Once you are there, he stations
himself close behind you, reenforcing the combined importunities
of the shopkeeper and his assembled staff with gentle suggestions.
The depths of self-abasement to which a shopkeeper in Europe will
descend in an effort to sell his goods surpasses the power of
description. The London tradesman goes pretty far in this direction.
Often he goes as far as the sidewalk, clinging to the hem of your
garment and begging you to return for one more look. But the
Continentals are still worse.
A Parisian shopkeeper would sell you the bones of his revered
grandmother if you wanted them and he had them in stock; and he
would have them in stock too, because, as I have stated once before,
a true Parisian never throws away anything he can save. I heard
of just one single instance where a customer desirous of having
an article and willing to pay the price failed to get it; and that,
I would say, stands without a parallel in the annals of commerce
and barter.
An American lady visiting her daughter, an art student in the Latin
Quartier, was walking alone when she saw in a shop window a lace
blouse she fancied. She went inside and by signs, since she knew
no French, indicated that she wished to look at that blouse. The
woman in charge shook her head, declining even to take the garment
out of the window. Convinced now, womanlike, that this particular
blouse was the blouse she desired above all other blouses the
American woman opened her purse and indicated that she was prepared
to buy at the shopwoman's own valuation, without the privilege of
examination. The shopwoman showed deep pain at having to refuse
the proposition, but refuse it she did; and the would-be buyer
went home angry and perplexed and told her daughter what had
happened.
"It certainly is strange," the daughter said. "I thought
everything in Paris, except possibly Napoleon's tomb, was for sale.
This thing will repay investigation. Wait until I pin my hat
on. Does my nose need powdering?"
Her mother led her back to the shop of the blouse and then the
puzzle was revealed. For it was the shop of a dry cleanser and
the blouse belonged to some patron and was being displayed as a
sample of the work done inside; but undoubtedly such a thing never
before happened in Paris and probably never will happen again.
In Venice not only the guides and the hotel clerks and porters but
even the simple gondolier has a secret understanding with all
branches of the retail trade. You get into a long, snaky, black
gondola and fee the beggar who pushes you off, and all the other
beggars who have assisted in the pushing off or have merely
contributed to the success of the operation by being present, and
you tell your gondolier in your best Italian or your worst pidgin
English where you wish to go.
