The table d’h?te was served by waitresses dressed in the quaint2 and comely3 costume of the Swiss peasants. This consists of a simple gros de laine, trimmed with ashes of roses, with overskirt of scare bleu ventre saint gris, cut bias4 on the off-side, with facings of petit polonaise and narrow insertions of pate5 de foie gras backstitched to the mise en sce`ne in the form of a jeu d’esprit. It gives to the wearer a singularly piquant6 and alluring7 aspect.
One of these waitresses, a woman of forty, had side-whiskers reaching half-way down her jaws8. They were two fingers broad, dark in color, pretty thick, and the hairs were an inch long. One sees many women on the continent with quite conspicuous9 mustaches, but this was the only woman I saw who had reached the dignity of whiskers.
After dinner the guests of both sexes distributed themselves about the front porches and the ornamental10 grounds belonging to the hotel, to enjoy the cool air; but, as the twilight11 deepened toward darkness, they gathered themselves together in that saddest and solemnest and most constrained12 of all places, the great blank drawing-room which is the chief feature of all continental13 summer hotels. There they grouped themselves about, in couples and threes, and mumbled14 in bated voices, and looked timid and homeless and forlorn.
There was a small piano in this room, a clattery, wheezy, asthmatic thing, certainly the very worst miscarriage15 in the way of a piano that the world has seen. In turn, five or six dejected and homesick ladies approached it doubtingly, gave it a single inquiring thump16, and retired17 with the lockjaw. But the boss of that instrument was to come, nevertheless; and from my own country—from Arkansaw.
She was a brand-new bride, innocent, girlish, happy in herself and her grave and worshiping stripling of a husband; she was about eighteen, just out of school, free from affectations, unconscious of that passionless multitude around her; and the very first time she smote18 that old wreck19 one recognized that it had met its destiny. Her stripling brought an armful of aged20 sheet-music from their room—for this bride went “heeled,” as you might say—and bent21 himself lovingly over and got ready to turn the pages.
The bride fetched a swoop22 with her fingers from one end of the keyboard to the other, just to get her bearings, as it were, and you could see the congregation set their teeth with the agony of it. Then, without any more preliminaries, she turned on all the horrors of the “Battle of Prague,” that venerable shivaree, and waded23 chin-deep in the blood of the slain24. She made a fair and honorable average of two false notes in every five, but her soul was in arms and she never stopped to correct. The audience stood it with pretty fair grit25 for a while, but when the cannonade waxed hotter and fiercer, and the discord26 average rose to four in five, the procession began to move. A few stragglers held their ground ten minutes longer, but when the girl began to wring27 the true inwardness out of the “cries of the wounded,” they struck their colors and retired in a kind of panic.
There never was a completer victory; I was the only non-combatant left on the field. I would not have deserted28 my countrywoman anyhow, but indeed I had no desires in that direction. None of us like mediocrity, but we all reverence29 perfection. This girl’s music was perfection in its way; it was the worst music that had ever been achieved on our planet by a mere30 human being.
I moved up close, and never lost a strain. When she got through, I asked her to play it again. She did it with a pleased alacrity31 and a heightened enthusiasm. She made it all discords32, this time. She got an amount of anguish33 into the cries of the wounded that shed a new light on human suffering. She was on the war-path all the evening. All the time, crowds of people gathered on the porches and pressed their noses against the windows to look and marvel34, but the bravest never ventured in. The bride went off satisfied and happy with her young fellow, when her appetite was finally gorged35, and the tourists swarmed36 in again.
What a change has come over Switzerland, and in fact all Europe, during this century! Seventy or eighty years ago Napoleon was the only man in Europe who could really be called a traveler; he was the only man who had devoted37 his attention to it and taken a powerful interest in it; he was the only man who had traveled extensively; but now everybody goes everywhere; and Switzerland, and many other regions which were unvisited and unknown remotenesses a hundred years ago, are in our days a buzzing hive of restless strangers every summer. But I digress.
In the morning, when we looked out of our windows, we saw a wonderful sight. Across the valley, and apparently38 quite neighborly and close at hand, the giant form of the Jungfrau rose cold and white into the clear sky, beyond a gateway39 in the nearer highlands. It reminded me, somehow, of one of those colossal40 billows which swells41 suddenly up beside one’s ship, at sea, sometimes, with its crest42 and shoulders snowy white, and the rest of its noble proportions streaked43 downward with creamy foam44.
