I like to consult them; they are so
crisp and daintily defined and isolated and individual. Yet I can only
write about an upper class German mamma eating brodchen and honey with
three fair square daughters, young, younger, youngest, and not a flaxen
hair mislaid among them, and the intelligent accuracy with which they
looked out of the window and said that it was a horse, the horse was
lame, and it was a pity to drive a lame horse. Or about the two American
ladies from the south, creeping, wrapped up in sealskins, along the
still white road from the Hof to the Bad, and saying one to the other,
"Isn't it nice to feel the sun on yo' back?" Or about the curio shops on
the ridge where the politest little Frenchwomen endeavour to persuade
you that you have come to the very top of the Engadine for the purpose
of buying Japanese candlesticks and Italian scarves to carry down again.
It was all so clear and sharp and still at St. Moritz; everything drew
a double significance from its height and its loneliness. But, as poppa
says, a great deal of trouble would be saved if people who feel that
they can't describe things would be willing to consider the alternative
of leaving them alone; and I will only dwell on St.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342