It will be getting dark when you reach Eberbach,
and if you find your way to the Ox, Herr Leutz will be waiting (we
hope) in his white coat and gold pince-nez, just as he was in 1912.
And then, as you sit down to a cold supper, he will, deliberately
and in the kindest way, proceed to talk your head off. He will sit
down with you at the table, and every time you think a pause is
coming he will seize a mug, rise to his feet (at which you also will
sadly lay down your tools and rise, too, bowing stiffly from your
hips), and cry: "_Also! ich trinke auf Ihr Wohl!_" Presently,
becoming more assured, the admirable creature abbreviates his
formula to the more companionable "_zum Wohl!_" And as he talks, and
his excitement becomes more and more intense, he edges closer and
closer to you, and leans forward, talking hard, until his dark
beaming phiz quite interposes between your food and its destination.
So that to avoid combing his baldish pate with your fork you must
pass the items of your meal in quite a sideways trajectory. And if,
as happened to our companion (the present Cornell don), you have no
special taste for a plump landlord breathing passionately and
genially upon your very cheek while you strive to satisfy a
legitimate appetite, you may burst into a sudden unpremeditate but
uncontrollable screech of mingled laughter and dismay, meanwhile
almost falling backward in your chair in an effort to evade the
steady pant and roar of those innumerable gutturals.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148