Who Is Mark Twain?

by Mark Twain

  And have they not reason for it? When a white man there kills a Chinaman is he dealt with more severely than he would be in Europe? No. When a missionary is killed by a Chinaman, are the Chinese blind to the difference in results? When an English missionary was lately killed there in a village, a British official visited the place and arranged the punishments himself—exacted them and secured them: a couple of beheadings; several sentences to prison, one of them for ten years; a heavy fine; and the village had to put up a monument and also build a Christian chapel to remember the missionary by. If we added fines and monuments and memorial churches to murder-penalties at home—but we don’t; and we do not add them in China except when it is a missionary that is killed. And then they are insults, and they rankle in the Chinese breast, and bring us no advantage, moral, political, or commercial. But they move the Chinaman to ponder dubiously upon the meek and forgiving religion and its pet child the gilded and feathered “civilization” which the Christian Governments are so anxious to confer upon him.

  Two years ago the Chinese killed a German missionary. The German Government sent in its bill promptly, and it was paid: £40,000 cash; a new Christian church; and a “lease” of sea-bordered territory twelve miles deep. Would Germany have ventured to charge so much if the missionary had been killed in Russia or England? And does not this question rise in the Chinaman’s mind and move him to anger? Would the charge have been made for any German but a missionary? If there had been no missionaries in China would there be any trouble there to-day? I believe not. Commercial foreigners get along well enough with the Chinese. But the missionary has always been a danger, and has made trouble more than once. He was Germany’s happy opportunity: when he is not making trouble himself we perceive that he can be a calamitous pretext for it. He must be held responsible for the present condition of things in China and for the massacre of the Ministers. We are told that Germany’s act was the thing which finally broke down the Chinaman’s patience and started the present upheaval. If that missionary had only been a German sailor he would have been settled for on terms which would have added no affronting memorial churches to China and bred no bad blood.

  He has surpassed all his former mischiefs this time. He has loaded vast China onto the Concert of Christian Birds of Prey; and they were glad, smelling carrion; but they have lit and are astonished, finding the carcase alive. And it may remain alive—Europe cannot tell, yet. If the Concert cannot agree, they cannot appoint a Generalissimo; without a Generalissimo they can have plenty of scattered picnics, but no general holiday excursion in China. And it is not unlikely that the picnic parties will fall out among themselves. That the Concert can agree and stay so, no one believes, not even the office-cat. The China war may turn out a European war, and China go free and save herself alive. Then, when the world settles down again, let us hope that the missionary’s industries will be restricted to his native land for all time to come. Is the man in the street concerned? I think he is. The time is grave. The future is blacker than has been any future which any person now living has tried to peer into.

  X

  THE UNDERTAKER’S TALE

  We did not drop suddenly upon the subject, but wandered into it in a natural way—I and my pleasant new acquaintance. He said it “was about this way”—and began:

  Toward nightfall on the 14th of January, 18—, I trudged into the poor little village of Hydesburg. I had walked far, that day; at least it seemed far for a half-starved boy of fifteen to have come. I had lain in a barn the night before, and been discovered and roughly driven away early in the morning. I had begged for food and shelter at three farm houses during the day, but had been refused. At the last place the children set the dogs on me and I was glad to get away with some loss of flesh and a part of my rags. I was very hungry, now, and very tired. The wounds made by the dogs were stiff and painful. I had been an outcast for a month and had fared harshly all the time. I was hopeless, now, and afraid to supplicate at any door.

  The darkness drew on, the outlines of the village houses grew vague, the lights began to twinkle in the windows. The wind swept the street in furious gusts, driving a storm of snow and sleet before it. I stopped in front of a small house and leaned on the low fence, for there was a pleasant picture, for an outcast, visible through one of the windows. It was a family at supper. There was a roaring wood fire burning on the hearth; there was a cat curled up in a chair, asleep; there were some books on a what-not, some pictures on the walls; but mainly there was the smoking supper; a benevolent looking man of middle age sat at the foot of the table; a motherly dame at its head, and a little boy and girl at one side. It was like looking into paradise.

  I never once thought of knocking at that door. I had had enough of cuffs and curses. I no longer believed that there were men in the world who would pity me or any other miserable creature.

  It was very dark, now. A man who was running by behind an umbrella, struck against me with such a shock that both of us fell. He cursed me roundly as he gathered himself up, and gave me a good-bye kick as he left. It caught me on one of my dog-bites and made me cry out with the pain. Then he was lost in the darkness and the driving storm. But a sweet girlish voice said, “Poor thing, are you hurt?” and I saw a dim figure bending over me. I said—

  “I only stopped just a minute. I was not meaning any harm, please. I am going away, now.”

  The girl said—

  “Going away? Where? Do you live in the village?”

  “No, please.”

