"Very," said the Idiot. "Nevertheless, I have not taken his hint about
leaving my silver out-of-doors, and have worked as hard as ever on my
patent burglar-alarm."
"Oh, indeed! Have you a new idea in that line?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Yes," said the Idiot. "It is wholly novel. It is designed to alarm the
burglar, and not scare the people in the house. Did you ever hear of
anything like that before?"
"Never!" ejaculated Mr. Pedagog, with enthusiasm. "How is it to work?"
"That," said the Idiot, "is what I am trying to find out. When I do I'll
let you know, Doctor."
XVI
CONCLUSION
MR. AND MRS. IDIOT
REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY
AT DINNER
ON THURSDAY EVENING, May 31, 1900
AT HALF-AFTER SEVEN O'CLOCK
R.S.V.P. LAST CALL
Handsomely engraved, a card bearing the above inscription was sent about
the middle of May to all the Idiot's old friends of Mrs.
Smithers-Pedagog's select home for gentlemen, and it is needless to say
that they all accepted.
"I wonder what the dickens he means by 'Last Call,'" said Mr. Brief to
the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "Sounds like the
warning of the dining-car porter on a Pullman train."
"I'm sure I can't imagine," said the other; "and what's more, I'm
content to wait and find out. Of course you are going?"
"I am, indeed," said Mr. Brief. "I'd travel farther than that for the
pleasure of an hour with the dear old boy, and particularly now that he
has so good a cook. Dined there lately?"
"Yes," said the Genial Old Gentleman.
"Had any of those mulled sardines he gives you Sunday nights?"
"More than was good for me. Ain't they fine?" said the Genial Old
Gentleman, smacking his lips ecstatically.
"Immense!" said Mr. Brief. "A cook that can mull sardines like that is
worth her weight in gold. Where do you suppose he got her?"
"Why, he married her!" cried the Genial Old Gentleman, promptly. "Mrs.
Idiot cooks those herself, on the chafing-dish. Didn't you know that?"
"No," said Mr. Brief. "I happened in late Sunday night, and we had 'em.
They were so awfully good I didn't do a thing but eat, and forgot to
ask who cooked 'em."
"It's the way of the world," sighed the Genial Old Gentleman. "We old
bachelors have to get along on what comes to us, but the energetic chap
who goes out into the world and marries the right sort of a woman--Jove,
what a lucky chap he is!"
"There's some truth in that," agreed Mr. Brief; "but, on the whole, just
think what a terrible thing it would be to marry a bad cook, and to have
to eat everything she prepared with an outward show of delight just to
keep peace in the family."
"That's your cautious lawyer's view of it," said the Genial Old
Gentleman.
"Why the deuce don't you get married yourself, then," said Mr. Brief.
"If you feel that way--"
"I don't want to," said the Genial Old Gentleman. "Fact is, Brief, old
man, all I should ever marry for would be the comfort of a home, and I
can always get that by going up to the Idiot's."
The other invited guests were no less perplexed by the final words of
the Idiot's invitation, and with the pleasure of accepting was mingled
an agreeable curiosity to know what was meant by "Last Call." The
evening came, and all were present. It was a goodly company, and by
special favor the children were allowed to sit up and partake; and, what
was more, Mary, the housemaid of the old days, assisted in the serving
of the dinner.
"Seems like old times," said Mr. Whitechoker, beaming at Mrs. Pedagog
and smiling pleasantly at Mary. "I shall almost expect our host to be
sarcastic."
"Sarcasm, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot, unfolding his napkin, "is
all right in its place, but as I have grown older I haven't found that
having given rein to it I was happier afterwards. Sometimes, no doubt,
Mrs. Pedagog has thought me rude--"
"Never!" said the ancient landlady.
"Well, there's something worse than having others think you rude," said
the Idiot. "That's realizing yourself that you have been so, and I hope
Mrs. Pedagog will accept here and now an apology--a blanket
apology--which shall cover a multitude of past sins."
"My dear Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog, "do you know how I have always
thought of you?"
"As a son," said Mr. Pedagog. "And I have felt towards you as a father."
"I wonder you didn't give me a thrashing once in a while, then," said
the Idiot.
"We have often wished to," observed Mr. Pedagog.
"John!" cried Mrs. Pedagog.
"Well, _I_ have," said Mr. Pedagog. "Mrs. Pedagog has all the amiable
weakness of a woman towards her naughty boy. Spank him next time, not
this."
Everybody laughed, and the Idiot rose from his place and walked to Mrs.
