A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 7.

by Mark Twain

  CHAPTER XXXV

  A PITIFUL INCIDENT

  It's a world of surprises. The king brooded; this was natural.What would he brood about, should you say? Why, about the prodigiousnature of his fall, of course--from the loftiest place in the worldto the lowest; from the most illustrious station in the world tothe obscurest; from the grandest vocation among men to the basest.No, I take my oath that the thing that graveled him most, to startwith, was not this, but the price he had fetched! He couldn'tseem to get over that seven dollars. Well, it stunned me so, whenI first found it out, that I couldn't believe it; it didn't seemnatural. But as soon as my mental sight cleared and I got a rightfocus on it, I saw I was mistaken; it _was_ natural. For thisreason: a king is a mere artificiality, and so a king's feelings,like the impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities;but as a man, he is a reality, and his feelings, as a man, arereal, not phantoms. It shames the average man to be valued belowhis own estimate of his worth, and the king certainly wasn'tanything more than an average man, if he was up that high.

  Confound him, he wearied me with arguments to show that in anythinglike a fair market he would have fetched twenty-five dollars,sure--a thing which was plainly nonsense, and full or the baldestconceit; I wasn't worth it myself. But it was tender ground forme to argue on. In fact, I had to simply shirk argument and dothe diplomatic instead. I had to throw conscience aside, andbrazenly concede that he ought to have brought twenty-five dollars;whereas I was quite well aware that in all the ages, the world hadnever seen a king that was worth half the money, and during thenext thirteen centuries wouldn't see one that was worth the fourthof it. Yes, he tired me. If he began to talk about the crops;or about the recent weather; or about the condition of politics;or about dogs, or cats, or morals, or theology--no matter what--I sighed, for I knew what was coming; he was going to get out of ita palliation of that tiresome seven-dollar sale. Wherever wehalted where there was a crowd, he would give me a look whichsaid plainly: "if that thing could be tried over again now, withthis kind of folk, you would see a different result." Well, whenhe was first sold, it secretly tickled me to see him go for sevendollars; but before he was done with his sweating and worryingI wished he had fetched a hundred. The thing never got a chanceto die, for every day, at one place or another, possible purchaserslooked us over, and, as often as any other way, their comment onthe king was something like this:

  "Here's a two-dollar-and-a-half chump with a thirty-dollar style.Pity but style was marketable."

  At last this sort of remark produced an evil result. Our ownerwas a practical person and he perceived that this defect must bemended if he hoped to find a purchaser for the king. So he wentto work to take the style out of his sacred majesty. I could havegiven the man some valuable advice, but I didn't; you mustn'tvolunteer advice to a slave-driver unless you want to damagethe cause you are arguing for. I had found it a sufficientlydifficult job to reduce the king's style to a peasant's style,even when he was a willing and anxious pupil; now then, to undertaketo reduce the king's style to a slave's style--and by force--go to!it was a stately contract. Never mind the details--it will save metrouble to let you imagine them. I will only remark that at theend of a week there was plenty of evidence that lash and cluband fist had done their work well; the king's body was a sightto see--and to weep over; but his spirit?--why, it wasn't evenphased. Even that dull clod of a slave-driver was able to seethat there can be such a thing as a slave who will remain a mantill he dies; whose bones you can break, but whose manhood youcan't. This man found that from his first effort down to hislatest, he couldn't ever come within reach of the king, but theking was ready to plunge for him, and did it. So he gave upat last, and left the king in possession of his style unimpaired.The fact is, the king was a good deal more than a king, he wasa man; and when a man is a man, you can't knock it out of him.

  We had a rough time for a month, tramping to and fro in the earth,and suffering. And what Englishman was the most interested inthe slavery question by that time? His grace the king! Yes; frombeing the most indifferent, he was become the most interested.He was become the bitterest hater of the institution I had everheard talk. And so I ventured to ask once more a question whichI had asked years before and had gotten such a sharp answer thatI had not thought it prudent to meddle in the matter further.Would he abolish slavery?

