Book: A Tramp Abroad, Part 4

M >> Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) >> A Tramp Abroad, Part 4




Most of the people, both male and female, are in walking
costume, and carry alpenstocks. Evidently, it is not
considered safe to go about in Switzerland, even in town,
without an alpenstock. If the tourist forgets and
comes down to breakfast without his alpenstock he goes
back and gets it, and stands it up in the corner.
When his touring in Switzerland is finished, he does not
throw that broomstick away, but lugs it home with him,
to the far corners of the earth, although this costs him
more trouble and bother than a baby or a courier could.
You see, the alpenstock is his trophy; his name
is burned upon it; and if he has climbed a hill,
or jumped a brook, or traversed a brickyard with it,
he has the names of those places burned upon it, too.
Thus it is his regimental flag, so to speak, and bears
the record of his achievements. It is worth three francs
when he buys it, but a bonanza could not purchase it
after his great deeds have been inscribed upon it.
There are artisans all about Switzerland whose trade it is
to burn these things upon the alpenstock of the tourist.
And observe, a man is respected in Switzerland according
to his alpenstock. I found I could get no attention there,
while I carried an unbranded one. However, branding is
not expected, so I soon remedied that. The effect
upon the next detachment of tourists was very marked.
I felt repaid for my trouble.

Half of the summer horde in Switzerland is made up of
English people; the other half is made up of many nationalities,
the Germans leading and the Americans coming next.
The Americans were not as numerous as I had expected
they would be.

The seven-thirty table d'ho^te at the great Schweitzerhof
furnished a mighty array and variety of nationalities,
but it offered a better opportunity to observe costumes
than people, for the multitude sat at immensely long tables,
and therefore the faces were mainly seen in perspective;
but the breakfasts were served at small round tables,
and then if one had the fortune to get a table in the
midst of the assemblage he could have as many faces
to study as he could desire. We used to try to guess out
the nationalities, and generally succeeded tolerably well.
Sometimes we tried to guess people's names; but that was
a failure; that is a thing which probably requires a good
deal of practice. We presently dropped it and gave our
efforts to less difficult particulars. One morning I
said:

"There is an American party."

Harris said:

"Yes--but name the state."

I named one state, Harris named another. We agreed upon
one thing, however--that the young girl with the party
was very beautiful, and very tastefully dressed.
But we disagreed as to her age. I said she was eighteen,
Harris said she was twenty. The dispute between us
waxed warm, and I finally said, with a pretense of being
in earnest:

"Well, there is one way to settle the matter--I will go
and ask her."

Harris said, sarcastically, "Certainly, that is the thing
to do. All you need to do is to use the common formula
over here: go and say, 'I'm an American!' Of course she
will be glad to see you."

Then he hinted that perhaps there was no great danger
of my venturing to speak to her.

I said, "I was only talking--I didn't intend to approach her,
but I see that you do not know what an intrepid person
I am. I am not afraid of any woman that walks.
I will go and speak to this young girl."

The thing I had in my mind was not difficult.
I meant to address her in the most respectful way and ask
her to pardon me if her strong resemblance to a former
acquaintance of mine was deceiving me; and when she should
reply that the name I mentioned was not the name she bore,
I meant to beg pardon again, most respectfully, and retire.
There would be no harm done. I walked to her table,
bowed to the gentleman, then turned to her and was about
to begin my little speech when she exclaimed:

"I KNEW I wasn't mistaken--I told John it was you!
John said it probably wasn't, but I knew I was right.
I said you would recognize me presently and come over;
and I'm glad you did, for I shouldn't have felt much flattered
if you had gone out of this room without recognizing me.
Sit down, sit down--how odd it is--you are the last person I
was ever expecting to see again."

