The Innocents Abroad, the most famous 19th-century account of Palestine, is in the end an elaborate, sustained joke at the expense of the peoples and places of the Mediterranean.
hyperallergic.com
Then, after spending more than 600 pages savaging all comers and making vicious comments about the inhabitants of the lands he visited, Twain concludes, “travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.” It is a wonder that anyone could read this book and take Twain to be a reliable (and unironic) narrator on Palestine in the 19th century.
And yet, Twain played a major role in popularizing the image of desolate, empty Palestine.
The Innocents Abroad is still widely quoted for this image today: both
Alan Dershowitz and
Benjamin Netanyahu, among others, have cited it, decidedly unironically. I remember once trying to convince a senior Jewish studies scholar that Twain exaggerated the desolation and emptiness of 19th-century Palestine. But Twain was certainly not alone in presenting this image. By the time he arrived in Palestine, many other visitors had made it a staple of 19th-century travel writing. Far from not seeing through the eyes of others, Twain’s desolate Palestine is one of the least original aspects of
The Innocents Abroad.
How reliable are these images of desolation, exactly? For 19th-century travelers, Palestine was “like the inkblots in a Rorschach test,”
in the words of historian Jonathan Sarna. As Twain himself observed, each Christian (whether Presbyterian, Baptist, Catholic, Methodist, Episcopalian) came to Palestine looking for — and finding — the Holy Land of their own denomination:
For many, desolation was not the primary image at all. Scottish artist David Roberts found “a richly cultivated country” in the area around Jaffa: “The ground is carpeted with flowers — the plain is studded with small villages and groups of palm-trees, and, independent of its interesting associations, the country is the loveliest I ever beheld.” A young Cyrus Adler, years before he became a leading figure in the American Jewish community, wrote of similar feelings in a letter to his mother:
So many factors influenced how people saw Palestine: where they were coming from, what parts of the country they saw, what travelers’ accounts they had already read, what religious tradition they were part of. Roberts visited the country in March, Adler in April — at the end of the rainy season, when (today as two centuries ago) the ground really is carpeted with flowers, and vivid greens surround you. Twain visited in September, when there has usually been no rain for months, and everything is brown and dry and dead. (Again, Twain highlighted this problem, but suggested that, even in springtime, there would only be patches of beauty within a sea of desolation.)
But desolate, empty Palestine won out. In historical scholarship, decline from a great and glorious past has come to be seen as one of the defining issues in the history of the region; only in the last 15 years or so have
specialists in the history and archaeology of the region even begun
to rethink this. Meanwhile,
art historians and
literary critics — who specialize in studying the nature of representation and reality — have led the way in recognizing that desolate Palestine has always been an imaginary construct.
The Innocents Abroad is, in the end, an elaborate, sustained joke: at the expense of the peoples and places of the Mediterranean, of Twain’s fellow travelers, of Twain himself. That it still helps people to take this desolate image of Palestine seriously, 150 years later, is perhaps Twain’s biggest, cruelest joke of all.