1601

by Mark Twain

  law."

  Obviously, it is ridiculous to say that the "leer of the sensualist"

  lurks in the pages of Mark Twain's 1601.

  DROLL STORY

  "In a way," observed William Marion Reedy, "1601 is to Twain's whole

  works what the 'Droll Stories' are to Balzac's. It is better than the

  privately circulated ribaldry and vulgarity of Eugene Field; is, indeed,

  an essay in a sort of primordial humor such as we find in Rabelais, or in

  the plays of some of the lesser stars that drew their light from

  Shakespeare's urn. It is humor or fun such as one expects, let us say,

  from the peasants of Thomas Hardy, outside of Hardy's books. And, though

  it be filthy, it yet hath a splendor of mere animalism of good spirits...

  I would say it is scatalogical rather than erotic, save for one touch

  toward the end. Indeed, it seems more of Rabelais than of Boccaccio or

  Masuccio or Aretino--is brutally British rather than lasciviously

  latinate, as to the subjects, but sumptuous as regards the language."

  Immediately upon first reading, John Hay, later Secretary of State, had

  proclaimed 1601 a masterpiece. Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain's

  biographer, likewise acknowledged its greatness, when he said, "1601 is a

  genuine classic, as classics of that sort go. It is better than the

  gross obscenities of Rabelais, and perhaps in some day to come, the taste

  that justified Gargantua and the Decameron will give this literary

  refugee shelter and setting among the more conventional writing of Mark

  Twain. Human taste is a curious thing; delicacy is purely a matter of

  environment and point of view."

  "It depends on who writes a thing whether it is coarse or not," wrote

  Clemens in his notebook in 1879. "I built a conversation which could

  have happened--I used words such as were used at that time--1601. I sent

  it anonymously to a magazine, and how the editor abused it and the

  sender!

  But that man was a praiser of Rabelais and had been saying, 'O that we

  had a Rabelais!' I judged that I could furnish him one.

  "Then I took it to one of the greatest, best and most learned of Divines

  [Rev. Joseph H. Twichell] and read it to him. He came within an ace of

  killing himself with laughter (for between you and me the thing was

  dreadfully funny. I don't often write anything that I laugh at myself,

  but I can hardly think of that thing without laughing). That old Divine

  said it was a piece of the finest kind of literary art--and David Gray of

  the Buffalo Courier said it ought to be printed privately and left behind

  me when I died, and then my fame as a literary artist would last."

  FRANKLIN J. MEINE

  THE FIRST PRINTING

  Verbatim Reprint

  [Date, 1601.]

  CONVERSATION, AS IT WAS BY THE SOCIAL FIRESIDE, IN THE TIME OF THE

  TUDORS.

  [Mem.--The following is supposed to be an extract from the diary of the

  Pepys of that day, the same being Queen Elizabeth's cup-bearer. He is

  supposed to be of ancient and noble lineage; that he despises these

  literary canaille; that his soul consumes with wrath, to see the queen

  stooping to talk with such; and that the old man feels that his nobility

  is defiled by contact with Shakespeare, etc., and yet he has got to stay

  there till her Majesty chooses to dismiss him.]

  YESTERNIGHT

  toke her maiste ye queene a fantasie such as she sometimes hath, and had

  to her closet certain that doe write playes, bokes, and such like, these

  being my lord Bacon, his worship Sir Walter Ralegh, Mr. Ben Jonson, and

  ye child Francis Beaumonte, which being but sixteen, hath yet turned his

  hand to ye doing of ye Lattin masters into our Englishe tong, with grete

  discretion and much applaus. Also came with these ye famous Shaxpur. A

  righte straunge mixing truly of mighty blode with mean, ye more in

  especial since ye queenes grace was present, as likewise these following,

  to wit: Ye Duchess of Bilgewater, twenty-two yeres of age; ye Countesse

  of Granby, twenty-six; her doter, ye Lady Helen, fifteen; as also these

  two maides of honor, to-wit, ye Lady Margery Boothy, sixty-five, and ye

  Lady Alice Dilberry, turned seventy, she being two yeres ye queenes

  graces elder.

