A Tramp Abroad

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


We did not buy any wooden images of the Lion, nor any ivory or ebony
or marble or chalk or sugar or chocolate ones, or even any photographic
slanders of him. The truth is, these copies were so common, so
universal, in the shops and everywhere, that they presently became as
intolerable to the wearied eye as the latest popular melody usually
becomes to the harassed ear. In Lucerne, too, the wood carvings of
other sorts, which had been so pleasant to look upon when one saw them
occasionally at home, soon began to fatigue us. We grew very tired
of seeing wooden quails and chickens picking and strutting around
clock-faces, and still more tired of seeing wooden images of the alleged
chamois skipping about wooden rocks, or lying upon them in family
groups, or peering alertly up from behind them. The first day, I would
have bought a hundred and fifty of these clocks if I had the money--and
I did buy three--but on the third day the disease had run its course,
I had convalesced, and was in the market once more--trying to sell.
However, I had no luck; which was just as well, for the things will be
pretty enough, no doubt, when I get them home.

For years my pet aversion had been the cuckoo clock; now here I was, at
last, right in the creature's home; so wherever I went that distressing
"HOO'hoo! HOO'hoo! HOO'hoo!" was always in my ears. For a nervous man,
this was a fine state of things. Some sounds are hatefuler than others,
but no sound is quite so inane, and silly, and aggravating as the
"HOO'hoo" of a cuckoo clock, I think. I bought one, and am carrying it
home to a certain person; for I have always said that if the opportunity
ever happened, I would do that man an ill turn. What I meant, was, that
I would break one of his legs, or something of that sort; but in
Lucerne I instantly saw that I could impair his mind. That would be more
lasting, and more satisfactory every way. So I bought the cuckoo clock;
and if I ever get home with it, he is "my meat," as they say in the
mines. I thought of another candidate--a book-reviewer whom I could name
if I wanted to--but after thinking it over, I didn't buy him a clock. I
couldn't injure his mind.

We visited the two long, covered wooden bridges which span the green and
brilliant Reuss just below where it goes plunging and hurrahing out
of the lake. These rambling, sway-backed tunnels are very attractive
things, with their alcoved outlooks upon the lovely and inspiriting
water. They contain two or three hundred queer old pictures, by old
Swiss masters--old boss sign-painters, who flourished before the
decadence of art.

The lake is alive with fishes, plainly visible to the eye, for the water
is very clear. The parapets in front of the hotels were usually fringed
with fishers of all ages. One day I thought I would stop and see a
fish caught. The result brought back to my mind, very forcibly, a
circumstance which I had not thought of before for twelve years. This
one:

THE MAN WHO PUT UP AT GADSBY'S

When my odd friend Riley and I were newspaper correspondents in
Washington, in the winter of '67, we were coming down Pennsylvania
Avenue one night, near midnight, in a driving storm of snow, when the
flash of a street-lamp fell upon a man who was eagerly tearing along in
the opposite direction. "This is lucky! You are Mr. Riley, ain't you?"

Riley was the most self-possessed and solemnly deliberate person in the
republic. He stopped, looked his man over from head to foot, and finally
said:

"I am Mr. Riley. Did you happen to be looking for me?"

"That's just what I was doing," said the man, joyously, "and it's the
biggest luck in the world that I've found you. My name is Lykins. I'm
one of the teachers of the high school--San Francisco. As soon as I
heard the San Francisco postmastership was vacant, I made up my mind to
get it--and here I am."

"Yes," said Riley, slowly, "as you have remarked ... Mr. Lykins ... here
you are. And have you got it?"

"Well, not exactly GOT it, but the next thing to it. I've brought a
petition, signed by the Superintendent of Public Instruction, and all
the teachers, and by more than two hundred other people. Now I want you,
if you'll be so good, to go around with me to the Pacific delegation,
for I want to rush this thing through and get along home."

"If the matter is so pressing, you will prefer that we visit the
delegation tonight," said Riley, in a voice which had nothing mocking in
it--to an unaccustomed ear.

"Oh, tonight, by all means! I haven't got any time to fool around. I
want their promise before I go to bed--I ain't the talking kind, I'm
the DOING kind!"

"Yes ... you've come to the right place for that. When did you arrive?"

"Just an hour ago."

"When are you intending to leave?"

"For New York tomorrow evening--for San Francisco next morning."

"Just so.... What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"DO! Why, I've got to go to the President with the petition and the
delegation, and get the appointment, haven't I?"

