My dear old Ilgenstein fell into the hands of a tyrannical horde of workmen, who turned everything topsy-turvy. If I expressed a wish, "Baron," they'd say, "that is not in good taste." Well, I let them have their way. At that time I still had slavish respect for so-called "good taste." It was not until much later that I realised that in most cases back of "good taste" there is nothing but lack of real taste.
Well, to cut it short, the bunch of them carried on so fearfully in the name of that cursed "good taste" that finally nothing was left in my dear old castle but my hunting-room and study. Here I emphatically put my foot down on good taste.
And my narrow old cot! Nobody, of course, was allowed to touch that.
Gentlemen, that cot!
And now listen.
One day my sister, who stood in with the vile crew, came to my room--with a certain bitter-sweet, bashful smile--the kind old maids always smile when the question of how children come into the world is touched upon.
"I have something to say to you, George," she said, cleared her throat, and peered into the corners.
"Fire away."
"Has it occurred to you," she stammered, "I mean, of course--I mean--you see--you won't be able to sleep any more in that horrible straw bag of a bed of yours."
"Now, then, do let me have my comfort," I said.