This was what the guide asked when we were looking up at the bronze horses on the Arch of Peace. It meant, do you wish to go up there? I give it as a specimen of guide-English. These are the people that make life a burthen to the tourist. Their tongues are never still. They talk forever and forever, and that is the kind of billingsgate they use. Inspiration itself could hardly comprehend them. If they would only show you a masterpiece of art, or a venerable tomb, or a prison house, or a battlefield, hallowed by touching memories or historical reminiscences, or grand traditions, and then step aside and hold still for ten minutes and let you think, it would not be so bad. But they interrupt every dream, every pleasant train of thought, with their tiresome cackling. Sometimes when I have been standing before some cherished old idol of mine that I remembered years and years ago in pictures in the geography at school, I have thought I would give a whole world if the human parrot at my side would suddenly perish where he stood and leave me to gaze and ponder and worship.
No, we did not "wis zo haut can be." We wished to go to La Scala, the largest theater in the world, I think they call it. We did so. It was a large place. Seven separate and distinct masses of humanity--six great circles and a monster parquette.
We wished to go to the Ambrosian Library, and we did that also. We saw a manuscript of Vergil, with annotations in the handwriting of Petrarch, the gentleman who loved another man's Laura and lavished upon her all through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material. It was sound sentiment, but bad judgment. It brought both parties fame and created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts that is running yet. But who says a word in behalf of poor Mr. Laura? (I do not know his other name.) Who glorifies him? Who bedews him with tears? Who writes poetry about him? Nobody. How do you suppose he liked the state of things that has given the world so much pleasure? How did he enjoy having another n following his wife everywhere and making her name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in Italy with his sonnets to her preempted eyebrows? They got fame and sympathy--he got neither. This is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called poetical justice. It is all very fine, but it does not chime with my notions of right. It is too one-sided--too ungenerous. Let the world go on fretting about Laura and Petrarch if it will; but as for me, my tears and my lamentations shall be lavished upon the unsung defendant.
We saw also an autograph letter of Lucrezia Borgia, a lady for whom I have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the corpses ready for it. We saw one single coarse yellow hair from Lucrezia's head, likewise. It awoke emotions, but we still live. In this same library we saw some drawings by Michelangelo (these Italians call him Mickelangelo) and Leonardo da Vinci. (They spell it Vinci and pronounce it Vinchy; foreigners always spell better than they pronounce.) We reserve our opinion of these sketches.
In another building they showed us a fresco representing some lions and other beasts drawing chariots; and they seemed to project so far from the wall that we took them to be sculptures. The artist had shrewdly heightened the delusion by painting dust on the creatures' backs, as if it had fallen there naturally and properly. Smart fellow--if it be smart to deceive strangers.
Elsewhere we saw a huge Roman amphitheater, with its stone seats still in good preservation. Modernized, it is now the scene of more peaceful recreations than the exhibition of a party of wild beasts with Christians for dinner. Part of the time the Milanese use it for a racetrack, and at other seasons they flood it with water and have spirited yachting regattas there. The guide told us these things, and he would hardly try so hazardous an experiment as the telling of a falsehood, when it is all he can do to speak the truth in English without getting the lockjaw.
In another place we were shown a sort of summer arbor with a fence before it. We said that was nothing. We looked again and saw, through the arbor, an endless stretch of garden and shrubbery and grassy lawn. We were perfectly willing to go in there and rest, but it could not be done. It was only another delusions painting by some ingenious artist with little charity in his heart for tired folk. The deception was perfect. No one could have imagined the park was not real. We even thought we smelled the flowers at first.
We got a carriage at twilight and drove in the shaded avenues with the other nobility, and after dinner we took wine and ices in a fine garden with the great public. The music was excellent, the flowers and shrubbery were pleasant to the eye, the scene was vivacious, everybody was genteel and well behaved, and the ladies were slightly moustached, and handsomely dressed, but very homely.
