6–12 July 1857

Woke at nine. Again a nightmare of con- sumption. Packed, left for Lucerne. Fellow-traveller — a young American, later a Swede with a charming wife. Arrived at Lucerne : the view is delightful. Bathed and am feeling a kind of well-being. A formal English table d’hdte dinner. The charming Swedish woman, together we watched an agile neighbour. An Englishman with a ribbon, brother-in-law to Count S — . Walked, my legs feel heavy. Pulse irregular. Badly want to write ; if I don’t soon fall asleep I will do so.

Woke at nine, walked to a pension and to the Lion monument. At home opened notebook but could not write. Have abandoned The Outlying Field. Dinner doltishly dull. Went to the Privathaus. Returning from there in the cloudy night with the moon breaking through. I heard some fine voices, two belfries in a broad street, and a tiny man singing Tyrolese songs to a guitar splendidly. I gave him something and invited him to sing in front of the Schweizerhof — they gave him nothing ! He went away shamefacedly muttering something and the crowd laughing at him. Before that, the crowd and the visitors on the hotel balcony had thronged together listening in silence. I overtook him and invited him to the Schweizerhof to have a drink. We were shown into another room. The singer is vulgar but pathetic. We drank. The waiter laughed and the hall-porter sat down. This upset me, I scolded them and grew terribly excited. The night was wonderful. What I desire, what I passion- ately long for, I don’t know, but not the blessings of this world. And how can one help believing in the im- mortality of the soul — when one feels in one’s own soul such immeasurable grandeur. Looked out of the window. Blackness, broken clouds, and light. Ready to die ! My God ! My God ! What am I ? Whither going ? And where am I ?

Health bad, rheumatism in my leg. Walked a very little. Wrote to Auntie. Reconsidered The Outlying Field and began it differently. It does not get on. Dinner unbearably dull. Moved to Mme. Damar’s. Two tiny, dear little rooms ; a pretty, merry daughter ; a deaf old woman who scrubs the floors and laughs heartily with arms akimbo. I evoke excited curiosity in the pension. Mme. D. overworks the words “ Herr Graf*'. There is music on the lake. It is cloudy, the ruins stand calmly out from the dark background of poplars, a creeping vine looks in at the window lit up by the light of a candle. Wonderful apartments. If only I could get on with my writing I jWould stay here a long time. In the hall a fountain gurgles.

Got up early and am feeling well. Bathed. Am still delighted with my small apartment. Wrote Lucerne and a letter to Botkin before dinner. Got Freytag’s Soli und Haben and Andersen’s Improvisatore and read. Went out in a boat and to the monastery. Feel awfully confused in the pension — many pretty women. I sit with a German, a cunning tradesman who has given his children a better education than he had himself. A deaf old man with a touching story of a daughter who was betrayed.

Am well. Bathed at eight. Wrote Lucerne pretty well, till dinner. Finished Freytag : poor. There can be no poetry of accuracy. My Leipzig neighbour is a stupid, cunning, retrograde man. The artist’s wife is like the Louvre Madonna, but as to a smile — il n'y a pas. The pastor’s daughters with azure eyes are just the same. The pastor and I get on together. Took a ride. A scent of hay, round fruit-trees, women on the trees, and men picking cherries and singing Tyrolese songs. The sky is still unsettled but there is blueness everywhere. The Zug lake is dark blue. At home admired the landlady’s daughter, a light sweet memory of her remained even when I returned to my room. She has a sweet face and smile and is intelligent — even a little reflective. Big and little went out for a walk and stopped near the ruins, I went home but went out again. . . .

Got up at seven and bathed. Finished writing Lucerne before dinner. Good ! One must be bold or else one can’t say anything except what is graceful, and I have much to say that is new and to the point. At dinner sat next to the artist, entered into conversation with him and abused the Genevese. It turned out that he is from Geneva. What of it ? I spoke sincerely. He seems to be a nice fellow but our conversation was quietly hostile. Went for a two days’ walking tour. Two Englishmen on the steamboat, one a teacher, the other, his brother, an artist I think. I went with them through Stansstadt to Alpnacht. There were eleven English men and women there whom I served as interpreter. Rapacity. An irate Scotchman. In Sarnen a dull inn, but the English and I chatted and played the piano. Slept badly. Here again one begins to see bald women with goitres, cretins, white- haired and self-satisfied. The women wear their plaits in interwoven rings with an enormous pin. The people are blond and plain.

Woke at nine. Germans from Berne. Talk about shooting in the Vaterland. Bathed. Good-natured roughness of the Germans. Went away on foot ; cretins. Kindly people, good-natured in their banteringly cretin way. An old woman with a parasol. Young girls. Two girls from Stanz ogled me and one of them had beautiful eyes. I had bad thoughts and was immediately punished by feeling confused. A fine church with an organ, full of pretty women. A crowd of sociable and rather pretty ones. A fine eating-house ; wonderfully cheap. Called on the painter, Delevanden. A large grandiose genre, of little forae and negligent finish. Walked along a nut-tree avenue to Beckenreid. Met a handsome young German by afi old house at the cross-roads where there were two pretty girls. The promenaders and their costumes remind one of dogs. Wonderful blue sky and a red crevice. Beckenreid and a Genevan family. Repulsive bourgeois. Organ-playing. Stupidly, ran about instead of writing. Went to bed late.