At the door of the Uffizzi, in Florence, one is confronted by statuesof a man and a woman, noseless, battered, black with accumulatedgrime--they hardly suggest human beings--yet these ridiculous creatureshave been thoughtfully and conscientiously fig-leaved by this fastidiousgeneration. You enter, and proceed to that most-visited little gallerythat exists in the world--the Tribune--and there, against the wall,without obstructing rag or leaf, you may look your fill upon thefoulest, the vilest, the obscenest picture the world possesses--Titian'sVenus. It isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed--no, it isthe attitude of one of her arms and hand. If I ventured to describethat attitude, there would be a fine howl--but there the Venus lies, foranybody to gloat over that wants to--and there she has a right to lie,for she is a work of art, and Art has its privileges. I saw younggirls stealing furtive glances at her; I saw young men gaze long andabsorbedly at her; I saw aged, infirm men hang upon her charms with apathetic interest. How I should like to describe her--just to see whata holy indignation I could stir up in the world--just to hear theunreflecting average man deliver himself about my grossness andcoarseness, and all that. The world says that no worded description ofa moving spectacle is a hundredth part as moving as the same spectacleseen with one's own eyes--yet the world is willing to let its sonand its daughter and itself look at Titian's beast, but won't standa description of it in words. Which shows that the world is not asconsistent as it might be.
There are pictures of nude women which suggest no impure thought--Iam well aware of that. I am not railing at such. What I am trying toemphasize is the fact that Titian's Venus is very far from being one ofthat sort. Without any question it was painted for a bagnio and it wasprobably refused because it was a trifle too strong. In truth, it is toostrong for any place but a public Art Gallery. Titian has two Venuses inthe Tribune; persons who have seen them will easily remember which one Iam referring to.
In every gallery in Europe there are hideous pictures of blood,carnage, oozing brains, putrefaction--pictures portraying intolerablesuffering--pictures alive with every conceivable horror, wrought out indreadful detail--and similar pictures are being put on the canvas everyday and publicly exhibited--without a growl from anybody--for theyare innocent, they are inoffensive, being works of art. But supposea literary artist ventured to go into a painstaking and elaboratedescription of one of these grisly things--the critics would skin himalive. Well, let it go, it cannot be helped; Art retains her privileges,Literature has lost hers. Somebody else may cipher out the whys and thewherefores and the consistencies of it--I haven't got time.
Titian's Venus defiles and disgraces the Tribune, there is no softeningthat fact, but his "Moses" glorifies it. The simple truthfulness ofits noble work wins the heart and the applause of every visitor, be helearned or ignorant. After wearying one's self with the acres of stuffy,sappy, expressionless babies that populate the canvases of the OldMasters of Italy, it is refreshing to stand before this peerless childand feel that thrill which tells you you are at last in the presence ofthe real thing. This is a human child, this is genuine. You have seenhim a thousand times--you have seen him just as he is here--and youconfess, without reserve, that Titian WAS a Master. The doll-faces ofother painted babes may mean one thing, they may mean another, butwith the "Moses" the case is different. The most famous of all theart-critics has said, "There is no room for doubt, here--plainly thischild is in trouble."
I consider that the "Moses" has no equal among the works of the OldMasters, except it be the divine Hair Trunk of Bassano. I feel sure thatif all the other Old Masters were lost and only these two preserved, theworld would be the gainer by it.
My sole purpose in going to Florence was to see this immortal "Moses,"and by good fortune I was just in time, for they were already preparingto remove it to a more private and better-protected place because afashion of robbing the great galleries was prevailing in Europe at thetime.
I got a capable artist to copy the picture; Pannemaker, the engraver ofDore's books, engraved it for me, and I have the pleasure of laying itbefore the reader in this volume.
We took a turn to Rome and some other Italian cities--then to Munich,and thence to Paris--partly for exercise, but mainly because thesethings were in our projected program, and it was only right that weshould be faithful to it.
