A Family Sketch and Other Private Writings

by Twain, Mark, Griffin, Benjamin

  *

  In Paris, when my day’s writing, on the 6th floor, was done, I used to slip quietly into our parlor on the 2d floor, hoping to have a rest and a smoke on the sofa before dinner was brought up; but I seldom succeeded, because the nursery opened into the parlor, and the children were pretty sure to come in for something and discover me—then I would have to take a big chair, place a child on each arm of it, and spin them a story. Whenever Bay discovered me she always called out (without any preliminary by-your-leave) “Susie, come!—going to have a story!” Without any remark to me she would go and get a magazine, perch herself on the chair-arm, seek out a suggestive picture, (Susie taking perch on the other arm, meantime), then say, “We’re ready, papa.”

  The tough part of it was, that every detail of the story had to be brand-new—invented on the spot—and it must fit the picture. They wouldn’t have the story that already belonged to the picture, nor any part of it, nor even any idea that was in it; they were quick to discover when I was borrowing a suggestion from the book, and then they would immediately shut down on that irregularity. Sometimes they would take such a strong fancy to one particular picture that I would have to build an entirely new story upon that picture several evenings in succession. Their selections were pretty odd, too, sometimes. For instance, in the back part of a “Scribner’s Monthly” they once found an outline figure which Page the artist had drawn to show the just proportions of the human frame. (See preceding page.) The chances of getting anything romantic, adventurous and heroic out of so sterile a text as that, seemed so remote, that I tried to divert them to a more promising picture; but no, none but this one would answer. So I bent myself to my task; and made such a thrilling and rattling success of it that I was rewarded with the privilege of digging a brand-new story out of that barren text during the five ensuing evenings. I wore that poor outline devil’s romantic-possibilities entirely out before I got done with him. I drowned him, I hanged him, I pitted him against giants and genii, I adventured him all through fairy-land, I made him the sport of fiery dragons of the air and the pitiless monsters of field and flood, I fed him to the cannibals. The cross-bars which intersected him were the iron gratings of a dungeon in one story, the web of a gigantic spider in another, the parallels of latitude and meridians of longitude webbing a vast and helpless denizen of the wandering comets—and so on; for it was rigidly required of me that those cross-bars be made to play a big and essential role in every yarn.

  In all my inventions for the children, from that day to this, I have always had one formidable difficulty to contend with—my villains must not lie. This hampered me a good deal. The blacker and bloodier and viler I painted the villain of my tale, the more the children delighted in him, until he made the mistake of telling a lie—then down he went, in their estimation. Nothing could resurrect him again; he simply had to pack up and go; his character was damaged beyond help, the children wouldn’t have him around, any longer.

  Sometimes I tried to cover up, or slide over, or explain away, one of these lies which I had blundered into, but this was lost time, for Susie is an alert critic. I was calmly proceeding, one evening: “But the moment the giant invited him, the grasshopper whispered in Johnny’s ear that the food was poisoned; so Johnny said, very politely, ‘I am very much obliged to you indeed, sir, but I am not hungry,—’” “Why papa! he told a lie!” [Consound that blunder! I said to myself—I must try to get Johnny out of this scrape.] “Well, you see, Susie, I reckon he didn’t think what he was saying, and—” “But papa, it couldn’t be—because he had just said, that very minute, that he was so hungry!” “Yes, that is true—yes, that is so—well, I think perhaps he was heedless, and just came out with the first thing that happened in his mind, and—” “O, no, papa, he wasn’t ever a heedless boy; it wasn’t like him to be heedless; you know how wise he always was—why night before last, you remember”—(this was a continued story, which lasted over a week)—“when all those fairies and enchanted creatures tried their very best, a whole day, to catch him in some little carelessness so they could get power over him, they never could—no, as long as this story has gone on, papa, there never was such a wise boy before—he couldn’t be heedless, papa.” “Well, Susie, I reckon he was so weary, so kind of tired out—” “Why papa, he rode all the way, on the eagle, and he had been sound asleep all the whole day in the gold and ivory bed, with his two lions watching him and taking care of him—why how could he be tired, papa, and he so strong?—you know the other night when his whale took him to Africa he went ashore and walked all day and all night, and wasn’t a bit tired—and you know that other time when—” “Yes, yes, you are right, Susie, and I was wrong; he couldn’t have been tired—but he never intended any wrong; I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said; for—” “Then it was a lie, papa! if he didn’t mean what he said.”