We adjourned to a café and played billiards an hour, and I made six or seven points by the doctor pocketing his ball, and he made as many by my pocketing my ball. We came near making a carom sometimes, but not the one we were trying to make. The table was of the usual European style--cushions dead and twice as high as the balls; the cues in bad repair. The natives play only a sort of pool on them. We have never seen anybody playing the French three-ball game yet, and I doubt if there is any such game known in France or that there lives any man mad enough to try to play it on one of these European tables. We bad to stop playing finally because Dan got to sleeping fifteen minutes between the counts and paying no attention to his marking.
Afterward we walked up and down one of the most popular streets for some time, enjoying other people's comfort and wishing we could export some of it to our restless, driving, vitality-consuming marts at home. Just in this one matter lies the main charm of life in Europe--comfort. In America we hurry--which is well; but when the day's work is done, we go on thinking of losses and gains, we plan for the morrow, we even carry our business cares to bed with us, and toss and worry over them when we ought to be restoring our racked bodies and brains with sleep. We burn up our energies with these excitements, and either die early or drop into a lean and mean old age at a time of life which they call a man's prime in Europe. When an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it lie fallow and rest for a season; we take no man clear across the continent in the same coach he started in--the coach is stabled somewhere on the plains and its heated machinery allowed to coot for a few days; when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own accord. We bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon ourselves. What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges!
I do envy these Europeans the comfort they take. When the work of the day is done, they forget it. Some of them go, with wife and children, to a beer hall and sit quietly and genteelly drinking a mug or two of ale and listening to music; others walk the streets, others drive in the avenues; others assemble in the great ornamental squares in the early evening to enjoy the sight and the fragrance of flowers and to hear the military bands play--no European city being without its fine military music at eventide; and yet others of the populace sit in the open air in front of the refreshment houses and eat ices and drink mild beverages that could not harm a child. They go to bed moderately early and sleep well. They are always quiet, always orderly, always cheerful, comfortable, and appreciative of life and its manifold blessings. One never sees a drunken man among them. The change that has come over our little party is surprising. Day by day we lose some of our restlessness and absorb some of the spirit of quietude and ease that is in the tranquil atmosphere about us and in the demeanor of the people. We grow wise apace. We begin to comprehend what life is for.
We have had a bath in Milan, in a public bathhouse. They were going to put all three of us in one bathtub, but we objected. Each of us had an Italian farm on his back. We could have felt affluent if we had been officially surveyed and fenced in. We chose to have three bathtubs, and large ones--tubs suited to the dignity of aristocrats who had real estate and brought it with them. After we were stripped and had taken the first chilly dash, we discovered that haunting atrocity that has embittered our lives in so many cities and villages of Italy and France--there was no soap. I called. A woman answered, and I barely had time to throw myself against the door--she would have been in, in another second. I said:
"Beware, woman! Go away from here--go away now or it will be the worse for you. I am an unprotected male, but I will preserve my honor at the peril of my life!"
These words must have frightened her, for she scurried away very fast.
Dan's voice rose on the air:
"Oh, bring some soap, why don't you!"
The reply was Italian. Dan resumed:
"Soap, you know--soap. That is what I want--soap. S-o-a-p, soap; s-o-p-e, soap; s-o-u-p, soap. Hurry up! I don't know how you Irish spell it, but I want it. Spell it to suit yourself, but fetch it. I'm freezing."
I heard the doctor say impressively:
"Dan, how often have we told you that these foreigners cannot understand English? Why will you not depend upon us? Why will you not tell us what you want, and let us ask for it in the language of the country? It would save us a great deal of the humiliation your reprehensible ignorance causes us. I will address this person in his mother tongue: 'Here, cospetto! Corpo di Bacco! Sacramento! Solferino! Soap, you son of a gun!' Dan, if you would let us talk for you, you would never expose your ignorant vulgarity."
Even this fluent discharge of Italian did not bring the soap at once, but there was a good reason for it. There was not such an article about the establishment. It is my belief that there never had been. They had to send far uptown and to several different places before they finally got it, so they said. We had to wait twenty or thirty minutes. The same thing had occurred the evening before at the hotel. I think I have divined the reason for this state of things at last. The English know how to travel comfortably, and they carry soap with them; other foreigners do not use the article.
