were paralyzed with fright. Those who could run away, did it. And many
died of fright in the flight. Fright killed three persons where the
cholera killed one. Those who couldn't flee kept themselves drenched
with cholera preventives, and my mother chose Perry Davis's Pain-Killer
for me. She was not distressed about herself. She avoided that kind of
preventive. But she made me promise to take a teaspoonful of Pain-Killer
every day. Originally it was my intention to keep the promise, but at
that time I didn't know as much about Pain-Killer as I knew after my
first experiment with it. She didn't watch Henry's bottle--she could
trust Henry. But she marked my bottle with a pencil, on the label, every
day, and examined it to see if the teaspoonful had been removed. The
floor was not carpeted. It had cracks in it, and I fed the Pain-Killer
to the cracks with very good results--no cholera occurred down below.
It was upon one of these occasions that that friendly cat came waving
his tail and supplicating for Pain-Killer--which he got--and then went
into those hysterics which ended with his colliding with all the
furniture in the room and finally going out of the open window and
carrying the flower-pots with him, just in time for my mother to arrive
and look over her glasses in petrified astonishment and say, "What in
the world is the matter with Peter?"
I don't remember what my explanation was, but if it is recorded in that
book it may not be the right one.
Whenever my conduct was of such exaggerated impropriety that my mother's
extemporary punishments were inadequate, she saved the matter up for
Sunday, and made me go to church Sunday night--which was a penalty
sometimes bearable, perhaps, but as a rule it was not, and I avoided it
for the sake of my constitution. She would never believe that I had been
to church until she had applied her test: she made me tell her what the
text was. That was a simple matter, and caused me no trouble. I didn't
have to go to church to get a text. I selected one for myself. This
worked very well until one time when my text and the one furnished by a
neighbor, who had been to church, didn't tally. After that my mother
took other methods. I don't know what they were now.
In those days men and boys wore rather long cloaks in the winter-time.
They were black, and were lined with very bright and showy Scotch
plaids. One winter's night when I was starting to church to square a
crime of some kind committed during the week, I hid my cloak near the
gate and went off and played with the other boys until church was over.
Then I returned home. But in the dark I put the cloak on wrong side out,
entered the room, threw the cloak aside, and then stood the usual
examination. I got along very well until the temperature of the church
was mentioned. My mother said,
"It must have been impossible to keep warm there on such a night."
I didn't see the art of that remark, and was foolish enough to explain
that I wore my cloak all the time that I was in church. She asked if I
kept it on from church home, too. I didn't see the bearing of that
remark. I said that that was what I had done. She said,
"You wore it in church with that red Scotch plaid outside and glaring?
Didn't that attract any attention?"
Of course to continue such a dialogue would have been tedious and
unprofitable, and I let it go, and took the consequences.
That was about 1849. Tom Nash was a boy of my own age--the postmaster's
son. The Mississippi was frozen across, and he and I went skating one
night, probably without permission. I cannot see why we should go
skating in the night unless without permission, for there could be no
considerable amusement to be gotten out of skating at night if nobody
was going to object to it. About midnight, when we were more than half a
mile out toward the Illinois shore, we heard some ominous rumbling and
grinding and crashing going on between us and the home side of the
river, and we knew what it meant--the ice was breaking up. We started
for home, pretty badly scared. We flew along at full speed whenever the
moonlight sifting down between the clouds enabled us to tell which was
ice and which was water. In the pauses we waited; started again whenever
there was a good bridge of ice; paused again when we came to naked water
and waited in distress until a floating vast cake should bridge that
place. It took us an hour to make the trip--a trip which we made in a
misery of apprehension all the time. But at last we arrived within a
very brief distance of the shore. We waited again; there was another
place that needed bridging. All about us the ice was plunging and
grinding along and piling itself up in mountains on the shore, and the
dangers were increasing, not diminishing. We grew very impatient to get
to solid ground, so we started too early and went springing from cake to
cake. Tom made a miscalculation, and fell short. He got a bitter bath,
but he was so close to shore that he only had to swim a stroke or
two--then his feet struck hard bottom and he crawled out. I arrived a
little later, without accident. We had been in a drenching perspiration,
and Tom's bath was a disaster for him. He took to his bed sick, and had
a procession of diseases. The closing one was scarlet-fever, and he came
out of it stone deaf. Within a year or two speech departed, of course.
