thousand feet higher than the Lesser Scheideck. The herdsman was a ruthless fellow, for he ran on before us like a cat; he soon took pity on my guide, and relieved him of my cloak and knapsack, but even with them he continued to push forward so eagerly that we really could not keep up with him. The path was frightfully steep; he extolled it, however, saying that there was a much nearer, but much steeper track: he was about sixty years of age, and when my youthful guide and I with difficulty surmounted a hill, we invariably saw him descending the next one. We walked on for two hours in the most fatiguing path I ever encountered; first a steep ascent, then down again into a hollow, over heaps of crumbling stones, and brooks and ditches, across two meadows covered with snow, in the most profound solitude, without a footpath, or the most remote trace of the hand of man; occasionally we could still hear the avalanches from the Jungfrau; otherwise all was still, and not a tree to be seen.

When this silence and solitude had continued for some time, and we had clambered to the top of a gra.s.sy acclivity, we suddenly came in sight of a vast number of people standing in a circle, laughing, speaking, and shouting. They were all in gay dresses, and had flowers in their hats; there were a great many girls, some tables with casks of wine, and all around deep solemn silence, and tremendous mountains. It was singular that while I was in the act of climbing, I thought of nothing but rocks and stones, and the snow and the track; but the moment I saw human beings, all the rest was forgotten, and I only thought of men, and their sports, and the merry fete. It was really a fine sight. The scene was in a s.p.a.cious green meadow far above the clouds; opposite were the snowy mountains in all their prodigious alt.i.tude, more especially the dome of the great Eiger, the Schreckhorn, and the Wetterhorner, and all the others as far as the Blumli's Alp; the Lauterbrunnen valley lay far beneath us in the misty depths, quite small, as well as our road of yesterday, with all the little cataracts like threads, the houses like dots, and the trees like gra.s.s. Far in the background the Lake of Thun occasionally glanced out of the mist.

The crowd now began wrestling, and singing, and drinking, and laughing; all healthy, strong men. I was much amused by the wrestling, which I had never before seen. The girls served the men with _Kirschwa.s.ser_ and _Schnapps_; the flasks pa.s.sed from hand to hand, and I drank with them, and gave three little children some cakes, which made them quite happy; a very tipsy old peasant sang me some songs; then they all sang; then the guide favoured us with a modern song; and then little boys fought. _Everything_ pleased me on the Alps, and I remained lying there till towards evening, and made myself quite at home. We descended rapidly into the meadows below, and soon descried the familiar inn, and its windows glittering in the evening sun; a fresh breeze from the glaciers began to blow; this soon cooled us. It is now getting late, and from time to time avalanches are heard,--so thus has my Sunday been spent.--A fete-day indeed!

On the Faulhorn, August 15th.

I am shivering with cold! Outside thick snow is falling, and the wind raging and bl.u.s.tering. We are eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, and a long tract of snow to traverse, but here I am! Nothing can be seen; all day the weather has been dreadful.

When I remember how fine it was yesterday, while I earnestly wish that it may be as fine to-morrow, it reminds me of life, for we are always hovering between the past and the future. Our excursion of yesterday seems as far past and remote, as if I knew it only from old memories, and had scarcely been present myself; for to-day when during five mortal hours we were struggling on, against rain and fog, sticking in the mud, and seeing nothing round us but grey vapours, I could scarcely realize that it ever was or ever will be again fine weather, or that I ever lay idly stretched on this wet marshy gra.s.s. Besides, everything here wears such a wintry aspect; heated stoves, thick snow, cloaks, freezing, shivering people. I am at this moment in the highest inn in Europe; and just as in St.

Peter's, you look down on every church, and on the Simplon, upon every road, so from hence I look down on all other inns; but not _morally_, for this is little more than a few wooden planks. Never mind. I am now going to bed, and I will no longer watch my own breath. Good night! "Tom's a cold."

Hospital, August 18th.