I do not regard this as one of my finished works, in fact I do not rank it among my Works at all; it is only a study; it is hardly more than what one might call a sketch. Other artists have done me the grace to admire it; but I am severe in my judgments46 of my own pictures, and this one does not move me.
It was hard to believe that that lofty wooded rampart on the left which so overtops the Jungfrau was not actually the higher of the two, but it was not, of course. It is only two or three thousand feet high, and of course has no snow upon it in summer, whereas the Jungfrau is not much shorter of fourteen thousand feet high and therefore that lowest verge47 of snow on her side, which seems nearly down to the valley level, is really about seven thousand feet higher up in the air than the summit of that wooded rampart. It is the distance that makes the deception48. The wooded height is but four or five miles removed from us, but the Jungfrau is four or five times that distance away.
Walking down the street of shops, in the fore-noon, I was attracted by a large picture, carved, frame and all, from a single block of chocolate-colored wood. There are people who know everything. Some of these had told us that continental shopkeepers always raise their prices on English and Americans. Many people had told us it was expensive to buy things through a courier, whereas I had supposed it was just the reverse. When I saw this picture, I conjectured49 that it was worth more than the friend I proposed to buy it for would like to pay, but still it was worth while to inquire; so I told the courier to step in and ask the price, as if he wanted it for himself; I told him not to speak in English, and above all not to reveal the fact that he was a courier. Then I moved on a few yards, and waited.
The courier came presently and reported the price. I said to myself, “It is a hundred francs too much,” and so dismissed the matter from my mind. But in the afternoon I was passing that place with Harris, and the picture attracted me again. We stepped in, to see how much higher broken German would raise the price. The shopwoman named a figure just a hundred francs lower than the courier had named. This was a pleasant surprise. I said I would take it. After I had given directions as to where it was to be shipped, the shopwoman said, appealingly:
“If you please, do not let your courier know you bought it.”
This was an unexpected remark. I said:
“What makes you think I have a courier?”
“Ah, that is very simple; he told me himself.”
“He was very thoughtful. But tell me—why did you charge him more than you are charging me?”
“That is very simple, also: I do not have to pay you a percentage.”
“Oh, I begin to see. You would have had to pay the courier a percentage.”
“Undoubtedly. The courier always has his percentage. In this case it would have been a hundred francs.”
“Then the tradesman does not pay a part of it—the purchaser pays all of it?”
“There are occasions when the tradesman and the courier agree upon a price which is twice or thrice the value of the article, then the two divide, and both get a percentage.”
“I see. But it seems to me that the purchaser does all the paying, even then.”
“Oh, to be sure! It goes without saying.”
“But I have bought this picture myself; therefore why shouldn’t the courier know it?”
“Ah, indeed it would take all my little profit! He would come and demand his hundred francs, and I should have to pay.”
“He has not done the buying. You could refuse.”
“I could not dare to refuse. He would never bring travelers here again. More than that, he would denounce me to the other couriers, they would divert custom from me, and my business would be injured.”
I went away in a thoughtful frame of mind. I began to see why a courier could afford to work for fifty-five dollars a month and his fares. A month or two later I was able to understand why a courier did not have to pay any board and lodging51, and why my hotel bills were always larger when I had him with me than when I left him behind, somewhere, for a few days.
Another thing was also explained, now, apparently. In one town I had taken the courier to the bank to do the translating when I drew some money. I had sat in the reading-room till the transaction was finished. Then a clerk had brought the money to me in person, and had been exceedingly polite, even going so far as to precede me to the door and holding it open for me and bow me out as if I had been a distinguished52 personage. It was a new experience. Exchange had been in my favor ever since I had been in Europe, but just that one time. I got simply the face of my draft, and no extra francs, whereas I had expected to get quite a number of them. This was the first time I had ever used the courier at the bank. I had suspected something then, and as long as he remained with me afterward53 I managed bank matters by myself.
Still, if I felt that I could afford the tax, I would never travel without a courier, for a good courier is a convenience whose value cannot be estimated in dollars and cents. Without him, travel is a bitter harassment54, a purgatory55 of little exasperating56 annoyances57, a ceaseless and pitiless punishment—I mean to an irascible man who has no business capacity and is confused by details.
