A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

hotel clerk to know nothing whatever; it is the pride

of the portier to know everything. You ask 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 hack tariff; or how many children the mayor has;

or what days the galleries are 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,

what the plays are to be, and the price of seats;

or what is the newest thing in hats; or how the bills

of mortality average; or “who struck Billy Patterson.”

It does not matter what you ask him: in nine cases

out of ten he knows, and in the tenth case he will find

out for you before you can turn around three times.

There is nothing he will not put his hand to. Suppose you

tell him you wish to go from Hamburg to Peking by the way

of Jericho, and are ignorant of routes and prices–

the next morning he will hand you a piece of paper with

the whole thing worked out on it to the last detail.

Before you have been long on European soil, you find

yourself still SAYING you are relying on Providence,

but when you come to look closer you will see that in reality

you are relying on the portier. 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 he promptly says,

“Leave that to me.” Consequently, you easily drift into

the habit of leaving everything to him. There is a certain

embarrassment about applying to the average American

hotel clerk, a certain hesitancy, a sense of insecurity

against rebuff; but you feel no embarrassment in your

intercourse with the portier; he receives your propositions

with an enthusiasm which cheers, and plunges into their

accomplishment with an alacrity which almost inebriates.

The more requirements you can pile upon him, the better he

likes it. Of course the result is that you cease from doing

anything for yourself. He calls a hack when you want one;

puts you into it; tells the driver whither to take you;

receives you like a long-lost child when you return;

sends you about your business, does all the quarreling

with the hackman himself, and pays him his money out

of his own pocket. He sends for your theater tickets,

and pays for them; 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 will

find a subordinate seated with the cab-driver who will

put you in your railway compartment, buy your tickets,

have your baggage weighed, bring you the printed tags,

and tell you everything is in your bill and paid for.

At home you get such elaborate, excellent, and willing

service as this only in the best hotels of our large cities;

but in Europe you get it in the mere back country-towns just

as well.

What is the secret of the portier’s devotion? It is

very simple: he gets FEES, AND NO SALARY. His fee

is pretty closely regulated, too. If you stay a week,

you give him five marks–a dollar and a quarter, or about

eighteen cents a day. If you stay a month, you reduce

this average somewhat. If you stay two or three months

or longer, you cut it down half, or even more than half.

If you stay only one day, you give the portier a mark.

The head waiter’s fee is a shade less than the portier’s;

the Boots, who not only blacks your boots and brushes

your clothes, but is usually the porter and handles your

baggage, gets a somewhat smaller fee than the head waiter;

the chambermaid’s fee ranks below that of the Boots.

You fee only these four, and no one else. A German

gentleman told me that when he remained a week in a hotel,

he gave the portier five marks, the head waiter four,

the Boots three, and the chambermaid two; and if he