The chamois is a black or brown creature no bigger than a mustard seed; you do not have to go after it, it comes after you; it arrives in vast herds3 and skips and scampers4 all over your body, inside your clothes; thus it is not shy, but extremely sociable5; it is not afraid of man, on the contrary, it will attack him; its bite is not dangerous, but neither is it pleasant; its activity has not been overstated—if you try to put your finger on it, it will skip a thousand times its own length at one jump, and no eye is sharp enough to see where it lights. A great deal of romantic nonsense has been written about the Swiss chamois and the perils6 of hunting it, whereas the truth is that even women and children hunt it, and fearlessly; indeed, everybody hunts it; the hunting is going on all the time, day and night, in bed and out of it. It is poetic7 foolishness to hunt it with a gun; very few people do that; there is not one man in a million who can hit it with a gun. It is much easier to catch it than it is to shoot it, and only the experienced chamois-hunter can do either. Another common piece of exaggeration is that about the “scarcity” of the chamois. It is the reverse of scarce. Droves of one hundred million chamois are not unusual in the Swiss hotels. Indeed, they are so numerous as to be a great pest. The romancers always dress up the chamois-hunter in a fanciful and picturesque8 costume, whereas the best way to hunt this game is to do it without any costume at all.
The article of commerce called chamois-skin is another fraud; nobody could skin a chamois, it is too small. The creature is a humbug9 in every way, and everything which has been written about it is sentimental10 exaggeration. It was no pleasure to me to find the chamois out, for he had been one of my pet illusions; all my life it had been my dream to see him in his native wilds some day, and engage in the adventurous11 sport of chasing him from cliff to cliff. It is no pleasure to me to expose him, now, and destroy the reader’s delight in him and respect for him, but still it must be done, for when an honest writer discovers an imposition it is his simple duty to strip it bare and hurl12 it down from its place of honor, no matter who suffers by it; any other course would render him unworthy of the public confidence.
Lucerne is a charming place. It begins at the water’s edge, with a fringe of hotels, and scrambles13 up and spreads itself over two or three sharp hills in a crowded, disorderly, but picturesque way, offering to the eye a heaped-up confusion of red roofs, quaint14 gables, dormer windows, toothpick steeples, with here and there a bit of ancient embattled wall bending itself over the ridges15, worm-fashion, and here and there an old square tower of heavy masonry16. And also here and there a town clock with only one hand—a hand which stretches across the dial and has no joint17 in it; such a clock helps out the picture, but you cannot tell the time of day by it. Between the curving line of hotels and the lake is a broad avenue with lamps and a double rank of low shade trees. The lake-front is walled with masonry like a pier18, and has a railing, to keep people from walking overboard. All day long the vehicles dash along the avenue, and nurses, children, and tourists sit in the shade of the trees, or lean on the railing and watch the schools of fishes darting19 about in the clear water, or gaze out over the lake at the stately border of snow-hooded mountain peaks. Little pleasure steamers, black with people, are coming and going all the time; and everywhere one sees young girls and young men paddling about in fanciful rowboats, or skimming along by the help of sails when there is any wind. The front rooms of the hotels have little railed balconies, where one may take his private luncheon20 in calm, cool comfort and look down upon this busy and pretty scene and enjoy it without having to do any of the work connected with it.
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 lugs21 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 trophy22; his name is burned upon it; and if he has climbed a hill, or jumped a brook23, 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 bonanza24 could not purchase it after his great deeds have been inscribed25 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 horde26 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’h?te at the great Schweitzerhof furnished a mighty27 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 pretense28 of being in earnest:
“Well, there is one way to settle the matter—I will go and ask her."
Harris said, sarcastically29, “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 intrepid30 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 vaguely31 remember the girl’s face, now, but I had no idea where I had seen it before, or what name 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 fervently32 wished it would come back—but my memory was a blank. The wise way would have been to frankly33 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 mire34, hoping for a chance clue but never getting one. The Unrecognizable continued, with vivacity35:
“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?”
“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 eccentricities37. 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:
“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—”
“Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes40, 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 kindly41 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.”
“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 ruminating43 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 risky44. 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 ordeal45, 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 trepidation46:
“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.
“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 Eighth. 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 spiked48 my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely49 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 sweeping50 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 changed 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 comeliness51 to this fine boy. There—if that speech moves you any, let’s fly the flag of truce52, with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it.”
All of which was agreed to and accomplished53, 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 colossal54 ignorance and simplicity55 can do. The idea of your going and intruding56 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 abrupt57.”
“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, undoubtedly58 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 accounting59 for their facile docility60. 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 delicacy61 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 reverent62 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 democrat63, 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’ skulls64 as high as the Strasburg spire65 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 asylum66—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 scorched67 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.
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1
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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scampers
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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scrambles
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| n.抢夺( scramble的名词复数 )v.快速爬行( scramble的第三人称单数 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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lugs
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| 钎柄 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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bonanza
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| n.富矿带，幸运，带来好运的事 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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