  Johnny’s days of usefulness were over; he was up a stump, and I had to leave him there. The children are good listeners, generally; they do not interrupt—to criticise—until somebody lies. Then the interruptions come thick and fast. They will put up with all inconsistencies in my people cheerfully but that solitary one;—that even the blackest scoundrel should lie, is out of character, inconsistent, inexcusable; and the children are bound to call him to the strictest account every time.

  They did not get this prejudice from me.

  Bay is a sturdy little character; very practical, precious little sentiment, no nonsense. She is sensitive, and can be deeply hurt; I think she must have been 5 years old (she is 6, now), before we discovered this fact—at least before we realized it. This, I think, was because she has the power of concealing all but the big hurts: a power born of her high pluck and fortitude. Pluck and fortitude have been marked features of her character from the beginning; they were born in her—they had to be educated into Susie, who has them, now, (8⅓ years old) in a pretty considerable degree but was born destitute of them. When Bay used to toddle out to feed the fowls, they would swarm around her, and all over her, a greedy, struggling horde, and trip her up or buffet her down, occasionally—all of which she enjoyed—but Susie used to fly. Bay did not mind the electric shocks from the bell-buttons, on cold mornings, but they frightened Susie. Bay (at 3) would hold Japanese fireworks in her fingers till they flashed and spit and sputtered all away—but when the angry volume of sparks began to storm around Susie’s hand, she would presently back down and let go. The children’s hands were always full of slivers—it was distressing and exasperating to observe Susie’s poltroonery under the operation of removing them; it was mere entertainment to Bay to have her slivers dug out. When Bay was 3, she had the end of her forefinger crushed nearly off—she was full of interest and comment while the doctor took his stitches, and hardly winced. In Europe, Susie was shy of crowds of strangers, and hung back in the shelter of the party whenever we arrived at a new town and its big inn; but Bay always marched far in the lead and alone, and tramped up the steps and invaded those hotels with the air of a proprietor taking possession. Bay is not without a certain degree of pride in her fortitude. Last spring she had an angry and painful boil on her hand, and mamma made preparation to cut into it. Bay was serene, Susie was full of tremors and anxieties. As the cruel work progressed, Bay was good grit, and only winced, from time to time. Susie kept saying, “Isn’t she brave!”—and at last a compliment was even wrung from mamma, who said, “Well you are a brave little thing!” Bay placidly responded, “There ain’t anybody braver but GOD!”

  Under mamma’s teachings and Bay’s example, Susie is making most gratifying progress. Last week she allowed a tooth to be pulled, and was as steady and tranquil about it as any grown person could have been; yet the forceps slipped off it three or four times before the doctor achieved success.

  Both of the children are sweet, gentle, humane, tractable, and lovable creatures, with sharply marked and differing characters, with thunder and lightning between—in the spaces. Susie is intellectual, a deep thinker, is analytical, and a r
easoner—is a philosopher, too. We had always looked upon Bay as a mere and dear little animal; but lately we are beginning to suspect that she has a mind, and that she is deep, and thinks out problems in privacy and keeps the results to herself. We shall see, by and by. These children are selfish and high-tempered, naturally—but they have been so long and so diligently taught to keep these two gifts under the governance of a taut rein, that they do not show out very frequently.

