CHAPTER XVI

EUROPE ON A VANISHING BANK-ROLL

MY journey through Europe was a foot-race. I was trying to beat a bank-roll which was rapidly diminishing and which I feared would be totally exhausted before I reached England, where I hoped to get work. If my money had been rubber I could not have stretched it over a greater distance.

From Milan to Zurich is a big jump in Europe and especially is this true when one considers the perfect Paradise of things there are to see. But with my depleted financial condition always confronting me I had to press on and to content myself with a train-window view of the beautiful Italian "lake country" and the rugged scenery of Switzerland.

Why I went to Zurich, I don't exactly know, but I suppose it must have been the cheapest trip open to me. Aside from scenery Zurich possesses little of interest. After a few hours there, during which I visited the Ton-halle, the cathedral in which Zwingli--the Swiss reformer--set forth his peculiar doctrines and made an excursion of the town, I went on my way to Munich.

My train journey was broken by a trip on a little steamer across Lake Constance. This small body of water is on the boundary line between Switzerland and Germany and, on landing, I was received by a German policeman who evidently sized me up for a spy. I took him for a baggageman and when he spoke to me told him to "beat it." He resented my tone and manner and pressed his solicitations with a little more severity. At last it dawned on me that he was an officer and I decided that for my general welfare it would be well to treat him more courteously. I soon learned from him that he wanted my passport. I had that document in my possession but knew that it was not necessary for an American citizen to present such an instrument in Germany so I declined to produce it. I was able to satisfy the inquisitiveness of the gentleman by answering a few questions, and he allowed me to go on my way.

In my diary I find the following entry concerning Munich:--"Munich is celebrated for two things, its art and its beer. I spent little time on the art but confined myself to the beer. I sampled it thoroughly and can say that it is a high-class liquid. For the equivalent of two cents one gets a large glass, and for five cents a toilet pitcher sufficiently large to drown a ten-pound baby.

"There are no saloons in Germany or on the continent of Europe, liquor being sold in restaurants and cafés, all respectable places frequented by women as well as men. I once knew a good American Baptist woman who was as strict an abstainer as ever lived, but she could not withstand the temptation to partake of beer in Munich during her sojourn there. I understand that many staunch prohibitionists temporarily fall off the wagon in this manner.

"In Italy every one drinks _vino_, but in Germany men, women and children drink beer. For an Italian to eat a meal without wine or a German without beer would be considered in these countries as extraordinary as if a man should bathe his feet with his shoes on. It is a common enough thing to see a pretty German girl of eighteen calmly drinking a schooner of beer instead of the afternoon cup of tea of her American sister. Absolute prohibition has no more chance in Europe than the snowball of the classic simile, and one might as well talk to a turtle on the subject as to these liquor-drinking but temperate peoples."

From Munich to Vienna is about a day's journey and the third-class accommodations are the poorest I encountered in Europe. I sat in one of these compartments with three Austrians for the entire distance without saying a word, assuming that none of them spoke English. As our train was drawing into Vienna I unthinkingly enquired the time of the man opposite me. He replied in excellent English and we both smiled to think that all day we had sat in silence although communication would have been possible if we had only known it.

"You are an American, are you not?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"What are you doing away over here?"

"Just knocking around the country," I informed him. "Do you know where I can find a cheap hotel in Vienna?"

He said that he did and, when we arrived at the station, very kindly conducted me to a clean and modest hostelry.

"What are your plans for the evening?" he enquired.

"I have none," I said.

"I expect to meet a couple of my friends and should be very glad to have you come along," he added cordially.

I cheerfully accepted this opportunity of making some acquaintances in a city the size of Vienna. We boarded a street car, received a transfer about the dimensions of an American Sunday newspaper, changed to another line and were soon at a café, where I was introduced to his two friends.

These three Austrians were clean-cut chaps of the middle class. During the evening I learned that their occupations were respectively piano-tuner, barber and window-trimmer. To add an American tramp to this trio made, I thought, a rather extraordinary assortment of vocations. The prospects for a lively evening looked very gloomy, for the combined wealth of such an aggregation was naturally small. We dined at a big restaurant and then set out to see the town.

First we lodged ourselves in one of Vienna's large cafés, where we remained for two hours watching the fascinating crowds and listening to the music. During this time we had but one glass each of the delicious Vienna coffee and when I suggested that it was only right that we should continue to buy while sitting at a table and enjoying ourselves my companions assured me that it was all right to spend a whole evening in a café with the purchase of but one drink, for every one did it. As an American this seemed strange to me, to say the least. I confess that I felt rather sheepish about it.

