A Tramp Abroad

M >> Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) >> A Tramp Abroad


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'hôte 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.