Towards evening grandmother told us that the town which we were going to was visible. I was sitting with my back to the horses, and so I was obliged to turn round in order to see. In the distance I could see the four-columned white skeleton of a building, which was first apparent to the eye.
"What a gigantic charnel-house," I remarked to grandmother.
"It is no charnel-house, my child, but it is the ruin of the citadel of (Pressburg) Pozsony."[5]
[5] Pozsony. A town in Hungary is called by the Germans Pressburg.
A curious ruin it is. This first impression ever remained in my mind: I regarded it as a charnel-house.
It was quite late when we entered the town, which was very large compared to ours. I had never seen such elegant display in shop-windows before and it astonished me as I noticed that there were paved sidewalks reserved for pedestrians. They must be all fine lords who live in this city.
Mr. Fromm, the baker, to whose house I was to be taken, had informed us that we need not go to an hotel as he had room for all of us, and would gladly welcome us, especially as the expense of the journey was borne by us. We found his residence by following the written address. He owned a fine four-storied house in the Fürsten allee,[6] with his open shop in front on the sign of which peaceful lions were painted in gold holding rolls and cakes between their teeth.
[6] Princes avenue.
Mr. Fromm himself was waiting for us outside his shop door, and hastened to open the carriage door himself. He was a round-faced, portly little man, with a short black moustache, black eyebrows, and close-cropped, thick, flour-white hair. The good fellow helped grandmother to alight from the carriage: shook hands with Lorand, and began to speak to them in German: when I alighted, he put his hand on my head with a peculiar smile:
"Iste puer?"