were there and, had it not been for the courtesy of the Italian
commander in sending us in dishes from his mess, we would have had great
difficulty in getting enough to eat. A typical dinner at the Tyroler Hof
in the summer of 1919 consisted of a mud-colored, nauseous-looking
liquid which was by courtesy called soup, a piece of fish perhaps four
times the size of a postage-stamp, a stew which was alleged to consist
of rabbit and vegetables but which, from its taste and appearance, might
contain almost anything, a salad made of beets or watercress, but
without oil, and for dessert a dish of wild berries, which are abundant
in parts of Tyrol. There was an extra charge for a small cup of black
coffee, so-called, which was made, I imagine, from acorns. This, of
course, was at the best and highest-priced hotels in Innsbruck; at the
smaller hotels the food was correspondingly scarcer and poorer.

Though the inhabitants of the rural districts appeared to be moderately
well fed, a majority of the people of Innsbruck were manifestly in
urgent need of food. Some of them, indeed, were in a truly pitiable
condition, with emaciated bodies, sunken cheeks, unhealthy complexions,
and shabby, badly worn clothes. The meager displays in the shop-windows
were a pathetic contrast to variety and abundance which characterized
them in ante-bellum days, the only articles displayed in any profusion
being picture-postcards, objects carved from wood and similar souvenirs.
The windows of the confectionery and bake-shops were particularly
noticeable for the paucity of their contents. I was induced to enter one
of them by a brave window display of hand-decorated candy boxes, but,
upon investigation, it proved that the boxes were empty and that the
shop had had no candy for four years. The prices of necessities, such as
food and clothing, were fantastic (I saw advertisements of stout,
all-leather boots for rent to responsible persons by the day or week),
but articles of a purely luxurious character could be had for almost