Mark Twain on Religion: What Is Man, the War Prayer, Thou Shalt Not Kill, the Fly, Letters From the Earth

by Mark Twain

"When did you see him first?"

  "The time that Robert the captain's boy was eaten."

  " Eaten? "

  "Yes. Surely you haven't forgotten that?"

  "But I have, though. I never heard of it before."

  Her face was full of reproach.

  "I am sorry, if that is so. He was always good to you. If you are jesting, I do not think it is in good taste."

  "Now don't treat me like that, Alice, I don't deserve it. I am not jesting, I am in earnest. I mean the boy's memory no offense, but although I remember him I do not remember the circumstance -- I swear it. Who ate him?"

  "Do not be irreverent, Henry, it is out of place. It was not a who, at all."

  "What then -- a which?"

  "Yes."

  "What kind of a which?"

  "A spider-squid. Now you remember it I hope."

  "Indeed and deed and double-deed I don't, Alice, and it is the real truth. Tell me about it, please."

  "I suppose you see, now, Henry, what your memory is worth. You can remember dream-trips to Europe well enough, but things in real life -- even the most memorable and horrible things -- pass out of your memory in twelve years. There is something the matter with your mind."

  It was very curious. How could I have forgotten that tragedy? It must have happened; she was never mistaken in her facts, and she never spoke with positiveness of a thing which she was in any degree uncertain about. And this tragedy -- twelve years ago --

  "Alice, how long have we been in this ship?"

  "Now how can I know, Henry? It goes too far back. Always, for all I know. The earliest thing I can call to mind was Papa's death by the sun heat and Mama's suicide the same day. I was four years old, then. Surely you must remember that, Henry.

  "Why, you must remember that we were in the edge of a great white glare once for a little while -- a day, or maybe two days -- only a little while, I think, but I remember it, because it was the only time I was ever out of the dark, and there was a great deal of talk of it for long afterward -- why, Henry, you must remember a wonderful thing like that."

  "Wait. Let me think." Gradually, detail by detail the whole thing came back to me; and with it the boy's adventure with the spider-squid; and then I recalled a dozen other incidents, which Alice verified as incidents of our ship-life, and said I had set them forth correctly.

  It was a puzzling thing -- my freaks of memory; Alice's, too. By testing, it was presently manifest that the vacancies in my ship-life memories were only apparent, not real; a few words by way of reminder enabled me to fill them up, in almost all cases, and give them clarity and vividness. What had caused these temporary lapses? Didn't these very lapses indicate that the ship-life was a dream, and not real? It made Alice laugh.

  I did not see anything foolish in it, or anything to laugh at, and I told her so. And I reminded her that her own memory was as bad as mine, since many and many a conspicuous episode of our land-life was gone from her, even so striking an incident as the water-drop exploration with the microscope --

  It made her shout.

  I was wounded; and said that if I could not be treated with respect I would spare her the burden of my presence and conversation. She stopped laughing, at once, and threw her arms about my neck. She said she would not have hurt me for the world, but she supposed I was joking; it was quite natural to think I was not in earnest in talking gravely about this and that and the other dream-phantom as if it were a reality.

  "But Alice I was in earnest, and I am in earnest. Look at it -- examine it. If the land-life was a dream-life, how is it that you remember so much of it exactly as I remember it?"

  She was amused again, inside -- I could feel the quiver; but there was no exterior expression of it, for she did not want to hurt me again.

  "Dear heart, throw the whole matter aside! Stop puzzling over it; it isn't worth it. It is perfectly simple. It is true that I remember a little of that dream-life just as you remember it -- but that is an accident; the rest of it -- and by far the largest part -- does not correspond with your recollections. And how could it? People can't be expected to remember each other's dreams, but only their own. You have put me into your land-dreams a thousand times, but I didn't always know I was there; so how could I remember it? Also I have put you into my land-dreams a thousand times when you didn't know it -- and the natural result is that when I name the circumstances you don't always recall them. But how different it is with this real life, this genuine life in the ship!

