After dinner the conversation was chiefly pastoral, of the kind I do not join in because I hate it. How many chickens had died, how Bella and Stella had borne last winter's cold, how many sacks of potatoes had been spoiled, etc. My Countess enjoyed it immensely, and sat on a horny chair and sympathized. Our host took pity on me and taught me a patience. I had known it all my life as "the idiot's delight," but I pretended I had never heard of it before, and he had the satisfaction of thinking he was entertaining me--which he wasn't! On the contrary, Job's patience never could have equaled this one; the Count talked French fluently. The dinner was not good, nor was it frugal. The Count said, "Nous n'avons que le stricte nécessaire, rien de plus." The Countess said, in English, "One can't have in the country all that one wants." I could not help feeling that one could not have even the half of what one wanted, and more than once I caught myself thinking, "None but the brave deserve this fare." They noticed if you took a second helping, and you felt that they made a mental note if your glass was filled more than once with wine. However, it was all very nice, and they were very kind, good people. It was not the Count's fault if the stags he killed had too many horns, neither was it the Countess's fault that time hung heavy on her hands and embroidery occupied them. Fortunately we would go away next day, so what did it matter? But getting away was a very different thing from coming. When the Countess Westphal suggested it, and said that we intended to take a certain train, the faces of our hosts presented a blank look of apprehension! Their horses were plowing! What should we do? The doctor, they said, who lived in the village, had a carriage, but the horse was sick; there was, however, the _schimmel_ of the baker, which, fortunately, was in good health, and perhaps, in conjunction with the wagon of the doctor, one could manage. It sounded like a gigantic exercise of Ollendorff: "Avez-vous le cheval du boulanger?" "Non, mais j'ai le soulier du boucher," etc. After what seemed an eternity, the wagon of the doctor appeared, so did the _schimmel_. The wagon of the doctor, usually dragged by two animals, had a pole in the middle, to which the _schimmel_ was attached, giving him a very sidelong gait. The question now was, who was to drive the _schimmel_ attached to the pole? The young man who milked the cows, killed the pigs, dressed the Count, picked the fruit, drove the Countess, waited at table, served everybody, did everything, and smelled _awfully_ of the stables--could he be spared? Well, he was spared, and off we started majestically, but sideways, waving a courtly adieu. We reached home in a drenching rain, wondering what on earth ever possessed us to want to go to visit the noble B----s. I don't think I ever want to see that establishment again, and I don't think I ever shall. FÜRSTENBERG, _December._