The Best Short Works of Mark Twain

by Mark Twain

  “Don’t mention it, Sandy,” says I, coloring up a little; “I wouldn’t have had the family see it for any amount you are a mind to name. Change the subject, Sandy, change the subject.”

  “Well, do you think of settling in the California department of bliss?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t calculating on doing anything really definite in that direction till the family come. I thought I would just look around, meantime, in a quiet way, and make up my mind. Besides, I know a good many dead people, and I was calculating to hunt them up and swap a little gossip with them about friends, and old times, and one thing or another, and ask them how they like it here, as far as they have got. I reckon my wife will want to camp in the California range, though, because most all her departed will be there, and she likes to be with folks she knows.”

  “Don’t you let her. You see what the Jersey district of heaven is, for whites; well, the California district is a thousand times worse. It swarms with a mean kind of leather-headed mud-colored angels—and your nearest white neighbors is likely to be a million miles away. What a man mostly misses, in heaven, is company—company of his own sort and color and language. I have come near settling in the European part of heaven once or twice on that account.”

  “Well, why didn’t you, Sandy?”

  “Oh, various reasons. For one thing, although you see plenty of whites there, you can’t understand any of them hardly, and so you go about as hungry for talk as you do here. I like to look at a Russian or a German or an Italian—I even like to look at a Frenchman if I ever have the luck to catch him engaged in anything that ain’t indelicate—but looking don’t cure the hunger—what you want is talk.”

  “Well, there’s England, Sandy—the English district of heaven.”

  “Yes, but it is not so very much better than this end of the heavenly domain. As long as you run across Englishmen born this side of three hundred years ago, you are all right; but the minute you get back of Elizabeth’s time the language begins to fog up, and the further back you go the foggier it gets. I had some talk with one Langland7 and a man by the name of Chaucer8—old-time poets—but it was no use, I couldn’t quite understand them and they couldn’t quite understand me. I have had letters from them since, but it is such broken English I can’t make it out. Back of those men’s time the English are just simply foreigners, nothing more, nothing less; they talk Danish, German, Norman French, and sometimes a mixture of all three; back of them, they talk Latin, and ancient British, Irish, and Gaelic; and then back of these come billions and billions of pure savages that talk a gibberish that Satan himself couldn’t understand. The fact is, where you strike one man in the English settlements that you can understand, you wade through awful swarms that talk something you can’t make head nor tail of. You see, every country on earth has been overlaid so often, in the course of a billion years, with different kinds of people and different sorts of languages, that this sort of mongrel business was bound to be the result in heaven.”

  “Sandy,” says I, “did you see a good many of the great people history tells about?”

  “Yes—plenty. I saw kings and all sorts of distinguished people.”

  “Do the kings rank just as they did below?”

  “No; a body can’t bring his rank up here with him. Divine right is a good-enough earthly romance, but it don’t go, here. Kings drop down to the general level as soon as they reach the realms of grace. I knew Charles the Second very well—one of the most popular comedians in the English section—draws first rate. There are better, of course—people that were never heard of on earth—but Charles is making a very good reputation indeed, and is considered a rising man. Richard the Lionhearted is in the prize-ring, and coming into considerable favor. Henry the Eighth is a tragedian, and the scenes where he kills people are done to the very life. Henry the Sixth keeps a religious-book stand.”

  “Did you ever see Napoleon, Sandy?”

  “Often—sometimes in the Corsican range, sometimes in the French. He always hunts up a conspicuous place, and goes frowning around with his arms folded and his field-glass under his arm, looking as grand, gloomy and peculiar as his reputation calls for, and very much bothered because he don’t stand as high, here, for a soldier, as he expected to.”

  “Why, who stands higher?”

  “Oh, a lot of people we never heard of before—the shoemaker and horse-doctor and knife-grinder kind, you know—clodhoppers from goodness knows where, that never handled a sword or fired a shot in their lives—but the soldiership was in them, though they never had a chance to show it. But here they take their right place, and Cæsar and Napoleon and Alexander have to take a back seat. The greatest military genius our world ever produced was a bricklayer from somewhere back of Boston—died during the Revolution—by the name of Absalom Jones. Wherever he goes, crowds flock to see him. You see, everybody knows that if he had had a chance he would have shown the world some generalship that would have made all generalship before look like child’s play and ’prentice work. But he never got a chance; he tried heaps of times to enlist as a private, but he had lost both thumbs and a couple of front teeth, and the recruiting sergeant wouldn’t pass him. However, as I say, everybody knows, now, what he would have been, and so they flock by the million to get a glimpse of him whenever they hear he is going to be anywhere. Cæsar, and Hannibal, and Alexander, and Napoleon are all on his staff, and ever so many more great generals; but the public hardly care to look at them when he is around. Boom! There goes another salute. The barkeeper’s off quarantine now.”

