CHAPTER XXV
[Hunted by the Little Chamois]
Next morning we left in the train for Switzerland, and reached Lucerneabout ten o'clock at night. The first discovery I made was that thebeauty of the lake had not been exaggerated. Within a day or two I madeanother discovery. This was, that the lauded chamois is not a wild goat;that it is not a horned animal; that it is not shy; that it does notavoid human society; and that there is no peril in hunting it.
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 vastherds and skips and scampers all over your body, inside your clothes;thus it is not shy, but extremely sociable; it is not afraid of man, onthe contrary, it will attack him; its bite is not dangerous, but neitheris it pleasant; its activity has not been overstated--if you try to putyour finger on it, it will skip a thousand times its own length at onejump, and no eye is sharp enough to see where it lights. A great dealof romantic nonsense has been written about the Swiss chamois and theperils of hunting it, whereas the truth is that even women and childrenhunt it, and fearlessly; indeed, everybody hunts it; the hunting isgoing on all the time, day and night, in bed and out of it. It is poeticfoolishness to hunt it with a gun; very few people do that; there isnot one man in a million who can hit it with a gun. It is much easier tocatch it than it is to shoot it, and only the experienced chamois-huntercan do either. Another common piece of exaggeration is that about the"scarcity" of the chamois. It is the reverse of scarce. Droves of onehundred million chamois are not unusual in the Swiss hotels. Indeed,they are so numerous as to be a great pest. The romancers always dressup the chamois-hunter in a fanciful and picturesque costume, whereas thebest way to hunt this game is to do it without any costume at all.
The article of commerce called chamois-skin is another fraud; nobodycould skin a chamois, it is too small. The creature is a humbug inevery way, and everything which has been written about it is sentimentalexaggeration. It was no pleasure to me to find the chamois out, for hehad been one of my pet illusions; all my life it had been my dream tosee him in his native wilds some day, and engage in the adventuroussport of chasing him from cliff to cliff. It is no pleasure to me toexpose him, now, and destroy the reader's delight in him and respect forhim, but still it must be done, for when an honest writer discovers animposition it is his simple duty to strip it bare and hurl it down fromits place of honor, no matter who suffers by it; any other course wouldrender him unworthy of the public confidence.
Lucerne is a charming place. It begins at the water's edge, with afringe of hotels, and scrambles up and spreads itself over two or threesharp hills in a crowded, disorderly, but picturesque way, offeringto the eye a heaped-up confusion of red roofs, quaint gables, dormerwindows, toothpick steeples, with here and there a bit of ancientembattled wall bending itself over the ridges, worm-fashion, and hereand there an old square tower of heavy masonry. And also here and therea town clock with only one hand--a hand which stretches across the dialand has no joint in it; such a clock helps out the picture, but youcannot tell the time of day by it. Between the curving line of hotelsand the lake is a broad avenue with lamps and a double rank of low shadetrees. The lake-front is walled with masonry like a pier, and hasa railing, to keep people from walking overboard. All day long thevehicles dash along the avenue, and nurses, children, and tourists sitin the shade of the trees, or lean on the railing and watch the schoolsof fishes darting about in the clear water, or gaze out over the lakeat the stately border of snow-hooded mountain peaks. Little pleasuresteamers, black with people, are coming and going all the time; andeverywhere one sees young girls and young men paddling about in fancifulrowboats, or skimming along by the help of sails when there is any wind.The front rooms of the hotels have little railed balconies, where onemay take his private luncheon in calm, cool comfort and look down uponthis busy and pretty scene and enjoy it without having to do any of thework connected with it.
Most of the people, both male and female, are in walking costume, andcarry alpenstocks. Evidently, it is not considered safe to go about inSwitzerland, even in town, without an alpenstock. If the tourist forgetsand comes down to breakfast without his alpenstock he goes back and getsit, and stands it up in the corner. When his touring in Switzerland isfinished, he does not throw that broomstick away, but lugs it homewith him, to the far corners of the earth, although this costs himmore trouble and bother than a baby or a courier could. You see, thealpenstock is his trophy; his name is burned upon it; and if he hasclimbed a hill, or jumped a brook, or traversed a brickyard with it, hehas the names of those places burned upon it, too.
Thus it is his regimental flag, so to speak, and bears the record of hisachievements. It is worth three francs when he buys it, but a bonanzacould not purchase it after his great deeds have been inscribed upon it.There are artisans all about Switzerland whose trade it is to burnthese things upon the alpenstock of the tourist. And observe, a man isrespected in Switzerland according to his alpenstock. I found I couldget no attention there, while I carried an unbranded one. However,branding is not expected, so I soon remedied that. The effect uponthe next detachment of tourists was very marked. I felt repaid for mytrouble.
