Interlachen, August 18th, 1842.

My dearest Mother,

Do you still remember our staying, twenty years ago, in a pretty small inn here, shaded by large walnut-trees (I sketched some of them), and our lovely young landlady? When I was here ten years ago, she refused to give me a room, I looked so shabby from my pedestrian journey; I believe that was the only single vexation I at that time experienced, during the whole course of my tour. Now we are living here again as substantial people. The Jungfrau, with her silver horns, stands out against the sky, with the same delicate, elegant, and pointed outlines, and looks as fresh as ever. The landlady, however, is grown old, and had it not been for her manner, I should never have recognized her to be the same person. I have again sketched the walnut-trees, much better than I did at that time, but far worse than they deserve; the post in Untersee brings us letters from the same house as it did then, and many new houses are built; and the Aar gurgles, and glides along as rapid, and smooth, and green as ever,—time is, time was, time is past. I have, in fact, nothing more to write about, except that we are all well, and think of you daily and hourly.[55]

Descriptions of Switzerland are impossible, and instead of a journal, such as I formerly kept, I this time sketch furiously, and sit in front of a mountain, and try to draw its likeness, and do not give it up till I have quite spoiled the sketch; but I take care to have at least one new landscape in my book every day. He who has not seen the Gemmi knows nothing of Switzerland; but this is what people say of every new object in this most incredibly beautiful country. With regard to this land, I feel just as I do about clever books; when one is exchanged for another, in every exchange a new phase presents itself, always equally fine and equally admirable. So now, when I see this country with my wife, I have quite a different impression from the previous times; then I wished forthwith to climb every-crested mountain, and to run into every meadow; this time, on the contrary, I should like to stay everywhere, and to remain for months in one spot. I am by no means sure that some fine spring I may not set off, bag and baggage, not returning to the north till all the leaves are gone. Such, at least, are my daily thoughts, and castles in the air. In a few days we are going into Oberland; I rejoice at the thoughts of the full moon in Lauterbrunn. We then return here, across Furka and Grimsel to the Lake of Lucerne and the Righi, and thence away from the land of all lands, and back to Germany,—where it is not so bad, after all. I own there are many days when the world pleases me most exceedingly. I am writing fine novelties, dear Mother! Forgive me, for I have nothing better to say; besides, I know that Paul wrote to you at full length a few days ago. When we meet, I shall have a tale to tell that will know no end. I wish I only knew whether I am to remain in Berlin permanently, or merely for a few weeks. How gladly would I write to you that it was to be the former; but the whole affair has taken so many strange twists and turns of late, that I feel quite astray and bewildered when I try to think what is to be done. On my return it will all come right, no doubt. Do not be displeased with me, I entreat, on account of this prolonged uncertainty; it is no fault of mine.—Ever your

Felix.