same definite quality in the French language, whilst delighting both
my ear and my intelligence, rightly or wrongly prevents French poetry
from making any appeal to me; it is too bright and sparkling, there is
no mystery possible in so clear-cut a medium, added to which, every
syllable in French having an equal value, no rhythm is possible, and
French poetry has to rely on rhyme alone.

It is not on the cloudless summer day that familiar objects take on
vague and fantastic shapes; to effect that, mists and a rain-veiled
sky are wanted. Then distances are blotted out, and the values of
nearer objects are transformed under the swirling drifts of vapour,
and a new dream-world is created under one's very eyes. This is,
perhaps, merely the point of view of a Northerner.

As far back as 1881, I had made a trip down the Volga to Southern
Russia with that most delightful of men, the late Vicomte Eugene
Melchior de Vogue, the French Academician and man-of-letters. I
absolve Vogue from the accusation of being unable to observe like the
majority of his compatriots, nor, like them, was he a poor linguist.
He had married a Russian, the sister of General Anenkoff of Central
Asian fame; spoke Russian fluently, and very few things escaped his
notice. Though he was much older than me, no more charming companion
could be imagined. A little incident at Kazan, on the Volga, amused me
enormously. We were staying at a most indifferent hotel kept by a
Frenchman. The French proprietor explained to us that July was the
month during which the miraculous Ikon of the Kazan Madonna was
carried from house to house by the priests. The fees for this varied
from 25 roubles (then 2 pounds 10s.) for a short visit from the Ikon of
five minutes, to 200 roubles (20 pounds) for the privilege of sheltering
the miracle-working picture for an entire night. I must add that the