  His answer was as sharp as before, but it was music this time;I shouldn't ever wish to hear pleasanter, though the profanitywas not good, being awkwardly put together, and with the crash-wordalmost in the middle instead of at the end, where, of course, itought to have been.

  I was ready and willing to get free now; I hadn't wanted to getfree any sooner. No, I cannot quite say that. I had wanted to,but I had not been willing to take desperate chances, and hadalways dissuaded the king from them. But now--ah, it was a newatmosphere! Liberty would be worth any cost that might be putupon it now. I set about a plan, and was straightway charmedwith it. It would require time, yes, and patience, too, a greatdeal of both. One could invent quicker ways, and fully as sureones; but none that would be as picturesque as this; none thatcould be made so dramatic. And so I was not going to give thisone up. It might delay us months, but no matter, I would carryit out or break something.

  Now and then we had an adventure. One night we were overtakenby a snow-storm while still a mile from the village we were makingfor. Almost instantly we were shut up as in a fog, the drivingsnow was so thick. You couldn't see a thing, and we were soonlost. The slave-driver lashed us desperately, for he saw ruinbefore him, but his lashings only made matters worse, for theydrove us further from the road and from likelihood of succor.So we had to stop at last and slump down in the snow where wewere. The storm continued until toward midnight, then ceased.By this time two of our feebler men and three of our women weredead, and others past moving and threatened with death. Ourmaster was nearly beside himself. He stirred up the living, andmade us stand, jump, slap ourselves, to restore our circulation,and he helped as well as he could with his whip.

  Now came a diversion. We heard shrieks and yells, and soon awoman came running and crying; and seeing our group, she flungherself into our midst and begged for protection. A mob of peoplecame tearing after her, some with torches, and they said she was awitch who had caused several cows to die by a strange disease,and practiced her arts by help of a devil in the form of a blackcat. This poor woman had been stoned until she hardly lookedhuman, she was so battered and bloody. The mob wanted to burn her.

  Well, now, what do you suppose our master did? When we closedaround this poor creature to shelter her, he saw his chance. Hesaid, burn her here, or they shouldn't have her at all. Imaginethat! They were willing. They fastened her to a post; theybrought wood and piled it about her; they applied the torch whileshe shrieked and pleaded and strained her two young daughtersto her breast; and our brute, with a heart solely for business,lashed us into position about the stake and warmed us into lifeand commercial value by the same fire which took away the innocentlife of that poor harmless mother. That was the sort of master wehad. I took _his_ number. That snow-storm cost him nine of hisflock; and he was more brutal to us than ever, after that, formany days together, he was so enraged over his loss.

  We had adventures all along. One day we ran into a procession.And such a procession! All the riffraff of the kingdom seemedto be comprehended in it; and all drunk at that. In the van wasa cart with a coffin in it, and on the coffin sat a comely younggirl of about eighteen suckling a baby, which she squeezed to herbreast in a passion of love every little while, and every littlewhile wiped from its face the tears which her eyes rained downupon it; and always the foolish little thing smiled up at her,happy and content, kneading her breast with its dimpled fat hand,which she patted and fondled right over her breaking heart.

  Men and women, boys and girls, trotted along beside or afterthe cart, hooting, shouting profane and ribald remarks, singingsnatches of foul song, skippi
ng, dancing--a very holiday ofhellions, a sickening sight. We had struck a suburb of London,outside the walls, and this was a sample of one sort of Londonsociety. Our master secured a good place for us near the gallows.A priest was in attendance, and he helped the girl climb up, andsaid comforting words to her, and made the under-sheriff providea stool for her. Then he stood there by her on the gallows, andfor a moment looked down upon the mass of upturned faces at hisfeet, then out over the solid pavement of heads that stretched awayon every side occupying the vacancies far and near, and then beganto tell the story of the case. And there was pity in his voice--how seldom a sound that was in that ignorant and savage land!I remember every detail of what he said, except the words he saidit in; and so I change it into my own words:

  "Law is intended to mete out justice. Sometimes it fails. Thiscannot be helped. We can only grieve, and be resigned, and prayfor the soul of him who falls unfairly by the arm of the law, andthat his fellows may be few. A law sends this poor young thingto death--and it is right. But another law had placed her whereshe must commit her crime or starve with her child--and before Godthat law is responsible for both her crime and her ignominious death!

