by Mark Twain
Arrived at the place, the bell was answered by a middle-aged lady (who certainly pitied me—I saw it in her eye), who kindly informed me that I was at the wrong door—turn to the left. Which I did. And stood in the Awful Presence. She’s a very pleasant little lady—rather pretty—about 28—say 5 feet 2¼—would weigh 116—has black eyes and hair—is polite and intelligent—uses good language, and talks much faster than I do.
She invited me into the little back parlor, closed the door; and we were—alone. We sat down facing each other. Then she asked my age. And then she put her hand before her eyes a moment, and commenced talking as if she had a good deal to say and not much time to say it in. Something after this style:
Yours is a watery planet; you gain your livelihood on the water; but you should have been a lawyer—there is where your talents lie; you might have distinguished yourself as an orator; or as an editor; you have written a great deal; you write well—but you are rather out of practice; no matter—you will be in practice some day; you have a superb constitution; and as excellent health as any man in the world; you have great powers of endurance; in your profession, your strength holds out against the longest sieges without flagging; still, the upper part of your lungs—the top of them, is slightly affected—and you must take more care of yourself; you do not drink, but you use entirely too much tobacco; and you must stop it; mind, not moderate, but stop the use of it, totally; then I can almost promise you 86, when you will surely die; otherwise, look out for 28, 31, 34, 47 and 65; be careful—for you are not of a long-lived race, that is, on your father’s side; you are the only healthy member of your family, and the only one in it who has anything like the certainty of attaining to a great age—so, stop using tobacco, and be careful of yourself; in nearly all respects, you are the best sheep in your flock; your brother has an excellent mind, but it is not as well balanced as yours; I should call yours the best mind, altogether; there is more unswerving strength of will, and set purpose, and determination and energy in you, than in all the balance of your family put together; in some respects you take after your father, but you are much more like your mother, who belongs to the long-lived, energetic side of the house.
S.L.C. But madam, you are too fast—you have given me too much of these qualities.
Madame. No, I have not. Don’t interrupt me. I am telling the truth. And I’ll prove it. Thus: you never brought all your energies to bear upon an object, but what you accomplished it—for instance, you are self-made, self-educated.
S.L.C. Which proves nothing.
Madame. Don’t interrupt. When you sought your present occupation, you found a thousand obstacles in your way—obstacles which would have deterred nineteen out of any twenty men—obstacles unknown,—not even suspected by any save you and me, since you keep such matters to yourself,—but you fought your way through them, during a weary, weary length of time, and never flinched or quailed, nor ever once wished to give over the battle—and hid the long struggle under a mask of cheerfulness, which saved your friends anxiety on your account. To do all this requires the qualities which I have named.
S.L.C. You flatter well, madam.
Madame. Don’t interrupt! Up to within a short time, you had always lived from hand to mouth—now you are in easy circumstances—for which you need give credit to no one but yourself. The turning point in your life occurred in 1847- 8.
S.L.C. Which was?—
Madame.—a death, perhaps; and this threw you upon the world and made you what you are; it was always intended that you should make yourself; therefore, it was well that this calamity occurred as early as it did. You will never die of water, although your career upon it in the future seems well sprinkled with misfortune; but I entreat you to remember this: no matter what your circumstances are, in September of the year in which you are 28, don’t go near the water—I will not tell you why, but by all that is true and good, I charge you, while that month lasts, keep away from the water—
(Which she repeated several times, with much show of earnestness—“make a note on’t,” and let’s see how much the woman knows.)
[The italics are Sam’s, as he made them 20 years ago. O.C.]
Madame. Your life will be menaced in the years I have before mentioned—will be in imminent peril when you are 31: if you escape, then when you are 34—neither 47 nor 65 looks so badly; you will continue upon the water for some time yet; you will not retire finally until ten years from now; two years from now, or a little more, a child will be born to you!
S.L.C. Permit me to hope, madam, in view of this prospective good luck, that I may also have the good-fortune to be married before that time.
Madame. Well, you are a free-spoken young man. You will be married within two years. Of course you will.
(Make another note, Orion—I think I’ve caught her up a played-out chute on a falling river this time—but who knows?)
Madame. And mind—your whole future welfare depends upon your getting married as soon as you can; don’t smile—don’t laugh—for it is just as true as truth itself; if you fail to marry within two years from now, you will regret that you paid so little attention to what I am saying; don’t be foolish, but go and marry—your future depends upon it; you can get the girl you have in your eye, if you are a better man than her mother—she (the girl) is; the old gentleman is not in the way, but the mother is decidedly cranky, and much in the way; she caused the trouble and produced the coolness which has existed between yourself and the young lady for so many months past—and you ought to break through this ice; you won’t commence, and the girl won’t—you are both entirely too proud—a well-matched pair, truly; the young lady is—
S.L.C. But I didn’t ask after the young lady, madam, and I don’t want to hear about her.
