A Tramp Abroad (Penguin ed.)

by Mark Twain

  “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 will pay a fine of ten thousand francs; you will suffer two years’ imprisonment at hard labor; you will then be horse-whipped, tarred and feathered, deprived of your ears, ridden on a rail to the confines of the canton, and banished forever. The severer 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.”

  “O 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 ever seen it rougher. Where are you from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “So’m I. No—I didn’t mean that; I’m from New England. New Bloomfield’s my place. These your children?—belong to both of you?”

  “Only to one of us; they are mine; my friend is not married.”

  “Single, I reckon? So’m I. Are you two ladies traveling alone?”

  “No,—my husband is with us.”

  “Our whole family’s along. It’s awful slow, going around alone,—don’t you think so?”

  “I suppose it must be.”

  “Hi, there’s Mount Pilatus coming in sight again. Named after Pontius Pilate, you know, that shot the apple off of William Tell’s head. Guide-book tells all about it, they say. I didn’t read it—an American told me. I don’t read when I’m knocking around like this, having a good time. Did you ever see the chapel where William Tell used to preach?”

  “I did not know he ever preached there.”

  “O, yes he did. That American told me so. He don’t ever shut up his guide-book. He knows more about this lake than the fishes in it. Besides, they call it ‘Tell’s Chapel’—you know that yourself. You ever been over here before?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t. It’s 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. This book’s Otto’s Grammar. It’s a mighty good book to get the ich habe gehabt haben’s out of. But I don’t really study when I’m knocking around this way. If the notion takes me, I just run over my little old ich habe gehabt, du hast gehabt, er hat gehabt, wir haben gehabt, ihr habet gehabt, sie haben gehabt,—kind of ‘Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep’ fashion, you know, and after that, maybe I don’t buckle to it again for three days. It’s awful undermining to the intellect, German is; you want to take it in small doses, or first you know your brains all run together, and you feel them sloshing around in your head same as so much drawn butter. But French is different; French ain’t anything. I ain’t any more afraid of French than a tramp’s afraid of pie; I can rattle off my little j’aì, tu as, il a, and the rest of it, just as easy as a-b-c. I get along pretty well in Paris, or anywhere where they speak French. What hotel you stopping at?”

  “The Schweitzerhof.”

  “No! is that so? I never see you in the big reception room. I go in there a good deal of the time, because there’s so many Americans there. I make lots of acquaintances. You been up the Rigi yet?”

  “No.”

  “Going?”

  “We think of it.”

  “What hotel you going to stop at?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, then, you stop at the Schreiber,—it’s full of Americans. What ship did you come over in?”

  “City of Chester.”

  “O, yes, I remember I asked you that before. But I always ask everybody what ship they came over in, and so sometimes I forget and ask again. You going to Geneva?”

  “Yes.”

  “What hotel you going to stop at?”

  “We expect to stop in a pension.”

  “I don’t hardly believe you’ll like that: there’s very few Americans in the pensions. What hotel are you stopping at here?”

  “The Schweitzerhof.”

  “O, yes, I asked you that before, too. But I always ask everybody what hotel they’re stopping at, and so I’ve got my head all mixed up with hotels. But it makes talk, and I love to talk. It refreshes me up so,—don’t it you—on a trip like this?”

  “Yes,—sometimes.”

  “Well, it does me, too. As long as I’m talking I never feel bored,—ain’t that the way with you?”

  “Yes—generally. But there are exceptions to the rule.”

  “O, of course. I don’t care to talk to everybody, myself. If a person starts in to jabber-jabber-jabber about scenery, and history, and pictures, and all sorts of tiresome things, I get the fan-tods mighty soon. I say ‘Well, I must be going now,—hope I’ll see you again’—and then I take a walk. Where you from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Why, bother it all, I asked you that before, too. Have you seen the Lion of Lucerne?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Nor I, either. But the man who told me about Mount Pilatus says it’s one of the things to see. It’s twenty-eight feet long. It don’t seem reasonable, but he said so, anyway. He saw it yesterday; said it was dying, then, so I reckon it’s dead by this time. But that ain’t any matter, of course they’ll stuff it. Did you say the children are yours,—or hers?”

  “Mine.”

  “O, so you did. Are you going up the . . . . . . no, I asked you that. What ship . . . . . . . no, I asked you that, too. What hotel are you . . . . . . . no, you told me that. Let me see . . . . . . um . . . . . . O, what kind of a voy . . . . . . . . no, we’ve been over that ground, too. Um . . . . . . um . . . . . . well, I believe that is all. Bonjour—I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, ladies. Guten Tag.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE RIGI-KULM IS an imposing Alpine mass, 6,000 feet high, which stands by itself, and commands a mighty prospect of blue lakes, green valleys, and snowy mountains—a compact and magnificent picture three hundred miles in circumference. The ascent is made by rail, or horseback, or on foot, as one may prefer. I and my agent panoplied ourselves in walking costume, one bright morning, and started down the lake on the steamboat; we got ashore at the village of Wäggis, three quarters of an hour distant from Lucerne. This village is at the foot of the mountain.