But some years later he was taught to talk, after a fashion--one
couldn't always make out what it was he was trying to say. Of course he
could not modulate his voice, since he couldn't hear himself talk. When
he supposed he was talking low and confidentially, you could hear him in
Illinois.
Four years ago (1902) I was invited by the University of Missouri to
come out there and receive the honorary degree of LL.D. I took that
opportunity to spend a week in Hannibal--a city now, a village in my
day. It had been fifty-three years since Tom Nash and I had had that
adventure. When I was at the railway station ready to leave Hannibal,
there was a crowd of citizens there. I saw Tom Nash approaching me
across a vacant space, and I walked toward him, for I recognized him at
once. He was old and white-headed, but the boy of fifteen was still
visible in him. He came up to me, made a trumpet of his hands at my ear,
nodded his head toward the citizens and said confidentially--in a yell
like a fog-horn--
"Same damned fools, Sam!"
_From Susy's Biography._
Papa was about twenty years old when he went on the Mississippi as
a pilot. Just before he started on his tripp Grandma Clemens asked
him to promise her on the Bible not to touch intoxicating liquors
or swear, and he said "Yes, mother, I will," and he kept that
promise seven years when Grandma released him from it.
Under the inspiring influence of that remark, what a garden of forgotten
reforms rises upon my sight!
MARK TWAIN.
(_To be Continued._)
NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW
No. DCIII.
NOVEMBER 16, 1906.
CHAPTERS FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY.--VI.
BY MARK TWAIN.
_From Susy's Biography_.
Papa made arrangements to read at Vassar College the 1st of May,
and I went with him. We went by way of New York City. Mamma went
with us to New York and stayed two days to do some shopping. We
started Tuesday, at 1/2 past two o'clock in the afternoon, and
reached New York about 1/4 past six. Papa went right up to General
Grants from the station and mamma and I went to the Everett House.
Aunt Clara came to supper with us up in our room....
We and Aunt Clara were going were going to the theatre right after
supper, and we expected papa to take us there and to come home as
early as he could. But we got through dinner and he didn't come,
and didn't come, and mamma got more perplexed and worried, but at
last we thought we would have to go without him. So we put on our
things and started down stairs but before we'd goten half down we
met papa coming up with a great bunch of roses in his hand. He
explained that the reason he was so late was that his watch stopped
and he didn't notice and kept thinking it an hour earlier than it
really was. The roses he carried were some Col. Fred Grant sent to
mamma. We went to the theatre and enjoyed "Adonis" [word illegible]
acted very much. We reached home about 1/2 past eleven o'clock and
went right to bed. Wednesday morning we got up rather late and had
breakfast about 1/2 past nine o'clock. After breakfast mamma went
out shopping and papa and I went to see papa's agent about some
business matters. After papa had gotten through talking to Cousin
Charlie, [Webster] papa's agent, we went to get a friend of papa's,
Major Pond, to go and see a Dog Show with us. Then we went to see
the dogs with Major Pond and we had a delightful time seeing so
many dogs together; when we got through seeing the dogs papa
thought he would go and see General Grant and I went with him--this
was April 29, 1885. Papa went up into General Grant's room and he
took me with him, I felt greatly honored and delighted when papa
took me into General Grant's room and let me see the General and
Col. Grant, for General Grant is a man I shall be glad all my life
that I have seen. Papa and General Grant had a long talk together
and papa has written an account of his talk and visit with General
Grant for me to put into this biography.
Susy has inserted in this place that account of mine--as follows:
April 29, 1885.
I called on General Grant and took Susy with me. The General was
looking and feeling far better than he had looked or felt for some
months. He had ventured to work again on his book that morning--the
first time he had done any work for perhaps a month. This morning's
work was his first attempt at dictating, and it was a thorough
success, to his great delight. He had always said that it would be
impossible for him to dictate anything, but I had said that he was
noted for clearness of statement, and as a narrative was simply a
statement of consecutive facts, he was consequently peculiarly
qualified and equipped for dictation. This turned out to be true.
