twelve or thirteen years old. The life which I led there with my cousins
was full of charm, and so is the memory of it yet. I can call back the
solemn twilight and mystery of the deep woods, the earthy smells, the
faint odors of the wild flowers, the sheen of rain-washed foliage, the
rattling clatter of drops when the wind shook the trees, the far-off
hammering of woodpeckers and the muffled drumming of wood-pheasants in
the remoteness of the forest, the snap-shot glimpses of disturbed wild
creatures skurrying through the grass,--I can call it all back and make
it as real as it ever was, and as blessed. I can call back the prairie,
and its loneliness and peace, and a vast hawk hanging motionless in the
sky, with his wings spread wide and the blue of the vault showing
through the fringe of their end-feathers. I can see the woods in their
autumn dress, the oaks purple, the hickories washed with gold, the
maples and the sumacs luminous with crimson fires, and I can hear the
rustle made by the fallen leaves as we ploughed through them. I can see
the blue clusters of wild grapes hanging amongst the foliage of the
saplings, and I remember the taste of them and the smell. I know how the
wild blackberries looked, and how they tasted; and the same with the
pawpaws, the hazelnuts and the persimmons; and I can feel the thumping
rain, upon my head, of hickory-nuts and walnuts when we were out in the
frosty dawn to scramble for them with the pigs, and the gusts of wind
loosed them and sent them down. I know the stain of blackberries, and
how pretty it is; and I know the stain of walnut hulls, and how little
it minds soap and water; also what grudged experience it had of either
of them. I know the taste of maple sap, and when to gather it, and how
to arrange the troughs and the delivery tubes, and how to boil down the
juice, and how to hook the sugar after it is made; also how much better
hooked sugar tastes than any that is honestly come by, let bigots say
what they will. I know how a prize watermelon looks when it is sunning
its fat rotundity among pumpkin-vines and "simblins"; I know how to tell
when it is ripe without "plugging" it; I know how inviting it looks when
it is cooling itself in a tub of water under the bed, waiting; I know
how it looks when it lies on the table in the sheltered great
floor-space between house and kitchen, and the children gathered for the
sacrifice and their mouths watering; I know the crackling sound it makes
when the carving-knife enters its end, and I can see the split fly along
in front of the blade as the knife cleaves its way to the other end; I
can see its halves fall apart and display the rich red meat and the
black seeds, and the heart standing up, a luxury fit for the elect; I
know how a boy looks, behind a yard-long slice of that melon, and I know
how he feels; for I have been there. I know the taste of the watermelon
which has been honestly come by, and I know the taste of the watermelon
which has been acquired by art. Both taste good, but the experienced
know which tastes best. I know the look of green apples and peaches and
pears on the trees, and I know how entertaining they are when they are
inside of a person. I know how ripe ones look when they are piled in
pyramids under the trees, and how pretty they are and how vivid their
colors. I know how a frozen apple looks, in a barrel down cellar in the
winter-time, and how hard it is to bite, and how the frost makes the
teeth ache, and yet how good it is, notwithstanding. I know the
disposition of elderly people to select the specked apples for the
children, and I once knew ways to beat the game. I know the look of an
apple that is roasting and sizzling on a hearth on a winter's evening,
and I know the comfort that comes of eating it hot, along with some
sugar and a drench of cream. I know the delicate art and mystery of so
cracking hickory-nuts and walnuts on a flatiron with a hammer that the
kernels will be delivered whole, and I know how the nuts, taken in
conjunction with winter apples, cider and doughnuts, make old people's
tales and old jokes sound fresh and crisp and enchanting, and juggle an
evening away before you know what went with the time. I know the look of
Uncle Dan'l's kitchen as it was on privileged nights when I was a child,
and I can see the white and black children grouped on the hearth, with
the firelight playing on their faces and the shadows flickering upon the
walls, clear back toward the cavernous gloom of the rear, and I can hear
Uncle Dan'l telling the immortal tales which Uncle Remus Harris was to
gather into his books and charm the world with, by and by; and I can
feel again the creepy joy which quivered through me when the time for
the ghost-story of the "Golden Arm" was reached--and the sense of
regret, too, which came over me, for it was always the last story of the
evening, and there was nothing between it and the unwelcome bed.
I can remember the bare wooden stairway in my uncle's house, and the
turn to the left above the landing, and the rafters and the slanting
roof over my bed, and the squares of moonlight on the floor, and the
white cold world of snow outside, seen through the curtainless window.