Half of the summer horde in Switzerland is made up of English people;the other half is made up of many nationalities, the Germans leading andthe Americans coming next. The Americans were not as numerous as I hadexpected they would be.
The seven-thirty table d'h?te at the great Schweitzerhof furnisheda mighty array and variety of nationalities, but it offered a betteropportunity to observe costumes than people, for the multitude satat immensely long tables, and therefore the faces were mainly seen inperspective; but the breakfasts were served at small round tables,and then if one had the fortune to get a table in the midst of theassemblage he could have as many faces to study as he could desire.We used to try to guess out the nationalities, and generally succeededtolerably well. Sometimes we tried to guess people's names; but thatwas a failure; that is a thing which probably requires a good deal ofpractice. We presently dropped it and gave our efforts to less difficultparticulars. 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, andvery tastefully dressed. But we disagreed as to her age. I said she waseighteen, Harris said she was twenty. The dispute between us waxed warm,and I finally said, with a pretense of being in earnest:
"Well, there is one way to settle the matter--I will go and ask her."
Harris said, sarcastically, "Certainly, that is the thing to do. All youneed to do is to use the common formula over here: go and say, 'I'm anAmerican!' Of course she will be glad to see you."
Then he hinted that perhaps there was no great danger of my venturing tospeak to her.
I said, "I was only talking--I didn't intend to approach her, but I seethat you do not know what an intrepid person I am. I am not afraid ofany 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 herin the most respectful way and ask her to pardon me if her strongresemblance to a former acquaintance of mine was deceiving me; and whenshe should reply that the name I mentioned was not the name she bore, Imeant to beg pardon again, most respectfully, and retire. There would beno harm done. I walked to her table, bowed to the gentleman, then turnedto 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 itprobably wasn't, but I knew I was right. I said you would recognize mepresently and come over; and I'm glad you did, for I shouldn't have feltmuch 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 everexpecting to see again."
This was a stupefying surprise. It took my wits clear away,
for aninstant. 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 vaguelyremember the girl's face, now, but I had no idea where I had seen itbefore, or what name belonged with it. I immediately tried to get up adiversion about Swiss scenery, to keep her from launching into topicsthat might betray that I did not know her, but it was of no use, shewent right along upon matters which interested her more:
"Oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed the forward boatsaway--do you remember it?"
"Oh, _don't I_!" said I--but I didn't. I wished the sea had washedthe rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain away--then I could havelocated this questioner.
"And don't you remember how frightened poor Mary was, and how shecried?"
"Indeed I do!" said I. "Dear me, how it all comes back!"
I fervently wished it _would_ come back--but my memory was a blank. Thewise way would have been to frankly own up; but I could not bring myselfto do that, after the young girl had praised me so for recognizing her;so I went on, deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance cluebut never getting one. The Unrecognizable continued, with vivacity:
"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 blameas her father was, and I thought he was right. Didn't you?"
"Of course he was. It was a perfectly plain case. I always said so."
"Why, no you didn't!--at least that summer."
"Oh, no, not that summer. No, you are perfectly right about that. It wasthe following winter that I said it."
"Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least to blame--it was allher 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, althoughhe had so many eccentricities. You remember that when the weather wasthe least cold, he would try to come into the house."
I was rather afraid to proceed. Evidently Darley was not a man--hemust 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:
"Yes, he _was_ rather well fixed in the matter of tails."
"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 possibleshe is going to stop there, and wait for me to speak? If she does, theconversation is blocked. A negro with a thousand tails is a topic whicha person cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more orless preparation. As to diving rashly into such a vast subject--"
But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts by saying:
"Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was simply noend to them if anybody would listen. His own quarters were comfortableenough, but when the weather was cold, the family were sure to have hiscompany--nothing could keep him out of the house. But they always boreit kindly because he had saved Tom's life, years before. You rememberTom?
"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 wouldhave given something to know what the child's was. However, I had thegood luck to think of a name that would fit either sex--so I brought itout:
"I named it Frances."
"From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died, too--onethat I never saw. What did you call that one?"
I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead and she hadnever seen it, I thought I might risk a name for it and trust to luck.Therefore I said:
"I called that one Thomas Henry."
She said, musingly:
"That is very singular ... very singular."