For he had dictated two hours that morning to a shorthand writer,
had never hesitated for words, had not repeated himself, and the
manuscript when finished needed no revision. The two hours' work
was an account of Appomattox--and this was such an extremely
important feature that his book would necessarily have been
severely lame without it. Therefore I had taken a shorthand writer
there before, to see if I could not get him to write at least a few
lines about Appomattox.[5] But he was at that time not well enough
to undertake it. I was aware that of all the hundred versions of
Appomattox, not one was really correct. Therefore I was extremely
anxious that he should leave behind him the truth. His throat was
not distressing him, and his voice was much better and stronger
than usual. He was so delighted to have gotten Appomattox
accomplished once more in his life--to have gotten the matter off
his mind--that he was as talkative as his old self. He received
Susy very pleasantly, and then fell to talking about certain
matters which he hoped to be able to dictate next day; and he said
in substance that, among other things, he wanted to settle once for
all a question that had been bandied about from mouth to mouth and
from newspaper to newspaper. That question was, "With whom
originated the idea of the march to the sea? Was it Grant's, or was
it Sherman's idea?" Whether I, or some one else (being anxious to
get the important fact settled) asked him with whom the idea
originated, I don't remember. But I remember his answer. I shall
always remember his answer. General Grant said:
"Neither of us originated the idea of Sherman's march to the sea.
The enemy did it."
He went on to say that the enemy, however, necessarily originated a
great many of the plans that the general on the opposite side gets
the credit for; at the same time that the enemy is doing that, he
is laying open other moves which the opposing general sees and
takes advantage of. In this case, Sherman had a plan all thought
out, of course. He meant to destroy the two remaining railroads in
that part of the country, and that would finish up that region. But
General Hood did not play the military part that he was expected to
play. On the contrary, General Hood made a dive at Chattanooga.
This left the march to the sea open to Sherman, and so after
sending part of his army to defend and hold what he had acquired in
the Chattanooga region, he was perfectly free to proceed, with the
rest of it, through Georgia. He saw the opportunity, and he would
not have been fit for his place if he had not seized it.
"He wrote me" (the General is speaking) "what his plan was, and I
sent him word to go ahead. My staff were opposed to the movement."
(I think the General said they tried to persuade him to stop
Sherman. The chief of his staff, the General said, even went so far
as to go to Washington without the General's knowledge and get the
ear of the authorities, and he succeeded in arousing their fears to
such an extent that they telegraphed General Grant to stop
Sherman.)
Then General Grant said, "Out of deference to the Government, I
telegraphed Sherman and stopped him twenty-four hours; and then
considering that that was deference enough to the Government, I
telegraphed him to go ahead again."
I have not tried to give the General's language, but only the
general idea of what he said. The thing that mainly struck me was
his terse remark that the enemy originated the idea of the march to
the sea. It struck me because it was so suggestive of the General's
epigrammatic fashion--saying a great deal in a single crisp
sentence. (This is my account, and signed "Mark Twain.")
_Susy Resumes._
After papa and General Grant had had their talk, we went back to
the hotel where mamma was, and papa told mamma all about his
interview with General Grant. Mamma and I had a nice quiet
afternoon together.
That pair of devoted comrades were always shutting themselves up
together when there was opportunity to have what Susy called "a cozy
time." From Susy's nursery days to the end of her life, she and her
mother were close friends; intimate friends, passionate adorers of each
other. Susy's was a beautiful mind, and it made her an interesting
comrade. And with the fine mind she had a heart like her mother's. Susy
never had an interest or an occupation which she was not glad to put
aside for that something which was in all cases more precious to her--a
visit with her mother. Susy died at the right time, the fortunate time
of life; the happy age--twenty-four years. At twenty-four, such a girl
has seen the best of life--life as a happy dream. After that age the
risks begin; responsibility comes, and with it the cares, the sorrows,
and the inevitable tragedy. For her mother's sake I would have brought
her back from the grave if I could, but I would not have done it for my
own.
_From Susy's Biography_.
