everything had passed in the best of good-humour. “I’ll endeavour to get the cold water for you,” George had said; “but as to the breakfasts, I can only hope you won’t put me to severe trials by any very early hours. When people go out for pleasure it should be pleasure.”
The brother and sister walked through two or three streets in silence, and then Kate asked a question.
“George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?”
“That she shouldn’t want her breakfast too early while we are away.”
“That means that I’m to hold my tongue, of course.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Then it means that you intend to hold yours.”
“No; not that either.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“That I have no fixed wishes on the subject. Of course she’ll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her.”
“She will no doubt, if you don’t interfere. Probably she will whether you interfere or not. But if you wish to interfere — “
“She’s got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as she was.”
“Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so; — and that you love her and love no one else — unless you have a sneaking fondness for me.”
“I’ll leave you to judge of that last.”
“And as for me, — I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now.”
CHAPTER V
The Balcony at Basle
I am not going to describe the Vavasors’ Swiss tour. It would not be fair on my readers. “Six Weeks in the Bernese Oberland, by party of three,” would have but very small chance of success in the literary world at present, and I should consider myself to be dishonest if I attempt to palm off such matter on the public in the pages of a novel. It is true that I have just returned from Switzerland, and should find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismiss the temptation, strong as it is. Retro age, Satanas . No living man or woman any longer wants to be told anything of the Grimsell or of the Gemmi. Ludgate Hill is now-a-days more interesting than the Jungfrau.
The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour. As George had said, they had gone out for pleasure and not for work. They went direct to Interlaken and then hung about between that place and Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen, It delighted him to sit still on some outer bench, looking at the mountains, with a cigar in his mouth, and it seemed to delight them to be with him. Much that Mr Grey prophesied had come true. The two girls were ministers to him, instead of having him as their slave.
“What fine fellows those Alpine club men think themselves,” he said on one of these occasions, “and how thoroughly they despise the sort of enjoyment I get from mountains. But they’re mistaken.”
“I don’t see why either need be mistaken,” said Alice.
“But they are mistaken,” he continued. “They rob the mountains of their poetry, which is or should be their greatest charm. Mont Blanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times. It’s like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjuror explain his tricks.”
“But is the exercise nothing?” said Kate.
“Yes; the exercise is very fine; — but that avoids the question.”
“And they all botanize,” said Alice.
“I don’t believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walk up the mountain and down again. But if they did, that avoids the question also. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost to those who make themselves familiar with their details, not the less because such familiarity may have useful results. In this world things are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or not perfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggests more than it declares. Look in there, through that valley, where you just see the distant little peak at
The brother and sister walked through two or three streets in silence, and then Kate asked a question.
“George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?”
“That she shouldn’t want her breakfast too early while we are away.”
“That means that I’m to hold my tongue, of course.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Then it means that you intend to hold yours.”
“No; not that either.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“That I have no fixed wishes on the subject. Of course she’ll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her.”
“She will no doubt, if you don’t interfere. Probably she will whether you interfere or not. But if you wish to interfere — “
“She’s got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as she was.”
“Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so; — and that you love her and love no one else — unless you have a sneaking fondness for me.”
“I’ll leave you to judge of that last.”
“And as for me, — I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now.”
CHAPTER V
The Balcony at Basle
I am not going to describe the Vavasors’ Swiss tour. It would not be fair on my readers. “Six Weeks in the Bernese Oberland, by party of three,” would have but very small chance of success in the literary world at present, and I should consider myself to be dishonest if I attempt to palm off such matter on the public in the pages of a novel. It is true that I have just returned from Switzerland, and should find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismiss the temptation, strong as it is. Retro age, Satanas . No living man or woman any longer wants to be told anything of the Grimsell or of the Gemmi. Ludgate Hill is now-a-days more interesting than the Jungfrau.
The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour. As George had said, they had gone out for pleasure and not for work. They went direct to Interlaken and then hung about between that place and Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen, It delighted him to sit still on some outer bench, looking at the mountains, with a cigar in his mouth, and it seemed to delight them to be with him. Much that Mr Grey prophesied had come true. The two girls were ministers to him, instead of having him as their slave.
“What fine fellows those Alpine club men think themselves,” he said on one of these occasions, “and how thoroughly they despise the sort of enjoyment I get from mountains. But they’re mistaken.”
“I don’t see why either need be mistaken,” said Alice.
“But they are mistaken,” he continued. “They rob the mountains of their poetry, which is or should be their greatest charm. Mont Blanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times. It’s like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjuror explain his tricks.”
“But is the exercise nothing?” said Kate.
“Yes; the exercise is very fine; — but that avoids the question.”
“And they all botanize,” said Alice.
“I don’t believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walk up the mountain and down again. But if they did, that avoids the question also. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost to those who make themselves familiar with their details, not the less because such familiarity may have useful results. In this world things are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or not perfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggests more than it declares. Look in there, through that valley, where you just see the distant little peak at
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