Pedagog's side and kissed her.
"You're a nice old mommie," he said, "and the naughty boy loves you.
He'll be hanged if he'll kiss his daddy, though!" he added, with a
glance at Mr. Pedagog.
"I will," said Mollie; and she did so.
The old Schoolmaster returned the little girl's salute with emphasis.
"Bless you, little one!" he said, huskily. "I love you even as I loved
your papa."
"I'm a-goin' to kiss everybody," said Tommy; and he started in with Mary
and put his little scheme through to the bitter end. "What are we going
to have for dessert?" he added, complacently, as he resumed his seat.
"Idiot," said Mr. Brief, when the third course had been served, "what do
you mean by 'Last Call?'"
"We are going to give up housekeeping," said the Idiot.
"No trouble, I hope," said Mr. Whitechoker.
"Lots!" ejaculated the Idiot. "But not very troublesome troubles. The
fact is we intend to travel."
"To travel, eh?" said the Genial Old Gentleman. "Where?"
"Abroad," replied the Idiot. "We have never been abroad, you know. I've
been abroad, and Mrs. Idiot has been abroad, but _we_ have never been
abroad. We are going together this time, and we are going to take the
children, and for a year we propose to see Europe under the most
favorable conditions. I think that abroad will seem a little different
if we go together."
"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But London is a cold, godless
place."
"It is if you go alone," said the Idiot.
"And Paris is vile," suggested Mr. Brief.
"To the man who has only himself to think of," said the Idiot.
"And Italy is dirty," said the Bibliomaniac.
"There's water in Venice," observed the Idiot. "Not very clean water, to
be sure, but wet enough to wash the edges of the sidewalks."
"And travel is uncomfortable," observed the Poet.
"Admitted," said the Idiot. "Travel is about the hardest work and the
worst-paid work I know of, but we cannot help ourselves. Now that we are
rich we must accept the penalties imposed by modern society upon the
wealthy. You never knew a rich man to lead a comfortable life, did you,
Mr. Pedagog?"
"There are few of them who seem to know how," admitted the Schoolmaster.
"But--you do."
"No doubt," said the Idiot. "But you see I do not wish to be
ostentatiously different from my kind, so having made a fortune I am
going to live as people of fortune do and be as uncomfortable as I know
how."
"I don't understand about this fortune," said Mr. Brief. "Have you run
up against a rich uncle somewhere, or is this sudden wealth the result
of your inventions, concerning which we have heard so much lately?"
"Neither," replied the Idiot. "The fact is, I made an investment some
years ago in a certain stock, for which I paid twenty-three. I sold it
three weeks ago for one hundred and sixty-three, clearing one hundred
and forty dollars each on a thousand shares."
The Poet gasped.
"One hundred and forty thousand dollars profit!" cried Mr. Whitechoker.
"Yes," said the Idiot, calmly, "that's about the size of it. Terrible,
isn't it? Here I was a happy man; content to stay at home and toil eight
hours a day for a small stipend; living in tolerable comfort, and
nothing to worry over. All of a sudden this thing happens, and like all
other men of wealth I must become a wanderer. I shudder to think of what
might have happened if I'd made a million; I shouldn't have had a home
at all then."
The guests looked at their host with amazement. To most of them he had
reached the supreme moment of his idiocy.
"Ahem!" said the Poet. "I fail to see why."
"Look at the ways of the millionaire and you'll see," observed the
Idiot, suavely. "Given his million he gives up his house and builds
himself a small, first-class hotel in some big city, which for the
greater part of the year is occupied by servants. He next erects a
country palace at Lenox or at Newport. This he calls a cottage, though
it usually looks more like a public library or a hospital or a
club-house. Then he builds himself a camp, with stained-glass windows,
in the Adirondacks, and has to float a small railroad in order to get
himself and his wife's trunks into camp. Shortly after these follows a
bungalow modelled after a French château, somewhere in the South, and
then a yacht warranted to cross the ocean in ten days, and to produce
sea-sickness twelve hours sooner than the regular ocean-steamer, becomes
one of the necessities of life. Result, he never lives anywhere. To
occupy all his residences, camps, and bungalows he has to keep eternally
on the move, and when he thinks he needs a trip to Europe he has his
yacht got ready and sends it over, going himself on a fast steamer. He
meets his yacht at Southampton, and orders the captain to proceed
directly to some Mediterranean port, going himself, meanwhile, to
London. After a month of London he goes to Paris, and thence to the
Mediterranean port, where, after steaming aboard of the yacht for three
or four days, he sends the boat back to New York and returns himself by
the regular liner. Oh, it's a terrible thing to be a millionaire and
have nowhere to lay one's head, with every poorer man envying you, many
hating you, and hands raised against you everywhere."