I have not been able to open my journal for two or three days, as when night came I had no longer time for anything, but to dry myself and my clothes at the fire, to warm myself, to sigh over the weather, like the stove behind which I took refuge, and to sleep a good deal; besides, I did not wish to try your patience, by my everlasting repet.i.tions of how deep I had sunk in the mud, and how incessantly it rained, and so forth. During the last few days in reality I went through the most beautiful country, and yet saw nothing but thick fogs, and water in the sky, and from the sky, and on the earth. I pa.s.sed places that I had long wished to visit, without being able to enjoy them; what also damped my writing mood, was being obliged to battle with the weather, and if it continues the same, I shall only write occasionally, for really I should have nothing to say, but "a grey sky--rain and fog." I have been on the Faulhorn, the Great Scheideck, on Grimsel Spital, and to-day I crossed Grimsel and Furka, and the princ.i.p.al objects I have seen were the points of my shabby umbrella, and I had not even a glimpse of the huge mountains. At one moment, to-day, the Finsteraarhorn came to light, but it looked as savage as if it wished to devour us; and yet if we were a single half-hour without rain, it was truly beautiful. A journey on foot through this country, even in the most unfavourable weather, is the most enchanting thing you can possibly imagine; if the sky were bright, I think the excess of pleasure would be quite overpowering; I must not therefore complain too much of the weather, for I have had my full share of enjoyment.

During the last few days I felt like Tantalus. When I was on the Scheideck, a glimpse of the lower part of the Wetterhorn was sometimes visible through the clouds, and it seemed beyond measure magnificent and sublime; but I only saw the base. On the Faulhorn, I could not distinguish objects fifty paces off, although I stayed there till ten o'clock in the morning. We went down to the Scheideck in a heavy snow-storm, by a very wet and difficult path, which the incessant rain had made worse than usual. We arrived at Grimsel Spital in rain and storm. To-day I wished to have ascended the Sidelhorn, but was obliged to give it up on account of the fog.

The Mayenwand was shrouded in grey clouds, and we had only a single peep of the Finsteraarhorn, when we were on the Furka. We also arrived here in a torrent of rain and water everywhere, but all this does not signify. My guide is a capital fellow: if it rains, he sings and _jodels_; if it is fine, so much the better; and though I failed in seeing some of the finest objects, still I saw a great deal that was interesting.

On this occasion I have formed a particular friendship for the glaciers; they are indeed, the most marvellous monsters in the world. How strangely they are all tumbled about; here, a row of jagged points, there, toppling crags, and above, towers and bastions, while on every side, crevices and ravines are visible, all of the most wondrous pure ice, that rejects all soil of earth, casting up again on the surface the stones, sand, and gravel, flung down by the mountains. Then the superb colouring, when the sun shines on them, and their mysterious advance--they sometimes move on a foot and a half in a single day, so that the people in the village are in the greatest anxiety and alarm, when the glacier arrives so quietly, and yet with such irresistible force, for it shivers rocks and stones when they lie in the way--then the ominous crashing and thundering, and the rushing of so many springs near and round. They are splendid miracles. I was in the Rosenlaui glacier, which forms a kind of cave, that you can creep through; it looks as if built of emeralds, only more transparent. Above, around, on all sides, you can see rivulets running between the clear ice. In the centre of this narrow pa.s.sage, the ice has left a large round window, through which you look down on the valley, and issue forth again under an arch of ice, and high above, black peaks rear their heads, from which ma.s.ses of ice roll down in the boldest undulations. The glacier of the Rhone is the most imposing that I have seen, and the sun burst forth on it as we pa.s.sed early this morning. This is a suggestive sight, and you get a casual glimpse of the rocky peak of a mountain, a plateau covered with snow, cataracts, and bridges spanning them, and ma.s.ses of crumbling stones and rocks; in short, even if you see little in Switzerland, it is at all events more than is to be seen in any other country.

I have been drawing very busily, and think I have made some progress. I even tried to sketch the Jungfrau; it will at least serve as a reminiscence, and I can enjoy the thought that these strokes were actually made on the spot itself. I see people rushing through Switzerland, and declaring that they find nothing to admire there, or anywhere else (except themselves); not the least affected nor roused, remaining cold and prosaic, even in presence of the mountains; when I meet such people I should like to give them a good drubbing. Two Englishmen and an English lady are at this moment sitting beside me near the stove; they are as wooden as sticks. We have been travelling the same road for a couple of days, and I declare the people have never uttered a syllable except of abuse, that there were no fireplaces either on the Grimsel, or here; but that there are _mountains_ here, is a fact to which they never allude; their whole journey is occupied in scolding their guide, who laughs at them, in quarrelling with the innkeepers, and in yawning in each others' faces. They think everything commonplace, because they are themselves commonplace, therefore they are not happier in Switzerland than they would be in Bernau.