I can remember the howling of the wind and the quaking of the house on
stormy nights, and how snug and cozy one felt, under the blankets,
listening, and how the powdery snow used to sift in, around the sashes,
and lie in little ridges on the floor, and make the place look chilly in
the morning, and curb the wild desire to get up--in case there was any.
I can remember how very dark that room was, in the dark of the moon, and
how packed it was with ghostly stillness when one woke up by accident
away in the night, and forgotten sins came flocking out of the secret
chambers of the memory and wanted a hearing; and how ill chosen the time
seemed for this kind of business; and how dismal was the hoo-hooing of
the owl and the wailing of the wolf, sent mourning by on the night wind.
I remember the raging of the rain on that roof, summer nights, and how
pleasant it was to lie and listen to it, and enjoy the white splendor of
the lightning and the majestic booming and crashing of the thunder. It
was a very satisfactory room; and there was a lightning-rod which was
reachable from the window, an adorable and skittish thing to climb up
and down, summer nights, when there were duties on hand of a sort to
make privacy desirable.
I remember the 'coon and 'possum hunts, nights, with the negroes, and
the long marches through the black gloom of the woods, and the
excitement which fired everybody when the distant bay of an experienced
dog announced that the game was treed; then the wild scramblings and
stumblings through briars and bushes and over roots to get to the spot;
then the lighting of a fire and the felling of the tree, the joyful
frenzy of the dogs and the negroes, and the weird picture it all made in
the red glare--I remember it all well, and the delight that every one
got out of it, except the 'coon.
I remember the pigeon seasons, when the birds would come in millions,
and cover the trees, and by their weight break down the branches. They
were clubbed to death with sticks; guns were not necessary, and were not
used. I remember the squirrel hunts, and the prairie-chicken hunts, and
the wild-turkey hunts, and all that; and how we turned out, mornings,
while it was still dark, to go on these expeditions, and how chilly and
dismal it was, and how often I regretted that I was well enough to go. A
toot on a tin horn brought twice as many dogs as were needed, and in
their happiness they raced and scampered about, and knocked small people
down, and made no end of unnecessary noise. At the word, they vanished
away toward the woods, and we drifted silently after them in the
melancholy gloom. But presently the gray dawn stole over the world, the
birds piped up, then the sun rose and poured light and comfort all
around, everything was fresh and dewy and fragrant, and life was a boon
again. After three hours of tramping we arrived back wholesomely tired,
overladen with game, very hungry, and just in time for breakfast.
MARK TWAIN.
(_To be Continued._)
FOOTNOTE:
[6] 100,000 acres.
NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW
No. DCXI.
MARCH 15, 1907.
CHAPTERS FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY.--XIV.
BY MARK TWAIN.
[_Dictated Thursday, December 6, 1906._]
_From Susy's Biography of Me._
_Feb. 27, Sunday._
Clara's reputation as a baby was always a fine one, mine exactly
the contrary. One often related story concerning her braveness as a
baby and her own opinion of this quality of hers is this. Clara and
I often got slivers in our hands and when mama took them out with a
much dreaded needle, Clara was always very brave, and I very
cowardly. One day Clara got one of these slivers in her hand, a
very bad one, and while mama was taking it out, Clara stood
perfectly still without even wincing: I saw how brave she was and
turning to mamma said "Mamma isn't she a brave little thing!"
presently mamma had to give the little hand quite a dig with the
needle and noticing how perfectly quiet Clara was about it she
exclaimed, Why Clara! you are a brave little thing! Clara responded
"No bodys braver but God!"--
Clara's pious remark is the main detail, and Susy has accurately
remembered its phrasing. The three-year-older's wound was of a
formidable sort, and not one which the mother's surgery would have been
equal to. The flesh of the finger had been burst by a cruel accident. It
was the doctor that sewed it up, and to all appearances it was he, and
the other independent witnesses, that did the main part of the
suffering; each stitch that he took made Clara wince slightly, but it
shrivelled the others.
I take pride in Clara's remark, because it shows that although she was
only three years old, her fireside teachings were already making her a
thinker--a thinker and also an observer of proportions. I am not
claiming any credit for this. I furnished to the children worldly
knowledge and wisdom, but was not competent to go higher, and so I left
their spiritual education in the hands of the mother. A result of this
modesty of mine was made manifest to me in a very striking way, some
years afterward, when Jean was nine years old. We had recently arrived
in Berlin, at the time, and had begun housekeeping in a furnished
apartment. One morning at breakfast a vast card arrived--an invitation.