  • • •

  Sandy and I put on our things. Then we made a wish, and in a second we were at the reception-place. We stood on the edge of the ocean of space, and looked out over the dimness, but couldn’t make out anything. Close by us was the Grand Stand—tier on tier of dim thrones rising up toward the zenith. From each side of it spread away the tiers of seats for the general public. They spread away for leagues and leagues—you couldn’t see the ends. They were empty and still, and hadn’t a cheerful look, but looked dreary, like a theater before anybody comes—gas turned down. Sandy says,—

  “We’ll sit down here and wait. We’ll see the head of the procession come in sight away off yonder pretty soon, now.”

  Says I,—

  “It’s pretty lonesome, Sandy; I reckon there’s a hitch somewheres. Nobody but just you and me—it ain’t much of a display for the barkeeper.”

  “Don’t you fret, it’s all right. There’ll be one more gunfire—then you’ll see.”

  In a little while we noticed a sort of a lightish flush, away off on the horizon.

  “Head of the torchlight procession,” says Sandy.

  It spread, and got lighter and brighter; soon it had a strong glare like a locomotive headlight; it kept on getting brighter and brighter till it was like the sun peeping above the horizon-line at sea—the big red rays shot high up into the sky.

  “Keep your eyes on the Grand Stand and the miles of seats—sharp!” says Sandy, “and listen for the gun-fire.”

  Just then it burst out, “Boom-boom-boom!” like a million thunder-storms in one, and made the whole heavens rock. Then there was a sudden and awful glare of light all about us, and in that very instant every one of the millions of seats was occupied, and as far as you could see, in both directions, was just a solid pack of people, and the place was all splendidly lit up! It was enough to take a body’s breath away. Sandy says,—

  “That is the way we do it here. No time fooled away; nobody straggling in after the curtain’s up. Wishing is quicker work than traveling. A quarter of a second ago these folks were millions of miles from here. When they heard the last signal, all they had to do was to wish, and here they are.”

  The prodigious choir struck up,—

  We long to hear thy voice,

  To see thee face to face.

  It was noble music, but the uneducated chipped in and spoilt it, just as the congregations used to do on earth.

&n
bsp; The head of the procession begun to pass, now, and it was a wonderful sight. It swept along, thick and solid, five hundred thousand angels abreast, and every angel carrying a torch and singing—the whirring thunder of the wings made a body’s head ache. You could follow the line of the procession back, and slanting upward into the sky, far away in a glittering snaky rope, till it was only a faint streak in the distance. The rush went on and on, for a long time, and at last, sure enough, along comes the barkeeper, and then everybody rose, and a cheer went up that made the heavens shake, I tell you! He was all smiles, and had his halo tilted over one ear in a cocky way, and was the most satisfied-looking saint I ever saw. While he marched up the steps of the Grand Stand, the choir struck up,—

  The whole wide heaven groans,

  And waits to hear that voice.

  There were four gorgeous tents standing side by side in the place of honor, on a broad railed platform in the center of the Grand Stand, with a shining guard of honor round about them. The tents had been shut up all this time. As the barkeeper climbed along up, bowing and smiling to everybody, and at last got to the platform, these tents were jerked up aloft all of a sudden, and we saw four noble thrones of gold, all caked with jewels, and in the two middle ones sat old white-whiskered men, and in the two others a couple of the most glorious and gaudy giants, with platter halos and beautiful armor. All the millions went down on their knees, and stared, and looked glad, and burst out into a joyful kind of murmurs. They said,—

  “Two archangels!—that is splendid. Who can the others be?”

  The archangels gave the barkeeper a stiff little military bow; the two old men rose; one of them said, “Moses and Esau welcome thee!” and then all the four vanished, and the thrones were empty.

  The barkeeper looked a little disappointed, for he was calculating to hug those old people, I judge; but it was the gladdest and proudest multitude you ever saw—because they had seen Moses and Esau, Everybody was saying, “Did you see them?—I did—Esau’s side face was to me, but I saw Moses full in the face, just as plain as I see you this minute!”

  The procession took up the barkeeper and moved on with him again, and the crowd broke up and scattered. As we went along home, Sandy said it was a great success, and the barkeeper would have a right to be proud of it forever. And he said we were in luck, too; said we might attend receptions for forty thousand years to come, and not have a chance to see a brace of such grand moguls as Moses and Esau. We found afterwards that we had come near seeing another patriarch, and likewise a genuine prophet besides, but at the last moment they sent regrets. Sandy said there would be a monument put up there, where Moses and Esau had stood, with the date and circumstances, and all about the whole business, and travelers would come for thousands of years and gawk at it, and climb over it, and scribble their names on it.

  1907

  * * *

  I. The Captain could not remember what this word was. He said it was in a foreign tongue.

  A FABLE

  ONCE UPON a time an artist who had painted a small and very beautiful picture placed it so that he could see it in the mirror. He said, “This doubles the distance and softens it, and it is twice as lovely as it was before.”

