There was Geneva, between the Alps, divided by the southern extremity
of Lake Leman, which was spanned by many handsome bridges. In the
centre, a little isle, with Rousseau's statue. A little beyond, the
Rhone rushed frothing and foaming out of the lake. From my window I
could see in the distance the dazzling snow peak of Mont Blanc.
After Paris, Geneva looked like a provincial town. The cafés were like
servants' quarters or corners of cafés. There were no people in the
streets, where the sand blew up in clouds of dust till you could hardly
see out of your eyes, and the roads were not watered. In the hotel, in
front of the mirror, the New Testament in French, bound in leather; you
felt that you had come to the capital of Calvinism.
The streets in the old part of the town were all up and down hill. In
the windows of the booksellers' shops there were French verses against
France, violent diatribes against Napoleon III. and outbursts of
contempt for the nation that had lost its virility and let itself be
cowed by a tyrant. By the side of these, portraits of the Freethinkers
and Liberals who had been driven from other countries and found a
refuge in Switzerland.
I sailed the lake in every direction, enraptured by its beauty and the
beauty of the surrounding country. Its blueness, to which I had never
seen a parallel, altogether charmed me in the changing lights of night
and day. On the lake I made the acquaintance of a very pleasant Greek
family, the first I had encountered anywhere. The eldest daughter, a
girl of fourteen, lost her hat. I had a new silk handkerchief packed
amongst my things, and offered it to her. She accepted it and bound it
round her hair. Her name was Maria Kumelas. I saw for the first time an
absolutely pure Greek profile, such as I had been acquainted with
hitherto only from statues. One perfect, uninterrupted line ran from
the tip of her nose to her hair.