A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

he had probably done it before.

We reached the restaurant on the height called the Chapeau

at four in the afternoon. It was a memento-factory, and

the stock was large, cheap, and varied. I bought the usual

paper-cutter to remember the place by, and had Mont Blanc,

the Mauvais Pas, and the rest of the region branded on

my alpenstock; then we descended to the valley and walked

home without being tied together. This was not dangerous,

for the valley was five miles wide, and quite level.

We reached the hotel before nine o’clock. Next

morning we left for Geneva on top of the diligence,

under shelter of a gay awning. If I remember rightly,

there were more than twenty people up there.

It was so high that the ascent was made by ladder.

The huge vehicle was full everywhere, inside and out.

Five other diligences left at the same time, all full.

We had engaged our seats two days beforehand, to make sure,

and paid the regulation price, five dollars each; but the

rest of the company were wiser; they had trusted Baedeker,

and waited; consequently some of them got their seats

for one or two dollars. Baedeker knows all about hotels,

railway and diligence companies, and speaks his mind freely.

He is a trustworthy friend of the traveler.

We never saw Mont Blanc at his best until we were many

miles away; then he lifted his majestic proportions

high into the heavens, all white and cold and solemn,

and made the rest of the world seem little and plebeian,

and cheap and trivial.

As he passed out of sight at last, an old Englishman

settled himself in his seat and said:

“Well, I am satisfied, I have seen the principal features

of Swiss scenery–Mont Blanc and the goiter–now for home!”

CHAPTER XLVII

[Queer European Manners]

We spent a few pleasant restful days at Geneva,

that delightful city where accurate time-pieces are made

for all the rest of the world, but whose own clocks

never give the correct time of day by any accident.

Geneva is filled with pretty shops, and the shops are

filled with the most enticing gimacrackery, but if one

enters one of these places he is at once pounced upon,

and followed up, and so persecuted to buy this, that,

and the other thing, that he is very grateful to get

out again, and is not at all apt to repeat his experiment.

The shopkeepers of the smaller sort, in Geneva,

are as troublesome and persistent as are the salesmen

of that monster hive in Paris, the Grands Magasins du

Louvre–an establishment where ill-mannered pestering,

pursuing, and insistence have been reduced to a science.

In Geneva, prices in the smaller shops are very elastic–

that is another bad feature. I was looking in at a window

at a very pretty string of beads, suitable for a child.

I was only admiring them; I had no use for them; I hardly

ever wear beads. The shopwoman came out and offered

them to me for thirty-five francs. I said it was cheap,

but I did not need them.

“Ah, but monsieur, they are so beautiful!”

I confessed it, but said they were not suitable for one

of my age and simplicity of character. She darted in and

brought them out and tried to force them into my hands,

saying:

“Ah, but only see how lovely they are! Surely monsieur will

take them; monsieur shall have them for thirty francs.

There, I have said it–it is a loss, but one must live.”

I dropped my hands, and tried to move her to respect

my unprotected situation. But no, she dangled the beads

in the sun before my face, exclaiming, “Ah, monsieur

CANNOT resist them!” She hung them on my coat button,

folded her hand resignedly, and said: “Gone,–and for

thirty francs, the lovely things–it is incredible!–but

the good God will sanctify the sacrifice to me.”

I removed them gently, returned them, and walked away,

shaking my head and smiling a smile of silly embarrassment

while the passers-by halted to observe. The woman leaned

out of her door, shook the beads, and screamed after me:

“Monsieur shall have them for twenty-eight!”