I never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled
with a blessed peace, as I did yesterday when I learned that Michael
Angelo was dead.
But we have taken it out of this guide. He has marched us through miles
of pictures and sculpture in the vast corridors of the Vatican; and
through miles of pictures and sculpture in twenty other palaces; he has
shown us the great picture in the Sistine Chapel, and frescoes enough to
fresco the heavens—pretty much all done by Michael Angelo. So with him
we have played that game which has vanquished so many guides for
us—imbecility and idiotic questions. These creatures never suspect—they
have no idea of a sarcasm.
He shows us a figure and says: “Statoo brunzo.” (Bronze statue).
We look at it indifferently and the doctor asks: “By Michael Angelo?”
“No—not know who.”
Then he shows us the ancient Roman Forum. The doctor asks: “Michael
Angelo?”
A stare from the guide. “No—a thousan’ year before he is born.”
Then an Egyptian obelisk. Again: “Michael Angelo?”
“Oh, mon dieu, genteelman! Zis is TWO thousan’ year before he is born.”
He grows so tired of that unceasing question sometimes, that he dreads
to show us anything at all. The wretch has tried all the ways he can
think of to make us comprehend that Michael Angelo is only responsible
for the creation of a _part_ of the world, but somehow he has not
succeeded yet. Relief for overtasked eyes and brain from study and
sightseeing is necessary, or we shall become idiotic, sure enough.
Therefore this guide must continue to suffer. If he does not enjoy it,
so much the worse for him. We do.
In this place I might as well jot down a chapter concerning those
necessary nuisances, European guides. Many a man has wished in his heart
he could do without his guide; but knowing he could not, has wished he
could get some amusement out of him as a remuneration for the affliction
of his society. We accomplished this latter matter, and if our
experience can be made useful to others they are welcome to it.
Guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a man
can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart—the
history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show
you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would—and if you interrupt,
and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again.
All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to
foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. It is human
nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts
children to say “smart” things, and to do absurd ones, and in other ways
“show off” when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in
rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.
Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it
is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect
ecstasies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility
live in a soberer atmosphere. After we discovered this, we _never_ went
into ecstasies any more—we never admired anything—we never showed any
but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the
sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point.
We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those
people savage, at times, but we have never lost our own serenity.
The doctor asks the questions, generally, because he can keep his
countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more
imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes
natural to him.
The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because
Americans have so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion
before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he
had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation—full of
impatience. He said:
“Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I show you ze letter writing by
Christopher Colombo! write it himself!—write it wis his own hand!—come!”
He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of
keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread
before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the
parchment with his finger:
“What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher
Colombo!—write it himself!”
We looked indifferent—unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very
deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of
interest:
“Ah—Ferguson—what—what did you say was the name of the party who wrote
this?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo.”
Another deliberate examination.
“Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?”
“He write it himself!—Christopher Colombo! he’s own handwriting, write
by himself!”
Then the doctor laid the document down and said:
“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could
write better than that.”
“But zis is ze great Christo——”
“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now you
mustn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not
fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of
real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, drive on!”
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more
venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said:
“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent
bust Christopher Colombo!—splendid, grand, magnificent!”
He brought us before the beautiful bust—for it _was_ beautiful—and
sprang back and struck an attitude:
“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand,—bust Christopher
Colombo!—Beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”
The doctor put up his eyeglass—procured for such occasions:
“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well what did _he_
do?”
“Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!”
“Discover America. No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from
America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher
Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”
“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”
“What did he die of?”
“I do not know!—I cannot tell.”
“Smallpox, think?”
“I do not know, genteelmen!—I do not know _what_ he die of!”
“Measles, likely?”
“Maybe—maybe—I do not know—I think he die of somethings.”
“Parents living?”
“Im-posseeble!”
“Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?”
“Santa Maria!—_zis_ ze bust!—_zis_ ze pedestal!”
“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination, indeed.
Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?”
That joke was lost on the foreigner—guides cannot master subtleties of
the American joke.
We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent
three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of
curiosities. We came very near expressing interest, sometimes—even
admiration—it was very hard to keep from it. We succeeded though.
Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was
bewildered—nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up
extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it
was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. He had
reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last—a
royal Egyptian mummy; the best-preserved in the world, perhaps. He
took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old
enthusiasm came back to him:
“See, genteelmen!—Mummy! Mummy!”
The eyeglass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
“Ah,—Ferguson—what did I understand you to say the gentleman’s name
was?”
“Name?—he got no name! Mummy!—’Gyptian mummy!”
“Yes, yes. Born here?”
“No! _’Gyptian_ mummy!”
“Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?”
“No!—_Not_ Frenchman, not Roman!—born in Egypta!”
“Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely.
Mummy—mummy. How calm he is—how self-possessed. Is, ah—is he dead?”
“Oh, SACRE BLEU, been dead three thousan’ year!”
The doctor turned on him savagely:
“Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this! Playing us for
Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn. Trying to impose
your vile second-hand carcasses on _us_!—thunder and lightning, I’ve a
notion to—to—if you’ve got a nice _fresh_ corpse, fetch him out!—or, by
George, we’ll brain you!”
We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, he has
paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came to the hotel this
morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored as well as he could to
describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. He
finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observation
was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for
a guide to say.
There is one remark (already mentioned) which never yet has failed to
disgust these guides. We use it always, when we can think of nothing
else to say. After they have exhausted their enthusiasm pointing out to
us and praising the beauties of some ancient bronze image or
broken-legged statue, we look at it stupidly and in silence for five,
ten, fifteen minutes—as long as we can hold out, in fact—and then ask:
“Is—is he dead?”