I could see plainer and plainer that I was losin' Mitch. There was
somethin' about having this business together of huntin' for treasure
that kept us chums; and now that was over and if we didn't get something
else, where would we end up? Mitch said that the trip to Springfield had
cured him of being mad at his pa for takin' us to Hannibal to see Tom
Sawyer the butcher. And he said: "Suppose you was at Old Salem fishin'
and you had a can of worms for bait, or thought you had, and you was
really out of worms. Which would be better, to set there and think you
had bait and go on believin' that until you began to catch fish and
needed lots of bait and found you hadn't none, or to find out you hadn't
none all of a sudden and then go get some in time for the fishin' that
got good? And so, wasn't it better to find out that Tom Sawyer didn't
live and find it out suddenly than to go along being fooled until
something serious happened, and be a fool to the end, and maybe lose
some good chance?" What I wanted to tell Mitch was that our case was
real, that we had found treasure and would get it on Christmas; but I
had promised my pa I wouldn't tell, and I didn't. I only said to Mitch:
"We're just as sure to get treasure as the sun shines." And Mitch said:
"Maybe, but not real treasure, not money, not jewels, or things like
that."
As I said, I was surely losin' Mitch, for he was goin' considerable now
with Charley King and George Heigold. I don't know what he found with
them to like; only they were older and as it turned out, he did things
with them that he and I never did. I tried my best to hold on to him,
but couldn't. Sometimes I'd think I wasn't losin' him, that it was just
fancy. Just the same things wasn't the same. The Miller family wasn't
the same; there wasn't as much fun up there; and now Mr. Miller was away
a good deal selling atlases; and sometimes when I was there of evenings
Mrs. Miller would be sittin' alone, no one reading to her, and the girls
kind of walkin' the rooms, and Mitch a good deal away of evenings, not
home like he always was before.
You see I had a pony all the time; but pa loaned him here and there, and
sometimes took him out to pasture across the river to a farmer's and
that's how it was I didn't ride him sometimes out to the farm. But now
he was in the barn, and as I didn't have Mitch, I rode about the country
by myself. And once went out to the farm for a few hours, comin' back to
town in a gallop all the way, to see how quick I could make it.
Finally I thought I'd go out to the farm on my pony and stay for a few
days, and go camping with my uncle over to Blue Lake. I was goin' the
next day and was out under the oak tree when Mitch came along. He seemed
stronger, bigger, more like Charley King and George Heigold; there was
somethin' about him kind of hard. He seemed as if he'd fight easier; he
was quick to talk back, he seemed to be learnin' about things I didn't
know. There was a different look in his eyes. He was changed. That's all
I know. Mitch set down in the grass and began to make traps out of
timothy to catch crickets. Somebody had taught him that. His face began
to change. He began to look friendlier and like himself again, except he
looked older and like he knew more. And then he began to talk:
"Skeet," he says, "I'm not Tom Sawyer, and I never was; never any more
than you was Huckleberry Finn. I know who I am now. Do you?"
"No," says I. "Who are you?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Skeet--I'm Hamlet."
"Hamlet--who was he?"
"Well," says Mitch, "he was a prince."
"Well, you ain't," says I.
"No, I ain't. But Hamlet could be just like me and not be the preacher's
son; and because he wasn't wouldn't make him different. Yes, sir, I'm
Hamlet. I've read the play and thought about it a lot. And I know now
who I am. And you, Skeet, are Horatio."
"Who was he?" says I.
"He was Hamlet's friend, just as you are my friend. And as far as that
goes, there was never any persons more alike in this world than you and
Horatio. You are good and steady, and don't change, and you are a good
friend, you have got sense, and you have no troubles of your own, and so
you can listen to mine, as Horatio listened to Hamlet's."
"What troubles have you?" says I.
"Lots," says Mitch, "that is general troubles--of course Zueline and
this here court worries. I've got to testify again. I'm tangled up just
like Hamlet was, and I want to get away like he did, and I can't. And it
teaches me that it ain't because I'm a boy that I can't get away, for
Hamlet was a man and he couldn't. He was getting old, most thirty, and
he couldn't do any more with his life than I can with mine--not as much,
maybe."
"And yet you say he was a prince."
"Yes, but what difference did that make? Did you ever see a chip get
caught in a little shallow in the river in the reeds; and then see it
get out of the shallow by the current changing or somethin', and then
see it start down the river all gay and free, and run into some brush
floatin', or get thrown against the logs to one side of the dam and held
there? Well, Hamlet was a prince, and he was just a chip caught by the
dam and couldn't budge and kept tryin' to and couldn't. This is what my
pa says the play means; but also I can see it for myself. I keep readin'
it and it gets clearer. And pa says it will never make any difference
how old I get, the play will be wonderfuler and wonderfuler, and is to
him; and that finally I'll wonder how any man could ever write such a
thing."
"But didn't Shakespeare--he wrote it, didn't he?--get it out of some
history?"
"Of course," says Mitch, "and didn't Linkern live, and right here in
this town, as you might say? But suppose somebody could write up Linkern
and use the very things that Linkern did and said, not as we hear 'em
around here, wonderful as they are; but write 'em up so that you'd know
what Linkern really was and why and all about it. For that matter, take
Doc Lyon. We know he was a lunatic, but why, and what for, and just what
it means to be a lunatic, I don't know and no one will know until some
Shakespeare writes him up. For that matter, some folks think that Hamlet
was a lunatic."
"Well, you ain't, Mitch," says I.
"No more than Hamlet was. He just was troubled and his mind kept
workin', and that's me. But what would you say if I was the son of Joe
Rainey and Mrs. Rainey?"