Then papa went to read in public; there were a great many authors
that read, that Thursday afternoon, beside papa; I would have liked
to have gone and heard papa read, but papa said he was going to
read in Vassar just what he was planning to read in New York, so I
stayed at home with mamma.
The next day mamma planned to take the four o'clock car back to
Hartford. We rose quite early that morning and went to the Vienna
Bakery and took breakfast there. From there we went to a German
bookstore and bought some German books for Clara's birthday.
Dear me, the power of association to snatch mouldy dead memories out of
their graves and make them walk! That remark about buying foreign books
throws a sudden white glare upon the distant past; and I see the long
stretch of a New York street with an unearthly vividness, and John Hay
walking down it, grave and remorseful. I was walking down it too, that
morning, and I overtook Hay and asked him what the trouble was. He
turned a lustreless eye upon me and said:
"My case is beyond cure. In the most innocent way in the world I have
committed a crime which will never be forgiven by the sufferers, for
they will never believe--oh, well, no, I was going to say they would
never believe that I did the thing innocently. The truth is they will
know that I acted innocently, because they are rational people; but what
of that? I never can look them in the face again--nor they me, perhaps."
Hay was a young bachelor, and at that time was on the "Tribune" staff.
He explained his trouble in these words, substantially:
"When I was passing along here yesterday morning on my way down-town to
the office, I stepped into a bookstore where I am acquainted, and asked
if they had anything new from the other side. They handed me a French
novel, in the usual yellow paper cover, and I carried it away. I didn't
even look at the title of it. It was for recreation reading, and I was
on my way to my work. I went mooning and dreaming along, and I think I
hadn't gone more than fifty yards when I heard my name called. I
stopped, and a private carriage drew up at the sidewalk and I shook
hands with the inmates--mother and young daughter, excellent people.
They were on their way to the steamer to sail for Paris. The mother
said,
"'I saw that book in your hand and I judged by the look of it that it
was a French novel. Is it?'
"I said it was.
"She said, 'Do let me have it, so that my daughter can practise her
French on it on the way over.'
"Of course I handed her the book, and we parted. Ten minutes ago I was
passing that bookstore again, and I stepped in and fetched away another
copy of that book. Here it is. Read the first page of it. That is
enough. You will know what the rest is like. I think it must be the
foulest book in the French language--one of the foulest, anyway. I would
be ashamed to offer it to a harlot--but, oh dear, I gave it to that
sweet young girl without shame. Take my advice; don't give away a book
until you have examined it."
_From Susy's Biography._
Then mamma and I went to do some shopping and papa went to see
General Grant. After we had finnished doing our shopping we went
home to the hotel together. When we entered our rooms in the hotel
we saw on the table a vase full of exquisett red roses. Mamma who
is very fond of flowers exclaimed "Oh I wonder who could have sent
them." We both looked at the card in the midst of the roses and saw
that it was written on in papa's handwriting, it was written in
German. 'Liebes Geshchenk on die mamma.' [I am sure I didn't say
"on"--that is Susy's spelling, not mine; also I am sure I didn't
spell Geschenk so liberally as all that.--S. L. C.] Mamma was
delighted. Papa came home and gave mamma her ticket; and after
visiting a while with her went to see Major Pond and mamma and I
sat down to our lunch. After lunch most of our time was taken up
with packing, and at about three o'clock we went to escort mamma to
the train. We got on board the train with her and stayed with her
about five minutes and then we said good-bye to her and the train
started for Hartford. It was the first time I had ever beene away
from home without mamma in my life, although I was 13 yrs. old.
Papa and I drove back to the hotel and got Major Pond and then went
to see the Brooklyn Bridge we went across it to Brooklyn on the
cars and then walked back across it from Brooklyn to New York. We
enjoyed looking at the beautiful scenery and we could see the
bridge moove under the intense heat of the sun. We had a perfectly
delightful time, but weer pretty tired when we got back to the
hotel.
