In my mind, I sat down on a slab and drew
imperfectly the things I saw: the lake below me, the first forests
clinging to the foot of the Alps beyond, their higher slopes of snow,
and the clouds that had now begun to gather round them and that
altogether hid the last third of their enormous height.
Then I saw a steamer on the lake. I felt in touch with men. The slope
grew easier. I snapped my fingers at the great devils that haunt high
mountains. I sniffed the gross and comfortable air of the lower
valleys, I entered the belt of wood and was soon going quite a pace
through the trees, for I had found a path, and was now able to sing.
So I did.
At last I saw through the trunks, but a few hundred feet below me, the
highroad that skirts the lake. I left the path and scrambled straight
down to it. I came to a wall which I climbed, and found myself in
somebody's garden. Crossing this and admiring its wealth and order (I
was careful not to walk on the lawns), I opened a little private gate
and came on to the road, and from there to Brienz was but a short way
along a fine hard surface in a hot morning sun, with the gentle lake
on my right hand not five yards away, and with delightful trees upon
my left, caressing and sometimes even covering me with their shade.