This was a stupefying surprise. It took my wits
clear away, for an instant. However, we shook hands
cordially all around, and I sat down. But truly this
was the tightest place I ever was in. I seemed to vaguely
remember the girl's face, now, but I had no idea where I
had seen it before, or what named belonged with it.
I immediately tried to get up a diversion about Swiss scenery,
to keep her from launching into topics that might
betray that I did not know her, but it was of no use,
she went right along upon matters which interested her more:

"Oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed
the forward boats away--do you remember it?"

"Oh, DON'T I!" said I--but I didn't. I wished the sea
had washed the rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain
away--then I could have located this questioner.

"And don't you remember how frightened poor Mary was,
and how she cried?"

"Indeed I do!" said I. "Dear me, how it all comes back!"

I fervently wished it WOULD come back--but my memory was
a blank. The wise way would have been to frankly own up;
but I could not bring myself to do that, after the young
girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so I went on,
deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue
but never getting one. The Unrecognizable continued,
with vivacity:

"Do you know, George married Mary, after all?"

"Why, no! Did he?"

"Indeed he did. He said he did not believe she was half
as much to blame as her father was, and I thought he
was right. Didn't you?"

"Of course he was. It was a perfectly plain case.
I always said so."

"Why, no you didn't!--at least that summer."

"Oh, no, not that summer. No, you are perfectly right
about that. It was the following winter that I said it."

"Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least
to blame --it was all her father's fault--at least
his and old Darley's."

It was necessary to say something--so I said:

"I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing."

"So he was, but then they always had a great affection
for him, although he had so many eccentricities.
You remember that when the weather was the least cold,
he would try to come into the house."

I was rather afraid to proceed. Evidently Darley was not
a man--he must be some other kind of animal--possibly
a dog, maybe an elephant. However, tails are common
to all animals, so I ventured to say:

"And what a tail he had!"

"ONE! He had a thousand!"

This was bewildering. I did not quite know what to say,
so I only said:

"Yes, he WAS rather well fixed in the matter of tails."

"For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,"
said she.

It was getting pretty sultry for me. I said to myself,
"Is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for
me to speak? If she does, the conversation is blocked.
A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person
cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more
or less preparation. As to diving rashly into such a
vast subject--"

But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts
by saying:

"Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was
simply no end to them if anybody would listen. His own
quarters were comfortable enough, but when the weather
was cold, the family were sure to have his company--nothing
could keep him out of the house. But they always bore it
kindly because he had saved Tom's life, years before.
You remember Tom?

"Oh, perfectly. Fine fellow he was, too."

"Yes he was. And what a pretty little thing his child was!"

"You may well say that. I never saw a prettier child."

"I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play
with it."

"So did I."

"You named it. What WAS that name? I can't call it
to mind."

It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty
thin, here. I would have given something to know
what the child's was. However, I had the good luck
to think of a name that would fit either sex--so I brought it
out:

"I named it Frances."

"From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died,
too--one that I never saw. What did you call that one?"

I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead
and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name
for it and trust to luck. Therefore I said:

"I called that one Thomas Henry."

She said, musingly:

"That is very singular ... very singular."

I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was
in a good deal of trouble, but I believed I could worry
through if she wouldn't ask me to name any more children.
I wondered where the lightning was going to strike next.
She was still ruminating over that last child's title,
but presently she said:

"I have always been sorry you were away at the time--I
would have had you name my child."

"YOUR child! Are you married?"

"I have been married thirteen years."

"Christened, you mean."

`"No, married. The youth by your side is my son."

"It seems incredible--even impossible. I do not mean
any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you
are any over eighteen?--that is to say, will you tell
me how old you are?"

"I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were
talking about. That was my birthday."

That did not help matters, much, as I did not know
the date of the storm. I tried to think of some
non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk,
and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences
as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be
about out of non-committal things. I was about to say,
"You haven't changed a bit since then"--but that was risky.
I thought of saying, "You have improved ever so much
since then"--but that wouldn't answer, of course.
I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change,
when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said:

"How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times
--haven't you?"

"I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!"
said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a
near approach to truth, "and I would rather be scalped
than spend another one like it." I was holily grateful
to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make
my good-bys and get out, when the girl said:

"But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me."

