by Mark Twain
CHAPTER 7
One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
The company broke up reluctantly, and drifted toward their several homes, chatting with vivacity, and all agreeing that it would be many a long day before Dawson’s Landing would see the equal of this one again. The twins had accepted several invitations while the reception was in progress, and had also volunteered to play some duets at an amateur entertainment for the benefit of a local charity. Society was eager to receive them to its bosom. Judge Driscoll had the good fortune to secure them for an immediate drive, and to be the first to display them in public. They entered his buggy with him, and were paraded down the main street, everybody flocking to the windows and sidewalks to see.
The Judge showed the strangers the new graveyard, and the gaol, and where the richest man lived, and the Freemasons’ Hall, and the Methodist Church, and the Presbyterian Church, and where the Baptist Church was going to be when they got some money to build it with, and showed them the town hall and the slaughter-house, and got out the independent fire company in uniform and had them put out an imaginary fire; then he let them inspect the muskets of the militia company, and poured out an exhaustless stream of enthusiasm over all these splendours, and seemed very well satisfied with the responses he got, for the twins admired his admiration, and paid him back the best they could, though they could have done better if some fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand previous experiences of this sort in various countries had not already rubbed off a considerable part of the novelty of it.
The Judge laid himself out hospitably to make them have a good time, and if there was a defect anywhere it was not his fault. He told them a good many humorous anecdotes, and always forgot the nub, but they were always able to furnish it, for these yarns were of a pretty early vintage, and they had had many a rejuvenating pull at them before. And he told them all about his several dignities, and how he had held this and that and the other place of honour or profit, and had once been to the legislature, and was now president of the Society of Freethinkers. He said the society had been in existence four years, and already had two members, and was firmly established. He would call for the brothers in the evening if they would like to attend a meeting of it.
Accordingly he called for them, and on the way he told them all about Pudd’nhead Wilson, in order that they might get a favourable impression of him in advance, and be prepared to like him. This scheme succeeded—the favourable impression was achieved. Later it was confirmed and solidified when Wilson proposed that out of courtesy to the strangers the usual topics be put aside and the hour be devoted to conversation upon ordinary subjects and the cultivation of friendly relations and good-fellowship—a proposition which was put to vote and carried.
The hour passed quickly away in lively talk, and when it was ended the lonesome and neglected Wilson was richer by two friends than he had been when it began. He invited the twins to look in at his lodgings, presently, after disposing of an intervening engagement, and they accepted with pleasure.
Toward the middle of the evening they found themselves on the road to his house. Pudd’nhead was at home waiting for them, and putting in his time puzzling over a thing which had come under his notice that morning. The matter was this: He happened to be up very early—at dawn in fact; and he crossed the hall, which divided his cottage through the centre, and entered a room to get something there. The window of the room had no curtains, for that side of the house had long been unoccupied, and through this window he caught sight of something which surprised and interested him. It was a young woman—a young woman where properly no young woman belonged; for she was in Judge Driscoll’s house, and in the bedroom over the Judge’s private study or sitting-room. This was young Tom Driscoll’s bedroom. He and the Judge, the Judge’s widowed sister Mrs. Pratt, and three negro servants were the only people who belonged in the house. Who, then, might this young lady be? The two houses were separated by an ordinary yard, with a low fence running back through its middle from the street in front to the lane in the rear. The distance was not great, and Wilson was able to see the girl very well, the window-shades of the room she was in being up, and the window also. The girl had on a neat and trim summer dress, patterned in broad stripes of pink and white, and her bonnet was equipped with a pink veil. She was practising steps, gaits, and attitudes, apparently; she was doing the thing gracefully, and was very much absorbed in her work. Who could she be, and how came she to be in young Tom Driscoll’s room?
Wilson had quickly chosen a position from which he could watch the girl without running much risk of being seen by her, and he remained there hoping she would raise her veil and betray her face. But she disappointed him. After a matter of twenty minutes she disappeared, and although he stayed at his post half an hour longer, she came no more.
Toward noon he dropped in at the Judge’s, and talked with Mrs. Pratt about the great event of the day, the levee of the distinguished foreigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper’s. He asked after her nephew Tom, and she said he was on his way home, and that she was expecting him to arrive a little before night; and added that she and the Judge were gratified to gather from his letters that he was conducting himself very nicely and creditably—at which Wilson winked to himself privately. Wilson did not ask if there was a newcomer in the house, but he asked questions that would have brought light-throwing answers as to that matter if Mrs. Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went away satisfied that he knew of things that were going on in her house of which she herself was not aware.
