The young woman smiled: "Immortelle wreaths are quite out of fashion. Possibly in winter.... And then only in case ..."
"I think I had better decide on this one at once." And Botho took the yellow wreath that lay nearest him, hung it on his arm, put the wreath of white roses with it and got quickly into his cab. Both wreaths were rather large and took up so much room on the red plush seat that Botho thought of handing them over to the driver. But he soon decided against this change, saying to himself: "If one wants to carry a wreath to old Frau Nimptsch, one must be willing to own up to the wreath. And if one is ashamed of it, he should not have promised it."
So he let the wreaths lie where they were, and almost forgot them, as the carriage immediately turned into a part of the road whose varied and here and there grotesque scenes led him aside from his former thoughts. On the right, at a distance of about five hundred paces, was a board fence, above which could be seen all sorts of booths, pavilions, and doorways decorated with lamps, and all covered with a wealth of inscriptions. Most of these were of rather recent, or even extremely recent, date, but a few of the biggest and brightest dated further back, and, although in a weather-beaten state, they had lasted over from the previous year. Among these pleasure resorts, and alternating with them, various artisans had set up their workshops, especially sculptors and stone cutters, who mostly exhibited crosses, pillars, and obelisks hereabouts, because of the numerous cemeteries. All this could not fail to strike whoever passed this way, and Rienäcker too was strangely impressed, as he read from the cab, with growing curiosity, the endless and strongly contrasted announcements and looked at the accompanying pictures. "Fräulein Rosella, the living wonder maiden"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Quick Photography, American Style"; "Russian Ball throwing, six shots for tern pfennig"; "Swedish Punch with Waffles"; "Figaro's Finest Opportunity, or the First Hairdressing Parlor in the World"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Swiss Shooting Gallery":
"Shoot right quick and shoot right well,
Shoot and hit like William Tell."
And beneath this Tell himself with his son, his cross bow and the apple.
Finally the cab reached the end of the long board fence and at this point the road made a sharp turn toward the wood and now, breaking the stillness of noon, the rattle of guns could be heard from the shooting stands. Otherwise everything was much the same on this continuation of the street: Blondin, clad only in his tights and his medals, was balancing on the tightrope, with fireworks flashing around him, while near him various small placards announced balloon ascensions as well as the pleasures of the dance. One read: "A Sicilian Night. At two o'clock Vienna Bonbon Waltzes."
Botho, who had not seen this place for a long time, read all these placards with real interest, until after he had passed through the "wood," where he found the shade very refreshing for a few minutes, and beyond which he turned into the principal street of a populous suburb that extended as far as Rixdorf. Wagons, two and even three abreast, were passing before him, until suddenly everything came to a standstill and the traffic was blocked. "What are we stopping for?" he asked, but before the coachman could answer, Botho heard cursing and swearing from in front, and saw that the wagons had become wedged. He leaned forward and looked about with interest, true to his fondness for plain people, and apparently the incident would have amused rather than annoyed him, if both the load and the inscription on a wagon that had stopped in front of him had not impressed him painfully. "Broken glass bought and sold, Max Zippel, Rixdorf" was painted in big letters on the high tailboard and a perfect mountain of pieces of glass was piled up in the body of the wagon. "Luck goes with glass" ... And he looked at the load with distaste and felt as if the fragments were cutting all his finger tips.
But at last the wagons moved on again and the horse did his best to make up for lost time, and before long the driver stopped before a corner house, with a high roof and a projecting gable and ground floor windows so low that they were almost on a level with the street. An iron bracket projected from the gable, supporting a gilded key placed upright.
"What is that?" asked Botho.
"The Rollkrug."