From Paris I branched out and walked through Holland and Belgium,procuring an occasional lift by rail or canal when tired, and I hada tolerably good time of it "by and large." I worked Spain and otherregions through agents to save time and shoe-leather.
We crossed to England, and then made the homeward passage in theCunarder GALLIA, a very fine ship. I was glad to get home--immeasurablyglad; so glad, in fact, that it did not seem possible that anythingcould ever get me out of the country again. I had not enjoyed a pleasureabroad which seemed to me to compare with the pleasure I felt in seeingNew York harbor again. Europe has many advantages which we have not, butthey do not compensate for a good many still more valuable ones whichexist nowhere but in our own country. Then we are such a homeless lotwhen we are over there! So are Europeans themselves, for that matter.They live in dark and chilly vast tombs--costly enough, maybe, butwithout conveniences. To be condemned to live as the average Europeanfamily lives would make life a pretty heavy burden to the averageAmerican family.
On the whole, I think that short visits to Europe are better for us thanlong ones. The former preserve us from becoming Europeanized; they keepour pride of country intact, and at the same time they intensify ouraffection for our country and our people; whereas long visits have theeffect of dulling those feelings--at least in the majority of cases. Ithink that one who mixes much with Americans long resident abroad mustarrive at this conclusion.
APPENDIX Nothing gives such weight and dignity to a book as an Appendix. --HERODOTUS
APPENDIX A.
The Portier
Omar Khay'am, the poet-prophet of Persia, writing more than eighthundred years ago, has said:
"In the four parts of the earth are many that are able to write learnedbooks, many that are able to lead armies, and many also that are able togovern kingdoms and empires; but few there be that can keep a hotel."
A word about the European hotel PORTIER. He is a most admirableinvention, a most valuable convenience. He always wears a conspicuousuniform; he can always be found when he is wanted, for he sticks closelyto his post at the front door; he is as polite as a duke; he speaksfrom four to ten languages; he is your surest help and refuge in time oftrouble or perplexity. He is not the clerk, he is not the landlord; heranks above the clerk, and represents the landlord, who is seldom seen.Instead of going to the clerk for information, as we do at home, yougo to the portier. It is the pride of our average hotel clerk to knownothing whatever; it is the pride of the portier to know everything. Youask the portier at what hours the trains leave--he tells you instantly;or you ask him who is the best physician in town; or what is the hacktariff; or how many children the mayor has; or what days the galleriesare open, and whether a permit is required, and where you are to get it,and what you must pay for it; or when the theaters open and close, whatthe plays are to be, and the price of seats; or what is the newest thingin hats; or how the bills of mortality average; or "who struck BillyPatterson." It does not matter what you ask him: in nine cases out often he knows, and in the tenth case he will find out for you before youcan turn around three times. There is nothing he will not put his handto. Suppose you tell him you wish to go from Hamburg to Peking by theway of Jericho, and are ignorant of routes and prices--the next morninghe will hand you a piece of paper with the whole thing worked out on itto the last detail. Before you have been long on European soil, you findyourself still SAYING you are relying on Providence, but when you cometo look closer you will see that in reality you are relying on theportier. He discovers what is puzzling you, or what is troubling you,or what your need is, before you can get the half of it out, and hepromptly says, "Leave that to me." Consequently, you eas
ily drift intothe habit of leaving everything to him. There is a certain embarrassmentabout applying to the average American hotel clerk, a certain hesitancy,a sense of insecurity against rebuff; but you feel no embarrassment inyour intercourse with the portier; he receives your propositions with anenthusiasm which cheers, and plunges into their accomplishment with analacrity which almost inebriates. The more requirements you can pileupon him, the better he likes it. Of course the result is that you ceasefrom doing anything for yourself. He calls a hack when you want one;puts you into it; tells the driver whither to take you; receives youlike a long-lost child when you return; sends you about your business,does all the quarreling with the hackman himself, and pays him his moneyout of his own pocket. He sends for your theater tickets, and pays forthem; he sends for any possible article you can require, be it a doctor,an elephant, or a postage stamp; and when you leave, at last, you willfind a subordinate seated with the cab-driver who will put you in yourrailway compartment, buy your tickets, have your baggage weighed, bringyou the printed tags, and tell you everything is in your bill and paidfor. At home you get such elaborate, excellent, and willing service asthis only in the best hotels of our large cities; but in Europe you getit in the mere back country-towns just as well.