  I being her maites cup-bearer, had no choice but to remaine and beholde

  rank forgot, and ye high holde converse wh ye low as uppon equal termes,

  a grete scandal did ye world heare thereof.

  In ye heat of ye talk it befel yt one did breake wind, yielding an

  exceding mightie and distresfull stink, whereat all did laugh full sore,

  and then--

  Ye Queene.--Verily in mine eight and sixty yeres have I not heard the

  fellow to this fart. Meseemeth, by ye grete sound and clamour of it, it

  was male; yet ye belly it did lurk behinde shoulde now fall lean and flat

  against ye spine of him yt hath bene delivered of so stately and so waste

  a bulk, where as ye guts of them yt doe quiff-splitters bear, stand

  comely still and rounde. Prithee let ye author confess ye offspring.

  Will my Lady Alice testify?

  Lady Alice.--Good your grace, an' I had room for such a thundergust

  within mine ancient bowels, 'tis not in reason I coulde discharge ye same

  and live to thank God for yt He did choose handmaid so humble whereby to

  shew his power. Nay, 'tis not I yt have broughte forth this rich

  o'ermastering fog, this fragrant gloom, so pray you seeke ye further.

  Ye Queene.--Mayhap ye Lady Margery hath done ye companie this favor?

  Lady Margery.--So please you madam, my limbs are feeble wh ye weighte and

  drouth of five and sixty winters, and it behoveth yt I be tender unto

  them. In ye good providence of God, an' I had contained this wonder,

  forsoothe wolde I have gi'en 'ye whole evening of my sinking life to ye

  dribbling of it forth, with trembling and uneasy soul, not launched it

  sudden in its matchless might, taking mine own life with violence,

  rending my weak frame like rotten rags. It was not I, your maisty.

  Ye Queene.--O' God's name, who hath favored us? Hath it come to pass yt

  a fart shall fart itself? Not such a one as this, I trow. Young Master

  Beaumont--but no; 'twould have wafted him to heaven like down of goose's

  boddy. 'Twas not ye little Lady Helen--nay, ne'er blush, my child;

  thoul't tickle thy tender maidenhedde with many a mousie-squeak before

  thou learnest to blow a harricane like this. Wasn't you, my learned and

  ingenious Jonson?

  Jonson.--So fell a blast hath ne'er mine ears saluted, nor yet a stench

  so all-pervading and immortal. 'Twas not a novice did it, good your

  maisty, but one of veteran experience--else hadde he failed of

  confidence. In sooth it was not I.

  Ye Queene.--My lord Bacon?

  Lord Bacon.-Not from my leane entrailes hath this prodigy burst forth, so

  please your grace. Naught doth so befit ye grete as grete performance;

  and haply shall ye finde yt 'tis not from mediocrity this miracle hath

  issued.

  [Tho' ye subjoct be but a fart, yet will this tedious sink of learning

  pondrously phillosophize. Meantime did the foul and deadly stink pervade

  all places to that degree, yt nev
er smelt I ye like, yet dare I not to

  leave ye presence, albeit I was like to suffocate.]

  Ye Queene.--What saith ye worshipful Master Shaxpur?

  Shaxpur.--In the great hand of God I stand and so proclaim mine

  innocence. Though ye sinless hosts of heaven had foretold ye coming of

  this most desolating breath, proclaiming it a work of uninspired man, its

  quaking thunders, its firmament-clogging rottenness his own achievement

  in due course of nature, yet had not I believed it; but had said the pit

  itself hath furnished forth the stink, and heaven's artillery hath shook

  the globe in admiration of it.

