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    Chapter 11

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    Chapter 12
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    We are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility. We are getting
    reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors and no
    carpets--floors that ring to the tread of one's heels with a sharpness
    that is death to sentimental musing. We are getting used to tidy,
    noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your
    back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick
    to fill them; thankful for a gratuity without regard to the amount; and
    always polite--never otherwise than polite. That is the strangest
    curiosity yet--a really polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot. We are
    getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the
    midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of
    parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking. We
    are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles
    --the only kind of ice they have here. We are getting used to all these
    things, but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap. We are
    sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and toothbrushes, but this
    thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us and not
    pleasant at all. We think of it just after we get our heads and faces
    thoroughly wet or just when we think we have been in the bathtub long
    enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows. These
    Marseillaises make Marseillaise hymns and Marseilles vests and Marseilles
    soap for all the world, but they never sing their hymns or wear their
    vests or wash with their soap themselves.

    We have learned to go through the lingering routine of the table d'hote
    with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction. We take soup, then wait
    a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are
    changed, and the roast beef comes; another change and we take peas;
    change again and take lentils; change and take snail patties (I prefer
    grasshoppers); change and take roast chicken and salad; then strawberry
    pie and ice cream; then green figs, pears, oranges, green almonds, etc.;
    finally coffee. Wine with every course, of course, being in France.
    With such a cargo on board, digestion is a slow process, and we must sit
    long in the cool chambers and smoke--and read French newspapers, which
    have a strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get
    to the "nub" of it, and then a word drops in that no man can translate,
    and that story is ruined. An embankment fell on some Frenchmen
    yesterday, and the papers are full of it today--but whether those
    sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared is more
    than I can possibly make out, and yet I would just give anything to know.

    We were troubled a little at dinner today by the conduct of an American,
    who talked very loudly and coarsely and laughed boisterously where all
    others were so quiet and well behaved. He ordered wine with a royal
    flourish and said:

    "I never dine without wine, sir" (which was a pitiful falsehood), and
    looked around upon the company to bask in the admiration he expected to
    find in their faces. All these airs in a land where they would as soon
    expect to leave the soup out of the bill of fare as the wine!--in a land
    where wine is nearly as common among all ranks as water! This fellow
    said: "I am a free-born sovereign, sir, an American, sir, and I want
    everybody to know it!" He did not mention that he was a lineal
    descendant of Balaam's ass, but everybody knew that without his telling

    We have driven in the Prado--that superb avenue bordered with patrician
    mansions and noble shade trees--and have visited the chateau Boarely and
    its curious museum. They showed us a miniature cemetery there--a copy of
    the first graveyard that was ever in Marseilles, no doubt. The delicate
    little skeletons were lying in broken vaults and had their household gods
    and kitchen utensils with them. The original of this cemetery was dug up
    in the principal street of the city a few years ago. It had remained
    there, only twelve feet underground, for a matter of twenty-five hundred
    years or thereabouts. Romulus was here before he built Rome, and thought
    something of founding a city on this spot, but gave up the idea. He may
    have been personally acquainted with some of these Phoenicians whose
    skeletons we have been examining.

    In the great Zoological Gardens we found specimens of all the animals the
    world produces, I think, including a dromedary, a monkey ornamented with
    tufts of brilliant blue and carmine hair--a very gorgeous monkey he was
    --a hippopotamus from the Nile, and a sort of tall, long-legged bird with a
    beak like a powder horn and close-fitting wings like the tails of a dress
    coat. This fellow stood up with his eyes shut and his shoulders stooped
    forward a little, and looked as if he had his hands under his coat
    tails. Such tranquil stupidity, such supernatural gravity, such
    self-righteousness, and such ineffable self-complacency as were in the
    countenance and attitude of that gray-bodied, dark-winged, bald-headed,
    and preposterously uncomely bird! He was so ungainly, so pimply about
    the head, so scaly about the legs, yet so serene, so unspeakably
    satisfied! He was the most comical-looking creature that can be
    imagined. It was good to hear Dan and the doctor laugh--such natural and
    such enjoyable laughter had not been heard among our excursionists since
    our ship sailed away from America. This bird was a godsend to us, and I
    should be an ingrate if I forgot to make honorable mention of him in
    these pages. Ours was a pleasure excursion; therefore we stayed with
    that bird an hour and made the most of him. We stirred him up
    occasionally, but he only unclosed an eye and slowly closed it again,
    abating no jot of his stately piety of demeanor or his tremendous
    seriousness. He only seemed to say, "Defile not Heaven's anointed with
    unsanctified hands." We did not know his name, and so we called him "The
    Pilgrim." Dan said:

    "All he wants now is a Plymouth Collection."

