The hotel showed the same admirable constancy.The restaurant was thronged with new-comers,who spread out even over the many-tabled esplanade before it;but it was in no wise demoralized.That night we sat down in multiplied numbers to a table d'hote of serenely unconscious perfection;and we permanent guests--alas!we are now becoming transient,too--were used with unfaltering recognition of our superior worth.We shared the respect which,all over Europe,attaches to establishment,and which sometimes makes us poor Americans wish for a hereditary nobility,so that we could all mirror our ancestral value in the deference of our inferiors.Where we should get our inferiors is another thing,but I suppose we could import them for the purpose,if the duties were not too great under our tariff.
We have not yet imported the idea of a European hotel in any respect,though we long ago imported what we call the European plan.No travelled American knows it in the extortionate prices of rooms when he gets home,or the preposterous charges of our restaurants,where one portion of roast beef swimming in a lake of lukewarm juice costs as much as a diversified and delicate dinner in Germany or Holland.But even if there were any proportion in these things the European hotel will not be with us till we have the European portier,who is its spring and inspiration.
He must not,dear home-keeping reader,be at all imagined in the moral or material figure of our hotel porter,who appears always in his shirt-sleeves,and speaks with the accent of Cork or of Congo.The European portier wears a uniform,I do not know why,and a gold-banded cap,and he inhabits a little office at the entrance of the hotel.He speaks eight or ten languages,up to certain limit,rather better than people born to them,and his presence commands an instant reverence softening to affection under his universal helpfulness.There is nothing he cannot tell you,cannot do for you;and you may trust yourself implicitly to him.He has the priceless gift of ****** each nationality,each personality,believe that he is devoted to its service alone.He turns lightly from one language to another,as if he had each under his tongue,and he answers simultaneously a fussy French woman,an angry English tourist,a stiff Prussian major,and a thin-voiced American girl in behalf of a timorous mother,and he never mixes the replies.He is an inexhaustible bottle of dialects;but this is the least of his merits,of his miracles.
Our portier here is a tall,slim Dutchman (most Dutchmen are tall and slim),and in spite of the waning season he treats me as if I were multitude,while at the same time he uses me with the distinction due the last of his guests.Twenty times in as many hours he wishes me good-day,putting his hand to his cap for the purpose;and to oblige me he wears silver braid instead of gilt on his cap and coat.I apologized yesterday for troubling him so often for stamps,and said that I supposed he was much more bothered in the season.
"Between the first of August and the fifteenth,"he answered,"you cannot think.All that you can do is to say,Yes,No;Yes,No."And he left me to imagine his responsibilities.
I am sure he will hold out to the end,and will smile me a friendly farewell from the door of his office,which is also his dining-room,as I know from often disturbing him at his meals there.I have no fear of the waiters either,or of the little errand-boys who wear suits of sailor blue,and touch their foreheads when they bring you your letters like so many ancient sea-dogs.I do not know why the elevator-boy prefers a suit of snuff-color;but I know that he will salute us as we step out of his elevator for the last time as unfalteringly as if we had just arrived at the beginning of the summer.
