"
Christina looked shocked; there was a frown on her heavy face, which was
usually as expressionless as if it had been carved in wood.
[Sidenote: "Go, you unlucky child!"]
"Fie!" she said. "Think of Gretchen's mother, old Barbara; she does not
complain of the goitre; though she has to bear it under her chin, she
tries to keep it out of sight. I wish you would do the same with your
clumsiness. There, go and change your clothes, go, you unlucky child,
go!"
* * * * *
You are perhaps wondering how it comes to pass that an inn can exist
placed alone in the midst of green pasture-land, and only approached by
a simple foot track, which more than once leads the wayfarer across mere
plank bridges, and which passes, only at long intervals, small groups of
cottages that call themselves villages. You naturally wonder how the
guests at this lonely inn fare with regard to provisions. It is true
that milk is sent down every day from the cows on the green Alps higher
up the mountain, and that the farm boasts of plenty of ducks and fowls,
of eggs and honey. There are a few sheep and goats, too; we have seen
that there are pigs. Fraeulein Christina Fasch makes good bread, and she
is famous for her delicate puddings and sauces; the puzzle is, whence
come the groceries, and the extras, and the wines that are consumed in
the inn?
A mile or so beyond, on a lower spur of the mountain ridge that
overlooks the Rhine, a gap comes in the hedge that screens an almost
precipitous descent into the broad, flat valley.
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