    The boon companion of the colossal elephant was a common cat! This cat
    had a fashion of climbing up the elephant's hind legs and roosting on his
    back. She would sit up there, with her paws curved under her breast, and
    sleep in the sun half the afternoon. It used to annoy the elephant at
    first, and he would reach up and take her down, but she would go aft and
    climb up again. She persisted until she finally conquered the elephant's
    prejudices, and now they are inseparable friends. The cat plays about
    her comrade's forefeet or his trunk often, until dogs approach, and then
    she goes aloft out of danger. The elephant has annihilated several dogs
    lately that pressed his companion too closely.

    We hired a sailboat and a guide and made an excursion to one of the small
    islands in the harbor to visit the Castle d'If. This ancient fortress
    has a melancholy history. It has been used as a prison for political
    offenders for two or three hundred years, and its dungeon walls are
    scarred with the rudely carved names of many and many a captive who
    fretted his life away here and left no record of himself but these sad
    epitaphs wrought with his own hands. How thick the names were! And
    their long-departed owners seemed to throng the gloomy cells and
    corridors with their phantom shapes. We loitered through dungeon after
    dungeon, away down into the living rock below the level of the sea, it
    seemed. Names everywhere!--some plebeian, some noble, some even
    princely. Plebeian, prince, and noble had one solicitude in common--they
    would not be forgotten! They could suffer solitude, inactivity, and the
    horrors of a silence that no sound ever disturbed, but they could not
    bear the thought of being utterly forgotten by the world. Hence the
    carved names. In one cell, where a little light penetrated, a man had
    lived twenty-seven years without seeing the face of a human being--lived
    in filth and wretchedness, with no companionship but his own thoughts,
    and they were sorrowful enough and hopeless enough, no doubt. Whatever
    his jailers considered that he needed was conveyed to his cell by night
    through a wicket.

    This man carved the walls of his prison house from floor to roof with all
    manner of figures of men and animals grouped in intricate designs. He
    had toiled there year after year, at his self-appointed task, while
    infants grew to boyhood--to vigorous youth--idled through school and
    college--acquired a profession--claimed man's mature estate--married and
    looked back to infancy as to a thing of some vague, ancient time, almost.
    But who shall tell how many ages it seemed to this prisoner? With the
    one, time flew sometimes; with the other, never--it crawled always. To
    the one, nights spent in dancing had seemed made of minutes instead of
    hours; to the other, those selfsame nights had been like all other nights
    of dungeon life and seemed made of slow, dragging weeks instead of hours
    and minutes.

    One prisoner of fifteen years had scratched verses upon his walls, and
    brief prose sentences--brief, but full of pathos. These spoke not of
    himself and his hard estate, but only of the shrine where his spirit fled
    the prison to worship--of home and the idols that were templed there.
    He never lived to see them.

    The walls of these dungeons are as thick as some bed-chambers at home are
    wide--fifteen feet. We saw the damp, dismal cells in which two of Dumas'
    heroes passed their confinement--heroes of "Monte Cristo." It was here
    that the brave Abbe wrote a book with his own blood, with a pen made of a
    piece of iron hoop, and by the light of a lamp made out of shreds of
    cloth soaked in grease obtained from his food; and then dug through the
    thick wall with some trifling instrument which he wrought himself out of
    a stray piece of iron or table cutlery and freed Dantes from his chains.
    It was a pity that so many weeks of dreary labor should have come to
    naught at last.

    They showed us the noisome cell where the celebrated "Iron Mask"--that
    ill-starred brother of a hardhearted king of France--was confined for a
    season before he was sent to hide the strange mystery of his life from
    the curious in the dungeons of Ste. Marguerite. The place had a far
    greater interest for us than it could have had if we had known beyond all
    question who the Iron Mask was, and what his history had been, and why
    this most unusual punishment had been meted out to him. Mystery! That
    was the charm. That speechless tongue, those prisoned features, that
    heart so freighted with unspoken troubles, and that breast so oppressed
    with its piteous secret had been here. These dank walls had known the
    man whose dolorous story is a sealed book forever! There was fascination
    in the spot.
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