"Why, what is that?"

"That dead child's name. What did you say it was?"

Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the
child's name; I hadn't imagined it would be needed again.
However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said:

"Joseph William."

The youth at my side corrected me, and said:

"No, Thomas Henry."

I thanked him--in words--and said, with trepidation:

"O yes--I was thinking of another child that I named--I
have named a great many, and I get them confused--this
one was named Henry Thompson--"

"Thomas Henry," calmly interposed the boy.

I thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered
out:

"Thomas Henry--yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name.
I named him for Thomas--er--Thomas Carlyle, the great author,
you know--and Henry--er--er--Henry the Eight. The parents
were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry."

"That makes it more singular than ever," murmured my
beautiful friend.

"Does it? Why?"

"Because when the parents speak of that child now,
they always call it Susan Amelia."

That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely
out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie,
and that I would not do; so I simply sat still and suffered
--sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled--for I
was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes.
Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:

"I HAVE enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not.
I saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me,
and so as I had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning,
I made up my mind to punish you. And I have succeeded
pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George and Tom
and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore
could not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn
the names of those imaginary children, too. One can get
quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at
it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweeping away
of the forward boats, were facts--all the rest was fiction.
Mary was my sister; her full name was Mary ------. NOW
do you remember me?"

"Yes," I said, "I do remember you now; and you are as
hard-headed as you were thirteen years ago in that ship,
else you wouldn't have punished me so. You haven't
change your nature nor your person, in any way at all;
you look as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful
as you were then, and you have transmitted a deal
of your comeliness to this fine boy. There--if that
speech moves you any, let's fly the flag of truce,
with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it."

All of which was agreed to and accomplished, on the spot.
When I went back to Harris, I said:

"Now you see what a person with talent and address can do."

"Excuse me, I see what a person of colossal ignorance and
simplicity can do. The idea of your going and intruding
on a party of strangers, that way, and talking for half
an hour; why I never heard of a man in his right mind
doing such a thing before. What did you say to them?"

I never said any harm. I merely asked the girl what her
name was."

"I don't doubt it. Upon my word I don't. I think you
were capable of it. It was stupid in me to let you go
over there and make such an exhibition of yourself.
But you know I couldn't really believe you would do such
an inexcusable thing. What will those people think
of us? But how did you say it?--I mean the manner of it.
I hope you were not abrupt."

"No, I was careful about that. I said, 'My friend and I
would like to know what your name is, if you don't mind.'"

"No, that was not abrupt. There is a polish about it that
does you infinite credit. And I am glad you put me in;
that was a delicate attention which I appreciate at its
full value. What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything in particular. She told me
her name."

"Simply told you her name. Do you mean to say she did
not show any surprise?"

"Well, now I come to think, she did show something;
maybe it was surprise; I hadn't thought of that--I took
it for gratification."

"Oh, undoubtedly you were right; it must have been gratification;
it could not be otherwise than gratifying to be assaulted
by a stranger with such a question as that. Then what did you
do?"

"I offered my hand and the party gave me a shake."

"I saw it! I did not believe my own eyes, at the time.
Did the gentleman say anything about cutting your throat?"

"No, they all seemed glad to see me, as far as I could judge."

"And do you know, I believe they were. I think they said
to themselves, 'Doubtless this curiosity has got away from
his keeper--let us amuse ourselves with him.' There is
no other way of accounting for their facile docility.
You sat down. Did they ASK you to sit down?"

"No, they did not ask me, but I suppose they did not think
of it."

"You have an unerring instinct. What else did you do?
What did you talk about?"

"Well, I asked the girl how old she was."

"UNdoubtedly. Your delicacy is beyond praise. Go on,
go on--don't mind my apparent misery--I always look
so when I am steeped in a profound and reverent joy.
Go on--she told you her age?"

"Yes, she told me her age, and all about her mother,
and her grandmother, and her other relations, and all
about herself."

