CHAPTER XI 



THE WHITEFISH OF THE LAKE OF GENEVA 



From time to time we see things which have the 

 power to move us more than any others. The end of 

 a really fine day is one of them. The last few moments 

 of such a day, as the sun goes down and twilight falls, 

 are among the most fascinating and tenderly delightful. 

 The harshness, the crudity of noon, are softened. The 

 morning mists have passed away. The shadows and 

 the lights come together; there is less contrast, and 

 yet we get all their values. The atmosphere seems 

 more equable, bathing everything, surrounding every- 

 thing, bringing everything together with a delicate 

 touch. The surfaces of ponds, lakes, and sea sparkle 

 somehow more gently. 



Sunset on the Lake of Geneva, after a fine summer's 

 day, is one of the most glorious and affecting sights 

 this earth can offer. The horizon, far enough away 

 to leave an impression of vast space, yet near enough 

 to give the eye a resting point without compelling it to 

 grope in vague distances, presents us with a superb 

 frame, in which the lofty, extensive barrier of the Jura, 

 so dark blue that it contrasts vividly with the tenderer 

 blue of the heavens, gives us, as it were, a measure 

 of comparison. The sun, drawing nearer and nearer 

 to it, lights up the delicate clouds which crown its 

 summits; casting upon it hues of purple and gold; 

 ever changing and always brilliant. They are mirrored 

 in the calm waters, stretched out without a ripple, 

 like a vast motionless and shimmering carpet. By 

 degrees these glories fade. Dusk gains upon them, 

 little by little, slowly, without shock or violence, but 

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