  We were soon tramping leisurely up the leafy mule-path, and then the talk began to flow, as usual. It was twelve o’clock noon, and a breezy, cloudless day; the ascent was gradual, and the glimpses, from under the curtaining boughs, of blue water, and tiny sail boats, and beetling cliffs, were as charming as glimpses of dreamland. All the circumstances were perfect—and the anticipations, too, for we should soon be enjoying, for the first time, that wonderful spectacle, an Alpine sunrise—the object of our journey. There was (apparently) no real need to hurry, for the guide-book made the walking distance from Wäggis to the summit only three hours and a quarter. I say “apparently,” because the guide-book had already fooled us once,—about the distance from Allerheiligen to Oppenau,—and for aught I k
new it might be getting ready to fool us again. We were only certain as to the altitudes,—we calculated to find out for ourselves how many hours it is from the bottom to the top. The summit is 6,000 feet above the sea, but only 4,500 feet above the lake. When we had walked half an hour, we were fairly into the swing and humor of the undertaking, so we cleared for action; that is to say, we got a boy whom we met to carry our alpenstocks and satchels and overcoats and things for us; that left us free for business.

  I suppose we must have stopped oftener to stretch out on the grass in the shade and take a bit of a smoke than this boy was used to, for presently he asked if it had been our idea to hire him by the job, or by the year? We told him he could move along if he was in a hurry. He said he wasn’t in such a very particular hurry, but he wanted to get to the top while he was young. We told him to clear out, then, and leave the things at the uppermost hotel and say we should be along presently. He said he would secure us a hotel if he could, but if they were all full he would ask them to build another one and hurry up and get the paint and plaster dry against we arrived. Still gently chaffing us he pushed ahead, up the trail, and soon disappeared. By six o’clock we were pretty high up in the air, and the view of lake and mountains had greatly grown in breadth and interest. We halted a while at a little public house, where we had bread and cheese and a quart or two of fresh milk, out on the porch, with the big panorama all before us,—and then moved on again.

  Ten minutes afterward we met a hot, red-faced man plunging down the mountain, with mighty strides, swinging his alpenstock ahead of him and taking a grip on the ground with its iron point to support these big strides. He stopped, fanned himself with his hat, swabbed the perspiration from his face and neck with a red handkerchief, panted a moment or two, and asked how far it was to Wäggis. I said three hours. He looked surprised, and said,—

  “Why, it seems as if I could toss a biscuit into the lake from here, it’s so close by. Is that an inn, there?”

  I said it was.

  “Well,” said he, “I can’t stand another three hours, I’ve had enough for to-day; I’ll take a bed there.”

  I asked,—

  “Are we nearly to the top?”

  “Nearly to the top! Why, bless your soul, you haven’t really started, yet.”

  I said we would put up at the inn, too. So we turned back and ordered a hot supper, and had quite a jolly evening of it with this Englishman.

  The German landlady gave us neat rooms and nice beds, and when I and my agent turned in, it was with the resolution to be up early and make the utmost of our first Alpine sunrise. But of course we were dead tired, and slept like policemen; so when we awoke in the morning and ran to the window it was already too late, because it was half past eleven. It was a sharp disappointment. However, we ordered breakfast and told the landlady to call the Englishman, but she said he was already up and off at daybreak,—and swearing mad about something or other. We could not find out what the matter was. He had asked the landlady the altitude of her place above the level of the lake, and she had told him fourteen hundred and ninety-five feet. That was all that was said; then he lost his temper. He said that between ——fools and guide-books, a man could acquire ignorance enough in twenty-four hours in a country like this to last him a year. Harris believed our boy had been loading him up with misinformation; and this was probably the case, for his epithet described that boy to a dot.

  We got under way about the turn of noon, and pulled out for the summit again, with a fresh and vigorous step. When we had gone about two hundred yards, and stopped to rest, I glanced to the left while I was lighting my pipe, and in the distance detected a long worm of black smoke crawling lazily up the steep mountain. Of course that was the locomotive. We propped ourselves on our elbows at once, to gaze, for we had never seen a mountain railway yet. Presently we could make out the train. It seemed incredible that that thing should creep straight up a sharp slant like the roof of a house,—but there it was, and it was doing that very miracle.