  Our recollections of it are just alike. You have been forgetting episodes of it today -- I don't know why; it has surprised me and puzzled me -- but the lapse was only temporary; your memory soon rallied again. Now it hasn't rallied in the case of land-dreams of mine -- in most cases it hasn't. And it's not going to, Henry. You can be sure of that."

  She stopped, and tilted her head up in a thinking attitude and began to unconsciously tap her teeth with the ivory knob of a crochet needle. Presently she said,

  "I think I know what is the matter. I have been neglecting you for ten days while I have been grieving for our old shipmates and pretending to be seasick so that I might indulge myself with solitude; and here is the result -- you haven't been taking exercise enough."

  I was glad to have a reason -- any reason that would excuse my memory -- and I accepted this one, and made confession. There was no truth in the confession, but I was already getting handy with these evasions. I was a little sorry for this, for she had always trusted my word, and I had honored this trust by telling her the truth many a time when it was a sharp sacrifice to me to do it.

  She looked me over with gentle reproach in her eye, and said, "Henry, how can you be so naughty? I watch you so faithfully and make you take such good care of your health that you owe me the grace to do my office for me when for any fair reason I am for a while not on guard. When have you boxed with George last?"

  What an idea it was! It was a good place to make a mistake, and I came near to doing it. It was on my tongue's end to say that I had never boxed with anyone; and as for boxing with a colored manservant -- and so on; but I kept back my remark, and in place of it tried to look like a person who didn't know what to say. It was easy to do, and I probably did it very well.

  "You do not say anything, Henry. I think it is because you have a good reason.

  When have you fenced with him? Henry, you are avoiding my eye. Look up. Tell me the truth: have you fenced with him a single time in the last ten days?"

  So far as I was aware I knew nothing about foils, and had never handled them; so I was able to answer, "I will be frank with you, Alice -- I haven't."

  "I suspected it. Now, Henry, what can you say?"

  I was getting some of my wits back, now, and was not altogether unprepared, this time.

  "Well, Alice, there hasn't been much fencing weather, and when there was any, I

  -- well, I was lazy, and that is the shameful truth."

  "There's a chance now, anyway, and you mustn't waste it. Take off your coat and things."

  She rang for George, then she got up and raised the sofa seat and began to fish out boxing gloves, and foils and masks from the locker under it, softly scolding me all the while. George put his head in, noted the preparations, then entered and put himself in boxing trim. It was his turn to take the witness stand, now.

  "George, didn't I tell you to keep up Mr. Henry's exercises just the same as if I were about?"

  "Yes, madam, you did."

  "Why haven't you done it?"

  George chuckled, and showed his white teeth and said, "Bless yo' soul, honey, I dasn't."

  "Why?"

  "Because the first time I went to him -- it was that Tuesday, you know, when it was ca'm -- he wouldn't hear to it, and said he didn't want no exercise and warn't going to take any, and tole me to go 'long. Well, I didn't stop there, of course, but went to him agin, every now and then, trying to persuade him, till at last he let into me" (he stopped and comforted himself with an unhurried laugh o
ver the recollection of it) "and give me a most solid good cussing, and tole me if I come again he’d take and thow me overboard -

  - there, ain't that so Mr Henry?"

  My wife was looking at me pretty severely.

  "Henry, what have you to say to that?"

  It was my belief that it hadn't happened, but I was steadily losing confidence in my memory; and moreover my new policy of recollecting, whatever anybody required me to recollect seemed the safest course to pursue in my strange and trying circumstances; so I said, "Nothing, Alice -- I did refuse."

  "Oh, I'm not talking about that; of course you refused -- George had already said so."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Well, why do you stop?"

  "Why do I stop?"

  "Yes. Why don't you answer my question?"

  "Why, Alice, I've answered it. You asked me -- you asked me -- what is it I haven't answered?"