  “Then where are you going, such a night as this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What! Haven’t you any place to stay?”

  “No.”

  “Nor any friends?”

  “No.”

  “Yes you have!”

  “Where?”

  “There—in the house—my father’s house. We are your friends. Come.”

  She helped me up, and tried to lead me toward the door, whereat I was very glad for a moment, but then straightway afraid again. So I said—

  “Please let me go away, and I will not come any more. Honest, I will not.”

  But it was no use. The girl dragged me into the house, I expecting nothing else but to be hustled out again the next moment. But it was not so. The whole family gathered about me, took me to the fire, and more warmed me with their pitying words than the fire did.

  I carried a full stomach to a good bed that night. And I worshiped those people, knowing no gods but these nor desiring any other.

  II

  When two weeks had gone by, from that time, my former life had dimmed to a dream. It seemed to me as if I had always been a part of this dear good loving family. I called Mr. Cadaver father and his wife mother. Jimmy and Mary and Grace were brother and sisters to me. Grace was the one that saved me. She was eighteen years old, and so fair and shapely, and so sweet and so unapproachably beautiful that it was heaven to me to look at her face and listen to her voice.

  Business was prosperous, and we were all as blithe and happy as birds. I became useful in many ways and felt the gratification of knowing that I was earning the bread I ate. I learned to assist Grace in decorating the insides of the coffins with pleated cambrics or costlier stuffs, according to the requirements of the customers. We talked and sang by the hour while we made crosses of flowers or wreathed immortelles. Sometimes, as she wrought with her nimble needle upon a shroud, she would tell me the simple history of the person who was to wear it; for it was but a little village, and she knew all about everybody. All day long the music of her father’s plane was heard in the back shop, and we lived in an atmosphere of deep peace and contentment. I learned to arrange the coffins in the front shop so as to get the best effects, gracing the neat rows with festoons of crape depending from immortelles fastened against the walls, with here and there a soft white shroud and in the intervals finely polished coffin plates that reflected the sunlight almost like mirrors. I took care of the horse, and was often allowed to drive the hear
se. There was no rival in our business in the village. We had it all.

  But by and by there came an evil day. I will tell about this. Gracie had a sweetheart whom she dearly loved and had promised to marry. This was a most excellent young man named Joseph Parker, who had commenced life in the humblest circumstances, but had risen by honest endeavor till he was now sexton to the village church, and grave digger. The graveyard was owned by several citizens, who presently wished to sell it. It was pleasantly located on a hill side and very desirable. Young Parker conceived the idea of buying it. It was a great chance, but the price was a vast one, being six hundred dollars, and he had no money. Mr. Cadaver loved Joseph, and he could not bear to see this opportunity lost; he looked from Grace’s beseeching eyes to Joseph’s and his heart was touched. He said—

  “You shall have the graveyard, my children; take yourselves off, now, and be happy.”

  You should have seen Gracie throw her arms around his neck, and pat his cheek and cry for joy.

  So Mr. Cadaver mortgaged his house for the six hundred dollars, borrowed the money of old Marlow the skinflint, and the beautiful graveyard was Joseph’s. That was a happy night. We all sat around the fire, Joseph with Gracie’s little hand in his, and all the talk was of how good and sweet was life. Joseph said—

  “If we have a good season, I can pay off the debt in six months.”

  “That will be a pleasant thing,” said the old man; “and I think the signs are in favor of a good season. It is a very changeable winter, with much wet and much cold.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Cadaver, “it is just such a winter as the one before Jimmy was born. There was ever so much croup and pneumonia in the spring.”

  “I remember it,” said Gracie. “There was ever so much sickness, and very few got well. I remember father’s saying he had never seen business so brisk.”

  Mr. Cadaver drew a long sigh. He said: “Those were great days—great days. They don’t often come. However, it is not for us to complain; that would be ungrateful indeed.”

  Grace smiled sweetly and said—“Dear old father, to hear him talk, one would think he was afraid somebody might think him capable of being ungrateful. Why father, adversity only brings out your gentleness and patience. Do you remember the time that not one person died in this village during twenty-eight days? Were you downcast? Did you show any bitterness? No—not one angry word escaped your lips. You hardly even betrayed annoyance.”

  Mr. Cadaver kissed her cheek lovingly and patted her on the head. He said—

  “There—there’s your punishment, little flatterer!”

  He beamed on her with fatherly pride, and there was moisture in his eyes. Gracie turned her pretty mouth toward Joseph, and said—

  “How can you see me so cruelly punished and not protect me?”

  “Because you deserved it, poor child—you deserved double what you got—and there ’tis!”

  He kissed the rosy lips, and got a pretty little love-box on his ear for his pains. Everybody laughed, and we all fell to joking and chaffing and had such a good time. By and by Mr. Cadaver took down the old family Bible, put on his spectacles and reverently read a chapter, and then prayed. We always had family worship, morning and evening.