The barber and the piano-tuner bade us farewell and the window-trimmer and I started out to see Vienna by moonlight. I shortly discovered that the party was to be at my expense for, as poor as I was, I was a rich man compared to my Austrian companion who from his vocation received a salary of twenty dollars a month. However, I was willing to carry him for a while as he was not only good company but served as an excellent guide.

The places we left unseen in the night life of Vienna do not exist. My window-trimmer friend certainly knew the town and led me into all the cafés and joints he could find. We were ready for anything and after a general round of the more respectable places we heard of a large public ball which was being held in the opposite side of the city, and thither we decided to go. The late Hinky Dink's dances in Chicago or the "Chickens' Ball" given in honour of an ex-pugilist in San Francisco might be considered the last word in refinement compared with this Vienna function. It would be indiscreet to go into a detailed description of this "social" affair for fear of infringing on the American postal laws. The immense hall was crowded with representatives of Vienna's underworld. The women were attired in short skirts, tights and one-piece bathing suits. Liquor was so plentiful that it rose and fell like the ocean tide. The rag, the turkey trot and other modern dances of America, which are the subject of so much criticism, would look like devotional exercises alongside of the steps that were executed at this four-in-the-morning function.

The daytime I spent by myself seeing the more ennobling sights of the city, while my Viennese pal arranged neckties, collars, shirts and pajamas in the windows of a large clothing store. With the aid of Baedeker I made as thorough an investigation of the daylight sights of the city as I had made of those of the night.

Each evening I met my native friend. One night we went for dinner to a quiet little restaurant, where we made the acquaintance of a floorwalker in one of the large department stores of the metropolis and his elderly fiancée, who were seated at the same table with us. They were an interesting pair. It was a mystery to the woman why I should have wanted to come to Austria when America was such a fine country. "You must be very rich to be able to travel around the world," was a remark she made--a remark I had heard probably five hundred times during my trip.

On the way to the café the window-trimmer and I were approached by a street vendor who was selling plaster of paris busts of the famous men of Austria.

"How much are they?" I enquired.

"Two dollars each," he replied.

"I will give you a nickel for one," I said as a joke.

"All right, sir," he exclaimed in an instant, and half dazed with the sudden reduction in his price I bought two of the images, giving one to my friend. The other I purposely let fall on the cement sidewalk and the bust of Francis Joseph, whose likeness it was, went into a thousand pieces at the feet of the vendor--who was much disgusted at my wilful extravagance. The Austrian drew the bust of a two-year-old baby, purporting to represent one of Austria's illustrious sons at that tender age, and this ungainly toy he presented very formally to the café keeper's wife, who presided at the till. She received the piece of bric-a-brac in a most gracious manner and with much amusement. The baby was perched on the top of the till and there remained the rest of the evening.

Late that night I was the guest of the window-trimmer in the room in which he lived. He had prepared a supper of rye bread, cheese and beer. The repast consumed, he entertained me by playing a few simple tunes on his cheap and shabby-looking violin. About midnight we separated and as I was leaving Vienna in the morning we said our last farewell--among the most touching of my trip.

On my way to Budapest I made the acquaintance of a Serbian fisherman, an Hungarian blacksmith and a plumber. They all spoke English, for they had lived in America, and when they were not talking to me they were expounding the fine points of that nation to their countrymen in the third-class coach of the train. A Roumanian who was aboard, becoming interested in my travels, invited me to be his guest on a three weeks' horseback trip through the mountains of the Balkan States. He said that we could put up at farmhouses for nothing and that my only expense would be the hire of the saddle and the horse. This was a very alluring invitation but the state of my finances made it impossible for me to accept.

Baedeker states that only the "lower orders," whatever that means, use third-class coaches in Europe. He should travel in this manner for a while and he would change his mind. The German third-class is good enough for any human being, and the passengers whom I met looked very civilised and had all the appearance of taking at least a weekly bath and of wearing underclothes. The Austrian third-class is an exception and carries a lower grade of humanity, representatives of the Great Unwashed, who comprise about eighty per cent. of this earth's inhabitants.