He was now waiting for the twins, and still puzzling over the problem of who that girl might be, and how she happened to be in that young. fellow’s room at daybreak in the morning.
CHAPTER 8
The holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime, if not asked to lend money.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
Consider well the proportions of things. It is better to be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
It is necessary now to hunt up Roxy. At the time she was set free and went away chambermaiding, she was thirty-five. She got a berth as second chambermaid on a Cincinnati boat in the New Orleans trade, the Grand Mogul. A couple of trips made her wonted and easy-going at the work, and infatuated her with the stir and adventure and independence of steamboat life. Then she was promoted and become head chambermaid. She was a favourite with the officers, and exceedingly proud of their joking and friendly ways with her.
During eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat, and the winters on a Vicksburg packet. But now for two months she had had rheumatism in her arms, and was obliged to let the wash-tub alone. So she resigned. But she was well fixed—rich, as she would have described it; for she had lived a steady life, and had banked four dollars every month in New Orleans as a provision for her old age. She said in the start that she had ‘put shoes on one bar’footed nigger to tromple on her with’, and that one mistake like that was enough; she would be independent of the human race thence-forth for evermore if hard work and economy could accomplish it. When the boat touched the levee at New Orleans she bade good-bye to her comrades on the Grand Mogul and moved her kit ashore.
But she was back in an hour. The bank had gone to smash and carried her four hundred dollars with it. She was a pauper, and homeless. Also disabled bodily, at least for the present. The officers were full of sympathy for her in her trouble, and made up a little purse for her. She resolved to go to her birthplace; she had friends there among the negroes, and the unfortunate always help the unfortunate, she was well aware of that; those lowly comrades of her youth would not let her starve.
She took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on the home-stretch. Time had worn away her bitterness against her son, and she was able to think of him with serenity. She put the vile side of h
im out of her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional acts of kindness to her. She gilded and otherwise decorated these, and made them very pleasant to contemplate. She began to long to see him. She would go and fawn upon him, slave-like—for this would have to be her attitude, of course—and maybe she would find that time had modified him, and that he would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat her gently. That would be lovely; that would make her forget her woes and her poverty.
Her poverty! That thought inspired her to add another castle to her dream: maybe he would give her a trifle now and then—maybe a dollar, once a month, say; any little thing like that would help, oh, ever so much.
By the time she reached Dawson’s Landing she was her old self again; her blues were gone, she was in high feather. She would get along, surely; there were many kitchens where the servants would share their meals with her, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties for her to carry home—or give her a chance to pilfer them herself, which would answer just as well. And there was the church. She was a more rabid and devoted Methodist than ever, and her piety was no sham, but was strong and sincere. Yes, with plenty of creature comforts and her old place in the amen corner in her possession again, she would be perfectly happy and at peace thenceforward to the end.
She went to Judge Driscoll’s kitchen first of all. She was received there in great form and with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels, and the strange countries she had seen and the adventures she had had, made her a marvel, and a heroine of romance. The negroes hung enchanted upon the great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with eager questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight and expressions of applause; and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there was anything better in this world than steamboating, it was the glory to be got by telling about it. The audience loaded her stomach with their dinners and then stole the pantry bare to load up her basket.
Tom was in St. Louis. The servants said he had spent the best part of his time there during the previous two years. Roxy came every day, and had many talks about the family and its affairs. Once she asked why Tom was away so much. The ostensible ‘Chambers’ said:
‘De fac’ is, ole marster kin git along better when young marster’s away den he kin when he’s in de town; yes, en he love him better, too; so he gives him fifty dollahs a month—’
‘No, is dat so? Chambers, you’s a-jokin’, ain’t you?’
“Clah to goodness I ain‘t, mammy; Marse Tom tole me so his own self. But nemmine, ’t ain’t enough.’
‘My lan’, what de reason ’t ain’t enough?’
‘Well, I ’s gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst, mammy. De reason it ain’t enough is ’ca‘se Marse Tom gambles.’
Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment, and Chambers went on:
‘Ole marster found it out, ’ca‘se he had to pay two hundred dollahs for Marse Tom’s gamblin’ debts, en dat’s true, mammy, jes as dead certain as you’s bawn.’
‘Two—hund’d—dollahs! Why, what is you talkin’ ‘bout? Two—hund’d—dollahs. Sakes alive, it‘s’mos’ enough to buy a tol‘able good secondhand nigger wid. En you ain’t lyin’, honey?—you wouldn’t lie to yo’ ole mammy?’
‘It’s God’s own truth, jes as I tell you—two hund’d dollahs—I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks if it ain’t so. En, oh, my lan’, ole Marse was jes a-hoppin‘! he was b’ilin’ mad, I tell you! He tuck ‘n’ dissenhurrit him.’