To be precise, it was a command from the Emperor of Germany to come to
dinner. During several months I had encountered socially, on the
Continent, men bearing lofty titles; and all this while Jean was
becoming more and more impressed, and awed, and subdued, by these
imposing events, for she had not been abroad before, and they were new
to her--wonders out of dreamland turned into realities. The imperial
card was passed from hand to hand, around the table, and examined with
interest; when it reached Jean she exhibited excitement and emotion, but
for a time was quite speechless; then she said,
"Why, papa, if it keeps going on like this, pretty soon there won't be
anybody left for you to get acquainted with but God."
It was not complimentary to think I was not acquainted in that quarter,
but she was young, and the young jump to conclusions without reflection.
Necessarily, I did myself the honor to obey the command of the Emperor
Wilhelm II. Prince Heinrich, and six or eight other guests were
present. The Emperor did most of the talking, and he talked well, and in
faultless English. In both of these conspicuousnesses I was gratified to
recognize a resemblance to myself--a very exact resemblance; no, almost
exact, but not quite that--a modified exactness, with the advantage in
favor of the Emperor. My English, like his, is nearly faultless; like
him I talk well; and when I have guests at dinner I prefer to do all the
talking myself. It is the best way, and the pleasantest. Also the most
profitable for the others.
I was greatly pleased to perceive that his Majesty was familiar with my
books, and that his attitude toward them was not uncomplimentary. In the
course of his talk he said that my best and most valuable book was "Old
Times on the Mississippi." I will refer to that remark again, presently.
An official who was well up in the Foreign Office at that time, and had
served under Bismarck for fourteen years, was still occupying his old
place under Chancellor Caprivi. Smith, I will call him of whom I am
speaking, though that is not his name. He was a special friend of mine,
and I greatly enjoyed his society, although in order to have it it was
necessary for me to seek it as late as midnight, and not earlier. This
was because Government officials of his rank had to work all day, after
nine in the morning, and then attend official banquets in the evening;
wherefore they were usually unable to get life-restoring fresh air and
exercise for their jaded minds and bodies earlier than midnight; then
they turned out, in groups of two or three, and gratefully and violently
tramped the deserted streets until two in the morning. Smith had been in
the Government service, at home and abroad, for more than thirty years,
and he was now sixty years old, or close upon it. He could not remember
a year in which he had had a vacation of more than a fortnight's length;
he was weary all through to the bones and the marrow, now, and was
yearning for a holiday of a whole three months--yearning so longingly
and so poignantly that he had at last made up his mind to make a
desperate cast for it and stand the consequences, whatever they might
be. It was against all rules to _ask_ for a vacation--quite against all
etiquette; the shock of it would paralyze the Chancellery; stem
etiquette and usage required another form: the applicant was not
privileged to ask for a vacation, he must send in his _resignation_. The
chancellor would know that the applicant was not really trying to
resign, and didn't want to resign, but was merely trying in this
left-handed way to get a vacation.
The night before the Emperor's dinner I helped Smith take his exercise,
after midnight, and he was full of his project. He had sent in his
resignation that day, and was trembling for the result; and naturally,
because it might possibly be that the chancellor would be happy to fill
his place with somebody else, in which case he could accept the
resignation without comment and without offence. Smith was in a very
anxious frame of mind; not that he feared that Caprivi was dissatisfied
with him, for he had no such fear; it was the Emperor that he was afraid
of; he did not know how he stood with the Emperor. He said that while
apparently it was Caprivi who would decide his case, it was in reality
the Emperor who would perform that service; that the Emperor kept
personal watch upon everything, and that no official sparrow could fall
to the ground without his privity and consent; that the resignation
would be laid before his Majesty, who would accept it or decline to
accept it, according to his pleasure, and that then his pleasure in the
matter would be communicated by Caprivi. Smith said he would know his
fate the next evening, after the imperial dinner; that when I should
escort his Majesty into the large salon contiguous to the dining-room, I
would find there about thirty men--Cabinet ministers, admirals, generals
and other great officials of the Empire--and that these men would be
standing talking together in little separate groups of two or three
persons; that the Emperor would move from group to group and say a word
to each, sometimes two words, sometimes ten words; and that the length
of his speech, whether brief or not so brief, would indicate the exact
standing in the Emperor's regard, of the man accosted; and that by
observing this thermometer an expert could tell, to half a degree, the
state of the imperial weather in each case; that in Berlin, as in the
imperial days of Rome, the Emperor was the sun, and that his smile or
his frown meant good fortune or disaster to the man upon whom it should
fall. Smith suggested that I watch the thermometer while the Emperor
went his rounds of the groups; and added that if his Majesty talked four
minutes with any person there present, it meant high favor, and that the
sun was in the zenith, and cloudless, for that man.
