He declares that he will have no more couriers; but possibly he could have employed one to advantage on the trip out of Italy, for it was a desperately hard one, with bad connections and delayed telegrams.  When, after thirty-six hours weary, continuous traveling, they arrived at last in Munich in a drizzle and fog, and were domiciled in their winter quarters, at No. 1a, Karlstrasse, they felt that they had reached the home of desolation itself, the very throne of human misery.

And the rooms were so small, the conveniences so meager, and the porcelain stove was grim, ghastly, dismal, intolerable!  So Livy and Clara Spaulding sat down forlorn and cried, and I retired to a private place to pray.  By and by we all retired to our narrow German beds, and when Livy and I had finished talking across the room it was all decided that we should rest twenty-four hours, then pay whatever damages were required and straightway fly to the south of France.

The rooms had been engaged by letter, months before, of their proprietress, Fraulein Dahlweiner, who had met them at the door with a lantern in her hand, full of joy in their arrival and faith in her ability to make them happy.  It was a faith that was justified.  Next morning, when they all woke, rested, the weather had cleared, there were bright fires in the rooms, the world had taken on a new aspect.  Fraulein Dahlweiner, the pathetic, hard-working little figure, became almost beautiful in their eyes in her efforts for their comfort.  She arranged larger rooms and better conveniences for them.  Their location was central and there was a near-by park.  They had no wish to change.  Clemens, in his letter to Howells, boasts that he brought the party through from Rome himself, and that they never had so little trouble before; but in looking over this letter, thirty years later, he commented, “Probably a lie.”

He secured a room some distance away for his work, but then could not find his Swiss note-book.  He wrote Twichell that he had lost it, and that after all he might not be obliged to write a volume of travels.  But the notebook turned up and the work on the new book proceeded.  For a time it went badly.  He wrote many chapters, only to throw them aside.  He had the feeling that he had somehow lost the knack of descriptive narrative.  He had become, as it seemed, too didactic.  He thought his description was inclined to be too literal, his humor manufactured.  These impressions passed, by and by; interest developed, and with it enthusiasm and confidence.  In a letter to Twichell he reported his progress: 

I was about to write to my publisher and propose some other book, when the confounded thing [the note-book] turned up, and down went my heart into my boots.  But there was now no excuse, so I went solidly to work, tore up a great part of the Ms. written in Heidelberg—­wrote and tore up, continued to write and tear up—­and at last, reward of patient and noble persistence, my pen got the old swing again!  Since then I’m glad that Providence knew better what to do with the Swiss notebook than I did.