I mingled with the bustling crowds on the streets of Budapest for three days and then became a second-class passenger _en route_ to Paris, there being no through third-class coach. This journey through the beautiful Austrian and Swiss Alps was uneventful. I was only entertained by a German, who had returned from America where he held a position as cook in a short-order restaurant in Butte, and a French couple who fed their two-year-old baby large quantities of beer. This infant had a capacity that would make many an American undergraduate envious.

Alighting from my train at midnight I walked through the crowded station and in a minute was making my way along a deserted street of Paris. I intended to locate an hotel as soon as possible. I had hardly gone a block when a heavy down-pour of rain set in and I foresaw that I was in for a thorough drenching unless I sought shelter at once. At that moment a man appeared out of the darkness and enquired if I wanted an hotel. It had been my custom to decline all street hotel hawkers but, in view of the heavy rain, I decided to accept the services of the man and to find out what kind of an establishment he had. He took my hand bag and started back towards the station with me close behind him. We turned to the right and walked along the railroad tracks while the rain continued to come down in torrents. Three blocks in this direction and my guide crossed the tracks and proceeded down a dark street. Suspicions began to arise within me as to where the Frenchman was leading me. My knowledge of French was so limited that I could not find out anything but that I was going to an hotel. I decided to continue. I had heard stories of how innocent travellers are sometimes trapped by the thugs of European cities, drugged and robbed. This thought came to my mind but did not weaken my determination to go ahead and get under cover as soon as possible. We continued along this dark thoroughfare. We seemed to be in the wholesale district and there was not a human being in sight. Finally we turned down a narrow alley, at the end of which was a decrepit stairway. Up this rickety flight we ascended and at the top turned into a room dimly lighted by the intermittent flicker of a candle, which was resting on a high desk. Behind this desk I could see a bearded Frenchman who peered over his spectacles as the two of us entered. My guide and the old fellow exchanged a few words and I was conducted down the hall to my room. This compartment contained a wash-stand and a heavy wooden bed. Inside, my suspicions began to increase as to the safety of my place of abode. There seemed to be an atmosphere of mystery and I thought that I might expect anything. I listened at the door for strange sounds but heard nothing but a creaking noise which seemed to come from the back end of the building. Before retiring I decided to take every precaution and made up my mind that if any Frenchman attempted to disturb my rest with the intention of relieving me of my money he was going to be welcomed with at least the best fight he ever encountered. I first locked the door with a pass key I had in my possession. Then I placed the back of the bed against the door and wedged the wash-stand in between it and the wall. The room was so small that the stand made a tight fit in the space left for it. Armed with a piece of pipe I found in one of the drawers of the wash-stand I threw myself on the bed, clothes and all, and shortly was as sound asleep as if guarded by a regiment.

My suspicions may have been nothing but a bubble to explode in the morning. However, I am sure that I was in the proper place to be stripped of my coin by any means necessary. I evidently was not worth plucking. I was awakened in the morning by the moving trains in the yards near-by and without any delay grabbed my bag and in a minute was out of the joint on my way to a more civilised part of the city. I learned from a French shop-keeper a few days later that in this very lodging house in which I feared foul play, two Englishmen had been gagged, robbed and dumped into an alley for the rest of the night.

My experience in this hotel netted me two things: scabies and influenza. The bed clothes were so filthy that I was infected by a germ which penetrates the skin and causes no end of trouble. It was fully three months later that I mastered this disease, known by the euphonious name of scabies, and only after prolonged treatment by a doctor. My exposure to the rain and cold gave me an attack of influenza which, with its accompanying fever, pains and aches, was poor equipment with which to see Paris.

In spite of this malady I kept moving and succeeded in finding a clean and comfortable room at one franc a day on the fifth floor of a small hotel. The main objection to this place was the absence of an elevator and it was a most fatiguing effort for a sick man to climb these five flights several times a day. Later I learned that I had not much improved upon my neighbourhood of the first night, for I was now located in _Monte Mart_.

To spend a few days in Paris without company except a case of influenza was anything but a cheerful outlook. I went to a drug store and told one of the clerks my symptoms. He put up a prescription which I took conscientiously, at the same time exerting my will power not to let the disease get sufficient hold on my constitution to force me to bed and make me a public charge of the municipal authorities. Each day I arose, hoping that my fever would subside, and dragged myself about the city. On the _Rue de Turbigo_ in the vicinity of the _Halles Centrales_, I fainted away and fell to the sidewalk. When I recovered consciousness I was speeding at a rapid rate in an ambulance for the municipal hospital. A glass of water was being choked down my throat. This resuscitated me. Accompanied by one of the ambulance attendants I returned to my hotel.