"Yes ... very true ... that is correct. And then what?"

"Executive session of the Senate at 2 P.M.--got to get the appointment
confirmed--I reckon you'll grant that?"

"Yes ... yes," said Riley, meditatively, "you are right again. Then
you take the train for New York in the evening, and the steamer for San
Francisco next morning?"

"That's it--that's the way I map it out!"

Riley considered a while, and then said:

"You couldn't stay ... a day ... well, say two days longer?"

"Bless your soul, no! It's not my style. I ain't a man to go fooling
around--I'm a man that DOES things, I tell you."

The storm was raging, the thick snow blowing in gusts. Riley stood
silent, apparently deep in a reverie, during a minute or more, then he
looked up and said:

"Have you ever heard about that man who put up at Gadsby's, once? ...
But I see you haven't."

He backed Mr. Lykins against an iron fence, buttonholed him, fastened
him with his eye, like the Ancient Mariner, and proceeded to unfold
his narrative as placidly and peacefully as if we were all stretched
comfortably in a blossomy summer meadow instead of being persecuted by a
wintry midnight tempest:

"I will tell you about that man. It was in Jackson's time. Gadsby's was
the principal hotel, then. Well, this man arrived from Tennessee
about nine o'clock, one morning, with a black coachman and a splendid
four-horse carriage and an elegant dog, which he was evidently fond
of and proud of; he drove up before Gadsby's, and the clerk and the
landlord and everybody rushed out to take charge of him, but he said,
'Never mind,' and jumped out and told the coachman to wait--said he
hadn't time to take anything to eat, he only had a little claim against
the government to collect, would run across the way, to the Treasury,
and fetch the money, and then get right along back to Tennessee, for he
was in considerable of a hurry.

"Well, about eleven o'clock that night he came back and ordered a bed
and told them to put the horses up--said he would collect the claim in
the morning. This was in January, you understand--January, 1834--the 3d
of January--Wednesday.

"Well, on the 5th of February, he sold the fine carriage, and bought
a cheap second-hand one--said it would answer just as well to take the
money home in, and he didn't care for style.

"On the 11th of August he sold a pair of the fine horses--said he'd
often thought a pair was better than four, to go over the rough mountain
roads with where a body had to be careful about his driving--and there
wasn't so much of his claim but he could lug the money home with a pair
easy enough.

"On the 13th of December he sold another horse--said two warn't
necessary to drag that old light vehicle with--in fact, one could snatch
it along faster than was absolutely necessary, now that it was good
solid winter weather and the roads in splendid condition.

"On the 17th of February, 1835, he sold the old carriage and bought a
cheap second-hand buggy--said a buggy was just the trick to skim along
mushy, slushy early spring roads with, and he had always wanted to try a
buggy on those mountain roads, anyway.

"On the 1st August he sold the buggy and bought the remains of an old
sulky--said he just wanted to see those green Tennesseans stare and gawk
when they saw him come a-ripping along in a sulky--didn't believe they'd
ever heard of a sulky in their lives.

"Well, on the 29th of August he sold his colored coachman--said he
didn't need a coachman for a sulky--wouldn't be room enough for two in
it anyway--and, besides, it wasn't every day that Providence sent a man
a fool who was willing to pay nine hundred dollars for such a third-rate
negro as that--been wanting to get rid of the creature for years, but
didn't like to THROW him away.

"Eighteen months later--that is to say, on the 15th of February,
1837--he sold the sulky and bought a saddle--said horseback-riding was
what the doctor had always recommended HIM to take, and dog'd if he
wanted to risk HIS neck going over those mountain roads on wheels in the
dead of winter, not if he knew himself.

"On the 9th of April he sold the saddle--said he wasn't going to risk
HIS life with any perishable saddle-girth that ever was made, over a
rainy, miry April road, while he could ride bareback and know and feel
he was safe--always HAD despised to ride on a saddle, anyway.

"On the 24th of April he sold his horse--said 'I'm just fifty-seven
today, hale and hearty--it would be a PRETTY howdy-do for me to be
wasting such a trip as that and such weather as this, on a horse, when
there ain't anything in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot through
the fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains, to a man that IS
a man--and I can make my dog carry my claim in a little bundle, anyway,
when it's collected. So tomorrow I'll be up bright and early, make my
little old collection, and mosey off to Tennessee, on my own hind legs,
with a rousing good-by to Gadsby's.'

