hostess, in admiration of the view which it afforded of the Alps and the lake, and listening to their descriptions of its beauty on calm summer and autumn evenings. I had the same view from my little chamber, and in particular from the stone terrace in front of it. There—that is to say, in my room—I wrote two days later.
Lausanne, June 19th.—Are there here Alps, a lake, enchanting shores, and a sunny life upon them? I see nothing but a thick fog. Lausanne “la jolie” has lain wrapped for the last three days in a dripping mantle of rain, which vails her and every thing in cloud and darkness. It is also as cold as with us in Sweden during October, and my little room, very charming in fine weather, is as gloomy as a cellar when the sun is hidden in cloud, and such a cloud! I believe that I never saw one so dense before. Soul and body seem as it were to shrink together in its cheerless surroundings. But, during this time, I was not without an inner sun. A couple of new acquaintances and ditto books, have lighted up my inner world, and enabled me meanwhile to forget the outer gloom.
The widow of A. Vinet is a fine middle-aged lady to whom one feels immediately attracted with cordial confidence. Hers is a beautiful, transparent nature. The Professor of History, L. Vulleimin, is a man of rare classical refinement, as well in person as in mind and character. Beneath his lofty forehead crowned with thin locks of silver hair, those dark eyes beam with all the fire of youth, and with a glance at once keenly penetrative and kind. The glance of his soul is steadfastly directed to the ideal of life, in society, in
