The chimneys are like the wide, open chimney-places of old English
cottages, but the hearth is raised about a foot and a half or two feet
from the floor, so that the fire is almost level with the hands; and
those who sit in the chimney-seats are raised above the audience in the
room, something like two gods flanking the fire, looking out of the cave
of ruddy darkness into the open, lower world of the room.
We asked for coffee with milk and rum. The stout landlord took a seat
near us below. The comely young woman with the baby took the tin
coffee-pot that stood among the grey ashes, put in fresh coffee among
the old bottoms, filled it with water, then pushed it more into
the fire.
The landlord turned to us with the usual naive, curious deference, and
the usual question:
'You are Germans?'
'English.'
'Ah--_Inglesi_.'
Then there is a new note of cordiality--or so I always imagine--and the
rather rough, cattle-like men who are sitting with their wine round the
table look up more amicably. They do not like being intruded upon. Only
the landlord is always affable.
'I have a son who speaks English,' he says: he is a handsome, courtly
old man, of the Falstaff sort.
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