Abroad with Mark Twain and Eugene Field/Sizing Up of Aristocracy by Mark
SIZING UP OF ARISTOCRACY BY MARK
At one of the many splendid dinner parties at the house of Minister Walter Phelps, the strange case of Prince and Princess XXX of a once sovereign family had come in for a lot of discussion. Their highnesses stood convicted of hotel looting, yet on account of the imaginary coronet that topped their escutcheon, they were expected to go scot-free, "for everybody agreed that her 'Grace' was plainly a kleptomaniac."
"Don't you think so, Mr. Clemens?" demanded an old countess, coquetting with the last tooth in her mouth.
"I am no expert," replied Mark. "All I know is that the disease attacks only the high born, as you call them, and the well-to-do."
As on this occasion all of Mr. Phelps' native guests were more or less "high born," and impecunious, that remark of the Sage of a Hundred Stories put the quietus on aristocracy-propaganda during the rest of the dinner and later, in the smoking room, Mr. Phelps' American guests were left quite to themselves.
"I hope I wasn't rude to that blue-blooded one," said Mark, "but excusing thievery because the thief happens to have a handle to his or her name, gets my goat on the instant. Now" (looking at me) "give us the real story of that looting business by High Lifers, so we can discuss it intelligently. Its general gist I
got from the German papers, but lack details."
I gave the latter as follows: The Prince XXX was a second son, consequently always hard up. The Princess had no money of her own either, but in place of that a soaring ambition. Food positively disagreed with her every time she took it off mere china or stoneware. She must have silver—
"Or bust—" said Mark. "I made out that much."
Well, to get the plate and plenty of it, their highnesses engaged in a coaching tour of the Fatherland, stopping nightly at a different hotel. And at each hostelry her Grace swiped all the silver she could carry off, milk jugs, souvenir spoons and forks and dish covers, napkin rings and similar knicknacks.
"And these swipings she sent to her ancestral halls, Castle Teufelsdroekh," added Mark, "where, under the skillful stylus of an engraver, the low hotel markings disappeared to make room for the princely coat-of-arms. But here's the pretty how-do-you-do about the scapegoat:
"A servant caught her Grace at the game and gave information to the police. The police promptly arrested the informant as a material witness and submitted to their highnesses that, at some future date, they might graciously deign to appear in court to answer the wretch's foul insinuations."
Followed a lengthy discussion, embroidered with execrating reflections on justice as
handled in the Fatherland, Mark quite surpassing himself in juicy invectives. After a while other subjects came up, and Clemens retired to a desk in the corner and began writing furiously on the backs of stray envelopes he fished from the wastebasket. He scribbled and scratched for about ten minutes, then got up and read us the following:
POETIC SUMMARY OF THE CASE OF THE PRINCE, THE PRINCESS AND THE WAITER
The Prince knew naught of wifey's doings.
The Princess is a kleptomanic;
But their accuser, waiter Muller,
To jail with that low brute satanic!