The next morning we rose early, took our breakfast and took an
early train to Poughkeepsie. We had a very pleasant journey to
Poughkeepsie. The Hudson was magnificent--shrouded with beautiful
mist. When we arived at Poughkeepsie it was raining quite hard;
which fact greatly dissapointed me because I very much wanted to
see the outside of the buildings of Vassar College and as it rained
that would be impossible. It was quite a long drive from the
station to Vasser College and papa and I had a nice long time to
discuss and laugh over German profanity. One of the German phrases
papa particularly enjoys is "O heilige maria Mutter Jesus!" Jean
has a German nurse, and this was one of her phrases, there was a
time when Jean exclaimed "Ach Gott!" to every trifle, but when
mamma found it out she was shocked and instantly put a stop to it.
It brings that pretty little German girl vividly before me--a sweet and
innocent and plump little creature with peachy cheeks; a clear-souled
little maiden and without offence, notwithstanding her profanities, and
she was loaded to the eyebrows with them. She was a mere child. She was
not fifteen yet. She was just from Germany, and knew no English. She was
always scattering her profanities around, and they were such a
satisfaction to me that I never dreamed of such a thing as modifying
her. For my own sake, I had no disposition to tell on her. Indeed I took
pains to keep her from being found out. I told her to confine her
religious exercises to the children's quarters, and urged her to
remember that Mrs. Clemens was prejudiced against pieties on week-days.
To the children, the little maid's profanities sounded natural and
proper and right, because they had been used to that kind of talk in
Germany, and they attached no evil importance to it. It grieves me that
I have forgotten those vigorous remarks. I long hoarded them in my
memory as a treasure. But I remember one of them still, because I heard
it so many times. The trial of that little creature's life was the
children's hair. She would tug and strain with her comb, accompanying
her work with her misplaced pieties. And when finally she was through
with her triple job she always fired up and exploded her thanks toward
the sky, where they belonged, in this form: "_Gott sei Dank ich bin
fertig mit'm Gott verdammtes Haar!_" (I believe I am not quite brave
enough to translate it.)
_From Susy's Biography_.
We at length reached Vassar College and she looked very finely, her
buildings and her grounds being very beautiful. We went to the
front doore and range the bell. The young girl who came to the
doore wished to know who we wanted to see. Evidently we were not
expected. Papa told her who we wanted to see and she showed us to
the parlor. We waited, no one came; and waited, no one came, still
no one came. It was beginning to seem pretty awkward, "Oh well this
is a pretty piece of business," papa exclaimed. At length we heard
footsteps coming down the long corridor and Miss C, (the lady who
had invited papa) came into the room. She greeted papa very
pleasantly and they had a nice little chatt together. Soon the lady
principal also entered and she was very pleasant and agreable. She
showed us to our rooms and said she would send for us when dinner
was ready. We went into our rooms, but we had nothing to do for
half an hour exept to watch the rain drops as they fell upon the
window panes. At last we were called to dinner, and I went down
without papa as he never eats anything in the middle of the day. I
sat at the table with the lady principal and enjoyed very much
seeing all the young girls trooping into the dining-room. After
dinner I went around the College with the young ladies and papa
stayed in his room and smoked. When it was supper time papa went
down and ate supper with us and we had a very delightful supper.
After supper the young ladies went to their rooms to dress for the
evening. Papa went to his room and I went with the lady principal.
At length the guests began to arive, but papa still remained in his
room until called for. Papa read in the chapell. It was the first
time I had ever heard him read in my life--that is in public. When
he came out on to the stage I remember the people behind me
exclaimed "Oh how queer he is! Isn't he funny!" I thought papa was
very funny, although I did not think him queer. He read "A Trying
Situation" and "The Golden Arm," a ghost story that he heard down
South when he was a little boy. "The Golden Arm" papa had told me
before, but he had startled me so that I did not much wish to hear
it again. But I had resolved this time to be prepared and not to
let myself be startled, but still papa did, and very very much; he
startled the whole roomful of people and they jumped as one man.
The other story was also very funny and interesting and I enjoyed
the evening inexpressibly much. After papa had finished reading we
all went down to the collation in the dining-room and after that
there was dancing and singing. Then the guests went away and papa
and I went to bed. The next morning we rose early, took an early
train for Hartford and reached Hartford at 1/2 past 2 o'clock. We
were very glad to get back.