I Have Not A Doubt He Has Done That Very
Thing In This Very Spot.
JOURNAL - (CONTINUED.)
Monday, August 15. From Eisenach, where we dined cozily in the
railroad station house, we took the cars for Cassel. After we had
established ourselves comfortably in a _nich rauchen_ car, a
gentleman, followed by a friend, came to the door with a cigar in his
mouth. Seeing ladies, he inquired if he could smoke. Comprehending his
look and gesture, we said, "No." But as we spoke very gently, he
misunderstood us, and entered. Seeing by our looks that something was
amiss, he repeated the question more emphatically in German: "Can I
smoke? Yes, or no." "No," we answered in full chorus. Discomfited, he
retired with rather a flushed cheek. We saw him prospecting up and
down the train, hunting for a seat, followed by his _fidus
Achates_. Finally, a guard took him in tow, and after navigating a
while brought him to our door; but the gentleman recoiled, said
something in German, and passed on. Again they made the whole circuit
of the train, and then we saw the guard coming, with rather a fierce,
determined air, straight to our door. He opened it very decidedly, and
ordered the gentleman to enter. He entered, cigar and all. His friend
followed.
"Well," said H., in English, "I suppose he must either smoke or die."
"Ah, yes," I replied, "for the sake of saving his life we will even
let him smoke."
"Hope the tobacco is good," added H.; and we went on reading our
"Villette," which was very amusing just then. The gentleman had his
match already lighted, and was just in the act of puffing
preliminarily when H. first spoke. I thought I saw a peculiar
expression on his friend's face. He dropped a word or two in German,
as if quite incidentally, and I soon observed that the smoking made
small progress. Pie kept the cigar in his mouth, it is true, for a
while, just to show he would smoke if he chose; but his whiffs were
fewer and fainter every minute; and after reading several chapters,
happening to cast my eye that way, the cigar had disappeared. Not long
after the friend, sitting opposite me, addressed W. in _good
English_, and they were soon well agoing in a friendly discussion
of our route. The winged word had hit the mark that time.
We passed the night in an agreeable hotel, Roi de Prusse, at Cassel.
By the way, it occurred to us that this was where the Hessians came
from in the old revolutionary times.
Tuesday, August 16. A long, dull ride from Cassel to Dusseldorf.
Wednesday, August 17. Whittridge came at breakfast. The same mellow,
friendly, good-humored voice, and genial soul, I had loved years ago
in the heart of Indiana. We had a brief festival of talk about old
times, art, artists, and friends, and the tide of time rolled in and
swept us asunder. Success to his pencil in the enchanted glades of
Germany!
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