A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried

glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.

H. You are a GUEST in such places?

G.S. And a welcoming one.

H. It is surprising. How does it come?

G.S. My grandfather’s name is a passport to all the courts

in Europe. I have only to utter that name and every

door is open to me. I flit from court to court at my

own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome.

I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are

among your relatives. I know every titled person in Europe,

I think. I have my pockets full of invitations all the time.

I am under promise to go to Italy, where I am to be the

guest of a succession of the noblest houses in the land.

In Berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in the

imperial palace. It is the same, wherever I go.

H. It must be very pleasant. But it must make Boston

seem a little slow when you are at home.

G.S. Yes, of course it does. But I don’t go home much.

There’s no life there–little to feed a man’s higher nature.

Boston’s very narrow, you know. She doesn’t know it, and you

couldn’t convince her of it–so I say nothing when I’m

there: where’s the use? Yes, Boston is very narrow, but she

has such a good opinion of herself that she can’t see it.

A man who has traveled as much as I have, and seen as much

of the world, sees it plain enough, but he can’t cure it,

you know, so the best is to leave it and seek a sphere

which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture.

I run across there, one a year, perhaps, when I have

nothing important on hand, but I’m very soon back again.

I spend my time in Europe.

H. I see. You map out your plans and …

G.S. No, excuse me. I don’t map out any plans. I simply

follow the inclination of the day. I am limited by no ties,

no requirements, I am not bound in any way. I am too old

a traveler to hamper myself with deliberate purposes.

I am simply a traveler–an inveterate traveler–a man of

the world, in a word–I can call myself by no other name.

I do not say, “I am going here, or I am going there”–I

say nothing at all, I only act. For instance, next week

you may find me the guest of a grandee of Spain, or you

may find me off for Venice, or flitting toward Dresden.

I shall probably go to Egypt presently; friends will say

to friends, “He is at the Nile cataracts”–and at that

very moment they will be surprised to learn that I’m away

off yonder in India somewhere. I am a constant surprise

to people. They are always saying, “Yes, he was in Jerusalem

when we heard of him last, but goodness knows where he

is now.”

Presently the Grandson rose to leave–discovered he

had an appointment with some Emperor, perhaps. He did

his graces over again: gripped me with one talon,

at arm’s-length, pressed his hat against his stomach

with the other, bent his body in the middle three times,

murmuring:

“Pleasure, ‘m sure; great pleasure, ‘m sure. Wish you

much success.”

Then he removed his gracious presence. It is a great

and solemn thing to have a grandfather.

I have not purposed to misrepresent this boy in any way,

for what little indignation he excited in me soon

passed and left nothing behind it but compassion.

One cannot keep up a grudge against a vacuum.

I have tried to repeat this lad’s very words;

if I have failed anywhere I have at least not failed

to reproduce the marrow and meaning of what he said.

He and the innocent chatterbox whom I met on the Swiss

lake are the most unique and interesting specimens of

Young America I came across during my foreign tramping.

I have made honest portraits of them, not caricatures.

The Grandson of twenty-three referred to himself five