A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

a mountain of flesh. Bruised as I was, I was still able

to catch a faint accent from above, to this effect:

“I die for… for … perdition take it,

what IS it I die for? … oh, yes–FRANCE! I die

that France may live!”

The surgeons swarmed around with their probes in

their hands, and applied their microscopes to the whole

area of M. Gambetta’s person, with the happy result of

finding nothing in the nature of a wound. Then a scene

ensued which was in every way gratifying and inspiriting.

The two gladiators fell upon each other’s neck, with floods

of proud and happy tears; that other second embraced me;

the surgeons, the orators, the undertakers, the police,

everybody embraced, everybody congratulated, everybody cried,

and the whole atmosphere was filled with praise and with

joy unspeakable.

It seems to me then that I would rather be a hero

of a French duel than a crowned and sceptered monarch.

When the commotion had somewhat subsided, the body

of surgeons held a consultation, and after a good deal

of debate decided that with proper care and nursing there

was reason to believe that I would survive my injuries.

My internal hurts were deemed the most serious, since it

was apparent that a broken rib had penetrated my left lung,

and that many of my organs had been pressed out so far

to one side or the other of where they belonged, that it

was doubtful if they would ever learn to perform their

functions in such remote and unaccustomed localities.

They then set my left arm in two places, pulled my right

hip into its socket again, and re-elevated my nose.

I was an object of great interest, and even admiration;

and many sincere and warm-hearted persons had themselves

introduced to me, and said they were proud to know

the only man who had been hurt in a French duel in

forty years.

I was placed in an ambulance at the very head of the procession;

and thus with gratifying ‘ECLAT I was marched into Paris,

the most conspicuous figure in that great spectacle,

and deposited at the hospital.

The cross of the Legion of Honor has been conferred

upon me. However, few escape that distinction.

Such is the true version of the most memorable private

conflict of the age.

I have no complaints to make against any one. I acted

for myself, and I can stand the consequences.

Without boasting, I think I may say I am not afraid

to stand before a modern French duelist, but as long

as I keep in my right mind I will never consent to stand

behind one again.

CHAPTER IX

[What the Beautiful Maiden Said]

One day we took the train and went down to Mannheim

to see “King Lear” played in German. It was a mistake.

We sat in our seats three whole hours and never understood

anything but the thunder and lightning; and even that

was reversed to suit German ideas, for the thunder came

first and the lightning followed after.

The behavior of the audience was perfect. There were

no rustlings, or whisperings, or other little disturbances;

each act was listened to in silence, and the applauding

was done after the curtain was down. The doors opened at

half past four, the play began promptly at half past five,

and within two minutes afterward all who were coming were

in their seats, and quiet reigned. A German gentleman

in the train had said that a Shakespearian play was an

appreciated treat in Germany and that we should find the

house filled. It was true; all the six tiers were filled,

and remained so to the end–which suggested that it is

not only balcony people who like Shakespeare in Germany,

but those of the pit and gallery, too.

Another time, we went to Mannheim and attended a shivaree–

otherwise an opera–the one called “Lohengrin.” The

banging and slamming and booming and crashing were

something beyond belief. The racking and pitiless

pain of it remains stored up in my memory alongside

the memory of the time that I had my teeth fixed.

There were circumstances which made it necessary for me

to stay through the hour hours to the end, and I stayed;