  "Henry, you know very well. You broke a promise; and you are trying to talk around it and get me away from it; but I am not going to let you. You know quite well you promised me you wouldn't swear any more in calm weather. And it is such a little thing to do. It is hardly ever calm, and --"

  "Alice, dear, I beg ever so many pardons! I had clear forgotten it; but I won't offend again, I give you my word. Be good to me, and forgive."

  She was always ready to forgive, and glad to do it, whatever my crime might be; so things were pleasant again, now, and smooth and happy. George was gloved and skipping about in an imaginary fight, by this time, and Alice told me to get to work with him. She took pencil and paper and got ready to keep game. I stepped forward to position -- then a curious thing happened: I seemed to remember a thousand boxing bouts with George, the whole boxing art came flooding in upon me, and I knew just what to do! I was a prey to no indecisions, I had no trouble. We fought six rounds, I held my own all through, and I finally knocked George out. I was not astonished; it seemed a familiar experience. Alice showed no surprise, George showed none; apparently it was an old story to them.

  The same thing happened with the fencing. I suddenly knew that I was an experienced old fencer; I expected to get the victory, and when I got it, it seemed but a repetition of something which had happened numberless times before.

  We decided to go down to the main saloon and take a regular meal in the regular way -- the evening meal. Alice went away to dress. Just as I had finished dressing, the children came romping in, warmly and prettily clad, and nestled up to me, one on each side, on the sofa, and began to chatter. Not about a former home; no, not a word of that, but only about this ship-home and its concerns and its people. After a little I threw out some questions-feelers. They did not understand. Finally I asked them if they had known no home but this one. Jessie said, with some little enthusiasm, "Oh, yes, dream-homes. They are pretty -- some of them." Then, with a shrug of her shoulders, "But they are so queer!"

  "How, Jessie?"

  "Well, you know, they have such curious things in them; and they fade, and don't stay. Bessie doesn't like them at all."

  "Why don't you, Bessie?"

  "Because they scare me so."

  "What is it that scares you?"

  "Oh, everything, Papa. Sometimes it is so light. That hurts my eyes. And it's too many lamps -- little sparkles all over, up high, and large ones that are dreadful. They could fall on me, you know."

  "But I am not much afraid," said Jessie, "because Mama says they are not real, and if they did fall they wouldn't hurt."

  "What else do you see there besides the lights, Bessie?"

  "Ugly things that go on four legs like our cat, but bigger."

  "Horses? Describe them, dear."

  "I can't, Papa. They are not alike; they are different kinds; and when I wake, up I can't just remember the shape of them, they are so dim."

  "And I wouldn't wish to remember them," said Jessie, "they make me feel creepy. Don't let's talk about them, Papa, let's talk about something else."

  "That's what I say, too," said Bessie.

  So then we talked about our ship. That interested them. They cared for no other home, real or unreal, and wanted no better one. They were innocent witnesses and free from prejudice.

  When we went below we found the roomy saloon well lighted and brightly and prettily furnished, and a very comfortable and inviting place altogether. Everything seemed substantial and genuine, there was nothing to suggest that it might be a work of the imagination.

  At table the captain (Davis) sat at the head, my wife at his right with the children, I at his left, a stranger at my left. The rest of the company consisted of Rush Phillips, purser, aged 27; his sweetheart the captain's daughter Lucy, aged 22; her sister Connie (short for Connecticut), aged 10; Arnold Blake, surgeon, 25; Harvey Pratt, naturalist, 36; at the foot sat Sturgis the chief mate, aged 35, and completed the snug assemblage.

  Stewards waited upon the general company, and George and our nurse Germania had charge of our family. Germania was not the nurse's name, but that was our name for her because it was shorter than her own. She was twenty-eight years old, and had always been with us; and so had George. George was thirty, and had once been a slave, according to my record, but I was losing my grip upon that, now, and was indeed getting shadowy and uncertain about all my traditions.