  In the course of a couple of hours we reached a fine breezy altitude where the little shepherd-huts had big stones all over their roofs to hold them down to the earth when the great storms rage. The country was wild and rocky about here, but there were plenty of trees, plenty of moss, and grass.

  Away off on the opposite shore of the lake we could see some villages, and now for the first time we could observe the real difference between their proportions and those of the giant mountains at whose feet they slept. When one is in one of those villages it seems spacious, and its houses seem high and not out of proportion to the mountain that overhangs them—but from our altitude, what a change! The mountains were bigger and grander than ever, as they stood there thinking their solemn thoughts with their heads in the drifting clouds, but the villages at their feet,—when the painstaking eye could trace them up and find them,—were so reduced, so almost invisible, and lay so flat against the ground, that the exactest simile I can devise is to compare them to ant-deposits of granulated dirt over-shadowed by the huge bulk of a cathedral. The steam-boats skimming along under the stupendous precipices were diminished by distance to the daintiest little toys, the sail-boats and row-boats to shallops proper for fairies that keep house in the cups of lilies and ride to court on the backs of bumble-bees.

  Presently we came upon half a dozen sheep nibbling grass in the spray of a stream of clear water that sprang from a rock wall a hundred feet high, and all at once our ears were startled with a melodious “Lul . . . l . . . . l . . . . lul-lul-lahee-o-o-o!” pealing joyously from a near but invisible source, and recognized that we were hearing for the first time the famous Alpine jodel in its own native wilds. And we recognized, also, that it was that sort of quaint commingling of baritone and falsetto which at home we call “Tyrolese warbling.”

  The jodling (pronounced yodling,—emphasis on the o,) continued, and was very pleasant and inspiriting to hear. Now the jodler appeared,—a shepherd boy of sixteen,—and in our gladness and gratitude we gave him a franc to jodel some more. So he jodeled, and we listened. We moved on, presently, and he generously jodeled us out of sight. After about fifteen minutes we came across another shepherd boy who was jodling, and gave him half a franc to keep it up. He also jodled us out of sight. After that, we found a jodler every ten minutes; we gave the first one eight cents, the second one six cents, the third one four, the fourth one a penny, contributed nothing to Nos. 5, 6, and 7, and during the remainder of the day hired the rest of the jodlers, at a franc apiece, not to jodel any more. There is somewhat too much of this jodling in the Alps.

  About the middle of the afternoon we passed through a prodigious natural gateway called the Felsenthor, formed by two enormous upright rocks, with a third lying across the top. There was a very attractive little hotel close by, but our energies were not conquered yet, so we went on.

  Three hours afterward we came to the railway track. It was planted straight up the mountain with the slant of a ladder that leans against a house, and it seemed to us that a man would need good nerves who proposed to travel up it or down it either.

  During the latter part of the afternoon we cooled our roasting interiors with ice-cold water from clear streams, the only really satisfying water we had tasted since we left home, for at the hotels on the continent they merely give you a tumbler of ice to soak your water in, and that only modifies its hotness, doesn’t make it cold. Water can only be made cold enough for summer comfort by being prepared in a refrigerator or a closed ice-pitcher. Europeans say ice water impairs digestion. How do they know?—they never drink any.

  At ten minutes past six we reached the Kaltbad station, where there is a spacious hotel with great verandahs which command a majestic expanse of lake and mountain scenery. We were pretty well fagged out, now, but as we did not wish to miss the Alpine sunrise, we got through with our dinner as quickly as possible and hurried off to bed. It was unspeakably comfortable to stretch our weary limbs between the cool damp sheets. And how we did sle
ep!—for there is no opiate like Alpine pedestrianism.

  In the morning we both awoke and leaped out of bed at the same instant and ran and stripped aside the window curtains; but we suffered a bitter disappointment again: it was already half past three in the afternoon.

  We dressed sullenly and in ill spirits, each accusing the other of over-sleeping. Harris said if we had brought the courier along, as we ought to have done, we should not have missed these sunrises. I said he knew very well that one of us would have had to sit up and wake the courier; and I added that we were having trouble enough to take care of ourselves, on this climb, without having to take care of a courier besides.

  During breakfast our spirits came up a little, since we found by the guide-book that in the hotels on the summit the tourist is not left to trust to luck for his sunrise, but is roused betimes by a man who goes through the halls with a great Alpine horn, blowing blasts that would raise the dead. And there was another consoling thing: the guide-book said that up there on the summit the guests did not wait to dress much, but seized a red bed-blanket and sailed out arrayed like an Indian. This was good; this would be romantic; two hundred and fifty people grouped on the windy summit, with their hair flying and their red blankets flapping, in the solemn presence of the snowy ranges and the messenger splendors of the coming sun, would be a striking and memorable spectacle. So it was good luck, not ill luck, that we had missed those other sunrises.