The
factory stood there, raw and large and sombre, by the stream, and the
drab-coloured stone tenements were close by. Otherwise the village was a
straggling Swiss street, almost untouched.
The landlord was quiet and reasonable, even friendly, in the morning. He
wanted to talk to me: where had I bought my boots, was his first
question. I told him in Munich. And how much had they cost? I told him
twenty-eight marks. He was much impressed by them: such good boots, of
such soft, strong, beautiful leather; he had not seen such boots for a
long time.
Then I knew it was he who had cleaned my boots. I could see him
fingering them and wondering over them. I rather liked him. I could see
he had had imagination once, and a certain fineness of nature. Now he
was corrupted with drink, too far gone to be even a human being. I hated
the village.
They set bread and butter and a piece of cheese weighing about five
pounds, and large, fresh, sweet cakes for breakfast. I ate and was
thankful: the food was good.
A couple of village youths came in, in their Sunday clothes. They had
the Sunday stiffness.
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