At every hotel we stop at we always have to send out for soap, at the last
moment, when we are grooming ourselves for dinner, and they put it in the bill
along with the candles and other nonsense. In Marseilles they make half the
fancy toilet soap we consume in America, but the Marseillaises only have a
vague theoretical idea of its use, which they have obtained from books of
travel, just as they have acquired an uncertain notion of clean shirts and the
peculiarities of the gorilla and other curious matters. This reminds me of
poor Blucher's note to the landlord in Paris:
Monsieur le Landlord--Sir: Pourquoi don't you mettez some
savon in your bedchambers? Est-ce que vous pensez I will steal
it? La nuit passée you charged me pour deux chandelles
when I only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec grace
when I had none at all; tout les jours you are coming some fresh
game or other on me, mais vous ne pouvez pas play this savon
dodge on me twice. Savon is a necessary de la vie to anybody
but a Frenchman, et je I'aurai hors de cet hôtel or make trouble.
You hear me. Allons.
BLUCHER.
Blucher's French is bad enough, but it is not much worse than the English one
finds in advertisements all over Italy every day. For instance, observe the
printed card of the hotel we shall probably stop at on the shores of Lake
Como:
This hotel which the best it is in Italy and most superb, is handsome locate on
the best situation of the lake, with the most splendid view near the Villas
Melzy, to the King of Belgian, and Serbelloni. This hotel have recently
enlarge, do offer all commodities on moderate price, at the strangers gentlemen
who whish spend the seasons on the Lake Como.
Here in Milan, in an ancient tumble-down ruin of a church, is the mournful
wreck of, the most celebrated painting in the world--"The Last Supper," by
Leonardo da Vinci. We are not infallible judges of pictures, but of course we
went there to see this wonderful painting, once so beautiful, always so
worshipped by masters in art, and forever to be famous in song and story. And
the first thing that occurred was the infliction on us of a placard fairly
reeking with wretched English. Take a morsel of it:
This paragraph recalls the picture. "The Last Supper" is painted on the
dilapidated wall of what was a little chapel attached to the main church in
ancient times, I suppose. It is battered and scarred in every direction, and
stained and discolored by time, and Napoleon's horses kicked the legs off most
the disciples when they (the horses, not the disciples) were stabled there more
than half a century ago.
I recognized the old picture in a moment--the Saviour with bowed head seated at
the center of a long, rough table with scattering fruits and dishes upon it,
and six disciples on either side in their long robes, talking to each
other--the picture from which all engravings and all copies have been made for
three centuries. Perhaps no living man has ever known an attempt to paint the
Lord's Supper differently. The world seems to have become settled in the
belief, long ago, that it is not possible for human genius to outdo this
creation of da Vinci's. I suppose painters will go on copying it as long as
any of the original is left visible to the eye. There were a dozen easels in
the room, and as many artists transferring the great picture to their canvases.
Fifty proofs of steel engravings and lithographs were scattered around, too.
And as usual, I could not help noticing how superior the copies were to the
original, that is, to my inexperienced eye. Wherever you find a Raphael, a
Rubens, a Michelangelo, a Carracci, or a da Vinci (and we see them every day),
you find artists copying them, and the copies are always the handsomest. Maybe
the originals were handsome when they were new, but they are not now.
This picture is about thirty feet long and ten or twelve high, I should think,
and the figures are at least life-size. It is one of the largest paintings in
Europe.
The colors are dimmed with age; the countenances are scaled and marred, and
nearly all expression is gone from them; the hair is a dead blur upon the wall,
and there is no life in the eyes. Only the attitudes are certain.
People come here from all parts of the world and glorify this masterpiece.
They stand entranced before it with bated breath and parted lips, and when they
speak, it is only in the catchy ejaculations of rapture:
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Such expression!"
"Such grace of attitude!"
"Such dignity!"
"Such faultless drawing!"
"Such matchless coloring!"
"Such feeling!"
"What delicacy of touch!"
"What sublimity of conception!"
"A vision! A vision!"
I only envy these people; I envy them their honest admiration, if it be
honest--their delight, if they feel delight. I harbor no animosity toward any
of them. But at the same time the thought will intrude itself upon me: How can
they see what is not visible? What would you think of a man who looked at some
decayed, blind, toothless, pock-marked Cleopatra and said: "What matchless
beauty! What soul! What expression!" What would you think of a man who gazed
upon a dingy, foggy sunset and said: "What sublimity! What feeling! What
richness of coloring!" What would you think of a man who stared in ecstasy upon
a desert of stumps and said: "Oh, my soul, my beating heart, what a noble
forest is here!"
