"That unknown common soldier, nameless though he was, deserves to
live forever in the memory of mankind. He lacked imagination, it
is true, but he was game. It was a glorious death to die - painful,
yet splendid. Those four poor wretches whose shells were found
in the prison under the gladiators' school, with their ankles fast
in the iron stocks - I know why they stayed. Their feet were too
large for their own good. But no bonds except his dauntless will
bound him at the portals of the doomed city. Duty was the only
chain that held him.
"And to think that centuries and centuries afterward they should
find his monument - a vacant, empty mold in the piled-up pumice!
Had I been in his place I should have created my vacancy much
sooner - say, about thirty seconds after the first alarm went in.
But he was one who chose rather that men should say, 'How natural
he looks!' than 'Yonder he goes!' And he has my sincere admiration.
When I go to Pompeii - if ever I do go there - I shall seek out the
spot where he made the supremest sacrifice to authority that ever
any man could make, and I shall tarry a while in those hallowed
precincts!"
That was what I said I would do and that was what I did do that
afternoon at Pompeii. I found the gate looking toward the sea and
I found all the other gates, or the sites of them; but I did not
find the Roman sentry nor any trace of him, nor any authentic
record of him. I questioned the guides and, through an interpreter,
the curator of the Museum, and from them I learned the lamentably
disillusioning facts in this case. There is no trace of him because
he neglected to leave any trace.
Doubtless there was a sentry on guard at the gate when the volcano
belched forth, and the skin of the earth flinched and shivered and
split asunder; but he did not remain for the finish. He said to
himself that this was no place for a minister's son; and so he
girded up his loins and he went away from there.
He went away hurriedly - even as you and I.
Chapter XXIV
Mine Own People
Wherever we went I was constantly on the outlook for a kind of
tourist who had been described to me frequently and at great length
by more seasoned travelers - the kind who wore his country's flag
as a buttonhole emblem, or as a shirtfront decoration; and regarded
every gathering and every halting place as providing suitable
opportunity to state for the benefit of all who might be concerned,
how immensely and overpoweringly superior in all particulars was
the land from which he hailed as compared with all other lands
under the sun. I desired most earnestly to overhaul a typical
example of this species, my intention then being to decoy him off
to some quiet and secluded spot and there destroy him in the hope
of cutting down the breed.
At length, along toward the fag end of our zigzagging course, I
caught up with him; but stayed my hand and slew not. For some
countries, you understand, are so finicky in the matter of protecting
their citizens that they would protect even such a one as this.
I was fearful lest, by exterminating the object of my homicidal
desires, I should bring on international complications with a
friendly Power, no matter however public-spirited and high-minded
my intentions might be.
It was in Vienna, in a cafe, and the hour was late. We were just
leaving, after having listened for some hours to a Hungarian band
playing waltz tunes and an assemblage of natives drinking beer,
when the sounds of a dispute at the booth where wraps were checked
turned our faces in that direction. In a thick and plushy voice
a short square person of a highly vulgar aspect was arguing with
the young woman who had charge of the check room. Judging by his
tones, you would have said that the nap of his tongue was at least
a quarter of an inch long; and he punctuated his remarks with
hiccoughs. It seemed that his excitement had to do with the
disappearance of a neck-muffler. From argument he progressed
rapidly to threats and the pounding of a fist upon the counter.
Drawing nigh, I observed that he wore a very high hat and a very
short sack coat; that his waistcoat was of a combustible plaid
pattern with gaiters to match; that he had taken his fingers many
times to the jeweler, but not once to the manicure; that he was
beautifully jingled and alcoholically boastful of his native land
and that - a crowning touch - he wore flaring from an upper pocket
of his coat a silk handkerchief woven in the design and colors of
his country's flag. But, praises be, it was not our flag that he
wore thus. It was the Union Jack. As we passed out into the damp
Viennese midnight he was loudly proclaiming that he "Was'h Bri'sh
subjesch," and that unless something was done mighty quick, would
complain to "Is Majeshy's rep(hic)shenativ' ver' firsch thing 'n
morn'."
So though I was sorry he was a cousin, I was selfishly and unfeignedly
glad that he was not a brother. Since in the mysterious and
unfathomable scheme of creation it seemed necessary that he should
be born somewhere, still he had not been born in America, and that
thought was very pleasing to me.
There was another variety of the tourist breed whose trail I most
earnestly desired to cross. I refer to the creature who must be
closely watched to prevent him, or her, from carrying off valuable
relics as souvenirs, and defacing monuments and statues and
disfiguring holy places with an inconsequential signature.