  [Then was there a silence, and each did turn him toward the worshipful

  Sr Walter Ralegh, that browned, embattled, bloody swashbuckler, who

  rising up did smile, and simpering say,]

  Sr W.--Most gracious maisty, 'twas I that did it, but indeed it was so

  poor and frail a note, compared with such as I am wont to furnish, yt in

  sooth I was ashamed to call the weakling mine in so august a presence.

  It was nothing--less than nothing, madam--I did it but to clear my nether

  throat; but had I come prepared, then had I delivered something worthy.

  Bear with me, please your grace, till I can make amends.

  [Then delivered he himself of such a godless and rock-shivering blast

  that all were fain to stop their ears, and following it did come so dense

  and foul a stink that that which went before did seem a poor and trifling

  thing beside it. Then saith he, feigning that he blushed and was

  confused, I perceive that I am weak to-day, and cannot justice do unto my

  powers; and sat him down as who should say, There, it is not much yet he

  that hath an arse to spare, let him fellow that, an' he think he can. By

  God, an' I were ye queene, I would e'en tip this swaggering braggart out

  o' the court, and let him air his grandeurs and break his intolerable

  wind before ye deaf and such as suffocation pleaseth.]

  Then fell they to talk about ye manners and customs of many peoples, and

  Master Shaxpur spake of ye boke of ye sieur Michael de Montaine, wherein

  was mention of ye custom of widows of Perigord to wear uppon ye

  headdress, in sign of widowhood, a jewel in ye similitude of a man's

  member wilted and limber, whereat ye queene did laugh and say widows in

  England doe wear prickes too, but betwixt the thighs, and not wilted

  neither, till coition hath done that office for them. Master Shaxpur did

  likewise observe how yt ye sieur de Montaine hath also spoken of a

  certain emperor of such mighty prowess that he did take ten maidenheddes

  in ye compass of a single night, ye while his empress did entertain two

  and twenty lusty knights between her sheetes, yet was not satisfied;

  whereat ye merrie Countess Granby saith a ram is yet ye emperor's

  superior, sith he wil tup above a hundred yewes 'twixt sun and sun; and

  after, if he can have none more to shag, will masturbate until he hath

  enrich'd whole acres with his seed.

  Then spake ye damned windmill, Sr Walter, of a people in ye uttermost

  parts of America, yt capulate not until they be five and thirty yeres of

  age, ye women being eight and twenty, and do it then but once in seven

  yeres.

  Ye Queene.--How doth that like my little Lady Helen? Shall we send thee

  thither and preserve thy belly?

  Lady Helen.--Please your highnesses grace, mine old nurse hath told me

  there are more ways of serving God than by locking the thighs together;

  yet am I willing to serve him yt way too, sith your highnesses grace hath

  set ye ensample.

  Ye Queene.--God' wowndes a good answer, childe.

  Lady Alice.--Mayhap 'twill weaken when ye hair sprouts below ye navel.

  Lady Helen.--Nay, it sprouted two yeres syne; I can scarce more than

  cover it with my hand now.

  Ye Queene.--Hear Ye that, my little Beaumonte? Have ye not a little

  birde about ye that stirs at hearing tell of so sweete a neste?

  Beaumonte.--'Tis not insensible, illustrious madam; but mousing owls and

  bats of low degree may not aspire to bliss so whelming and ecstatic as is

  found in ye downy nests of birdes of Paradise.

  Ye Queene.--By ye gullet of God, 'tis a neat-turned compliment. With

  such a tongue as thine, lad, thou'lt spread the ivory thighs of many a

  willing maide in thy good time, an' thy cod-piece be as handy as thy

  speeche.

  Then spake ye queene of how she met old Rabelais when she was turned of

  fifteen, and he did tell her of a man his father knew that had a double

  pair of bollocks, whereon a controversy followed as concerning the most

  just way to spell the word, ye contention running high betwixt ye learned

  Bacon and ye ingenious Jonson, until at last ye old Lady Margery,

  wearying of it all, saith, 'Gentles, what mattereth it how ye shall spell

  the word? I warrant Ye when ye use your bollocks ye shall not think of

  it; and my Lady Granby, be ye content; let the spelling be, ye shall

  enjoy the beating of them on your buttocks just the same, I trow. Before

  I had gained my fourteenth year I had learnt that them that would explore

  a cunt stop'd not to consider the spelling o't.'