"On the 22d of June he sold his dog--said 'Dern a dog, anyway, where
you're just starting off on a rattling bully pleasure tramp through the
summer woods and hills--perfect nuisance--chases the squirrels, barks
at everything, goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords--man
can't get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature--and I'd a blamed
sight ruther carry the claim myself, it's a mighty sight safer; a dog's
mighty uncertain in a financial way--always noticed it--well, GOOD-by,
boys--last call--I'm off for Tennessee with a good leg and a gay heart,
early in the morning.'"

There was a pause and a silence--except the noise of the wind and the
pelting snow. Mr. Lykins said, impatiently:

"Well?"

Riley said:

"Well,--that was thirty years ago."

"Very well, very well--what of it?"

"I'm great friends with that old patriarch. He comes every evening to
tell me good-by. I saw him an hour ago--he's off for Tennessee early
tomorrow morning--as usual; said he calculated to get his claim through
and be off before night-owls like me have turned out of bed. The tears
were in his eyes, he was so glad he was going to see his old Tennessee
and his friends once more."

Another silent pause. The stranger broke it:

"Is that all?"

"That is all."

"Well, for the TIME of night, and the KIND of night, it seems to me the
story was full long enough. But what's it all FOR?"

"Oh, nothing in particular."

"Well, where's the point of it?"

"Oh, there isn't any particular point to it. Only, if you are not in
TOO much of a hurry to rush off to San Francisco with that post-office
appointment, Mr. Lykins, I'd advise you to 'PUT UP AT GADSBY'S' for a
spell, and take it easy. Good-by. GOD bless you!"

So saying, Riley blandly turned on his heel and left the astonished
school-teacher standing there, a musing and motionless snow image
shining in the broad glow of the street-lamp.

He never got that post-office.

To go back to Lucerne and its fishers, I concluded, after about
nine hours' waiting, that the man who proposes to tarry till he sees
something hook one of those well-fed and experienced fishes will find
it wisdom to "put up at Gadsby's" and take it easy. It is likely that
a fish has not been caught on that lake pier for forty years; but no
matter, the patient fisher watches his cork there all the day long, just
the same, and seems to enjoy it. One may see the fisher-loafers just as
thick and contented and happy and patient all along the Seine at Paris,
but tradition says that the only thing ever caught there in modern times
is a thing they don't fish for at all--the recent dog and the translated
cat.



CHAPTER XXVII [I Spare an Awful Bore]

Close by the Lion of Lucerne is what they call the "Glacier Garden"--and
it is the only one in the world. It is on high ground. Four or five
years ago, some workmen who were digging foundations for a house came
upon this interesting relic of a long-departed age. Scientific men
perceived in it a confirmation of their theories concerning the glacial
period; so through their persuasions the little tract of ground was
bought and permanently protected against being built upon. The soil was
removed, and there lay the rasped and guttered track which the ancient
glacier had made as it moved along upon its slow and tedious journey.
This track was perforated by huge pot-shaped holes in the bed-rock,
formed by the furious washing-around in them of boulders by the
turbulent torrent which flows beneath all glaciers. These huge round
boulders still remain in the holes; they and the walls of the holes are
worn smooth by the long-continued chafing which they gave each other in
those old days. It took a mighty force to churn these big lumps of
stone around in that vigorous way. The neighboring country had a very
different shape, at that time--the valleys have risen up and become
hills, since, and the hills have become valleys. The boulders discovered
in the pots had traveled a great distance, for there is no rock like
them nearer than the distant Rhone Glacier.

For some days we were content to enjoy looking at the blue lake
Lucerne and at the piled-up masses of snow-mountains that border it all
around--an enticing spectacle, this last, for there is a strange and
fascinating beauty and charm about a majestic snow-peak with the sun
blazing upon it or the moonlight softly enriching it--but finally we
concluded to try a bit of excursioning around on a steamboat, and a dash
on foot at the Rigi. Very well, we had a delightful trip to Fluelen, on
a breezy, sunny day. Everybody sat on the upper deck, on benches,
under an awning; everybody talked, laughed, and exclaimed at the wonder
scenery; in truth, a trip on that lake is almost the perfection of
pleasuring. The mountains were a never-ceasing marvel. Sometimes they
rose straight up out of the lake, and towered aloft and overshadowed our
pygmy steamer with their prodigious bulk in the most impressive way. Not
snow-clad mountains, these, yet they climbed high enough toward the
sky to meet the clouds and veil their foreheads in them. They were not
barren and repulsive, but clothed in green, and restful and pleasant to
the eye. And they were so almost straight-up-and-down, sometimes, that
one could not imagine a man being able to keep his footing upon such a
surface, yet there are paths, and the Swiss people go up and down them
every day.

