to his waist. He
strokes his long, well-trimmed beard as he admonishes the girls to pay
serious attention to the natural beauty of the scenery. He rummages the
pocket for his field-glasses. "This, dear children, is Mont Blanc. I do
not say that our Schwarzwald is not just as lovely in its way. This
mountain was first climbed by Paccard and Balmat. It stretches from the
Col de Balme to the Col du Bonhomme and the Col de la Seigne. [A book is
now extracted from the fourth division of the pocket.] There are the
following passes: the Col d'Argentiere, the Col...." His eye-glasses
slip downwards on his nose. The girls are not listening. Gretchen is
entirely absorbed in the fascinating appearance of an Italian who has
just passed, and who by unmistakable signs conveyed to her that she is
adorable. His flashing eyes, his jet-black hair, his lithe figure, his
pointed toes, the nimble way in which he managed to press her hand
behind the very back of her father, have stirred her imagination. Hedvig
is shocked. The elder daughter is permeated with respect for her
father's professorial dignity. Every gesture betrays the capable
housekeeper. She seems to be made of squares--good, proper, solid
squares. She tells the smiling Gretchen, whose cheeks suggest
strawberries and cream, that she must never encourage dark Italians by
looking at them. She should look at the ground when such men pass. She
should be more attentive to father. The sound of their footsteps dies,
and the green umbrella is but a dream. Hedvig has filled my window with
visions of a well-ordered German home, of sausages and _Sauerkraut_, of
beer and pickled fruit, of embroideries and coffee-parties.

Here comes a hatless representative of young Russia. His clothes are
shabby and neglected; he walks with a shuffling, tired movement. But his
face is startling. It seems to light up the path with some kind of
spiritual fervour. His hair is long and golden, his beard suggests an
aureole of virtue, his large blue eyes are penetrating but mild. A
confused series of faces flash through my mind--Abraham, Tolstoy, Jesus
Christ? Yes, it may seem sacrilegious, but the man is like Jesus Christ.
I see now that the likeness is studied, cultivated, impressive. This is
one of the _intelligentsia_ who has lingered for a while in Geneva or
Lausanne _en route_ for the haunts of spiritual revolution. A din of
dear familiar voices now fills the path and seems to shake the tops of
the pines.