When the bundle came back my vest was
among the missing.
The maid did not seem to be able to comprehend the brand of German
I use in casual conversation; so, through an interpreter, I explained
to her that I was shy one white vest. For two days she brought
all sorts of vests and submitted them to me on approval - thin ones
and thick ones; old ones and new ones; slick ones and woolly ones;
fringed ones and frayed ones. I think the woman had a private
vest mine somewhere, and went and tapped a fresh vein on my account
every few minutes; but it never was the right vest she brought me.
Finally I told her in my best German, meantime accompanying myself
with appropriate yet graceful gestures, that she need not concern
herself further with the affair; she could just let the matter
drop and I would interview the manager and put in a claim for the
value of the lost garment. She looked at me dazedly a moment
while I repeated the injunction more painstakingly than before;
and, at that, understanding seemed to break down the barriers of
her reason and she said, "Ja! Ja!" Then she nodded emphatically
several times, smiled and hurried away and in twenty minutes was
back, bringing with her a begging friar of some monastic order or
other.
I would take it as a personal favor if some student of the various
Teutonic tongues and jargons would inform me whether there is any
word in Viennese for white vest that sounds like Catholic priest!
However, we prayed together - that brown brother and I. I do not
know what he prayed for, but I prayed for my vest.
I never got it though. I doubt whether my prayer ever reached
heaven - it had such a long way to go. It is farther from Vienna
to heaven than from any other place in the world, I guess - unless
it is Paris. That vest is still wandering about the damp-filled
corridors of that hotel, mooing in a plaintive manner for its mate
- which is myself. It will never find a suitable adopted parent.
It was especially coopered to my form by an expert clothing
contractor, and it will not fit anyone else. No; it will wander
on and on, the starchy bulge of its bosom dimly phosphorescent in
the gloaming, its white pearl buttons glimmering spectrally; and
after a while the hotel will get the reputation of being haunted
by the ghost of a flour barrel, and will have a bad name and lose
custom. I hope so anyway. It looks to be my one chance of getting
even with the owner for penalizing me in the matter of baths.
From Vienna we went southward into the Tyrolese Alps. It was a
wonderful ride - that ride through the Semmering and on down to
Northern Italy.
