After a night passed in the quarantine, I removed to the inn, and
punctually as the clock struck half past twelve, the very party my
imagination conjured up, assembled to discuss the _mehlspeise_ in the
stencilled parlour of the Hirsch.
Favoured by the most beautiful weather, I started in a sort of caleche
for Dreucova. The excellent new macadamized road was as smooth as a
bowling-green, and only a lively companion was wanting to complete the
exhilaration of my spirits.
My fair fellow-traveller was an enormously stout Wallachian matron, on
her way to Vienna, to see her _daughter_, who was then receiving her
education at a boarding-school. I spoke no Wallachian, she spoke
nothing but Wallachian; so our conversation was carried on by my
attempting to make myself understood alternately by the Italian, and
the Spanish forms of Latin.
"_Una bella Campagna_," said I, as we drove out Orsova.
"_Bella, bella_?" said the lady, evidently puzzled.
So I said, "_Hermosa_."
"_Ah! formosa; formosa prate_," repeated the lady, evidently
understanding that I meant a fine country.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51