What is the secret of the portier's devotion? It is very simple: he getsFEES, AND NO SALARY. His fee is pretty closely regulated, too. If youstay a week, you give him five marks--a dollar and a quarter, or abouteighteen cents a day. If you stay a month, you reduce this averagesomewhat. If you stay two or three months or longer, you cut it downhalf, or even more than half. If you stay only one day, you give theportier a mark.
The head waiter's fee is a shade less than the portier's; the Boots, whonot only blacks your boots and brushes your clothes, but is usually theporter and handles your baggage, gets a somewhat smaller fee than thehead waiter; the chambermaid's fee ranks below that of the Boots. Youfee only these four, and no one else. A German gentleman told me thatwhen he remained a week in a hotel, he gave the portier five marks, thehead waiter four, the Boots three, and the chambermaid two; and if hestayed three months he divided ninety marks among them, in about theabove proportions. Ninety marks make $22.50.
None of these fees are ever paid until you leave the hotel, though itbe a year--except one of these four servants should go away in the meantime; in that case he will be sure to come and bid you good-by andgive you the opportunity to pay him what is fairly coming to him. Itis considered very bad policy to fee a servant while you are still toremain longer in the hotel, because if you gave him too little he mightneglect you afterward, and if you gave him too much he might neglectsomebody else to attend to you. It is considered best to keep hisexpectations "on a string" until your stay is concluded.
I do not know whether hotel servants in New York get any wages or not,but I do know that in some of the hotels there the feeing system invogue is a heavy burden. The waiter expects a quarter at breakfast--andgets it. You have a different waiter at luncheon, and so he gets aquarter. Your waiter at dinner is another stranger--consequently he getsa quarter. The boy who carries your satchel to your room and lights yourgas fumbles around and hangs around significantly, and you fee him toget rid of him. Now you may ring for ice-water; and ten minutes laterfor a lemonade; and ten minutes afterward, for a cigar; and by and byfor a newspaper--and what is the result? Why, a new boy has appearedevery time and fooled and fumbled around until you have paid himsomething. Suppose you boldly put your foot down, and say it is thehotel's business to pay its servants? You will have to ring your bellten or fifteen times before you get a servant there; and when he goesoff to fill your order you will grow old and infirm before you see himagain. You may struggle nobly for twenty-four hours, maybe, if you arean adamantine sort of person, but in the mean time you will have beenso wretchedly served, and so insolently, that you will haul down yourcolors, and go to impoverishing yourself with fees.
It seems to me that it would be a happy idea to import the Europeanfeeing system into America. I believe it would result in getting eventhe bells of the Philadelphia hotels answered, and cheerful servicerendered.
The greatest American hotels keep a number of clerks and a cashier, andpay them salaries which mount up to a considerable total in the courseof a year. The great continental hotels keep a cashier on a triflingsalary, and a portier WHO PAYS THE HOTEL A SALARY. By the latter systemboth the hotel and the public save money and are better served than byour system. One of our consuls told me that a portier of a great Berlinhotel paid five thousand dollars a year for his position, and yetcleared six thousand dollars for himself. The position of portier in thechief hotels of Saratoga, Long Branch, New York, and similar centers ofresort, would be one which the holder could afford to pay even more thanfive thousand dollars for, perhaps.