  The talk and the feeding went along in a natural way, I could find nothing unusual about it anywhere. The captain was pale, and had a jaded and harassed look, and was subject to little fits of absence of mind; and these things could be said of the mate, also, but this was all natural enough considering the grisly time they had been having, and certainly there was nothing about it to suggest that they were dream-creatures or that their troubles were unreal.

  The stranger at my side was about forty-five years old, and he had the half-subdued, half-resigned look of a man who had been under a burden of trouble a long time. He was tall and thin; he had a bushy black head, and black eyes which burned when he was interested, but were dull and expressionless when his thoughts were far away -- and that happened every time he dropped out of the conversation. He forgot to eat, then, his hands became idle, his dull eye fixed itself upon his plate or upon vacancy, and now and then he would draw a heavy sigh out of the depths of his breast.

  These three were exceptions; the others were chatty and cheerful, and they were like a pleasant little family party together. Phillips and Lucy were full of life, and quite happy, as became engaged people; and their furtive love-passages had everybody's sympathy and approval. Lucy was a pretty creature, and simple in her ways and kindly, and Phillips was a blithesome and attractive young fellow. I seemed to be familiarly acquainted with everybody, I didn't quite know why. That is, with everybody except the stranger at my side; and as he seemed to know me well, I had to let on to know him, lest I cause remark by exposing the fact that I didn't know him. I was already tired of being caught up for ignorance at every turn.

  The captain and the mate managed to seem comfortable enough until Phillips raised the subject of the day's run, the position of the ship, distance out, and so on; then they became irritable, and sharp of speech, and were unkinder to the young fellow than the case seemed to call for. His sweetheart was distressed to see him so treated before all the company, and she spoke up bravely in his defense and reproached her rather for making an offense out of so harmless a thing. This only brought her into trouble, and procured for her so rude a retort that she was consumed with shame, and left the table crying.

  The pleasure was all gone, now; everybody felt personally affronted and wantonly abused. Conversation ceased and an uncomfortable silence fell upon the company; through it one could hear the wailing of the wind and the dull tramp of the sailors and the muffled words of command overhead, and this made the silence all the more dismal. The dinner was a failure. While it was still unfinished the company began to break up and slip out, one after another; and presently none was left but me.

  I sat long, sipping black coffee and smoking. And thinking; gro
ping about in my dimming land-past an incident of my American life would rise upon me, vague at first, then grow more distinct and articulate, then sharp and clear; then in a moment it was gone, and in its place was a dull and distant image of some long-past episode whose theater was this ship -- and then it would develop, and clarify, and become strong and real. It was fascinating, enchanting, this spying among the elusive mysteries of my bewitched memory, and I went up to my parlor and continued it, with the help of punch and pipe, hour after hour, as long as I could keep awake. With this curious result: that the main incidents of both my lives were now recovered, but only those of one of them persistently gathered strength and vividness -- our life in the ship! Those of our land-life were good enough, plain enough, but in minuteness of detail they fell perceptibly short of those others; and in matters of feeling -- joy, grief, physical pain, physical pleasure --

  immeasurably short!

  Some mellow notes floated to my ear, muffled by the moaning wind -- six bells in the morning watch. So late! I went to bed. When I woke in the middle of the so-called day the first thing I thought of was my night's experience. Already my land-life had faded a little -- but not the other.

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER I

  I have long ago lost Book I, but it is no matter. It served its purpose -- writing it was an entertainment to me. We found out that our little boy set it adrift on the wind, sheet by sheet, to see if it would fly. It did. And so two of us got entertainment out of it. I have often been minded to begin Book II, but natural indolence and the pleasant life of the ship interfered.

  There have been little happenings, from time to time. The principal one, for us of the family, was the birth of our Harry, which stands recorded in the log under the date of June 8, and happened about three months after we shipped the present crew, poor devils! They still think we are bound for the South Pole, and that we are a long time on the way. It is pathetic, after a fashion. They regard their former life in the World as their real life and this present one as -- well, they hardly know what; but sometimes they get pretty tired of it, even at this late day. We hear of it now and then through the officers --