Mr. Mercer also introduced us to Signor Giorgio Rubbia, an Italian artist who was to be the Philadelphians guide to the artistic treasures of Europe. Although he stood no more than five foot six, Signor Rubbia must have weighed something over two hundred fifty pounds, and his fleshy jowls were accentuated by bushy white side whiskers. His attire was as distinctive as his figure: a wide-brimmed black felt hat, a flamboyant purple-lined cape, and a long, colorful scarf worn instead of a necktie. He seemed incapable of uttering a sentence without an extravagant gesture to accompany it. I could tell by Mr. Clemens’s expression that he was not impressed by Signor Rubbia. Amused, perhaps, but not at all impressed. For myself, I found the man an interestingly exotic specimen, and determined to see what I could learn from his observations on art (although his thick Italian accent might make that something of a challenge).
Signor Rubbia appeared to have only a vague notion of who Mr. Clemens was. But he soon discerned that my employer was the focus of all eyes in the lounge, and that even Vincent Mercer was paying more attention to the American writer than to him. Rubbia’s eyes narrowed as Mr. Mercer asked Mr. Clemens his advice on the sights to see in London; clearly, he considered this request an intrusion on his own prerogatives as guide to the Mercer party.
“What to see depends on what you like,” said Mr. Clemens. “There’s plenty to see in London. Don’t miss Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, or the British Museum—and make sure to get a look at the Tower of London. It’ll remind you how the kings and nobles have kept the people under their thumb for so long. I’ve always wondered how some Americans pretend to admire those rascals—a king’s not much better than a slaveholder, in my opinion.”
Mr. Kipling chuckled. “Now, watch yourself, Clemens. I’ll make allowance for your opinions of kings. You’re an American and a humorist besides, but don’t forget you have a loyal subject of the Queen sitting here next to you.”
“What is there to see in the way of art?” asked Mr. Mercer, ignoring Mr. Kipling’s sally.
“I’d suggest the National Portrait Gallery,” said Mr. Clemens. “Don’t bother with the other National Gallery—if you want my opinion, the portraits are the only paintings in London worth a second look. Even if most of them are of dead people, at least they’re real people. There’s no other art in England worth walking across the street for.”
Signor Rubbia instantly seized this opening. “No art in England? What sort of foolishness is this? Have you not seen The Hay Wain’ of Constable? Or the ‘Fighting Temeraire’ of Turner? Did you not see the Elgin Marbles?”
Mr. Clemens looked up at the Italian, raising his eyebrows. His pipe had burnt out, and he carefully tapped the ashes into the ashtray before he replied. “Sure, I’ve seen all of ’em. I’d rather sit by the Thames and watch the boats passing, if you want to know the truth. Nature’s the oldest master of them all, and the only one that’s never let me down.”
“Aha! A man after my own heart!” exclaimed a hearty voice from the back of the room. I looked up to see Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten, who had just come through the door. “Herr Mark Twain, I hope you have received the magnum of champagne I had sent to your cabin! I consider it a doubly deserved gift after hearing your astute criticism. No man who follows the teachings of Nature can go far wrong.” He gave a little bow; out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Clemens smile.
For his part, Signor Rubbia was far from pleased with the new arrival. “That theory no doubt does very well in Germania,” he said loudly. “Without imagination or brio, the artists there can only draw what they see—one Giotto is worth the whole bunch of them.”
“I’ve heard of Jotto,” said Mr. Clemens. “Is he dead?” The audience burst into laughter, although I was not quite certain what the joke was, and Signor Rubbia turned red.
Before the laughter had subsided, Mr. Clemens stood. “Well, Prinz Karl, Kipling and I were just about to go down to my cabin to see if your bottle was there. Why don’t you come along and find out if you got your money’s worth? Sounds as if there’s plenty for all of us.”
“I would be most delighted to join Herr Mark Twain,” said the prince, and the four of us swept out the door together, leaving a smiling crowd behind—with the exception of Signor Rubbia, who looked as if he had a sudden case of indigestion.
The champagne had indeed been delivered, and was already well chilled. I pulled the cork and filled four glasses. Mr. Clemens waited for the bubbles to subside a bit, then turned to the prince and said, “To your health, and many thanks for the fine going-away present!”
“My pleasure entirely, Herr Twain,” said the prince, beaming. We clinked our glasses and drank. The champagne was sweeter than most I had tasted, but very full-bodied and delightfully cool. All except Prinz Karl took seats in the comfortable chairs and sofa provided. Mr. Kipling propped his feet up and said, “If you don’t mind my asking, what brings a German prince to America? Most of the time, the poor Yankees have to go to your side of the pond to rub elbows with royalty.”
“Ah, that is a long story,” said Prinz Karl. He had remained standing, and his erect posture gave a lively sense of his aristocratic upbringing. “I will give you the brief version. America is now what Europe will be—almost for certain in the lifetimes of you two young gentlemen. Now is the last act of the play for kings and princes, I believe, and the start of the time for parliaments and ministers. In my great-grandfather’s time, things were different—a whole division our little principality raised, for him to go to Austerlitz and fight against Napoleon. Alas, the French artillery did not let him bring many of his men home again. My father still believed for many years that our principality could exist by itself, but Prinz von Bismarck became more and more insistent. The Prussians can be very persuasive, you know.”
“I believe so,” said Mr. Kipling. “The man with a big enough army can usually get his way.” There was general nodding of heads in agreement with this.
“Though another fellow with a bigger army can often make him stop and think before he does something stupid,” said Mr. Clemens. “So I take it that Ruckgarten has been swallowed up by the German empire.”
“So it has,” said the prince, spreading his left hand in front of him, as if balancing something on the palm. “To console him in his old age, my father still has his title and his little palace and his hereditary honors, but I do not think they will much benefit me. In fact, I am sure they will not—since I have been so improvident to have been born my father’s second son. To be perfectly frank with you, I do not in the least regret it. My brother Heinrich Maximillian is quite competent, and very serious. And as I say, I think the time for kings and princes is not long. So I travel about the globe, and enjoy what there is to enjoy in life, and let my brother govern as best he can without consulting me.”
“A melancholy thought, in a way,” said Mr. Kipling. He sipped at his champagne, a meditative expression on his face. “I hope that England will never find itself in such condition, but I’m not such a fool to think it will avoid those straits without strenuous efforts to stem the tide of history.”
“Well, if there’s any kind of tide in history, it rolls in and out just like the ocean,” said Mr. Clemens. “You can’t bet on progress, only on change. I’ll tell you one thing about democracy, Prinz Karl. A senator can rob you just as blind as a duke—there ain’t hardly any difference between them, except when you get tired of one senator you can usually bring in another one to rob you some new way.”
Prinz Karl and Mr. Kipling laughed heartily, and Kipling raised his glass. “Well, Clemens, I see you haven’t taken up diplomacy in your old age. I look forward to watching you properly scandalize the British lecture audiences, it should be a sight to remember.”
Mr. Clemens waved his hand