Madame. There, just as I said—she would have spoken to me just as you have done. For shame! I must go on. She is 17—not remarkably pretty, but very intelligent—is educated, and accomplished—and has property—5 feet 3 inches—is slender—dark brown hair and eyes—you don’t want to see her? Oh, no—but you will, nevertheless, before this year is out—here in New Orleans (mark that), too—and then—look out! The fact of her being so far away now—which is the case, is it not?—doesn’t affect the matter. You will marry twice—your first wife will live—(I have forgotten the number of years. S.L.C.)—Your second choice will be a widow—your family, finally, all told, will number ten children—
S.L.C. Slow!—madam, slow!—and stand by to ship up!—for I know you are out of the channel.
Madame. Some of them will live and some will not—
S.L.C. There’s consolation in the latter, at least.
Madame. Yes, ten is the number.
S.L.C. You must think I am fond of children.
Madame. And you are, although you pretend the contrary—which is an ugly habit; quit it; I grant you that you do not like to handle them, though. What is your brother’s age? 33,—and a lawyer?—and in pursuit of an office? Well, he stands a better chance than the other two, and, he may get it—he must do his best—and not trust too much to others, either—which is the very reason why he is so far behind, now; he never does do anything if he can get anybody else to do it for him; which is bad; he never goes steadily on till he attains an object, but nearly always drops it when the battle is half won; he is too visionary—is always flying off on a new hobby; this will never do—tell him I said so. He is a good lawyer—a very good lawyer—and a fine speaker—is very popular, and much respected, and makes many friends; but although he retains their friendship, he loses their confidence, by displaying his instability of character; he wants to speculate in lands, and will, some day, with very good success; the land he has now will be very valuable after a while—
S.L.C. Say 250 years hence, or thereabouts, madam—
Madame.—No—less time—but never mind the land, that is a secondary consideration—let him drop that for the present, and devote himself to his business and politics, with all his might, for he must h
old offices under Government, and 6 or 8 years from this time, he will run for Congress. You will marry, and will finally live in the South—do not live in the North-West; you will not succeed well; you will live in the South, and after a while you will possess a good deal of property—retire at the end of ten years—after which your pursuits will be literary—try the law—you will certainly succeed. I am done, now. If you have any questions to ask, ask them freely, and if it be in my power I will answer without reserve—without reserve.
I asked a few questions of minor importance—paid her $2 and left—under the decided impression that going to the fortune-teller’s was just as good as going to the opera, and cost scarcely a trifle more—ergo, I will disguise myself and go again, one of these days, when other amusements fail.
Now isn’t she the devil? That is to say, isn’t she a right smart little woman? I have given you almost her very language to me, and nothing have I extenuated, nor set down aught in malice. Whenever she said anything pointed about you, she would ask me to tell you of it, so that you might profit by it—and confound me if I don’t think she read you a good deal better than she did me. That Congress business amused me a little, for she wasn’t far wide of the mark you set yourself, as to time. And father’s death in ’47–8, and the turning-point in my life, were very good. I wonder if there is a past and future chronological table of events in a man’s life written in his forehead for the special convenience of these clairvoyants? She said father’s side of the house was not long-lived, but that he doctored himself to death. I do not know about that, though. She said that up to 7 years, I had no health, and then mentioned several dates after that when my health had been very bad. But that about that girl’s mother being “cranky,” and playing the devil with me, was about the neatest thing she performed—for although I have never spoken of the matter, I happen to know that she spoke truth. The young lady has been beaten by the old one, though—through the romantic agency of intercepted letters, and the girl still thinks I was in fault—and always will, I reckon, for I don’t see how she’ll ever find out the contrary. And the woman had the impudence to say that although I was eternally falling in love, still, when I went to bed at night, I somehow always happened to think of Miss Laura before I thought of my last new flame—and it always would be the case [which will be very comfortable, won’t it, when both she and I (like one of Dickens’ characters) are Another’s?] But hang the woman, she did tell the truth, and I won’t deny it. But she said I would speak to Miss Laura first—but I’ll stake my last button on it she missed it there.
So much for Madame Caprell. Although of course, I have no faith in her pretended powers, I listened to her for half an hour with the greatest interest, and I am willing to acknowledge that she said some very startling things, and made some wonderful guesses. Upon leaving she said I must take care of myself; that it had cost me several years to build up my constitution to its present state of perfection, and now I must watch it. And she would give me this motto: “L’ouvrage de l’année est détruit dans un jour,”—which means, if you don’t know it, “The work of a year is destroyed in a day.”
