his prime favourite was always
Vienna, with Rome second. But he knew that the incomparable malt liquor
of Munich was full of the inspiration that he needed, and so he kept
near it, not to bathe in it, not to frivol with it, but to take it
discreetly and prophylactically, and as the exigencies of his art
demanded.

Ibsen's inherent fastidiousness, a quality which urged him to spend
hours shining his shoes, was revealed by his choice of the Cafe
Luitpold, for of all the cafes in Munich the Luitpold is undoubtedly the
most elegant. Its walls are adorned with frescoes by Albrecht
Hildebrandt. The ceiling of the main hall is supported by columns of
coloured marble. The tables are of carved mahogany. The forks and
spoons, before Americans began to steal them, were of real silver. The
chocolate with whipped cream, served late in the afternoon, is famous
throughout Europe. The Herr Wirt has the suave sneak of John Drew and is
a privy councillor to the King of Bavaria. All the tables along the east
wall, which is one vast mirror, are reserved from 8 P.M. to 2 A.M.
nightly by the faculty of the University of Munich, which there
entertains the eminent scientists who constantly visit the city. No
orchestra arouses the baser passions with "Wiener Blut." The place has
calm, aloofness, intellectuality, aristocracy, distinction. It was the
scene foreordained for the hatching of "Hedda Gabler."

But don't imagine that Munich, when it comes to elegance, must stand or
fall with the Luitpold. Far from it, indeed. There are other cafes of
noble and elevating quality in that delectable town--plenty of them, you
may be sure. For example, the Odeon, across the street from the
Luitpold, a place lavish and luxurious, but with a certain touch of
dogginess, a taste of salt. The _piccolo_ who lights your cigar and
accepts your five pfennigs at the Odeon is an Ethiopian dwarf. Do you
sense the romance, the exotic _diablerie_, the suggestion of Levantine
mystery? And somewhat Levantine, too, are the ladies who sit upon the
plush benches along the wall and take Russian cigarettes with their
kirschenwasser. Not that the atmosphere is frankly one of Sin. No! No!
The Odeon is no cabaret. A leg flung in the air would bring the Herr
Wirt at a gallop, you may be sure--or, at any rate, his apoplectic
corpse. In all New York, I dare say, there is no public eating house so
near to the far-flung outposts, the Galapagos Islands of virtue. But one
somehow feel