There was a pause, and the assembled company properly expressed their
appreciation of the millionaire's hard lot by silence.
"The scheme has its advantages," observed Mrs. Idiot.
"Some," said the Idiot. "But think, my dear, of the town house with
thirty-nine servants; the Newport house with thirty-four; the camp with
sixty, including gamekeepers and guides; the bungalow with thirty more,
and the yacht with a captain, a crew, stewards, stewardesses, and a cook
you can't get away from without jumping overboard. Just think how that
would multiply your troubles. You would come to me from time to time and
ask me how I could expect you to discharge seven butlers and four cooks
in one morning, and no doubt you'd request me sometimes to stop in at
the intelligence office on my way home and employ a dozen housemaids for
you."
"But you would have a manager for all this," suggested Mrs. Pedagog.
"That's the point," observed the Idiot. "We'd have to have a manager,
and for my part I shouldn't relish being managed. What chance would Mrs.
Idiot have against a manager ahead of an army of servants of such
magnitude? We have more than we can keep in subjection as we stand now,
with this one small house. If it wasn't for Mary, who keeps an eye on
things, I don't know what we should do."
"Well, I am glad you're rich, pa," said Tommy; "you can increase my
allowance."
"And I can have a pony," lisped Mollie.
"Alas! Poor children!" cried the Idiot. "That is the saddest part of
wealth. Instead of bringing the little ones up ourselves, to be wholly
fashionable it will be necessary to sublet the contract to a committee
of tutors and governesses. The obligations of social life hereafter will
require that we meet our children by appointment only, and that when
they dine they shall eat in solitary grandeur until they become so
polished in manners that their parents may once more formally welcome
them at table. All the good old democratic ways of the domestic republic
are now to be set aside. Tommy, instead of yelling for a buckwheat-cake
at the top of his lungs, upon our return will request a butler in
choicest French to hand him a _pâté de foie gras_; and dear little
Mollie will have to give up attracting the waitress' attention by shying
an olive-pit at her and imperiously summon her by means of an electric
buzzer set to buzzing with her toe."
"Mercy! What a picture of woe!" cried Mr. Pedagog.
"Not altogether true, is it?" suggested the Doctor.
"Have you ever visited Newport?" asked the Idiot.
"No," said the Doctor, "never."
"Well, don't," said the Idiot, "unless you wish to look upon that
picture--a picture of life whence childhood is abolished; where _blasé_
little swells take the place of lively small boys, and diminutive grand
duchesses, clad in regal garb, have supplanted the little daughters who
bring smiles and sunshine into the life of the common people. Ah, my
friends," the Idiot continued, with a shake of his head, "there are sad
sights to be seen in this world, but I know of none sadder than those
rich little scions of the American aristocracy in whose veins the good
red blood of a not very remote ancestry has turned blue through too much
high living and too little real living."
"I should think you'd take that hundred and forty thousand dollars and
throw it into the sea," said Mr. Brief.
"That would be wicked waste," observed the Idiot. "I propose to use it
to win back the good old home-life, and the best way to perpetuate that
is to leave it for a time and travel. When you have travelled and seen
how uncomfortable others are, and discovered how uncomfortable you are
while travelling, nothing can exceed the bliss of getting back to the
first simple principles of the real home."
"As a sensible man, why don't you stay here, then?" queried the Poet.
"Because," said the Idiot, "if I stayed here with that hundred and forty
thousand dollars on my mind I should nurse it, and in a short while I'd
become a millionaire, and such a misfortune as that I shall never
invite. We shall go abroad and spend--"
"Not all of it, I hope?" said Mr. Whitechoker.
"No," replied the Idiot. "But enough of it to mitigate the horrors of
our condition while absent."
And so it was that Castle Idiot was closed, and that for a time at least
"The Idiot at Home" became a thing of the past. Wherever he and his
small family may be, may I not bespeak for him the kindly, even
affectionate, esteem of those who have followed him with me through
these pages? He has his faults; they are many and manifest, for he has
never shown the slightest disposition to conceal them, but, as Mrs.
Pedagog remarked to me the other night, "He has a large heart, and it is
in the right place. If he only wouldn't talk so much!"
THE END
By MARK TWAIN
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Idiot at Home, by John Kendrick Bangs