I mentally recorded that four-minute altitude, and resolved to see if
any man there on that night stood in sufficient favor to achieve it.
Very well. After the dinner I watched the Emperor while he passed from
group to group, and privately I timed him with a watch. Two or three
times he came near to reaching the four-minute altitude, but always he
fell short a little. The last man he came to was Smith. He put his hand
on Smith's shoulder and began to talk to him; and when he finished, the
thermometer had scored seven minutes! The company then moved toward the
smoking-room, where cigars, beer and anecdotes would be in brisk service
until midnight, and as Smith passed me he whispered,
"That settles it. The chancellor will ask me how much of a vacation I
want, and I sha'n't be afraid to raise the limit. I shall call for six
months."
[Sidenote: (1891)]
[Sidenote: (1899)]
Smith's dream had been to spend his three months' vacation--in case he
got a vacation instead of the other thing--in one of the great capitals
of the Continent--a capital whose name I shall suppress, at present. The
next day the chancellor asked him how much of a vacation he wanted, and
where he desired to spend it. Smith told him. His prayer was granted,
and rather more than granted. The chancellor augmented his salary and
attached him to the German Embassy of that selected capital, giving him
a place of high dignity bearing an imposing title, and with nothing to
do except attend banquets of an extraordinary character at the Embassy,
once or twice a year. The term of his vacation was not specified; he was
to continue it until requested to come back to his work in the Foreign
Office. This was in 1891. Eight years later Smith was passing through
Vienna, and he called upon me. There had been no interruption of his
vacation, as yet, and there was no likelihood that an interruption of it
would occur while he should still be among the living.
[_Dictated Monday, December 17, 1906._] As I have already remarked, "Old
Times on the Mississippi" got the Kaiser's best praise. It was after
midnight when I reached home; I was usually out until toward midnight,
and the pleasure of being out late was poisoned, every night, by the
dread of what I must meet at my front door--an indignant face, a
resentful face, the face of the _portier_. The _portier_ was a
tow-headed young German, twenty-two or three years old; and it had been
for some time apparent to me that he did not enjoy being hammered out of
his sleep, nights, to let me in. He never had a kind word for me, nor a
pleasant look. I couldn't understand it, since it was his business to be
on watch and let the occupants of the several flats in at any and all
hours of the night. I could not see why he so distinctly failed to get
reconciled to it.
The fact is, I was ignorantly violating, every night, a custom in which
he was commercially interested. I did not suspect this. No one had told
me of the custom, and if I had been left to guess it, it would have
taken me a very long time to make a success of it. It was a custom which
was so well established and so universally recognized, that it had all
the force and dignity of law. By authority of this custom, whosoever
entered a Berlin house after ten at night must pay a trifling toll to
the _portier_ for breaking his sleep to let him in. This tax was either
two and a half cents or five cents, I don't remember which; but I had
never paid it, and didn't know I owed it, and as I had been residing in
Berlin several weeks, I was so far in arrears that my presence in the
German capital was getting to be a serious disaster to that young
fellow.
I arrived from the imperial dinner sorrowful and anxious, made my
presence known and prepared myself to wait in patience the tedious
minute or two which the _portier_ usually allowed himself to keep me
tarrying--as a punishment. But this time there was no stage-wait; the
door was instantly unlocked, unbolted, unchained and flung wide; and in
it appeared the strange and welcome apparition of the _portier's_ round
face all sunshine and smiles and welcome, in place of the black frowns
and hostility that I was expecting. Plainly he had not come out of his
bed: he had been waiting for me, watching for me. He began to pour out
upon me in the most enthusiastic and energetic way a generous stream of
German welcome and homage, meanwhile dragging me excitedly to his small
bedroom beside the front door; there he made me bend down over a row of
German translations of my books and said,
"There--you wrote them! I have found it out! By God, I did not know it
before, and I ask a million pardons! That one there, the 'Old Times on
the Mississippi,' is the best book you ever wrote!"
The usual number of those curious accidents which we call coincidences
have fallen to my share in this life, but for picturesqueness this one
puts all the others in the shade: that a crowned head and a _portier_,
the very top of an empire and the very bottom of it, should pass the
very same criticism and deliver the very same verdict upon a book of
mine--and almost in the same hour and the same breath--is a coincidence
which out-coincidences any coincidence which I could have imagined with
such powers of imagination as I have been favored with; and I have not
been accustomed to regard them as being small or of an inferior quality.