I maintain that happiness is relative; another would thank G.o.d that he could see all this, and so I will be that other!

Fluelen, August 19th.

A day made for a journey; fine, and enjoyable, and bracing. When we wished to start this morning at six o'clock, there was such a storm of sleet and snow that we were obliged to wait till nine o'clock, when the sun came forth, the clouds dispersed, and we had delightful bright weather as far as this place; but now sombre clouds, heavy with rain, have collected over the lake, so that no doubt to-morrow the old troubles will break loose again. But how glorious this day has been, so clear and sunny--we had the most charming journey! You know the St. Gothard Road in all its beauty; you lose much by coming down from above, instead of ascending from this point, for the grand surprise of the Urner Loch is entirely lost, and the new road which has been made, with all the grandeur, as well as convenience, of the Simplon, impairs the effect of the Devil's Bridge: inasmuch as close beside it a new arch, much bolder and larger, has been constructed, which makes the old bridge look quite insignificant, but the ancient crumbling walls look much more romantic and picturesque. Though the view of Andermatt is thus lost, and the new Devil's Bridge far from being poetical, still you go merrily downhill all day, on a delightfully smooth road, flying rapidly past the various localities, and instead of being sprinkled by the foam of the waterfall on the old bridge as formerly, and endangered by the wind, you now pa.s.s along far above the stream, between two ranges of solid parapets.

We came past Goschenen and Wasen and presently appeared the huge firs and beech-trees close to Amsteg; then the charming valley of Altorf, with its cottages, meadows, and woods, its rocks and snowy mountains. We rested at Altorf in a Capuchin Convent, situated on a height; and finally, here I am on the banks of the Vierwaldstadt Lake. To-morrow I purpose crossing the lake to Lucerne, where I hope to find letters from you. I shall then also get rid of a party of young people from Berlin, who have been pursuing almost the same route with me, meeting me at every turn, and boring me terribly; the patriotism of a lieutenant, a dyer, and a young carpenter,--all three bent on destroying France,--was peculiarly distasteful to me.

Sarnen, the 20th.

I crossed the Vierwaldstadt Lake early this morning, in a continued pour of rain, and found your welcome letter of the 5th in Lucerne.

As it contained nothing but good tidings, I immediately arranged a tour of three days to Unterwalden and the Brunig. I intend to call again at Lucerne for your next letter, and then I am off to the West, and out of Switzerland. I shall take leave of it with deep regret. The country is beautiful beyond all conception; and though the weather is again odious,--rain and storms the whole day, and all through the night,--yet the Tellen Platte, the Grutli, Brunnen and Schwytz, and the dazzling green of the meadows this evening in Unterwalden, are too lovely ever to be forgotten. The hue of this green is most unique, refreshing the eye and the whole being. I shall certainly attend to your kind precautionary injunctions, dear Mother, but you need be under no apprehensions about me. I am by no means careless with regard to my health, and have not, for a long time, felt so well as during my pedestrian excursions in Switzerland. If eating, and drinking, and sleeping, and music in one's head, can make a man healthy, then, G.o.d be praised, I may well call myself so; for my guide and I vie with each other in eating and drinking, and not less so unluckily in singing. In sleeping alone I surpa.s.s him; and though I sometimes disturb him by my trumpet or oboe tones, he in turn cuts short my morning sleep.

Please G.o.d, therefore, we shall have a happy meeting. Before that time arrives, however, many a page of my journal must yet travel to you; but even this interval will quickly pa.s.s, just as everything quickly pa.s.ses, except indeed what is best of all!--so let us be true and loving to each other.

FELIX.

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 surpa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sages as those where all the shepherds and hunters shout "Save him! save him!" in the close at the Grutli, 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 pa.s.sages. 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 Grutli--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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sailed 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:--

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 encompa.s.sed, 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.