Without a courier, travel hasn’t a ray of pleasure in it, anywhere; but with him it is a continuous and unruffled delight. He is always at hand, never has to be sent for; if your bell is not answered promptly—and it seldom is—you have only to open the door and speak, the courier will hear, and he will have the order attended to or raise an insurrection. You tell him what day you will start, and whither you are going—leave all the rest to him. You need not inquire about trains, or fares, or car changes, or hotels, or anything else. At the proper time he will put you in a cab or an omnibus, and drive you to the train or the boat; he has packed your luggage and transferred it, he has paid all the bills. Other people have preceded you half an hour to scramble58 for impossible places and lose their tempers, but you can take your time; the courier has secured your seats for you, and you can occupy them at your leisure.
At the station, the crowd mash59 one another to pulp60 in the effort to get the weigher’s attention to their trunks; they dispute hotly with these tyrants61, who are cool and indifferent; they get their baggage billets, at last, and then have another squeeze and another rage over the disheartening business of trying to get them recorded and paid for, and still another over the equally disheartening business of trying to get near enough to the ticket office to buy a ticket; and now, with their tempers gone to the dogs, they must stand penned up and packed together, laden62 with wraps and satchels63 and shawl-straps, with the weary wife and babies, in the waiting-room, till the doors are thrown open—and then all hands make a grand final rush to the train, find it full, and have to stand on the platform and fret64 until some more cars are put on. They are in a condition to kill somebody by this time. Meantime, you have been sitting in your car, smoking, and observing all this misery65 in the extremest comfort.
On the journey the guard is polite and watchful—won’t allow anybody to get into your compartment66—tells them you are just recovering from the small-pox and do not like to be disturbed. For the courier has made everything right with the guard. At way-stations the courier comes to your compartment to see if you want a glass of water, or a newspaper, or anything; at eating-stations he sends luncheon67 out to you, while the other people scramble and worry in the dining-rooms. If anything breaks about the car you are in, and a station-master proposes to pack you and your agent into a compartment with strangers, the courier reveals to him confidentially68 that you are a French duke born deaf and dumb, and the official comes and makes affable signs that he has ordered a choice car to be added to the train for you.
At custom-houses the multitude file tediously through, hot and irritated, and look on while the officers burrow69 into the trunks and make a mess of everything; but you hand your keys to the courier and sit still. Perhaps you arrive at your destination in a rain-storm at ten at night—you generally do. The multitude spend half an hour verifying their baggage and getting it transferred to the omnibuses; but the courier puts you into a vehicle without a moment’s loss of time, and when you reach your hotel you find your rooms have been secured two or three days in advance, everything is ready, you can go at once to bed. Some of those other people will have to drift around to two or three hotels, in the rain, before they find accommodations.
I have not set down half of the virtues70 that are vested in a good courier, but I think I have set down a sufficiency of them to show that an irritable71 man who can afford one and does not employ him is not a wise economist72. My courier was the worst one in Europe, yet he was a good deal better than none at all. It could not pay him to be a better one than he was, because I could not afford to buy things through him. He was a good enough courier for the small amount he got out of his service. Yes, to travel with a courier is bliss73, to travel without one is the reverse.
I have had dealings with some very bad couriers; but I have also had dealings with one who might fairly be called perfection. He was a young Polander, named Joseph N. Verey. He spoke74 eight languages, and seemed to be equally at home in all of them; he was shrewd, prompt, posted, and punctual; he was fertile in resources, and singularly gifted in the matter of overcoming difficulties; he not only knew how to do everything in his line, but he knew the best ways and the quickest; he was handy with children and invalids75; all his employer needed to do was to take life easy and leave everything to the courier. His address is, care of Messrs. Gay & Son, Strand76, London; he was formerly77 a conductor of Gay’s tourist parties. Excellent couriers are somewhat rare; if the reader is about to travel, he will find it to his advantage to make a note of this one.
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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2
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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30
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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32
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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37
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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41
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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43
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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48
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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49
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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51
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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52
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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53
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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54
harassment
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| n.骚扰，扰乱，烦恼，烦乱 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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56
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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57
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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58
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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59
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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61
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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62
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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64
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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65
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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66
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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67
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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68
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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69
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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70
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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71
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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72
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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73
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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74
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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75
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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76
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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77
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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