  The animals out in the woods heard of this through the housecat, who was greatly admired by them because he was so learned, and so refined and civilized, and so polite and high-bred, and could tell them so much which they didn’t know before, and were not certain about afterward. They were much excited about this new piece of gossip, and they asked questions, so as to get at a full understanding of it. They asked what a picture was, and the cat explained.

  “It is a flat thing,” he said; “wonderfully flat, marvelously flat, enchantingly flat and elegant. And, oh, so beautiful!”

  That excited them almost to a frenzy, and they said they would give the world to see it. Then the bear asked:

  “What is it that makes it so beautiful?”

  “It is the looks of it,” said the cat.

  This filled them with admiration and uncertainty, and they were more excited than ever. Then the cow asked:

  “What is a mirror?”

  “It is a hole in the wall,” said the cat. “You look in it, and there you see the picture, and it is so dainty and charming and ethereal and inspiring in its unimaginable beauty that your head turns round and round, and you almost swoon with ecstasy.”

  The ass had not said anything as yet; he now began to throw doubts. He said there had never been anything as beautiful as this before, and probably wasn’t now. He said that when it took a whole basketful of sesquipedalian adjectives to whoop up a thing of beauty, it was time for suspicion.

  It was easy to see that these doubts were having an effect upon the animals, so the cat went off offended. The subject was dropped for a couple of days, but in the meantime curiosity was taking a fresh start, and there was a revival of interest perceptible. Then the animals assailed the ass for spoiling what could possibly have been a pleasure to them, on a mere suspicion that the picture was not beautiful, without any evidence that such was the case. The ass was not troubled; he was calm, and said there was one way to find out who was in the right, himself or the cat: he would go and look in that hole, and come back and tell what he found there. The animals felt relieved and grateful, and asked him to go at once—which he did.

  But he did not know where he ought to stand; and, so, through error, he stood between the picture and the mirror. The result was that the picture had no chance, and didn’t show up. He returned home and said:

  “The cat lied. There was nothing in that hole but an ass. There wasn’t a sign of a flat thing visible. It was a handsome ass, and friendly, but just an ass, and nothing more.”

  The elephant asked:

  “Did you see it good and clear? Were you close to it?”

  “I saw it good and clear, O Hathi, King of Beasts. I was so close that I touched noses with it.”

  “This is very strange,” said the elephant; “the cat was always truthful before—as far as we could make out. Let another witness try. Go, Baloo, look in the hole, and come and report.”

  So the bear went. When he came back, he said:

  “Both the cat and the ass have lied; there was nothing in the hole but a bear.”

  Great was the surprise and puzzlement of the animals. Each was now anxious to make the test himself and get at the straight truth. The elephant sent them one at a time.

  First, the cow. She found nothing in the hole but a cow.

  The tiger found nothing in it but a tiger.

  The lion found nothing in it but a lion.

  The leopard found nothing in it but a leopard.

  The camel found a camel, and nothing more.

  The Hathi was wroth, and said he would have the truth, if he had to go and fetch it himself. When he returned, he abused his whole subjectry for liars, and was in an unappeasable fury with the moral and mental blindness of the cat. He said anybody but a near-sighted fool could see that there was nothing in the hole but an elephant.

  MORAL, BY THE CAT

  You can find in a text whatever you bring, if you will stand between it and the mirror of your imagination. You may not see your ears, but they will be there.

  1909

  INTERPRETIVE NOTES

  Though the works contained in this volume belong to various genres and cover a wide variety of topics, many share common themes:

  The Negative Influence of Religion. Twain was a religious skeptic and thought organized religion was a destructive force. From works such as “The Story of the Bad Little Boy” and “The Story of the Good Little Boy,” satiric send-ups of the moralizing “Sunday-school” lessons he experienced in his youth, to the parody of “The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut,” in which the narrator goes on a killing spree after what is essentially a religious conversion, Twain’s position on the merit of religious ideology and schooling become clear. Twain believed experience, not religious
training or sheer belief, was man’s only true path to moral enlightenment.

  In “The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg,” Twain’s retelling of the story of original sin, Hadleyburg, a town with a reputation of impeccable honesty, is a modern-day Eden in which the manipulations of “a stranger” (i.e., Satan) reveal the town’s true nature of greed and corruption. It is interesting to note Twain’s take on the role of Satan in the Eden myth. The stranger, Howard L. Stephenson, does not corrupt the town of Hadleyburg but, rather, exposes the corruption that already exists. Before the arrival of Stephenson, the citizens of Hadleyburg believe they are honest because they have a reputation for being honest. They are Baptists with good Christian values, but they have never had to make a real moral choice. Stephenson’s manipulations change that forever, as evidenced in Richards’ deathbed lament: “I was clean—artificially—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when temptation came” (p. 509). Cast out though better off, Twain suggests, for at the end of the story the citizens of Hadleyburg can no longer bask in an artifice of religious ideals. True honesty, in Twain’s view, requires experience and moral vigilance. Ironically, it is Satan who puts the citizens of Hadleyburg on this path.