Sometimes one of these monster precipices had the slight inclination of
the huge ship-houses in dockyards--then high aloft, toward the sky,
it took a little stronger inclination, like that of a mansard roof--and
perched on this dizzy mansard one's eye detected little things like
martin boxes, and presently perceived that these were the dwellings of
peasants--an airy place for a home, truly. And suppose a peasant should
walk in his sleep, or his child should fall out of the front
yard?--the friends would have a tedious long journey down out of those
cloud-heights before they found the remains. And yet those far-away
homes looked ever so seductive, they were so remote from the troubled
world, they dozed in such an atmosphere of peace and dreams--surely no
one who has learned to live up there would ever want to live on a meaner
level.

We swept through the prettiest little curving arms of the lake, among
these colossal green walls, enjoying new delights, always, as the
stately panorama unfolded itself before us and rerolled and hid itself
behind us; and now and then we had the thrilling surprise of bursting
suddenly upon a tremendous white mass like the distant and dominating
Jungfrau, or some kindred giant, looming head and shoulders above a
tumbled waste of lesser Alps.

Once, while I was hungrily taking in one of these surprises, and doing
my best to get all I possibly could of it while it should last, I was
interrupted by a young and care-free voice:

"You're an American, I think--so'm I."

He was about eighteen, or possibly nineteen; slender and of medium
height; open, frank, happy face; a restless but independent eye; a snub
nose, which had the air of drawing back with a decent reserve from
the silky new-born mustache below it until it should be introduced; a
loosely hung jaw, calculated to work easily in the sockets. He wore a
low-crowned, narrow-brimmed straw hat, with a broad blue ribbon
around it which had a white anchor embroidered on it in front; nobby
short-tailed coat, pantaloons, vest, all trim and neat and up with the
fashion; red-striped stockings, very low-quarter patent-leather shoes,
tied with black ribbon; blue ribbon around his neck, wide-open collar;
tiny diamond studs; wrinkleless kids; projecting cuffs, fastened with
large oxidized silver sleeve-buttons, bearing the device of a dog's
face--English pug. He carries a slim cane, surmounted with an English
pug's head with red glass eyes. Under his arm he carried a German
grammar--Otto's. His hair was short, straight, and smooth, and presently
when he turned his head a moment, I saw that it was nicely parted
behind. He took a cigarette out of a dainty box, stuck it into a
meerschaum holder which he carried in a morocco case, and reached for my
cigar. While he was lighting, I said:

"Yes--I am an American."

"I knew it--I can always tell them. What ship did you come over in?"

"HOLSATIA."

"We came in the BATAVIA--Cunard, you know. What kind of passage did you
have?"

"Tolerably rough."

"So did we. Captain said he'd hardly ever seen it rougher. Where are you
from?"

"New England."

"So'm I. I'm from New Bloomfield. Anybody with you?"

"Yes--a friend."

"Our whole family's along. It's awful slow, going around alone--don't
you think so?"

"Rather slow."

"Ever been over here before?"

"Yes."

"I haven't. My first trip. But we've been all around--Paris and
everywhere. I'm to enter Harvard next year. Studying German all the
time, now. Can't enter till I know German. I know considerable French--I
get along pretty well in Paris, or anywhere where they speak French.
What hotel are you stopping at?"

"Schweitzerhof."

"No! is that so? I never see you in the reception-room. I go to
the reception-room a good deal of the time, because there's so many
Americans there. I make lots of acquaintances. I know an American as
soon as I see him--and so I speak to him and make his acquaintance. I
like to be always making acquaintances--don't you?"

"Lord, yes!"

"You see it breaks up a trip like this, first rate. I never got bored on
a trip like this, if I can make acquaintances and have somebody to
talk to. But I think a trip like this would be an awful bore, if a body
couldn't find anybody to get acquainted with and talk to on a trip like
this. I'm fond of talking, ain't you?

"Passionately."

"Have you felt bored, on this trip?"

"Not all the time, part of it."

"That's it!--you see you ought to go around and get acquainted, and
talk. That's my way. That's the way I always do--I just go 'round,
'round, 'round and talk, talk, talk--I never get bored. You been up the
Rigi yet?"

"No."

"Going?"

"I think so."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"I don't know. Is there more than one?"

"Three. You stop at the Schreiber--you'll find it full of Americans.
What ship did you say you came over in?"

