The inn is an exception, and has the appearance of being too good for the village. The Kellnerinn told us we could have as many bedrooms as we chose, for they were all empty. I was content with my day's walk, about twenty-five miles; but the Mechaniker, impatient to arrive at Prague, resolved to travel two hours farther; so, after he had finished his tankard of beer, we shook hands, and he went on alone, the Kellnerinn assuring him as he departed that he would find good sleeping quarters almost every half-hour.
CHAPTER X.
A Talk with the Landlord—A Jew's Offer—A Ride in a Wagen—Talk with the Jew—The Stars—A Mysterious Gun-barrel—An Alarm—Stony Ammunition—The Man with the Gun—The Jew's opinion of him—Sunrise—A Walk—The White Hill—A Fatal Field—Waking up in the Suburbs—Early Breakfasts—Imperial and Royal Tobacco—Milk-folk—The Gate of Prague—A Snappish Sentry—The Soldiers—Into the City—Picturesque Features and crowding Associations—The Kleinseite—The Bridge—Palaces—The Altstadt—Remarkable Streets—The Teinkirche—The Neustadt—The Three Hotels.
The landlord came in a few minutes afterwards, and, to encourage me to tell him all he wished to know about myself, declared himself a German. That he should ever have been so stupid as to tempt fortune at Neu Straschitz was a mistake haunting and vexing him continually. A living was not to be got in such a miserable village, and among such miserable people, and he meant to migrate as soon as he could find some one more stupid than himself to take the inn off his hands.
I had seen two or three German names in the street, and asked him if they were of long standing. "Not very." And he went on to say that the Stock-Bohemians, as the Czechs are called, are perpetually encroached on, pressed within narrower limits by the German element. Though a good deal was said about Czechish vigour and intellectuality, some folk thought that the language would at no distant day cease to be spoken. As for the character of the Czechs, there was scarcely a German who did not believe them to be sly, false, double-faced. And what says the proverb?—Dirt is the offspring of Lying and Idleness. For his part, he knew the Czechs were dirty, but he didn't quite know whether, in other respects, they were worse than their neighbours. Any way, he rather liked the thought of removing from among them.
After all this, mine host thought he had a fair claim on me for a sight of an English gold coin, and answers to all his questions concerning England. I was doing my best to satisfy him, when the Kellnerinn called my attention to a Herr who was going to start with his Wagen in the course of the evening for Prague; and she suggested, very disinterestedly as it seemed to me, that the opportunity was too good to be lost.
Wagen is as comprehensive a word as our "conveyance:" the Herr looked like a man who might be going to Prague in a carriage, so, as he promised plenty of room, and asked no more than a florin for the twenty miles, I accepted his offer. Having yet business to settle, he went out, and promised to call for me at nine o'clock. He had no sooner left the room, than the landlord said, "He is a Jew; but you need not be afraid of him. He is a very honest fellow, and comes here often."
I saw no reason to be afraid, and when the Jew came back at the appointed hour was ready to accompany him. He led the way to a back street, where we waited in front of one of the low, undemonstrative houses. Presently the big gate swung back, and out came the Wagen—one of the four-wheeled basket wagons, drawn by a single horse pulling awkwardly at one side of the heavy pole. I had imagined something a little better than that; however, as the wagon was half full of new hay, with a comfortable back-cushion of clover, I scrambled in on one side while the Jew did the same on the other, and the driver, a Czech, perched himself uncomfortably on a bar in front.
The wagon was just wide enough for two; and, what with the elastic sides and soft hay, there was no painful jolting. The west shone gloriously with the golden arch of sunset as we drove out of the village and entered on a bad road winding across the open fields; and Twilight came on so softly that you might have fancied Day was lingering to lend her his palest rays. The Jew was disposed to talk, and betrayed no little curiosity on the subject of travelling. Was it not very irksome to be away from home? was it not very expensive? and how much money did one need to carry? was there no danger? and so forth. But what interested him most was the question as to the money: he returned to it again and again.
Next, he had much to ask concerning London—the sort of business transacted in the great city—the rate of profit—in short, he put me through a whole social and commercial catechism, from which he drew a conclusion that London would not be an undesirable place of residence.