You would think that those men had an astonishing talent for seeing things that
had already passed away. It was what I thought when I stood before "The Last
Supper" and heard men apostrophizing wonders and beauties and perfections which
had faded out of the picture and gone a hundred years before they were born.
We can imagine the beauty that was once in an aged face; we can imagine the
forest if we see the stumps; but we cannot absolutely see these things
when they are not there. I am willing to believe that the eye of the practiced
artist can rest upon "The Last Supper" and renew a luster where only a hint of
it is left, supply a tint that has faded away, restore an expression that is
gone; patch and color and add to the dull canvas until at last its figures
shall stand before him aglow with the life, the feeling, the freshness, yea,
with all the noble beauty that was theirs when first they came from the hand of
the master. But I cannot work this miracle. Can those other uninspired
visitors do it, or do they only happily imagine they do?
After reading so much about it, I am satisfied that 'The Last Supper" was a
very miracle of art once. But it was three hundred years ago.
It vexes me to hear people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression," "tone,"
and those other easily acquired and inexpensive technicalities of art that make
such a fine show in conversations concerning pictures. There is not one an in
seventy-five hundred that can tell what a pictured face is intended to
express. There is not one man in five hundred that can go into a courtroom and
be sure that he will not mistake some harmless innocent of a juryman for the
black-hearted assassin on trial. Yet such people talk of "character" and
presume to interpret "expression" in pictures. There is an old story that
Matthews, the actor, was once lauding the ability of the human face to express
the passions and emotions hidden in the breast. He said the countenance could
disclose what was passing in the heart plainer than the tongue could.
"Now," he said, "observe my face--what does it express?"
"Despair!"
"Bah, it expresses peaceful resignation! What does this express?"
"Rage!"
"Stuff! It means terror! This!"
"Imbecility!"
"Fool! It is smothered ferocity! Now this!"
"Joy!"
"Oh, perdition! Any ass can see it means insanity!"
Expression! People coolly pretend to read it who would think themselves
presumptuous if they pretended to interpret the hieroglyphics on the obelisks
of Luxor--yet they are fully as competent to do the one thing as the other. I
have heard two very intelligent critics speak of Murillo's "Immaculate
Conception" (now in the museum at Seville) within the past few days. One
said:
"Oh, the Virgin's face is full of the ecstasy of a joy that is complete--that
leaves nothing more to be desired on earth!"
The other said:
"Ah, that wonderful face is so humble, so pleading--it says as plainly as words
could say it: 'I fear; I tremble; I am unworthy. But Thy will be done; sustain
Thou Thy servant!'"
The reader can see the picture in any drawing room; it can be easily
recognized: the Virgin (the only young and really beautiful Virgin that was
ever painted by one of the old masters, some of us think) stands in the
crescent of the new moon, with a multitude of cherubs hovering about her, and
more coming; her hands are crossed upon her breast, and upon her uplifted
countenance falls a glory out of the heavens. The reader may amuse himself, if
he chooses, in trying to determine which of these gentlemen read the Virgin's
"expression" aright or if either of them did it.
Anyone who is acquainted with the old masters will comprehend how much "The
Last Supper" is damaged when I say that the spectator cannot really tell now
whether the disciples are Hebrews or Italians. These ancient painters never
succeeded in denationalizing themselves. The Italian artists painted Italian
Virgins, the Dutch painted Dutch Virgins, the Virgins of the French painters
were Frenchwomen--none of them ever put into the face of the Madonna that
indescribable something which proclaims the Jewess, whether you find her in New
York, in Constantinople, in Paris, Jerusalem, or in the empire of Morocco. I
saw in the Sandwich Islands, once, a picture copied by a talented German artist
from an engraving in one of the American illustrated papers. It was an
allegory, representing Mr. Davis in the act of signing a secession act or some
such document. Over him hovered the ghost of Washington in warning attitude,
and in the background a troop of shadowy soldiers in Continental uniform were
limping with shoeless, bandaged feet through a driving snowstorm. Valley Forge
was suggested, of course. The copy seemed accurate, and yet there was a
discrepancy somewhere. After a long examination I discovered what it was--the
shadowy soldiers were all Germans! Jeff Davis was a German! Even the hovering
ghost was a German ghost! The artist had unconsciously worked his nationality
into the picture. To tell the truth, I am getting a little perplexed about
John the Baptist and his portraits. In France I finally grew reconciled to him
as a Frenchman; here he is unquestionably an Italian. What next? Can it be
possible that the painters make John the Baptist a Spaniard in Madrid and an
Irishman in Dublin?
