maidens. The air was soon filled with smoke, and became stifling with the hot breaths of people, but our acquaintances peacefully continued their conversation.
“So you have been in Italy? I envy you. I should gladly give half of my life for half a year there.”
“Why?”
“Well, it is something grand, and it cannot be easily expressed in words. I feel a breath of it in the poem: ‘Kennst du das Land’. . .”
“Dreams, dreams! It is but a poetic tradition. Just listen, I pray, to my impressions: On a hired donkey I crossed the Apennines. Well, there was Florence, the blue Arno, blue skies, immense olive groves,—but over everything lay the traces of millions of stupid eyes, open mouths, and echoes of Baedeker quotations.”
Just then Mr. Plojhar’s contemptuous, indignant look reached my hero from the neighboring table.