  But as I said before, trouble was to come. Business began to grow dull while the winter was still upon us. It steadily slackened. Presently it had so dwindled that there was no trade but in chronic consumptions, and it is hardly worth while to mention that there is never much doing in cases of that sort in little country villages. The joy in the faces of the family gradually gave way to anxious looks, and we had but little pleasant talk, evenings. Things only grew worse as time went on. The spring opened gloomily. We had day after day of brilliant sunshine, clamor of warbling birds, balmy, healing, vivifying atmosphere—there was everything to make us dismal, heart-sick, hopeless. The spring dragged its disastrous length along and left a memorable record behind it—three months and a half with scarcely a demise.

  We got ready for the summer trade. There came news that the cholera had appeared in the seaports, and for the first time in months we had an old-time evening of innocent gaiety in place of bowed heads and heavy sighs. The disease spread from village to village, till it reached within five miles of us—then it split apart and wandered far away on either side, leaving our town untouched!

  “It is very hard,” said Mr. Cadaver, and we saw the tears trickle through his fingers as he sat with his hands clasped over his face, rocking to and fro and softly moaning.

  Once it had been our happiness on peaceful Sabbath afternoons, to stroll to Joseph’s graveyard and count the new mounds and talk of the prospects. But this had long ceased. There were no new mounds any more; the turf had grown old upon all; there was no longer anything about the graveyard that could cheer our hearts, but much to sadden them.

  There came a time, at last, when we all realized that imminent disaster was hovering over us. Nothing had been paid on the graveyard and the six hundred dollars would soon fall due. Old Marlow got to haunting the place with his evil eye. He would intrude in the most unexpected way and remind Mr. Cadaver to get ready to move out of the house if the money was not forthcoming on the appointed day.

  How the days flew! Once Mr. Cadaver appealed to him for a little time.

  “Time!” cried old Marlow. “What on!”

  “My business, Mr. Marlow.”

  “Business! Tush! You have none. What are your assets? Come—show them up, man.”

  Mr. Cadaver showed him his list of coffins and other stock, and also a list of neighbors who were very low. These latter Mr. Marlow derided—laughed over the list brutally. Said he—

  “You call these people assets? There ain’t one in the lot but will outlast this generation!”

  “But sir, the doctor said this morning that old Mrs. Hale and Mr. Samson—”

  “Bother what the doctor said! Mrs. Hale has been dying for ten years, and old Samson for fifteen. Call such stock as that, assets! The idea!”

  “I have heard that George Simpson had a very bad night last night, and there is every hope—I mean every prospect that he—”

  “Drop your hopes of George Simpson, my friend. He sat up in bed this morning and ate a fricasseed chicken.”

  Mr. Cadaver murmured with a sigh, “This is indeed an unexpected blow.” He tried once more to throw a favorable aspect upon some of his assets, but Marlow scouted every name and said there was neither man, woman nor child in the list but would get well. He finally said:

  “Hark ye! You have neglected your business till ruin stares you in the face and it serves you right.”

  “I, sir? I cannot bury people if they will not die. Please have pity—think of my poor family—do not be hard with me, Mr. Marlow. I am sure my assets are lower than you think them to be, and if you would only give me a little time to realize on them—”

  “Not another word!” cried Marlow. “You will pay the last cent day after tomorrow or out of this house you go!”

  He banged the door and went.

  III

  That next day was a day never to be forgotten. All day long the family sat grouped together, saying little, now and then looking into each other’s stony eyes, now and then clasping each other in a long embrace, and many were the smothered sobs that were heard, many the tears that fell.

  I could not bear this sight long at a time. I flitted restlessly from house to house where we had hopes, but gained no comfort. One client was “better to-day;” another “about the same;” another had a “stronger pulse;” another had had “an easier night than usual.” Always these dismal refrains. Whenever I entered our stricken home, I had to meet the mute inquiry of those pathetic eyes, but I never had to speak—my own looks conveyed my heavy tidings and the hopeless heads were bowed once more.

  I was up all night, wandering about the village. The fatal day came, the sun rose and still I wandered from house to house—but not to inquire—I had no heart to do that any longer. I only to
ok friends of mine to these houses, and told them to wait, and if they got any news, to bring it to me with all speed.

  Two hours later there was a scene in our home. Old Marlow was there, gloating over his victims. He paced the floor banging upon it with his stick and talking like this:

  “Come, the sooner you clear out of this, the better you’ll suit me. A pack of paupers, that is what you are! Fine assets, truly! Coffins rotting away without sale, a graveyard that’s become a grazing ground, a gang of convalescents that the lightning couldn’t make marketable!”