We took an open barouche and drove two miles out of Milan to "see ze echo," as
the guide expressed it. The road was smooth, it was bordered by trees, fields,
and grassy meadows, and the soft air was filled with the odor of flowers.
Troops of picturesque peasant girls, coming from work, hooted at us, shouted at
us, made all manner of game of us, and entirely delighted me. My
long-cherished judgment was confirmed. I always did think those frowzy,
romantic, unwashed peasant girls I had read so much about in poetry were a
glaring fraud.
We enjoyed our jaunt. It was an exhilarating relief from tiresome
sightseeing.
We distressed ourselves very little about the astonishing echo the guide talked
so much about. We were growing accustomed to encomiums on wonders that too
often proved no wonders at all. And so we were most happily disappointed to
find in the sequel that the guide had even failed to rise to the magnitude of
his subject.
We arrived at a tumbledown old rookery called the Palazzo Simonetti--a massive
hewn-stone affair occupied by a family of ragged Italians. A good-looking
young girl conducted us to a window on the second floor which looked out on a
court walled on three sides by tall buildings. She put her head out at the
window and shouted. The echo answered more times than we could count. She
took a speaking trumpet and through it she shouted, sharp and quick, a single
"Ha!" The echo answered:
"Ha!------ha!-----ha!---ha!--ha!-ha! ha! h-a-a-a-a-a!" and finally went off
into a rollicking convulsion of the jolliest laughter that could be imagined.
It was so joyful--so long continued--so perfectly cordial and hearty that
everybody was forced to join in. There was no resisting it.
Then the girl took a gun and fired it. We stood ready to count the astonishing
clatter of reverberations. We could not say one, two, three, fast enough, but
we could dot our notebooks with our pencil points almost rapidly enough to take
down a sort of shorthand report of the result. My page revealed the following
account. I could not keep up, but I did as well as I could.
<INSERT PICTURE HERE>
I set down fifty-two distinct repetitions, and then the echo got the advantage
of me. The doctor set down sixty-four, and thenceforth the echo moved too fast
for him also. After the separate concussions could no longer be noted, the
reverberations dwindled to a wild, long-sustained clatter of sounds such as a
watchman's rattle produces. It is likely that this is the most remarkable echo
in the world.
The doctor, in jest, offered to kiss the young girl, and was taken a little
aback when she said he might for a franc! The commonest gallantry compelled
him to stand by his offer, and so he paid the franc and took the kiss. She was
a philosopher. She said a franc was a good thing to have, and she did not care
anything for one paltry kiss, because she had a million left. Then our
comrade, always a shrewd businessman, offered to take the whole cargo at thirty
days, but that little financial scheme was a failure.
PARIS, le 7 Juillet.
I remonstrated against the sending of this note, because it was so mixed up
that the landlord would never be able to make head or tail of it; but Blucher
said he guessed the old man could read the French of it and average the rest.
NOTISH
How is that for a specimen? In the hotel is a handsome little chapel where an
English clergyman is employed to preach to such of the guests of the house as
hail from England and America, and this fact is also set forth in barbarous
English in the same advertisement. Wouldn't you have supposed that the
adventurous linguist who framed the card would have known enough to submit it
to that clergyman before he sent it to the printer?
Bartholomew (that is the first figure on the left hand side at the spectator)
uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to have heard, and upon which he
wants to be assured by himself at Christ and by no others.
Good, isn't it? And then Peter is described as "argumenting in a threatening
and angrily condition at Judas Iscariot."
Continue to Chapter 20
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