by Mark Twain
He dreaded his meals; the ‘nigger’ in him was ashamed to sit at the white folks’ table, and feared discovery all the time; and once when Judge Driscoll said, ‘What’s the matter with you? You look as meek as a nigger,’ he felt as secret murderers are said to feel when the accuser says, ‘Thou art the man!’ Tom said he was not well, and left the table.
His ostensible ‘aunt’s’ solicitudes and endearments were become a terror to him, and he avoided them.
And all the time hatred of his ostensible ‘uncle’ was steadily growing in his heart; for he said to himself, ‘He is white; and I am his chattel, his property, his goods, and he can sell me, just as he could his dog.’
For as much as a week after this Tom imagined that his character had undergone a pretty radical change. But that was because he did not know himself.
In several ways his opinions were totally changed, and would never go back to what they were before, but the main structure of his character was not changed and could not be changed. One or two very important features of it were altered, and in time effects would result from this if opportunity offered—effects of a quite serious nature too. Under the influence of a great mental and moral upheaval his character and habits had taken on the appearance of complete change, but after a while, with the subsidence of the storm both began to settle toward their former places. He dropped gradually back into his old frivolous and easy-going ways and conditions of feeling and manner of speech, and no familiar of his could have detected anything in him that differentiated him from the weak and careless Tom of other days.
The theft-raid which he had made upon the village turned out better than he had ventured to hope. It produced the sum necessary to pay his gaming-debts, and saved him from exposure to his uncle and another smashing of the will. He and his mother learned to like each other fairly well. She couldn’t love him as yet, because there ‘warn’t nothing to him’, as she expressed it, but her nature needed something or somebody to rule over, and he was better than nothing. Her strong character and aggressive and commanding ways compelled Tom’s admiration in spite of the fact that he got more illustrations of them than he needed for his comfort. However, as a rule, her conversation was made up of racy tattle about the privacies of the chief families of the town (for she went harvesting among their kitchens every time she came to the village), and Tom enjoyed this. It was just in his line. She always collected her half of his pension punctually, and he was always at the haunted house to have a chat with her on these occasions. Every now and then she paid him a visit there on between-days also.
Occasionally he would run up to St. Louis for a few weeks, and at last temptation caught him again. He won a lot of money, but lost it, and with it a deal more besides, which he promised to raise as soon as possible.
For this purpose he projected a new raid on his town. He never meddled with any other town, for he was afraid to venture into houses whose ins and outs he did not know and the habits of whose households he was not acquainted with. He arrived at the haunted house in disguise on the Wednesday before the advent of the twins—after writing his Aunt Pratt that he would not arrive until two days after—and lay in hiding there with his mother until toward daylight Friday morning, when he went to his uncle’s house and entered by the back way with his own key, and slipped up to his room, where he could have the use of mirror and toilet articles. He had a suit of girl’s clothes with him in a bundle as a disguise for his raid, and was wearing a suit of his mother’s clothing, with black gloves and veil. By dawn he was tricked out for his raid, but he caught a glimpse of Pudd‘nhead Wilson through the window over the way, and knew that Pudd’nhead had caught a glimpse of him. So he entertained Wilson with some airs and graces and attitudes for a while, then stepped out of sight and resumed the other disguise, and by-and-by went down and out the back way and started down town to reconnoitre the scene of his intended labours.
But he was ill at ease. He had changed back to Roxy’s dress, with the stoop of age added to the disguise, so that Wilson would not bother himself about a humble old woman leaving a neighbour’s house by the back way in the early morning, in case he was still spying. But supposing Wilson had seen him leave, and had thought it suspicious, and had also followed him? The thought made Tom cold. He gave up the raid for the day, and hurried back to the haunted house by the obscurest route he knew. His mother was gone; but she came back by-and-by, with the news of the grand reception at Patsy Cooper’s, and soon persuaded him that the opportunity was like a special providence, it was so inviting and perfect. So he went raiding after all, and made a nice success of it while everybody was gone to Patsy Cooper’s. Success gave him nerve and even actual intrepidity; insomuch, indeed, that after he had conveyed his harvest to his mother in a back alley he went to the reception himself, and added several of the valuables of that house to his takings.
After this long digression we have now arrived once more at the point where Pudd’nhead Wilson, while waiting for the arrival of the twins on that same Friday evening, sat puzzling over the strange apparition of that morning—a girl in young Tom Driscoll’s bedroom; fretting, and guessing, and puzzling over it, and wondering who the shameless creature might be.
