like Americans, and are unusually bright. They are pale, and remind me a little of hothouse plants. Large feet are the exception; even the peasants have pretty feet.
What strange creatures Englishmen are! Mr. Thurber, who spends two or three months here every year, seldom has a good word to say for poor Russia.
"At least," I remonstrated, "you will acknowledge that the Neva is a fine river?"
He pondered a moment, then replied,—
"Do you know, I think a river can be too large!"
The pictures in the Hermitage, especially the Murillos, are my constant delight. I am very ambitious, and am trying to copy the head of the Virgin in Murillo's "Assumption." I wish I had taken something easier. Mr. Thurber comes in nearly every day to observe the progress of my work. His criticisms are too just to be encouraging.
This morning I induced him to leave the Spanish school, and look at the pictures by Russian artists, which we discussed in detail. Then, as I felt tired, we sat down in a window embrasure, and continued our conversation.
"How I long to see the gallery in Madrid!" I cried.
"Why do you not go there?"
"That would be so easy!" I answered sarcastically.
"Nothing easier," he remarked calmly. "When you leave here, take a trip through Spain."