We shall not go to St. Louis. We turn back from here, to-morrow or next day. When you want money, let mother know, and she will send it. She and Pamela are always fussing about small change, so I sent them a hundred and twenty quarters yesterday—fiddler’s change enough to last till I get back, I reckon.
Sam.
Comments—by Orion.
1. The italics are as Sam made them 20 years ago.
2. Sam smoked too much for many years, and still smokes.
3. My mother’s mother died when my mother was 13 years of age. Her father died at the age of 63. Her grandfather on her father’s side lived beyond 60, and his widow beyond 80. On my father’s side his father was killed accidentally when my father was 7 years old. My father’s mother lived beyond 60. My father died at 48. My mother is now (1880) 78. My father may have hastened the ending of his life by the use of too much medicine. He doctored himself from my earliest remembrance. During the latter part of his life he bought Cook’s pills by the box and took one or more daily. In taking a pill he held it between his right thumb and forefinger, turned his head back, cast the pill to the root of his tongue, and from a glass of water in his left hand, took a sup and washed down the bitter dose.
4. Sam was delicate when a child.
5. My father died March 24, 1847, Sam being then 11 years of age. My mother soon took him from school, and set him to learning the printing business.
6. I have carefully compared this copy with the original, to be certain that it is word for word the same.
Wednesday, January 30, 1907
Decaying political and commercial morals of the United States—The press no longer the palladium of our liberties—Mr. Guggenheim chosen Senator for Colorado by a bought legislature—The little unfinished tale of the Rev. Mr. X. who discovered a first-edition Shakspeare—Mr. Clemens finishes the tale—And shows the difference between this man and the late Hammond Trumbull.
The political and commercial morals of the United States are not merely food for laughter, they are an entire banquet. The human being is a curious and interesting invention. It takes a Cromwell and some thousands of preaching and praying soldiers and parsons ten years to raise the standards of English official and commercial morals to a respectworthy altitude, but it takes only one Charles II a couple of years to pull them down into the mud again. Our standards were fairly high a generation ago, and they had been brought to that grade by some generations of wholesome labor on the part of the nation’s multitudinous teachers; but Jay Gould, all by himself, was able to undermine the structure in half a dozen years; and in thirty years his little band of successors—the Senator Clarks, and their kind—have been able to sodden it with decay from roof to cellar, and render it shaky beyond repair, apparently.
Before Jay Gould’s time there was a fine phrase, a quite elegant phrase, that was on everybody’s lips, and everybody enjoyed repeating it, day and night, and everywhere, and of enjoying the thrill of it: “The press is the palladium of our liberties.” It was a serious saying, and it was a true saying, but it is long ago dead, and has been tucked safely away in the limbo of oblivion. No one would venture to utter it now except as a sarcasm.
Mr. Guggenheim has lately been chosen United States Senator by a bought legislature in Colorado—which is almost the customary way, now, of electing United States Senators. Mr. Guggenheim has purchased his legislature and paid for it. By his public utterances, it is plain that the general political rottenness has entered into him and saturated him, and he is not aware that he has been guilty of even an indelicacy, let alone a gross crime. In many instances the palladium of our liberties has nothing but compliment for him, and justification. The Denver Post, which is recognized as the principal and most trustworthy reflector of the public opinion of his State, says:
It is true that Mr. Guggenheim spent a large sum of money, but he only followed the precedents set in many other States. There is nothing essentially wrong in what he has done. Mr. Guggenheim will make the best Senator Colorado has ever had. His election will result in bringing to Colorado what the State needs, capitalists and population of the desirable quality. Mr. Guggenheim will get for Colorado many improvements which Tom Patterson failed to obtain from Washington. He is just the man for the place. There is no use trying to reform the world. They have been trying that for two thousand years and haven’t succeeded. Mr. Guggenheim is the choice of the people and they ought to have him, even if he spent a million dollars. The issue of the election was Tom Patterson and Simon Guggenheim, and the people chose Guggenheim. The Denver Post bows to the will of the people.
Mr. Guggenheim, in buying what an obsolete phrase called senatorial “honors,” did not buy the entire legislature, but practised the customary economy and bought only enough of it to elect him. This has been resented by some of the unbought; they offered a motion to inquire into the methods by whi
ch his election was achieved, but the bought majority not only voted the motion down but actually sponged it from the records. It looks like sensitiveness, but it probably isn’t; it is human nature, that even the most conscienceless thieves do not like to be pilloried in the Rogues’ Gallery.