CHAPTER 11
There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, the three form a rising scale of compliment: 1, to tell him you have read one of his books; 2, to tell him you have read all of his books; 3, to ask him to let you read the manuscript of his forthcoming book. No. 1 admits you to his respect; No. 2 admits you to his admiration; No. 3 carries you clear into his heart.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
As to the Adjective: when in doubt, strike it out.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
The twins arrived presently, and talk began. It flowed along chattily and sociably, and under its influence the new friendship gathered ease and strength. Wilson got out his Calendar, by request, and read a passage or two from it, which the twins praised quite cordially. This pleased the author so much that he complied gladly when they asked him to lend them a batch of the work to read at home. In the course of their wide travels they had found out that there are three sure ways of pleasing an author; they were now working the best of the three.
There was an interruption now. Young Tom Driscoll appeared and joined the party. He pretended to be seeing the distinguished strangers for the first time when they rose to shake hands; but this was only a blind, as he had already had a glimpse of them at the reception, while robbing the house. The twins made mental note that he was smooth-faced and rather handsome, and smooth and undulatory in his movements—graceful, in fact. Angelo thought he had a good eye; Luigi thought there was something veiled and sly about it. Angelo thought he had a pleasant free-and-easy way of talking; Luigi thought it was more so than was agreeable. Angelo thought he was a sufficiently nice young man; Luigi reserved his decision. Tom’s first contribution to the conversation was a question which he had put to Wilson a hundred times before. It was always cheerily and good-naturedly put, and always inflicted a little pang, for it touched a secret sore; but this time the pang was sharp, since strangers were present.
‘Well, how does the law come on? Had a case yet?’
Wilson bit his lip, but answered, ‘No—not yet,’ with as much indifference as he could assume. Judge Driscoll had generously left the law feature out of the Wilson biography which he had furnished to the twins. Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said:
‘Wilson’s a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn’t practice now.’
The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control, and said without passion:
‘I don’t practise, it is true. It is true that I have never had a case, and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an expert accountant in a town where I can’t get hold of a set of books to untangle as often as I should like. But it is also true that I did fit myself well for the practice of the law. By the time I was your age, Tom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon competent to enter upon it.’ Tom w
inced. ‘I never got a chance to try my hand at it, and I may never get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it, I shall be found ready, for I have kept up my law-studies all these years.’
‘That’s it; that’s good grit! I like to see it. I’ve a notion to throw all my business your way. My business and your law-practice ought to make a pretty gay team, Dave,’ and the young fellow laughed again.
‘If you will throw—’ Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom’s bedroom, and was going to say, ‘If you will throw the surreptitious and disreputable part of your business my way, it may amount to something,’ but thought better of it, and said: ‘However, this matter doesn’t fit well in a general conversation.’
‘All right, we’ll change the subject; I guess you were about to give me another dig, anyway, so I’m willing to change. How’s the Awful Mystery flourishing these days? Wilson’s got a scheme for driving plain window-glass out of the market by decorating it with greasy finger-marks, and getting rich by selling it at famine prices to the crowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with. Fetch it out, Dave.’
Wilson brought three of his glass strips, and said,
‘I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right hand through his hair, so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them, and then press the balls of them on the glass. A fine and delicate print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent if it doesn’t come in contact with something able to rub it off. You begin, Tom.’
‘Why, I think you took my finger-marks once or twice before.’
‘Yes; but you were a little boy the last time, only about twelve years old.’
‘That’s so. Of course, I’ve changed entirely since then, and variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess.’
He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and pressed them one at a time on the glass. Angelo made a print of his fingers on another glass, and Luigi followed with a third. Wilson marked the glasses with names and date, and put them away. Tom gave one of his little laughs, and said:
‘I thought I wouldn’t say anything, but if variety is what you are after, you have wasted a piece of glass. The hand-print of one twin is the same as the hand-print of the fellow-twin.’
‘Well, it’s done now, and I like to have them both, anyway,’ said Wilson, returning to his place.
‘But look here, Dave,’ said Tom, ‘you used to tell people’s fortunes, too, when you took their finger-marks. Dave’s just an all-round genius—a genius of the first water, gentlemen; a great scientist running to seed here in this village, a prophet with the kind of honour that prophets generally get at home—for here they don’t give shucks for his scientifics, and they call his skull a notion factory—hey, Dave, ain’t it so? But never mind; he’ll make his mark some day—finger-mark, you know—he-he! But really, you want to let him take a shy at your palms once; it’s worth twice the price of admission, or your money’s returned at the door. Why, he’ll read your wrinkles as easy as a book, and not only tell you fifty or sixty things that’s going to happen to you but fifty or sixty thousand that ain’t. Come, Dave, show the gentlemen what an inspired Jack-at-all-science we’ve got in this town, and don’t know it.’
Wilson winced under this nagging and not very courteous chaff, and the twins suffered with him and for him. They rightly judged now that the best way to relieve him would be to take the thing in earnest and treat it with respect, ignoring Tom’s rather overdone raillery; so Luigi said:
‘We have seen something of palmistry in our wanderings, and know very well what astonishing things it can do. If it isn’t a science, and one of the greatest of them, too, I don’t know what its other name ought to be. In the Orient—’
Tom looked surprised and incredulous. He said:
‘That juggling a science? But, really, you ain’t serious, are you?’