  Sr W.--In sooth, when a shift's turned up, delay is meet for naught but

  dalliance. Boccaccio hath a story of a priest that did beguile a maid

  into his cell, then knelt him in a corner to pray for grace to be rightly

  thankful for this tender maidenhead ye Lord had sent him; but ye abbot,

  spying through ye key-hole, did see a tuft of brownish hair with fair

  white flesh about it, wherefore when ye priest's prayer was done, his

  chance was gone, forasmuch as ye little maid had but ye one cunt, and

  that was already occupied to her content.

  Then conversed they of religion, and ye mightie work ye old dead Luther

  did doe by ye grace of God. Then next about poetry, and Master Shaxpur

  did rede a part of his King Henry IV., ye which, it seemeth unto me,

  is not of ye value of an arsefull of ashes, yet they praised it bravely,

  one and all.

  Ye same did rede a portion of his "Venus and Adonis," to their prodigious

  admiration, whereas I, being sleepy and fatigued withal, did deme it but

  paltry stuff, and was the more discomforted in that ye blody bucanier had

  got his wind again, and did turn his mind to farting with such villain

  zeal that presently I was like to choke once more. God damn this windy

  ruffian and all his breed. I wolde that hell mighte get him.

  They talked about ye wonderful defense which old Sr. Nicholas Throgmorton

  did make for himself before ye judges in ye time of Mary; which was

  unlucky matter to broach, sith it fetched out ye quene with a 'Pity yt

  he, having so much wit, had yet not enough to save his doter's

  maidenhedde sound for her marriage-bed.' And ye quene did give ye damn'd

  Sr. Walter a look yt made hym wince--for she hath not forgot he was her

  own lover it yt olde day. There was silent uncomfortableness now; 'twas

  not a good turn for talk to take, sith if ye queene must find offense in

  a little harmless debauching, when pricks were stiff and cunts not loathe

  to take ye stiffness out of them, who of this company was sinless;

&n
bsp; behold, was not ye wife of Master Shaxpur four months gone with child

  when she stood uppe before ye altar? Was not her Grace of Bilgewater

  roger'd by four lords before she had a husband? Was not ye little Lady

  Helen born on her mother's wedding-day? And, beholde, were not ye Lady

  Alice and ye Lady Margery there, mouthing religion, whores from ye

  cradle?

  In time came they to discourse of Cervantes, and of the new painter,

  Rubens, that is beginning to be heard of. Fine words and dainty-wrought

  phrases from the ladies now, one or two of them being, in other days,

  pupils of that poor ass, Lille, himself; and I marked how that Jonson and

  Shaxpur did fidget to discharge some venom of sarcasm, yet dared they not

  in the presence, the queene's grace being ye very flower of ye Euphuists

  herself. But behold, these be they yt, having a specialty, and admiring

  it in themselves, be jealous when a neighbor doth essaye it, nor can

  abide it in them long. Wherefore 'twas observable yt ye quene waxed

  uncontent; and in time labor'd grandiose speeche out of ye mouth of Lady

  Alice, who manifestly did mightily pride herself thereon, did quite

  exhauste ye quene's endurance, who listened till ye gaudy speeche was

  done, then lifted up her brows, and with vaste irony, mincing saith 'O

  shit!' Whereat they alle did laffe, but not ye Lady Alice, yt olde

  foolish bitche.

  Now was Sr. Walter minded of a tale he once did hear ye ingenious

  Margrette of Navarre relate, about a maid, which being like to suffer

  rape by an olde archbishoppe, did smartly contrive a device to save her

  maidenhedde, and said to him, First, my lord, I prithee, take out thy

  holy tool and piss before me; which doing, lo his member felle, and would