Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part IV - V
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284 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
the grey morning light, and hastened my ascent to those
happier heights where the sun was shining.
Very soon beeches took the place of chestnut and
walnut trees. I rested for a while in a dairy cottage in
the company of fine cattle and a horrible cur, and then
entered cloudland. I seemed to be walking in a dense
fog, which grew in density and almost completely blotted
out the landscape. The effort to see made my eyes ache ;
trees and shrubs loomed indistinctly through a cloud of
smoke ; the millions of cobwebs which festooned the
branches were richly studded with raindrops ; it looked
as if the old woman of the wood, if there is such a being,
had hung up thousands of lace handkerchiefs to dry.
It was difficult to breathe ; the fog hung on my coat,
hair, beard and eyebrows, gave out a stale, sickly smell,
and rendered the rocks so smooth and slippery that I
could hardly keep my footing ; it darkened the heart of
the wood, where the trunks were quickly swallowed up in
a monotonous grey, which limited the range of vision to
a few yards.
I had to climb up through this layer of fog, extending
about a thousand metres upwards, a cold and damp
purgator}^, before I could reach the sun ; and I struggled
on, with sublime faith in the magistrate’s word of honour
that the fog would cease before the mountain ceased and
grey space began.
I had no barometer with me, but I felt that I was
ascending, that the fog was growing less dense, and that
I was approaching a purer atmosphere.
A feeling of intoxication seized me—a faint glimmer
from above dimly illuminated the narrow pass, like the
first dawn of day shining through the picture of a
landscape painted on a window-blind ; the trees stood out
more distinctly, the field of vision increased, the tinkling
of cowbells—from above—fell on my ear. And now,
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