It is always a satisfaction to me to remember that whereas I do not
know, for sure, what any other nation thinks of any one of my
twenty-three volumes, I do at least know for a certainty what one nation
of fifty millions thinks of one of them, at any rate; for if the mutual
verdict of the top of an empire and the bottom of it does not establish
for good and all the judgment of the entire nation concerning that book,
then the axiom that we can get a sure estimate of a thing by arriving at
a general average of all the opinions involved, is a fallacy.
[_Dictated Monday, February 10, 1907._] Two months ago (December 6) I
was dictating a brief account of a private dinner in Berlin, where the
Emperor of Germany was host and I the chief guest. Something happened
day before yesterday which moves me to take up that matter again.
At the dinner his Majesty chatted briskly and entertainingly along in
easy and flowing English, and now and then he interrupted himself to
address a remark to me, or to some other individual of the guests. When
the reply had been delivered, he resumed his talk. I noticed that the
table etiquette tallied with that which was the law of my house at home
when we had guests: that is to say, the guests answered when the host
favored them with a remark, and then quieted down and behaved themselves
until they got another chance. If I had been in the Emperor's chair and
he in mine, I should have felt infinitely comfortable and at home, and
should have done a world of talking, and done it well; but I was guest
now, and consequently I felt less at home. From old experience, I was
familiar with the rules of the game, and familiar with their exercise
from the high place of host; but I was not familiar with the trammelled
and less satisfactory position of guest, therefore I felt a little
strange and out of place. But there was no animosity--no, the Emperor
was host, therefore according to my own rule he had a right to do the
talking, and it was my honorable duty to intrude no interruptions or
other improvements, except upon invitation; and of course it could be
_my_ turn some day: some day, on some friendly visit of inspection to
America, it might be my pleasure and distinction to have him as guest at
my table; then I would give him a rest, and a remarkably quiet time.
In one way there was a difference between his table and mine--for
instance, atmosphere; the guests stood in awe of him, and naturally they
conferred that feeling upon me, for, after all, I am only human,
although I regret it. When a guest answered a question he did it with
deferential voice and manner; he did not put any emotion into it, and he
did not spin it out, but got it out of his system as quickly as he
could, and then looked relieved. The Emperor was used to this
atmosphere, and it did not chill his blood; maybe it was an inspiration
to him, for he was alert, brilliant and full of animation; also he was
most gracefully and felicitously complimentary to my books,--and I will
remark here that the happy phrasing of a compliment is one of the rarest
of human gifts, and the happy delivery of it another. In that other
chapter I mentioned the high compliment which he paid to the book, "Old
Times on the Mississippi," but there were others; among them some
gratifying praise of my description in "A Tramp Abroad" of certain
striking phases of German student life. I mention these things here
because I shall have occasion to hark back to them presently.
[_Dictated Tuesday, February 12, 1907._]
* * * * *
Those stars indicate the long chapter which I dictated yesterday, a
chapter which is much too long for magazine purposes, and therefore must
wait until this Autobiography shall appear in book form, five years
hence, when I am dead: five years according to my calculation,
twenty-seven years according to the prediction furnished me a week ago
by the latest and most confident of all the palmists who have ever read
my future in my hand. The Emperor's dinner, and its beer-and-anecdote
appendix, covered six hours of diligent industry, and this accounts for
the extraordinary length of that chapter.
A couple of days ago a gentleman called upon me with a message. He had
just arrived from Berlin, where he had been acting for our Government in
a matter concerning tariff revision, he being a member of the commission
appointed by our Government to conduct our share of the affair. Upon the
completion of the commission's labors, the Emperor invited the members
of it to an audience, and in the course of the conversation he made a
reference to me; continuing, he spoke of my chapter on the German
language in "A Tramp Abroad," and characterized it by an adjective which
is too complimentary for me to repeat here without bringing my modesty
under suspicion. Then he paid some compliments to "The Innocents
Abroad," and followed these with the remark that my account in one of my
books of certain striking phases of German student life was the best and
truest that had ever been written. By this I perceive that he remembers
that dinner of sixteen years ago, for he said the same thing to me about
the student-chapter at that time. Next he said he wished this gentleman
to convey two messages to America from him and deliver them--one to the
President, the other to me. The wording of the message to me was:
"Convey to Mr. Clemens my kindest regards. Ask him if he remembers that
dinner, and ask him why he didn't do any talking."
Why, how could I talk when he was talking? He "held the age," as the
poker-clergy say, and two can't talk at the same time with good effect.
It reminds me of the man who was reproached by a friend, who said,
"I think it a shame that you have not spoken to your wife for fifteen
years. How do you explain it? How do you justify it?"
That poor man said,
"I didn't want to interrupt her."