The average visitor to Paris places himself in the hands of a guide connected with one of the large hotels and is thus relieved of all the routine and detail of systematically and profitably seeing the city. A guide is a luxury never meant for a poor man. I never entertained the thought of hiring such an individual. A map of the streets, a Baedeker and some intelligence was all I had. With this outfit I explored Paris. Sometimes I would go about sight-seeing methodically, and again I would simply drift. To drift is the more interesting. Down the _Boulevard Magneta_ I found my way to the _Halles Centralles_, the central and largest market of Paris. I wandered through the interesting _pavillons_ which cover twenty-two acres. I jostled along the narrow streets, covered with hay, decayed vegetables and other refuse, and mingled with the natives. I little realised what was in store for me. I crossed the Seine and visited the _Hotel des Invalides_, under the dome of which repose the ashes of Napoleon I. I moved on to the Pantheon where I attached myself to a group of American tourists conducted by a Cook's guide. This harmless gathering surely could not lead me into any trouble. I stood in their midst and listened to the mumbling speech of the guide as though I were a regular member of the party and had paid my fee. We were taken to the vaults in which are located the tombs of Victor Hugo, Mirabeau, Rousseau, Voltaire and others. An attendant of the Pantheon went in advance of our little procession and unlocked the heavy doors which led into the various tombs and the curious looking crowd would draw together while the guide grew eloquent on the life of some reclining corpse. When we surrounded the tomb of Voltaire I became so engrossed by the fact that I was in the presence of the remains of this master mind of the past that I failed to leave with the party and remained a minute, rather stupefied. When I returned to my senses I found that the porter had locked the door of the vault and I was incarcerated in the gruesome abode of a dead man. The Thomas Cook and Son party had returned to the main floor and I was the sole living creature in the crypt of the building. To add to my ghastly situation the lights were turned off, for it was nearly night-fall. My prospects for immediate freedom were rapidly diminishing. I decided to call out in the hope that I would attract the attention of one of the porters on the main floor. I gave a shriek which sent shivers down my spine and nearly frightened me to death. I at once saw that it was useless to shout as a means of being rescued, for the echoes of my call resounded in such confusion from the walls of the small vault that they sounded like a bedlam of bass drums turned loose. If I shrieked again I was afraid that I might awake Voltaire. I had heard ghost stories in which the main character, on a dare, voluntarily entered the tomb of a dead man; but I never thought that I should play this rôle against my will in the heart of Paris. There was nothing left for me to do but wait until some one came to liberate me. The prospect of this event's happening before morning was very remote. I therefore resigned myself to my confinement and concluded to spend the night communing with the spirit of Voltaire. I hope that the august gentleman enjoyed my company. I know that I didn't enjoy his. On previous occasions in my life I have, under trying circumstances, spent lengthy and wearisome nights, but as I recall them, they were mere flashes of time compared to the long, ghostly and dark hours I slept with Voltaire. It was about six o'clock in the evening and I estimated that it would be at least nine in the morning before another party of travellers would be conducted into the vaults of the Pantheon. I made up my mind to spend most of this time in sleep, if such a thing were possible. I stretched out on the cold pavement, alongside of my bed-mate, closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I was in a warm couch and thus hypnotise myself into sleep. My mind refused to transform the hard slab under me into a comfortable mattress. The corpse of Voltaire was haunting my brain and the stillness of the tomb nearly drove me insane. The long hours wore away while I lay awake, my mind full of hideous thoughts and imaginations. About midnight I dozed off from pure mental exhaustion and spent the rest of the night the victim of the most gruesome and ghastly dreams any man ever had. I awoke at six o'clock, only to spend three more hours in this fearful prison cell. I was literally buried alive. Shortly after nine I heard the clump of feet and chatter of voices and I knew a group of tourists was approaching. My spirits were immediately transformed. In a minute the tourists stood before my tomb. The door was unlocked and I rushed out like a wild beast. The attendant stood speechless. The sightseers drew away in fright. A living man leaping from a tomb of the dead! I did not wait to give any explanation or receive congratulations on obtaining my freedom, but bounded down the crypt to the stairs, up to the main floor and out of the Pantheon into the fresh air. Those fifteen hours with Voltaire seemed like a century, and I sauntered down the street with the feeling that Rip van Winkle had nothing on me.