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    The Innocents Abroad — Volume 02
    The Innocents Abroad — Volume 02
    The Innocents Abroad — Volume 02
    Ebook199 pages2 hours

    The Innocents Abroad — Volume 02

    By Mark Twain

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    The Innocents Abroad — Volume 02
    Author

    Mark Twain

    Mark Twain (1835-1910) was an American humorist, novelist, and lecturer. Born Samuel Langhorne Clemens, he was raised in Hannibal, Missouri, a setting which would serve as inspiration for some of his most famous works. After an apprenticeship at a local printer’s shop, he worked as a typesetter and contributor for a newspaper run by his brother Orion. Before embarking on a career as a professional writer, Twain spent time as a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi and as a miner in Nevada. In 1865, inspired by a story he heard at Angels Camp, California, he published “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” earning him international acclaim for his abundant wit and mastery of American English. He spent the next decade publishing works of travel literature, satirical stories and essays, and his first novel, The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873). In 1876, he published The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, a novel about a mischievous young boy growing up on the banks of the Mississippi River. In 1884 he released a direct sequel, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which follows one of Tom’s friends on an epic adventure through the heart of the American South. Addressing themes of race, class, history, and politics, Twain captures the joys and sorrows of boyhood while exposing and condemning American racism. Despite his immense success as a writer and popular lecturer, Twain struggled with debt and bankruptcy toward the end of his life, but managed to repay his creditors in full by the time of his passing at age 74. Curiously, Twain’s birth and death coincided with the appearance of Halley’s Comet, a fitting tribute to a visionary writer whose steady sense of morality survived some of the darkest periods of American history.

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      Book preview

      The Innocents Abroad — Volume 02 - Mark Twain

      THE INNOCENTS ABROAD, Part 2

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Innocents Abroad, Part 2 of 6

      by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Innocents Abroad, Part 2 of 6

      Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

      Release Date: June 15, 2004 [EBook #5689]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INNOCENTS ABROAD, PART 2 OF 6 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE INNOCENTS ABROAD

      Part 2, Chapters 11 to 20

      by Mark Twain

      [Cover and Spine from the 1884 Edition]

      THE INNOCENTS ABROAD

      by Mark Twain

      [From an 1869—1st Edition]

      CONTENTS

      LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

      CHAPTER XI.

      Getting used to it—No Soap—Bill of Fare, Table d'hote—An American Sir—A Curious Discovery—The Pilgrim Bird—Strange Companionship—A Grave of the Living—A Long Captivity—Some of Dumas' Heroes—Dungeon of the Famous Iron Mask.

      CHAPTER XII.

      A Holiday Flight through France—Summer Garb of the Landscape—Abroad on the Great Plains—Peculiarities of French Cars—French Politeness American Railway Officials—Twenty Mnutes to Dinner!—Why there are no Accidents—The Old Travellers—Still on the Wing—Paris at Last——French Order and Quiet—Place of the Bastile—Seeing the Sights—A Barbarous Atrocity—Absurd Billiards

      CHAPTER XIII.

      More Trouble—Monsieur Billfinger—Re-Christening the Frenchman—In the Clutches of a Paris Guide—The International Exposition—Fine Military Review—Glimpse of the Emperor Napoleon and the Sultan of Turkey

      CHAPTER XIV.

      The Venerable Cathedral of Notre-Dame—Jean Sanspeur's Addition—Treasures and Sacred Relics—The Legend of the Cross—The Morgue—The Outrageious 'Can-Can'—Blondin Aflame—The Louvre Palace—The Great Park—Showy Pageantry—Preservation of Noted Things

      CHAPTER XV.

      French National Burying—Ground—Among the Great Dead—The Shrine of Disappointed Love—The Story of Abelard and Heloise—English Spoken Here—American Drinks Compounded Here—Imperial Honors to an American—The Over-estimated Grisette—Departure from Paris—A Deliberate Opinion Concerning the Comeliness of American Women

      CHAPTER XVI.

      Versailles—Paradise Regained—A Wonderful Park—Paradise Lost—Napoleonic Strategy

      CHAPTER XVII.

      War—The American Forces Victorious— Home Again—Italy in Sight The City of Palaces—Beauty of the Genoese Women—The Stub-Hunters—Among the Palaces—Gifted Guide—Church Magnificence—Women not Admitted—How the Genoese Live—Massive Architecture—A Scrap of Ancient History—Graves for 60,000

      CHAPTER XVIII.