"Did she volunteer these statistics?"

"No, not exactly that. I asked the questions and she
answered them."

"This is divine. Go on--it is not possible that you
forgot to inquire into her politics?"

"No, I thought of that. She is a democrat, her husband
is a republican, and both of them are Baptists."

"Her husband? Is that child married?"

"She is not a child. She is married, and that is her
husband who is there with her."

"Has she any children."

"Yes--seven and a half."

"That is impossible."

"No, she has them. She told me herself."

"Well, but seven and a HALF? How do you make out the half?
Where does the half come in?"

"There is a child which she had by another husband
--not this one but another one--so it is a stepchild,
and they do not count in full measure."

"Another husband? Has she another husband?"

"Yes, four. This one is number four."

"I don't believe a word of it. It is impossible,
upon its face. Is that boy there her brother?"

"No, that is her son. He is her youngest. He is not
as old as he looked; he is only eleven and a half."

"These things are all manifestly impossible. This is a
wretched business. It is a plain case: they simply took
your measure, and concluded to fill you up. They seem
to have succeeded. I am glad I am not in the mess;
they may at least be charitable enough to think there
ain't a pair of us. Are they going to stay here long?"

"No, they leave before noon."

"There is one man who is deeply grateful for that.
How did you find out? You asked, I suppose?"

"No, along at first I inquired into their plans, in a
general way, and they said they were going to be here
a week, and make trips round about; but toward the end
of the interview, when I said you and I would tour around
with them with pleasure, and offered to bring you over
and introduce you, they hesitated a little, and asked
if you were from the same establishment that I was.
I said you were, and then they said they had changed
their mind and considered it necessary to start at once
and visit a sick relative in Siberia."

"Ah, me, you struck the summit! You struck the loftiest
altitude of stupidity that human effort has ever reached.
You shall have a monument of jackasses' skulls as high
as the Strasburg spire if you die before I do.
They wanted to know I was from the same 'establishment'
that you hailed from, did they? What did they mean by
'establishment'?"

"I don't know; it never occurred to me to ask."

"Well _I_ know-- they meant an asylum-- an IDIOT asylum,
do you understand? So they DO think there's a pair of us,
after all. Now what do you think of yourself?"

"Well, I don't know. I didn't know I was doing any harm;
I didn't MEAN to do any harm. They were very nice people,
and they seemed to like me."

Harris made some rude remarks and left for his bedroom
--to break some furniture, he said. He was a singularly
irascible man; any little thing would disturb his temper.

I had been well scorched by the young woman, but no matter,
I took it out on Harris. One should always "get even"
in some way, else the sore place will go on hurting.



CHAPTER XXVI
[The Nest of the Cuckoo-clock]

The Hofkirche is celebrated for its organ concerts.
All summer long the tourists flock to that church about six
o'clock in the evening, and pay their franc, and listen
to the noise. They don't stay to hear all of it, but get up
and tramp out over the sounding stone floor, meeting late
comers who tramp in in a sounding and vigorous way.
This tramping back and forth is kept up nearly all the time,
and is accented by the continuous slamming of the door,
and the coughing and barking and sneezing of the crowd.
Meantime, the big organ is booming and crashing and
thundering away, doing its best to prove that it is
the biggest and best organ in Europe, and that a tight
little box of a church is the most favorable place
to average and appreciate its powers in. It is true,
there were some soft and merciful passages occasionally,
but the tramp-tramp of the tourists only allowed one to get
fitful glimpses of them, so to speak. Then right away
the organist would let go another avalanche.

The commerce of Lucerne consists mainly in gimcrackery of the
souvenir sort; the shops are packed with Alpine crystals,
photographs of scenery, and wooden and ivory carvings.
I will not conceal the fact that miniature figures of the
Lion of Lucerne are to be had in them. Millions of them.
But they are libels upon him, every one of them.
There is a subtle something about the majestic pathos
of the original which the copyist cannot get. Even the sun
fails to get it; both the photographer and the carver give
you a dying lion, and that is all. The shape is right,
the attitude is right, the proportions are right, but that
indescribable something which makes the Lion of Lucerne
the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world,
is wanting.

The Lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low
cliff--for he is carved from the living rock of the cliff.
His size is colossal, his attitude is noble. How head
is bowed, the broken spear is sticking in his shoulder,
his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of France.
Vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear
stream trickles from above and empties into a pond at the base,
and in the smooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored,
among the water-lilies.

Around about are green trees and grass. The place is
a sheltered, reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise
and stir and confusion--and all this is fitting, for lions
do die in such places, and not on granite pedestals
in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings.
The Lion of Lucerne would be impressive anywhere,
but nowhere so impressive as where he is.

Martyrdom is the luckiest fate that can befall some people.
Louis XVI did not die in his bed, consequently history is
very gentle with him; she is charitable toward his failings,
and she finds in him high virtues which are not usually
considered to be virtues when they are lodged in kings.
She makes him out to be a person with a meek and modest
spirit, the heart of a female saint, and a wrong head.
None of these qualities are kingly but the last.
Taken together they make a character which would have fared
harshly at the hands of history if its owner had had the ill
luck to miss martyrdom. With the best intentions to do
the right thing, he always managed to do the wrong one.
Moreover, nothing could get the female saint out of him.
He knew, well enough, that in national emergencies he must
not consider how he ought to act, as a man, but how he
ought to act as a king; so he honestly tried to sink
the man and be the king--but it was a failure, he only
succeeded in being the female saint. He was not instant
in season, but out of season. He could not be persuaded
to do a thing while it could do any good--he was iron,
he was adamant in his stubbornness then--but as soon as
the thing had reached a point where it would be positively
harmful to do it, do it he would, and nothing could
stop him. He did not do it because it would be harmful,
but because he hoped it was not yet too late to achieve
by it the good which it would have done if applied earlier.
His comprehension was always a train or two behindhand.
If a national toe required amputating, he could not see
that it needed anything more than poulticing; when others
saw that the mortification had reached the knee, he first
perceived that the toe needed cutting off--so he cut it off;
and he severed the leg at the knee when others saw that the
disease had reached the thigh. He was good, and honest,
and well meaning, in the matter of chasing national diseases,
but he never could overtake one. As a private man,
he would have been lovable; but viewed as a king, he was
strictly contemptible.

His was a most unroyal career, but the most pitiable
spectacle in it was his sentimental treachery to his
Swiss guard on that memorable 10th of August, when he
allowed those heroes to be massacred in his cause,
and forbade them to shed the "sacred French blood"
purporting to be flowing in the veins of the red-capped
mob of miscreants that was raging around the palace.
He meant to be kingly, but he was only the female saint
once more. Some of his biographers think that upon this
occasion the spirit of Saint Louis had descended upon him.
It must have found pretty cramped quarters. If Napoleon
the First had stood in the shoes of Louis XVI that day,
instead of being merely a casual and unknown looker-on,
there would be no Lion of Lucerne, now, but there would
be a well-stocked Communist graveyard in Paris which would
answer just as well to remember the 10th of August by.

Martyrdom made a saint of Mary Queen of Scots three
hundred years ago, and she has hardly lost all of her
saintship yet. Martyrdom made a saint of the trivial
and foolish Marie Antoinette, and her biographers still
keep her fragrant with the odor of sanctity to this day,
while unconsciously proving upon almost every page they write
that the only calamitous instinct which her husband lacked,
she supplied--the instinct to root out and get rid of
an honest, able, and loyal official, wherever she found him.
The hideous but beneficent French Revolution would have
been deferred, or would have fallen short of completeness,
or even might not have happened at all, if Marie
Antoinette had made the unwise mistake of not being born.
The world owes a great deal to the French Revolution,
and consequently to its two chief promoters, Louis the
Poor in Spirit and his queen.

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