  Susie is an admirable character. There is not a coarse fibre in her; she is as fine as gossamer. She was born free of selfishness—a thing I was not glad of, for a little of it is not only valuable, but a necessary quality in every rightly-constructed human creature—but Bay had a noble share, and has divided up with her in the most generous way—so both are just about rightly equipped, now. Susie has an unusually penetrating mind, a charitable spirit, and a great heart. It is curious (and there’s a pang in it, too,) to see so little a creature struggling to sound the great deeps of thought with her brief plummet, and groping among the mighty mysteries of life with her poor little farthing candle. Some sayings of hers, jotted down here and there in this book are the outcome of what were reveries and thinkings at times when long stillnesses on her part led us to suppose she was absorbed with her dolls:

  “Mamma, what is LITTLE things?”

  “Papa, how will brother Langdon know us, in heaven?—it is so long that he has been there; and he was such a little fellow.”

  “Mamma, what is it all for?” (life, labor, misery, death, etc.)

  “Mamma, do we walk ourselves, or is it our bodies that are alive?” (Meaning, do our muscles act of their own volition, or is the impulse communicated to them by some higher authority in us?)

  (After struggling with the fact that rain and sea are water, and yet not the same—a deep mystery)—“I find there are a great many things that I don’t understand, mamma.”

  These remarks belong to the age of 2½ up to 5; there were plenty more, but they were not recorded, and have passed from memory.

  A few days ago she asked a few questions which showed that she had discovered that life and death and suffering and toil and worry simply go on and on and on; forever repeating themselves; striking out nothing new or fresh; ending always in futile ashes and mystery—no perceptible result; at least no result worth all this trouble. Then she had a long reverie over the matter, and finally said—

  “Mamma, what does the world go on, for?”

  I wish I could recal some of Susie’s speeches which illustrate her discriminating exactness in the matter of expressing herself upon difficult and elusive points, for they have often been remarkable—some of them were as good, in the matter of discriminating between fine shades of meaning, as any grown person could turn out.

  Even Bay is beginning to avoid looseness of statement, now, and to lean toward an almost hypercritical exactness. The other day she was about to start on an excursion among the calves and chickens in the back enclosure, when her Aunt Sue, feeling compassion for her loneliness, proposed to go with her. Bay showed a gratification of so composed a nature that it was hard to tell it from indifference, with the naked eye. So aunt Sue added—“That is, if you would be happier to have me go—would you be happier?” Bay turned the thing over in her mind a couple of times, to make sure, then said, “Well—I should be happy, but not HAPPIER.”

  One couldn’t ask to have a thing trimmed any finer than that, I think.

  *

  Aug 1. 1880.

  Susie was sick all day, up stairs, but was brought down to her mother’s bedside this evening for a few minutes. Mamma said, “I have missed you so—have you missed me, Susie?” Susie remained silent, and weighed the matter, with the conscientious desire to frame a reply which should convey the exact truth, no more, no less. When she had got it thought out and knew she knew how the matter stood in her mind and feelings, then this modern young George Washington who cannot lie, said: “Well—no—I had Aunt Sue and Rosa with me all the time; and they talked, and papa read to me a good deal—no, I did not miss you, mamma.” It was very sweetly and simply said: the manner of it could wound no one. Mamma said afterward that the fact broke her heart a little, at the moment, but that at the same time she respected and honored the child for her dauntless truthfulness. [Now mamma shouldn’t have had any pang at all; for she knew Susie loved her to desperation, and did not miss her for the mere reason that her mind had been kept occupied with other things all the time. She has taught Susie to speak the absolute truth, unembroidered and ungilded; and Susie doesn’t know how to tell any other kind of a truth.]

  We often commend the children, of course, when they have been good, but never in such a way as to make them vain and boastful. We never tell to other people the fine things they have said or done when they are within hearing—as less wise and extraordinary parents are so given to doing; and although they are beautiful, we are particular not to mention that fact in their presence. But the other day, when Susie’s tooth was pulled, Bay overheard some of the praises of her fortitude; and consequently has been aching to have a tooth pulled herself, ever since. She has been trying daily (but without success) to convince us all that one of her teeth is loose. But yesterday when Susie developed two decidedly loose teeth, poor Bay gave it up in despondency and despair: it was no use to try to buck against such odds as that.