‘Yes, entirely so. Four years ago we had our hands read out to us as if our palms had been covered with print.’
‘Well, do you mean to say there was actually anything in it?’ asked Tom, his incredulity beginning to weaken a little.
‘There was this much in it,’ said Angelo: ‘what was told us of our characters was minutely exact—we could not have bettered it ourselves. Next, two or three memorable things that had happened to us were laid bare—things which no one present but ourselves could have known about.’
‘Why, it’s rank sorcery!’ exclaimed Tom, who was now becoming very much interested. ‘And how did they make out with what was going to happen to you in the future?’
‘On the whole, quite fairly,’ said Luigi. ‘Two or three of the most striking things foretold have happened since; much the most striking one of all happened within that same year. Some of the minor prophecies have come true; some of the minor and some of the major ones have not been fulfilled yet, and, of course, may never be: still, I should be more surprised it they failed to arrive than if they didn’t.’
Tom was entirely sobered and profoundly impressed. He said, apologetically:
‘Dave, I wasn’t meaning to belittle that science; I was only chaffing—chattering, I reckon I’d better say. I wish you would look at their palms. Come, won’t you?’
‘Why, certainly, if you want me to; but you know I’ve had no chance to become an expert, and don’t claim to be one. When a past event is somewhat prominently recorded in the palm I can generally detect that, but minor ones often escape me—not always, of course, but often—but I haven’t much confidence in myself when it comes to reading the future. I am talking as if palmistry was a daily study with me, but that is not so. I haven’t examined half a dozen hands in the last half-dozen years; you see, the people got to joking about it, and I stopped to let the talk die down. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Count Luigi: I’ll make a try at your past, and if I have any success there—no, on the whole, I’ll let the future alone; that’s really the affair of an expert.’
He took Luigi’s hand. Tom said:
‘Wait—don’t look yet, Dave! Count Luigi, here’s paper and pencil. Set down that thing that you said was the most striking one that was foretold to you, and happened less than a year afterward, and give it to me so I can see if Dave finds it in your hand.’
Luigi wrote a line privately, and folded up the piece of paper and handed it to Tom, saying,
‘I’ll tell you when to look at it, if he finds it.’
Wilson began to study Luigi’s palm, tracing life-lines, heart-lines, head-lines, and so on, and noting carefully their relations with the cobweb of finer and more delicate marks and lines that enmeshed them on all sides; he felt of the fleshy cushion at the base of the thumb, and noted its shape; he felt of the fleshy side of the hand between the wrist and the base of the little finger, and noted its shape also; he painstakingly examined the fingers, observing their form, proportions, and natural manner of disposing themselves when in repose. All this process was watched by the three spectators with absorbing interest, their heads bent together over Luigi’s palm, and nobody disturbing the stillness with a word. Wilson now entered upon a close survey of the palm again, and his revelations began.
He mapped out Luigi’s character and disposition, his tastes, aversions, proclivities, ambitions, and eccentricities in a way which sometimes made Luigi wince and the others laugh, but both twins declared that the chart was artistically drawn and was correct.
Next, Wilson took up Luigi’s history. He proceeded cautiously and with hesitation now, moving his finger slowly along the great lines of the palm, and now and then halting it at a ‘star’ or some such landmark, and examining that neighbourhood minutely. He proclaimed one or two past events; Luigi confirmed his correctness, and the search went on. Presently Wilson glanced up suddenly with a surprised expression.
‘Here is a record of an incident which you would perhaps not wish me to—’
‘Bring it out,’ said Luigi, good-naturedly; ‘I promise you it sha’n’t embarrass me.’
But Wilson still hesitated, and did not
seem quite to know what to do. Then he said:
‘I think it is too delicate a matter to—to—I believe I would rather write it or whisper it to you and let you decide for yourself whether you want it talked out or not.’
‘That will answer,’ said Luigi; ‘write it.’
Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi, who read it to himself and said to Tom:
‘Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll.’
Tom read:
‘“It was prophesied that I would kill a man. It came true before the year was out. ”’
Tom added, ‘Great Scott!’
Luigi handed Wilson’s paper to Tom, and said:
‘Now read this one.’
Tom read:
“‘You have killed some one, but whether man, woman, or child, I do not make out.”’
‘Caesar’s ghost!’ commented Tom, with astonishment. ‘It beats anything that was ever heard of! Why, a man’s own hand is his deadliest enemy! Just think of that—a man’s own hand keeps a record of the deepest and fatalest secrets of his life, and is treacherously ready to expose him to any black-magic stranger that comes along. But what do you let a person look at your hand for, with that awful thing printed in it?’