I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was in a good deal oftrouble, but I believed I could worry through if she wouldn't ask meto name any more children. I wondered where the lightning was going tostrike next. She was still ruminating over that last child's title, butpresently she said:
"I have always been sorry you were away at the time--I would have hadyou 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, butwould 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. Thatwas my birthday."
That did not help matters, much, as I did not know the date of thestorm. I tried to think of some non-committal thing to say, to keep upmy end of the talk, and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscencesas little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be about out ofnon-committal things. I was about to say, "You haven't changed a bitsince then"--but that was risky. I thought of saying, "You have improvedever so much since then"--but that wouldn't answer, of course. I wasabout to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change, when the girlslipped 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 washolily grateful to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make mygood-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 toknow, 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 trepidation:
"O yes--I was thinking of another child that I named--I have nameda great many, and I get them confused--this one was named HenryThompson--"
"Thomas Henry," calmly interposed the boy.
I thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered out:
"Thomas Henry--yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name. I namedhim for Thomas--er--Thomas Carlyle, the great author, you know--andHenry--er--er--Henry the Eighth. The parents were very grateful to havea 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 itSusan Amelia."
That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely out ofverbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie, and that I would notdo; 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 verysoon that you were only pretending to know me, and so as I had wasted acompliment on you in the beginning, I made up my mind to punish you. AndI have succeeded pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George andTom and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore couldnot be sure that you had; and I was glad to le
arn the names of thoseimaginary children, too. One can get quite a fund of information outof you if one goes at it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweepingaway of the forward boats, were facts--all the rest was fiction. Marywas 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 youwere thirteen years ago in that ship, else you wouldn't have punished meso. 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 werethen, and you have transmitted a deal of your comeliness to this fineboy. There--if that speech moves you any, let's fly the flag of truce,with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it."
All of which was agreed to and accomplished, on the spot. When I wentback to Harris, I said:
"Now you see what a person with talent and address can do."
"Excuse me, I see what a person of colossal ignorance and simplicity cando. The idea of your going and intruding on a party of strangers, thatway, and talking for half an hour; why I never heard of a man in hisright 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 exhibitionof yourself. But you know I couldn't really believe you would do such aninexcusable thing. What will those people think of us? But how did yousay it?--I mean the manner of it. I hope you were not abrupt."
"No, I was careful about that. I said, 'My friend and I would like toknow what your name is, if you don't mind.'"
"No, that was not abrupt. There is a polish about it that does youinfinite credit. And I am glad you put me in; that was a delicateattention 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 anysurprise?"
"Well, now I come to think, she did show something; maybe it wassurprise; I hadn't thought of that--I took it for gratification."
"Oh, undoubtedly you were right; it must have been gratification; itcould not be otherwise than gratifying to be assaulted by a strangerwith 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 gentlemansay 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 amuseourselves with him.' There is no other way of accounting for theirfacile docility. 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 talkabout?"
"Well, I asked the girl how old she was."
"_Un_doubtedly. Your delicacy is beyond praise. Go on, go on--don't mindmy apparent misery--I always look so when I am steeped in a profound andreverent joy. Go on--she told you her age?"
"Yes, she told me her age, and all about her mother, and hergrandmother, 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 inquireinto her politics?"
"No, I thought of that. She is a democrat, 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 isthere 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 doesthe half come in?"
"There is a child which she had by another husband--not this onebut another one--so it is a stepchild, and they do not count in fullmeasure."
"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 thatboy 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 wretchedbusiness. It is a plain case: they simply took your measure, andconcluded to fill you up. They seem to have succeeded. I am glad I amnot in the mess; they may at least be charitable enough to think thereain'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, andthey 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 touraround with them with pleasure, and offered to bring you over andintroduce you, they hesitated a little, and asked if you were from thesame establishment that I was. I said you were, and then they said theyhad changed their mind and considered it necessary to start at once andvisit a sick relative in Siberia."
"Ah, me, you struck the summit! You struck the loftiest altitude ofstupidity that human effort has ever reached. You shall have a monumentof jackasses' skulls as high as the Strasburg spire if you die beforeI do. They wanted to know I was from the same 'establishment' that youhailed 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 asylum--an _idiot_ asylum, do youunderstand? So they _do_ think there's a pair of us, after all. Now whatdo 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 somefurniture, he said. He was a singularly irascible man; any little thingwould disturb his temper.
I had been well scorched by the young woman, but no matter, I took itout on Harris. One should always "get even" in some way, else the soreplace will go on hurting.