"How do you mean?" says I.
"Well, suppose I was their son, and suppose I knew that Mrs. Rainey, my
mother, wanted Joe Rainey, my father, dead, and put it into Temple
Scott's mind to kill my father, Joe Rainey; and then Temple Scott did
kill him, and then Mrs. Rainey, my mother, put a pistol down so as to
make it seem that my father, Joe Rainey, had carried a pistol. Suppose I
was their son and was up in the tree and saw what I saw, what would I
do?"
"Then you'd have to testify," said I.
"You don't know what you're sayin', Skeet. You don't see that I love my
father, and he's been murdered; and I love my mother, and she has really
murdered him. And if I testify against my mother, I get her hanged; and
if I don't testify against her, then I wrong my father that I love; my
mother goes free, and sometimes I hate her, because she is free, and my
father has been robbed of his life, and I do nothing to punish her and
Temple Scott for taking his life away. That's the worst of it; or maybe
it's just as bad because I'm tangled in law and can't do what I want to
do--can't be free to hunt treasure, we'll say, or do what I want to.
Don't you see what a fix I'm in? Then suppose with findin' out what my
mother is, the whole world changes for me--I get suspicious of my girl,
and won't marry her and everything goes bad and finally I get killed
myself, after killin' Temple Scott who's married my mother, we'll say,
and in a way cause my mother to die too."
"Well, of course all this can't be," says I, "for you're not the
Raineys' son;--they're both dead anyway; and Temple Scott will probably
be hanged, and no one will kill you--you'll grow up and get
married--not to Zueline--"
"No," says Mitch, "never to her. For I ain't suspicious of her--I'm just
done with her, just like Hamlet was done with Ophelia. I know her as he
knew Ophelia, though she's different from Ophelia. She's cold, Skeet,
and never understood me. I see that now. If she had, she'd never let her
mother keep her away from me. Nothin' can keep a girl away from you that
loves you. And I'll tell you something right now. Not long ago, I was
walkin' by her house on purpose and she came out goin' somewhere. I
tried to talk to her, and tell her that we could meet sometimes, maybe
down at Fillmore Springs, or take a little walk at dusk or early
evening; and that I wouldn't bother her much, only we'd understand that
by and by we'd get married and be together forever, and I'd go away
happy if I could have that hope. Well, she kind of turned on me and said
'no,' and hurried on. And, Skeet, when I saw that, when I saw that it
was her as well as her ma that wanted me away, and meant to keep away
from me--something kind of froze through me--or burned maybe, and then
froze--my heart got like a big stone, and I could see it just as if it
had been scalt and then turned white and shiny and kind of numb like my
foot I cut in two. I began to laugh and since then I have been changed;
and I'll never be the same again. My ma said it was foolish, that I was
just a little boy and I'd grow up and it would all be forgotten. But I
know better--I'm Hamlet--and I don't forget, and I never will. Do you
remember one time when you and I was out to your grandpa's farm and
Willie Wallace was settin' out trees?"
I said "yes."
"Well," says Mitch, "Willie Wallace that time cut a gash in a tree with
the pruner while handlin' it and settin' it out. And he says to us,
'That tree will never get over that. By and by it will be a big scar,
growin' big as the tree grows big, and grown over, maybe, but still a
scar; or worse, it may stay open more or less and rain and frost will
get in, and insects, and after a while it will be a great rotten place,
a hole for a snake or a rat, or maybe a bird.' Well, pa says that
Linkern lost Anne Rutledge and that he thinks Linkern's beautiful talk
and wonderful words came from losin' Anne Rutledge. I don't quite see
how--but if it did, then if a bird gets into the hole in the tree,
that's a sign that you say somethin' or write somethin' because you've
been gashed, just as pa says that Shakespeare wrote his wonderfulest
plays and sonnets because he'd lost a woman. And sometimes I think I'm
goin' to write something. I keep hearin' music all the time, and I try
to write words down, but they don't mean anything; they are silly; so I
tear 'em up."
[Illustration: La Belle Dame sans Merci]
So Mitch went on and he worried me. And I says: "Mitch, I'm goin' to say
somethin' to you! Do you like me as much as you used to?"
"Every bit," says he. "Why?"
"Because," says I, "you don't always act the same. And besides, you keep
goin' with Charley King and George Heigold--and--and--"
"And what?" says Mitch.
"And--I was afraid you liked 'em better'n me."
"Why," says Mitch, "them two boys is just grave diggers compared to
you--or Rosencrantz and Guildenstern--while you are Horatio all the
time."
He explained to me what he meant by this, which was that in "Hamlet,"
Hamlet talked to grave diggers and to two men named Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern, without givin' a snap for 'em compared to Horatio.
Then I said, "I'm goin' out to the farm to-morrow. School will begin in
about three weeks. I'm goin' out on my pony, and you can ride behind.
And you'd better come. We'll have a lot of fun, and my uncle is goin' to
take me campin' to Blue Lake." So Mitch said he'd go; and after a bit he
began to repeat something he'd committed to memory. He was settin' in
the grass, lookin' up at me, and his voice was so wonderful and sweet,
sayin' these words:
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
"I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child.
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
"I saw pale kings and warriors too,
Pale princes, death pale were they all.
They said 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall.'"
Mitch was goin' on with this when we heard some boys whistle. It was
Charley King and George Heigold. They called Mitch to the fence and
talked. Then Mitch called back and said, "I'm goin', Skeet--come for
me--what time?"
"I'll be up about seven," I said.
And Mitch climbed over the fence, and went with these boys.
I went up to the fence and follered them with my eyes till they turned
the corner by Harris' barn and was gone.