"CITY OF ANTWERP."

"German, I guess. You going to Geneva?"

"Yes."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"Hôtel de l'Écu de Génève."

"Don't you do it! No Americans there! You stop at one of those big
hotels over the bridge--they're packed full of Americans."

"But I want to practice my Arabic."

"Good gracious, do you speak Arabic?"

"Yes--well enough to get along."

"Why, hang it, you won't get along in Geneva--THEY don't speak Arabic,
they speak French. What hotel are you stopping at here?"

"Hotel Pension-Beaurivage."

"Sho, you ought to stop at the Schweitzerhof. Didn't you know the
Schweitzerhof was the best hotel in Switzerland?--look at your
Baedeker."

"Yes, I know--but I had an idea there warn't any Americans there."

"No Americans! Why, bless your soul, it's just alive with them! I'm in
the great reception-room most all the time. I make lots of acquaintances
there. Not as many as I did at first, because now only the new ones stop
in there--the others go right along through. Where are you from?"

"Arkansaw."

"Is that so? I'm from New England--New Bloomfield's my town when I'm at
home. I'm having a mighty good time today, ain't you?"

"Divine."

"That's what I call it. I like this knocking around, loose and easy, and
making acquaintances and talking. I know an American, soon as I see him;
so I go and speak to him and make his acquaintance. I ain't ever bored,
on a trip like this, if I can make new acquaintances and talk. I'm awful
fond of talking when I can get hold of the right kind of a person, ain't
you?"

"I prefer it to any other dissipation."

"That's my notion, too. Now some people like to take a book and sit
down and read, and read, and read, or moon around yawping at the lake or
these mountains and things, but that ain't my way; no, sir, if they like
it, let 'em do it, I don't object; but as for me, talking's what _I_
like. You been up the Rigi?"

"Yes."

"What hotel did you stop at?"

"Schreiber."

"That's the place!--I stopped there too. FULL of Americans, WASN'T it?
It always is--always is. That's what they say. Everybody says that. What
ship did you come over in?"

"VILLE DE PARIS."

"French, I reckon. What kind of a passage did ... excuse me a minute,
there's some Americans I haven't seen before."

And away he went. He went uninjured, too--I had the murderous impulse to
harpoon him in the back with my alpenstock, but as I raised the weapon
the disposition left me; I found I hadn't the heart to kill him, he was
such a joyous, innocent, good-natured numbskull.

Half an hour later I was sitting on a bench inspecting, with strong
interest, a noble monolith which we were skimming by--a monolith not
shaped by man, but by Nature's free great hand--a massy pyramidal rock
eighty feet high, devised by Nature ten million years ago against the
day when a man worthy of it should need it for his monument. The time
came at last, and now this grand remembrancer bears Schiller's name in
huge letters upon its face. Curiously enough, this rock was not degraded
or defiled in any way. It is said that two years ago a stranger let
himself down from the top of it with ropes and pulleys, and painted all
over it, in blue letters bigger than those in Schiller's name, these
words:

"Try Sozodont;" "Buy Sun Stove Polish;" "Helmbold's Buchu;" "Try
Benzaline for the Blood."

He was captured and it turned out that he was an American. Upon his
trial the judge said to him:

"You are from a land where any insolent that wants to is privileged
to profane and insult Nature, and, through her, Nature's God, if by
so doing he can put a sordid penny in his pocket. But here the case is
different. Because you are a foreigner and ignorant, I will make your
sentence light; if you were a native I would deal strenuously with
you. Hear and obey:--You will immediately remove every trace of your
offensive work from the Schiller monument; you pay a fine of ten
thousand francs; you will suffer two years' imprisonment at hard labor;
you will then be horsewhipped, tarred and feathered, deprived of your
ears, ridden on a rail to the confines of the canton, and banished
forever. The severest penalties are omitted in your case--not as a grace
to you, but to that great republic which had the misfortune to give you
birth."

The steamer's benches were ranged back to back across the deck. My back
hair was mingling innocently with the back hair of a couple of
ladies. Presently they were addressed by some one and I overheard this
conversation:

"You are Americans, I think? So'm I."

"Yes--we are Americans."

"I knew it--I can always tell them. What ship did you come over in?"

"CITY OF CHESTER."

"Oh, yes--Inman line. We came in the BATAVIA--Cunard you know. What kind
of a passage did you have?"

"Pretty fair."

"That was luck. We had it awful rough. Captain said he'd hardly seen it
rougher. Where are you from?"