The Autobiography of Mark Twain Mark Twain (best beach reads .TXT) 📖

the girl’s second letter and said: “Mr. Twichell, will you read that? Now read that. How does that strike you? Is she kind of leaning my way? I wish you could say so, Mr. Twichell. You see there, what she says. She says⁠—‘You offer to send me a present of a ring⁠—’ I did it, Mr. Twichell! I declare it was a bold thing⁠—but⁠—but⁠—I couldn’t help it. I did that intrepid thing⁠—and that is what she says: ‘You offer to send me a ring. But my father is going to take a little vacation excursion in the New England states and he is going to let me go with him. If you should send the ring here it might get lost. We shall be in Hartford a day or two. Won’t it be safer to wait till then and you put it on my finger yourself?’

“What do you think of that, Mr. Twichell? How does it strike you? Is she leaning? Is she leaning?”

“Well,” Twichell said, “I don’t know about that. I must not be intemperate. I must not say things too strongly, for I might be making a mistake. But I think⁠—I think⁠—on the whole I think she is leaning⁠—I do⁠—I think she is leaning⁠—”

“Oh, Mr. Twichell, it does my heart so much good to hear you say that! Mr. Twichell, if there was anything I could do to show my gratitude for those words⁠—well, you see the condition I am in⁠—and to have you say that⁠—”

Twichell said: “Now wait a minute⁠—now let’s not make any mistake here. Don’t you know that this is a most serious position? It can have the most serious results upon two lives. You know there is such a thing as a mere passing fancy that sets a person’s soul on fire for the moment. That person thinks it is love, and that it is permanent love⁠—that it is real love. Then he finds out, by and by, that it was but a momentary insane passion⁠—and then perhaps he has committed himself for life, and he wishes he was out of that predicament. Now let us make sure of this thing. I believe that if you try, and conduct yourself wisely and cautiously⁠—I don’t feel sure, but I believe that if you conduct yourself wisely and cautiously you can beguile that girl into marrying you.”

“Oh, Mr. Twichell, I can’t express⁠—”

“Well, never mind expressing anything. What I am coming at is this: let us make sure of our position. If this is real love, go ahead! If it is nothing but a passing fancy, drop it right here, for both your sakes. Now tell me, is it real love? If it is real love how do you arrive at that conclusion? Have you some way of proving to your entire satisfaction that this is real, genuine, lasting, permanent love?”

“Mr. Twichell, I can tell you this. You can just judge for yourself. From the time that I was a baby in the cradle up, Mr. Twichell, I have had to sleep close to my mother, with a door open between, because I have always been subject to the most horrible nightmares, and when they break out my mother has to come running from her bed and appease me and comfort me and pacify me. Now then, Mr. Twichell, from the cradle up, whenever I got hit with those nightmare convulsions I have always sung out, ‘Mamma, Mamma, Mamma.’ Now I sing out, ‘Mary Ann, Mary Ann, Mary Ann.’ ”

So they were married. They moved to the West and we know nothing more about the romance.

Fifteen or twenty years ago, Decoration Day happened to be more like the Fourth of July for temperature than like the 30th of May. Twichell was orator of the day. He pelted his great crowd of old Civil War soldiers for an hour in the biggest church in Hartford, while they mourned and sweltered. Then they marched forth and joined the procession of other old soldiers and tramped through clouds of dust to the cemetery and began to distribute the flags and the flowers⁠—a tiny flag and a small basket of flowers to each military grave. This industry went on and on and on, everybody breathing dust⁠—for there was nothing else to breathe; everybody streaming with perspiration; everybody tired and wishing it was over. At last there was but one basket of flowers left, only one grave still undecorated. A fiery little major, whose patience was all gone, was shouting:

“Corporal Henry Jones, Company C, Fourteenth Connecticut Infantry⁠—”

No response. Nobody seemed to know where that corporal was buried.

The major raised his note a degree or two higher:

“Corporal Henry Jones, Company C, Fourteenth Connecticut Infantry. Doesn’t anybody know where that man is buried?”

No response. Once, twice, three times, he shrieked again, with his temper ever rising higher and higher:

“Corporal Henry Jones, Company C, Fourteenth Connecticut Infantry. Doesn’t anybody know where that man is buried?”

No response. Then he slammed the basket of flowers on the ground and said to Twichell, “Proceed with the finish.”

The crowd massed themselves together around Twichell with uncovered heads, the silence and solemnity interrupted only by subdued sneezings, for these people were buried in the dim cloud of dust. After a pause Twichell began an impressive prayer, making it brief to meet the exigencies of the occasion. In the middle of it he made a pause. The drummer thought he was through, and let fly a rub-a-dub-dub⁠—and the little major stormed out, “Stop that drum!” Twichell tried again. He got almost to the last word safely, when somebody trod on a dog and the dog let out a howl of anguish that could be heard beyond the frontier. The major said, “God damn that dog!”⁠—and Twichell said, “Amen.”

Friday, March 16, 1906

Schoolmates of sixty years ago: Mary Miller, one of Mr. Clemens’s first sweethearts⁠—Artimisia Briggs, another⁠—Mary Lacy, another⁠—Jimmie McDaniel, to whom Mr. Clemens told his first humorous story⁠—Mr. Richmond, Sunday-school teacher, afterwards owner of Tom Sawyer’s cave, which is now being ground into cement⁠—Hickman, the showy young captain⁠—Reuel Gridley, and the sack of