Europe Revised — 40 - Ch. XIX: Venice and the Venisons, pt. 1

Venice and the Venisons Getting back again to guides, I am reminded that our acquaintanceship with the second member of the Mark Twain brotherhood was staged in Paris.

This gentleman wished himself on us one afternoon at the Hotel des Invalides.

We did not engage him; he engaged us, doing the trick with such finesse and skill that before we realized it we had been retained to accompany him to various points of interest in and round Paris.

However, we remained under his control one day only.

At nightfall we wrested ourselves free and fled under cover of darkness to German soil, where we were comparatively safe.

I never knew a man who advanced so rapidly in a military way as he did during the course of that one day.

Our own national guard could not hold a candle to him.

He started out at ten A. M.

by being an officer of volunteers in the Franco-Prussian War; but every time he slipped away and took a nip out of his private bottle, which was often, he advanced in rank automatically.

Before the dusk of evening came he was a corps commander, who had been ennobled on the field of battle by the hand of Napoleon the Third.

He took us to Versailles.

We did not particularly care to go to Versailles that day, because it was raining; but he insisted and we went.

In spite of the drizzle we might have enjoyed that wonderful place had he not been constantly at our elbows, gabbling away steadily except when he excused himself for a moment and stepped behind a tree, to emerge a moment later wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Then he would return to us, with an added gimpiness in his elderly legs, an increased expansion of the chest inside his tight and shiny frock coat, and a fresh freight of richness on his breath, to report another deserved promotion.

After he had eaten luncheon--all except such portions of it as he spilled on himself--the colonel grew confidential and chummy.

He tried to tell me an off-color story and forgot the point of it, if indeed it had any point.

He began humming the Marseillaise hymn, but broke off to say he expected to live to see the day when a column of French troops, singing that air, would march up Unter den Linden to stack their arms in the halls of the Kaiser's palace.

I did not take issue with him.

Every man is entitled to his own wishes in those matters.

But later on, when I had seen something of the Kaiser's standing army, I thought to myself that when the French troops did march up Unter den Linden they would find it tolerably rough sledding, and if there was any singing done a good many of them probably would not be able to join in the last verse.

Immediately following this, our conductor confided to me that he had once had the honor of serving Mr. Clemens, whom he referred to as Mick Twine.

He told me things about Mr. Clemens of which I had never heard.

I do not think Mr. Clemens ever heard of them either.

Then the brigadier--it was now after three o'clock, and between three and three-thirty he was a brigadier--drew my arm within his.

"I, too, am an author," he stated.

"It is not generally known, but I have written much.

I wrote a book of which you may have heard--'The Wandering Jew.'

" And he tapped himself on the bosom proudly.

I said I had somehow contracted a notion that a party named Sue--Eugene Sue--had something to do with writing the work of that name.

"Ah, but you are right there, my friend," he said.

"Sue wrote 'The Wandering Jew' the first time--as a novel, merely; but I wrote him much better--as a satire on the anti-Semitic movement."

I surrendered without offering to strike another blow and from that time on he had his own way with us.

The day, as I was pleased to note at the time, had begun mercifully to draw to a close; we were driving back to Paris, and he, sitting on the front seat, had just attained the highest post in the army under the regime of the last Empire, when he said: "Behold, m'sieur!

We are now approaching a wine shop on the left.

You were most gracious and kind in the matter of luncheon.

Kindly permit me to do the honors now.

It is a very good wine shop--I know it well.

Shall we stop for a glass together, eh?"

It was the first time since we landed at Calais that a native-born person had offered to buy anything, and, being ever desirous to assist in the celebration of any truly notable occasion, I accepted and the car was stopped.

We were at the portal of the wine shop, when he plucked at my sleeve, offering another suggestion: "The chauffeur now--he is a worthy fellow, that chauffeur.

Shall we not invite the chauffeur to join us?"

I was agreeable to that, too.

So he called the chauffeur and the chauffeur disentangled his whiskers from the steering gear and came and joined us.

The chauffeur and I each had a small glass of light wine, but the general took brandy.

Then ensued a spirited dialogue between him and the woman who kept the shop.

Assuming that I had no interest in the matter, I studied the pictures behind the bar.

Presently, having reduced the woman to a state of comparative silence, he approached me.

"M'sieur," he said, "I regret that this has happened.

Because you are a foreigner and because you know not our language, that woman would make an overcharge; but she forgot she had me to deal with.

I am on guard!

See her!

She is now quelled!

I have given her a lesson she will not soon forget.

M'sieur, the correct amount of the bill is two-francs-ten.

Give it to her and let us begone!"

I still have that guide's name and address in my possession.

At parting he pressed his card on me and asked me to keep it; and I did keep it.

I

shall be glad to loan it to any American who may be thinking of going to Paris.

With the card in his pocket, he will know exactly where this guide lives; and then, when he is in need of a guide he can carefully go elsewhere and hire a guide.

I almost failed to mention that before we parted he tried to induce us to buy something.

He took us miles out of our way to a pottery and urged us to invest in its wares.

This is the main purpose of every guide: to see that you buy something and afterward to collect his commission from the shopkeeper for having brought you to the shop.

If you engage your guide through the porter at your hotel you will find that he steers you to the shops the hotel people have already recommended to you; but if you break the porter's heart by hiring your guide outside, independently, the guide steers you to the shops that are on his own private list.

Only once I saw a guide temporarily stumped, and that was in Venice.

The skies were leaky that day and the weather was raw; and one of the ladies of the party wore pumps and silk stockings.

For the protection of her ankles she decided to buy a pair of cloth gaiters; and, stating her intention, she started to go into a shop that dealt in those articles.

The guide hesitated a moment only, then threw himself in her path.

The shops hereabout were not to be trusted--the proprietors, without exception, were rogues and extortioners.

If madame would have patience for a few brief moments he would guarantee that she got what she wanted at an honest price.

He seemed so desirous of protecting her that she consented to wait.

In a minute, on a pretext, he excused himself and dived into one of the crooked ways that thread through all parts of Venice and make it possible for one who knows their windings to reach any part of the city without using the canals.

Two of us secretly followed him.

Beyond the first turning he dived into a shoe shop.

Emerging after a while he hurried back and led the lady to that same shop, and stood by, smiling softly, while she was fitted with gaiters.

Until now evidently gaiters had not been on his list, but he had taken steps to remedy this; and, though his commission on a pair of sixty-cent gaiters could not have been very large yet, as some philosopher has so truly said, every little bit added to what you have makes just a modicum more.

Indeed, the guide never overlooks the smallest bet.

His whole mentality is focused on getting you inside a shop.

Once you are there, he stations himself close behind you, reenforcing the combined importunities of the shopkeeper and his assembled staff with gentle suggestions.

The depths of self-abasement to which a shopkeeper in Europe will descend in an effort to sell his goods surpasses the power of description.

The London tradesman goes pretty far in this direction.

Often he goes as far as the sidewalk, clinging to the hem of your garment and begging you to return for one more look.

But the Continentals are still worse.