  Which reminds me that when Bay was 3 years old, Susie was taken down to the town, one day, and was taken with a vomiting when she got back in the evening. Bay, off in the corner in her crib—totally neglected—observed the coddling and attention which Susie was receiving, as long as she could reasonably stand it; then sat up and said grandly and simply: “Well, some time I be dressed up and go down town and come back and throw up, too.”

  *

  Aug. 28, 1880—Poor little Jean frightens herself nearly out of her skin in most odd and rather unmentionable way (she 5 weeks old.)

  *

  About the 18th or 20th of Oct./80, Bay (who has never been allowed to meddle with English alphabets or books lest she would neglect her German), collared an English juvenile-poem book sent her from London by Joseph the courier—and now, 10 or 12 days later (Oct. 30) she reads abstruse English works with an astounding facility! Nobody has given her an instant’s assistance. Susie has learned to read English during these same 10 or 12 days, but she is 8 yrs old, and besides she can’t read it as glibly as Bay.

  *

  Random Notes.

  Oct. 1880.

  During ten days of this month, Bay and Susie taught themselves to read English, without help or instruction from anybody, and without knowing the alphabet, or making any attempt to spell the words or divide them into syllables.

  *

  Dec. 1880.

  They both read fluently, now, but they make no attempts at spelling; neither of them knows more than half the letters of the alphabet. They read wholly by the look of the word. Bay picks up any book that comes handy—seems to have no preferences.—The reason they have learned to read English and are so fond of it, is, I think, because they were long ago forbidden to meddle with English books till they should be far advanced in German. Forbidden fruits are most coveted, since Eve’s time.

  *

  7th Dec. 1880.

  Bay and Susie were given candy this morning for not having quarreled yesterday—a contract of long standing. Bay began to devour hers, but Susie hesitated a moment, then handed hers back, with a suggestion that she was not fairly entitled to it. Mamma said, “Then what about Bay?—she must have quarreled too, of course.” Susie said, “I don’t know whether Bay felt wrong in her heart, but I didn’t feel right in my heart.”

  Susie made a pretty nice distinction here—she had kept the letter of the contract to not quarrel, but had violated the spirit of it; she had felt the angry words she had not spoken.

  No, I got it wrong. Susie meant that Bay’s talk might have been only chaff and not ill-natured; she could not tell, as to that; but she knew her own talk c
ame from an angry heart.

  *

  The last day of the year 1880.

  For some months Bay has been bribed to not quarrel with Susie—at 3 cents a day. Conversation to-day:

  Bay. “Mamma, you owe me for two days.”

  Mamma. “Bay, you have not seen Susie for 2 days—she has been sick in bed.”

  Bay. “Why Mamma, don’t you count that?”

  *

  1881

  Susie (9 yrs old,) had been sounding the deeps of life, and pondering the result. Meantime the governess had been instructing her about the American Indians. One day Mamma, with a smitten conscience, said—

  “Susie, I have been so busy that I haven’t been in at night lately to hear you say your prayers. Maybe I can come in tonight. Shall I?”

  Susie hesitated, waited for her thought to formulate itself, then brought it out:

  “Mamma, I don’t pray as much as I used to—and I don’t pray in the same way. Maybe you would not approve of the way I pray now.”

  “Tell me about it, Susie.”

  “Well, mamma, I don’t know that I can make you understand; but you know, the Indians thought they knew: and they had a great many gods. We know, now, that they were wrong. By and by, maybe it will be found out that we are wrong, too. So, now, I only pray that there may be a God—and a heaven—OR SOMETHING BETTER.”

  It was a philosophy that a sexagenarian need not have been ashamed of having evolved.

  *

  April 1882

  The children have been devoting themselves to charades, lately, with prodigious enthusiasm. The other day, Bay came to Miss Spaulding, in a state of excitement, and said she had thought out a good word for a charade—said the word was “register.”