      Flying Through Italy—Marengo—First Glimpse of the Famous Cathedral—Description of some of its Wonders—A Horror Carved in Stone——An Unpleasant Adventure—A Good Man—A Sermon from the Tomb—Tons of Gold and Silver—Some More Holy Relics—Solomon's Temple

      CHAPTER XIX

      Do You Wiz zo Haut can be?—La Scala—Petrarch and Laura—Lucrezia Borgia—Ingenious Frescoes—Ancient Roman Amphitheatre—A Clever Delusion—Distressing Billiards—The Chief Charm of European Life—An Italian Bath—Wanted: Soap—Crippled French—Mutilated English—The Most Celebrated Painting in the World—Amateur Raptures—Uninspired Critics—Anecdote—A Wonderful Echo—A Kiss for a Franc

      CHAPTER XX.

      Rural Italy by Rail—Fumigated, According to Law—The Sorrowing Englishman—Night by the Lake of Como—The Famous Lake—Its Scenery—Como compared with Tahoe—Meeting a Shipmate

      LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

      CHAPTER XI.

      We are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility. We are getting reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors and no carpets—floors that ring to the tread of one's heels with a sharpness that is death to sentimental musing. We are getting used to tidy, noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick to fill them; thankful for a gratuity without regard to the amount; and always polite—never otherwise than polite. That is the strangest curiosity yet—a really polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot. We are getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking. We are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles—the only kind of ice they have here. We are getting used to all these things, but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap. We are sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and toothbrushes, but this thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us and not pleasant at all. We think of it just after we get our heads and faces thoroughly wet or just when we think we have been in the bathtub long enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows. These Marseillaises make Marseillaise hymns and Marseilles vests and Marseilles soap for all the world, but they never sing their hymns or wear their vests or wash with their soap themselves.

      We have learned to go through the lingering routine of the table d'hote with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction. We take soup, then wait a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are changed, and the roast beef comes; another change and we take peas; change again and take lentils; change and take snail patties (I prefer grasshoppers); change and take roast chicken and salad; then strawberry pie and ice cream; then green figs, pears, oranges, green almonds, etc.; finally coffee. Wine with every course, of course, being in France. With such a cargo on board, digestion is a slow process, and we must sit long in the cool chambers and smoke—and read French newspapers, which have a strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get to the nub of it, and then a word drops in that no man can translate, and that story is ruined. An embankment fell on some Frenchmen yesterday, and the papers are full of it today—but whether those sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared is more than I can possibly make out, and yet I would just give anything to know.

      We were troubled a little at dinner today by the conduct of an American, who talked very loudly and coarsely and laughed boisterously where all others were so quiet and well behaved. He ordered wine with a royal flourish and said:

      I never dine without wine, sir (which was a pitiful falsehood), and looked around upon the company to bask in the admiration he expected to find in their faces. All these airs in a land where they would as soon expect to leave the soup out of the bill of fare as the wine!—in a land where wine is nearly as common among all ranks as water! This fellow said: I am a free-born sovereign, sir, an American, sir, and I want everybody to know it! He did not mention that he was a lineal descendant of Balaam's ass, but everybody knew that without his telling it.

      We have driven in the Prado—that superb avenue bordered with patrician mansions and noble shade trees—and have visited the chateau Boarely and its curious museum. They showed us a miniature cemetery there—a copy of the first graveyard that was ever in Marseilles, no doubt. The delicate little skeletons were lying in broken vaults and had their household gods and kitchen utensils with them. The original of this cemetery was dug up in the principal street of the city a few years ago. It had remained there, only twelve feet underground, for a matter of twenty-five hundred years or thereabouts. Romulus was here before he built Rome, and thought something of founding a city on this spot, but gave up the idea. He may have been personally acquainted with some of these Phoenicians whose skeletons we have been examining.

      In the great Zoological Gardens we found specimens of all the animals the world produces, I think, including a dromedary, a monkey ornamented with tufts of brilliant blue and carmine hair—a very gorgeous monkey he was—a hippopotamus from the Nile, and a sort of tall, long-legged bird with a beak like a powder horn and close-fitting wings like the tails of a dress coat. This fellow stood up with his eyes shut and his shoulders stooped forward a little, and looked as if he had his hands under his coat tails. Such tranquil stupidity, such supernatural gravity, such self-righteousness, and such ineffable self-complacency as were in the countenance and attitude of that gray-bodied, dark-winged, bald-headed, and preposterously uncomely bird! He was so ungainly, so pimply about the head, so scaly about the legs, yet so serene, so unspeakably satisfied! He was the most comical-looking creature that can be imagined.

      It was good to hear Dan and the doctor laugh—such natural and such enjoyable laughter had not been heard among our excursionists since our ship sailed

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