The Innocents Abroad

Chapter 19

"Do you wis zo haut can be?"

That 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

battle-field, 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 Virgil, 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 man following his wife every where and making her

name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in Italy with

his sonnets to her pre-empted 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 Michael Angelo (these Italians

call him Mickel Angelo,) 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 amphitheatre, 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 race track, 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 lock-jaw.

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 delusion--a 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 cafe 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 any

body 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 had 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 cool 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 bath-house. They were going to

put all three of us in one bath-tub, 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 skurried 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 up town, 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

Marseillaise 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:

PARIS, le 7 Juillet. Monsieur le Landlord--Sir: Pourquoi don't you

mettez some savon in your bed-chambers? Est-ce que vous pensez I

will steal it? La nuit passee you charged me pour deux chandelles

when I only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec glace 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 any body but a Frenchman, et je

l'aurai hors de cet hotel or make trouble. You hear me. Allons.

BLUCHER.

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.

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:

"NOTISH."

"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 Come."

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?

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: "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."

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 centre 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 can not 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 lustre 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 can not 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 man 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 court-room 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.

Any one who is acquainted with the old masters will comprehend how much

"The Last Supper" is damaged when I say that the spectator can not 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 snow-storm.

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 frowsy, 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

sight-seeing.

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 tumble-down 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 every body 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 short-hand report of the result.

My page revealed the following account. I could not keep up, but I did

as well as I could.

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 any thing 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.