He licked his chops with relish after that stately word. Roxy struggled with it a moment, then gave it up and said:
‘Dissenwhiched him?’
‘Dissenhurrit him.’
‘What’s dat? What do it mean?’
‘Means he bu’sted de will.’
‘Bu’s—ted de will! He wouldn’t ever treat him so! Take it back, you mis‘able imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation.’
Roxy’s pet castle—an occasional dollar from Tom’s pocket—was tumbling to ruin before her eyes. She could not abide such a disaster as that; she couldn’t endure the thought of it. Her remark amused Chambers:
‘Yah-yah-yah! Jes listen to dat! If I’s imitation, what is you? Bofe of us is imitation white—dat’s what we is—en pow’ful good imitation too—yah-yah-yah!—we don’t ‘mount to noth’n’ as imitation niggers; en as for—’
‘Shet up yo’ foolin’, ‘fo’ I knock you side de head, en tell me ’bout de will. Tell me ‘tain’t busted—do, honey, en I’ll never forgit you.’
‘Well, ’taint—’ca’se dey’s a new one made, en Marse Toms’ all right ag‘in. But what is you in sich a sweat ’bout it for, mammy? ‘Tain’t none o’ your business I don’t reckon.’
“Tain’t none o’ my business? Whose business is it den, I’d like to know? Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn’t I?—you answer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned out po’ en ornery on de worl’ en never care noth‘n’ ’bout it? I reckon if you’d ever be’n a mother yo‘self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn’t talk sich foolishness as dat.’
‘Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag’in—do dat satisfy you?’
Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it. She kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home. She began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him to let his ‘po’ ole nigger mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy.’
Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought the petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the humble drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter and uncompromising. He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the fair face of the young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose family rights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim of it had become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said:
‘What does the old rip want with me?’
The petition was meekly repeated.
‘Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social attentions of niggers?’
Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly. He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his left arm to shield it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no word: the victim received each blow with a beseeching, ‘Please, Marse Tom!—oh, please, Marse Tom!’ Seven blows—then Tom said, ‘Face the door—march!’ He followed behind with one, two, three solid kicks. The last one helped the pure-white slave over the door sill, and he limped away mopping his eyes with his old ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him, ‘Send her in!’
Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out the remark, ‘He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to the brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of. How refreshing it was! I feel better.’
Tom’s mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and approached her son with all the wheedling and supplicating servilities that fear and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave. She stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness, and Tom put an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the sofa-back in order to look properly indifferent.
‘My lan’, how you is growed, honey! ‘Clah to goodness, I wouldn’t a-knowed you, Marse Tom! ’deed I wouldn‘t! Look at me good; does you ’member old Roxy?—does you know yo’ old nigger mammy, honey? Well now, I kin lay down en die in peace, ’ca’se I‘se seed—’
‘Cut it short,—it, cut it short! What is it you want?’
‘You heah dat? Jes de same old Marse Tom, al’ays so gay and funnin’ wid de ole mammy. I ‘uz jes as shore—’
‘Cut it short, I tell you, and get along! What do you want?’
This was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had for so many days nourished and fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his old nurse, and would make her proud and happy
to the marrow with a cordial word or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that he was not funning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and foolish vanity, a shabby and pitiful mistake. She was hurt to the heart, and so ashamed that for a moment she did not quite know what to do or how to act. Then her breast began to heave, the tears came, and in her forlornness she was moved to try that other dream of hers—an appeal to her boy’s charity; and so, upon the impulse, and without reflection, she offered her supplication:
‘Oh, Marse Tom, de po’ ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese days; en she’s kinder crippled in de arms en can’t work, en if you could gimme a dollah—on’y jes one little dol—’
Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled into a jump herself.
‘A dollar!—give you a dollar! I’ve a notion to strangle you! Is that your errand here? Clear out! and be quick about it!’
Roxy backed slowly toward the door. When she was halfway she stopped, and said mournfully:
‘Marse Tom, I nussed you when you was a little baby, en I raised you all by myself tell you was ’most a young man; en now you is young en rich, en I is po’ en gitt‘n’ ole, en I come heah b’lievin’ dat you would he‘p de ole mammy ’long down de little road dat’s lef’ ‘twix’ her en de grave, en—’
Tom relished this tune less than any that had preceded it, for it began to wake up a sort of echo in his conscience; so he interrupted and said with decision, though without asperity, that he was not in a situation to help her, and wasn’t going to do it.
‘Ain’t you ever gwine to he’p me, Marse Tom?’