  "A little while ago this young thing, this child of eighteen years,was as happy a wife and mother as any in England; and her lipswere blithe with song, which is the native speech of glad andinnocent hearts. Her young husband was as happy as she; for he wasdoing his whole duty, he worked early and late at his handicraft,his bread was honest bread well and fairly earned, he was prospering,he was furnishing shelter and sustenance to his family, he wasadding his mite to the wealth of the nation. By consent of atreacherous law, instant destruction fell upon this holy home andswept it away! That young husband was waylaid and impressed,and sent to sea. The wife knew nothing of it. She sought himeverywhere, she moved the hardest hearts with the supplicationsof her tears, the broken eloquence of her despair. Weeks draggedby, she watching, waiting, hoping, her mind going slowly to wreckunder the burden of her misery. Little by little all her smallpossessions went for food. When she could no longer pay her rent,they turned her out of doors. She begged, while she had strength;when she was starving at last, and her milk failing, she stole apiece of linen cloth of the value of a fourth part of a cent,thinking to sell it and save her child. But she was seen by theowner of the cloth. She was put in jail and brought to trial.The man testified to the facts. A plea was made for her, and hersorrowful story was told in her behalf. She spoke, too, bypermission, and said she did steal the cloth, but that her mindwas so disordered of late by trouble that when she was overbornewith hunger all acts, criminal or other, swam meaningless throughher brain and she knew nothing rightly, except that she was sohungry! For a moment all were touched, and there was dispositionto deal mercifully with her, seeing that she was so young andfriendless, and her case so piteous, and the law that robbed herof her support to blame as being the first and only cause of hertransgression; but the prosecuting officer replied that whereasthese things were all true, and most pitiful as well, still therewas much small theft in these days, and mistimed mercy here wouldbe a danger to property--oh, my God, is there no property in ruinedhomes, and orphaned babes, and broken hearts that British lawholds precious!--and so he must require sentence.

  "When the judge put on his black cap, the owner of the stolenlinen rose trembling up, his lip quivering, his face as gray asashes; and when the awful words came, he cried out, 'Oh, poorchild, poor child, I did not know it was death!' and fell as atree falls. When they lifted him up his reason was gone; beforethe sun was set, he had taken his own life. A kindly man; a manwhose heart was right, at bottom; add his murder to this thatis to be now done here; and charge them both where they belong--to the rulers and the bitter laws of Britain. The time is come, mychild; let me pray over thee--not _for_ thee, dear abused poor heartand innocent, but for them that be guilty of thy ruin and death,who need it more."

  After his prayer they put the noose around the young girl's neck,and they had great trouble to adjust the knot under her ear,because she was devouring the baby all the time, wildly kissing it,and snatching it to her face and her breast, and drenching itwith tears, and half moaning, half shrieking all the while, and thebaby crowing, and laughing, and kicking its feet with delight overwhat it took for romp and play. Even the hangman couldn't stand it,but turned away. When all was ready the priest gently pulled andtugged and forced the child out of the mother's arms, and steppedquickly out of her reach; but she clasped her hands, and made awild spring toward him, with a shriek; but the rope--and theunder-sheriff--held her short. Then she went on her knees andstretched out her hands and cried:

  "One more kiss--oh, my God, one more, one more,--it is the dyingthat begs it!"

  She got it; she almost smothered the little thing. And when theygot it away again, she cried out:

  "Oh, my child, my darling, it will die! It has no home, it hasno father, no friend, no mother--"

  "It has them all!" said that good priest. "All these will I beto it till I die."

  You should have seen her face then! Gratitude? Lord, what doyou want with words to express that? Words are only painted fire;a look is the fire itself. She gave that look, and carried it awayto the treasury of heaven, where all things that are divine belong.