When we borrowed the feeing fashion from Europe a dozen years ago, thesalary system ought to have been discontinued, of course. We might makethis correction now, I should think. And we might add the portier, too.Since I first began to study the portier, I have had opportunities toobserve him in the chief cities of Germany, Switzerland, and Italy;and the more I have seen of him the more I have wished that he might beadopted in America, and become there, as he is in Europe, the stranger'sguardian angel.
Yes, what was true eight hundred years ago, is just as true today: "Fewthere be that can keep a hotel." Perhaps it is because the landlords andtheir subordinates have in too many cases taken up their trade withoutfirst learning it. In Europe the trade of hotel-keeper is taught. Theapprentice begins at the bottom of the ladder and masters the severalgrades one after the other. Just as in our country printing-offices theapprentice first learns how to sweep out and bring water; then learnsto "roll"; then to sort "pi"; then to set type; and finally roundsand completes his education with job-work and press-work; so thelandlord-apprentice serves as call-boy; then as under-waiter; then asa parlor waiter; then as head waiter, in which position he often has tomake out all the bills; then as clerk or cashier; then as portier. Histrade is learned now, and by and by he will assume the style and dignityof landlord, and be found conducting a hotel of his own.
Now in Europe, the same as in America, when a man has kept a hotelso thoroughly well during a number of years as to give it a greatreputation, he has his reward. He can live prosperously on thatreputation. He can let his hotel run down to the last degree ofshabbiness and yet have it full of people all the time. For instance,there is the Hotel de Ville, in Milan. It swarms with mice and fleas,and if the rest of the world were destroyed it could furnish dirt enoughto start another one with. The food would create an insurrection in apoorhouse; and yet if you go outside to get your meals that hotel makesup its loss by overcharging you on all sorts of trifles--and withoutmaking any denials or excuses about it, either. But the Hotel de Ville'sold excellent reputation still keeps its dreary rooms crowded withtravelers who would be elsewhere if they had only some wise friend towarn them.
APPENDIX B.
Heidelberg Castle Heidelberg Castle must have been very beautiful beforethe French battered and bruised and scorched it two hundred years ago.The stone is brown, with a pinkish tint, and does not seem to staineasily. The dainty and elaborate ornamentation upon its two chief frontsis as delicately carved as if it had been intended for the interior ofa drawing-room rather than for the outside of a house. Many fruit andflower clusters, human heads and grim projecting lions' heads are stillas perfect in every detail as if they were new. But the statues whichare ranked between the windows have suffered. These are life-sizestatues of old-time emperors, electors, and similar grandees, clad inmail and bearing ponderous swords. Some have lost an arm, some a head,and one poor fellow is chopped off at the middle. There is a saying thatif a stranger will pass over the drawbridge and walk across the court tothe castle front without saying anything, he can make a wish and it willbe fulfilled. But they say that the truth of this thing has never hada chance to be proved, for the reason that before any stranger can walkfrom the drawbridge t
o the appointed place, the beauty of the palacefront will extort an exclamation of delight from him.
A ruin must be rightly situated, to be effective. This one could nothave been better placed. It stands upon a commanding elevation, it isburied in green woods, there is no level ground about it, but, on thecontrary, there are wooded terraces upon terraces, and one looks downthrough shining leaves into profound chasms and abysses where twilightreigns and the sun cannot intrude. Nature knows how to garnish a ruin toget the best effect. One of these old towers is split down the middle,and one half has tumbled aside. It tumbled in such a way as to establishitself in a picturesque attitude. Then all it lacked was a fittingdrapery, and Nature has furnished that; she has robed the rugged mass inflowers and verdure, and made it a charm to the eye. The standing halfexposes its arched and cavernous rooms to you, like open, toothlessmouths; there, too, the vines and flowers have done their work of grace.The rear portion of the tower has not been neglected, either, but isclothed with a clinging garment of polished ivy which hides the woundsand stains of time. Even the top is not left bare, but is crowned with aflourishing group of trees and shrubs. Misfortune has done for this oldtower what it has done for the human character sometimes--improved it.