The $30,000 Bequest by Mark Twain (top 5 ebook reader TXT) 📖

just make your mind easy as to that.

What did the letter say? Said she was well, didn’t it? And said

she’d be here by nine o’clock, didn’t it? Did you ever know her

to fail of her word? Why, you know you never did. Well, then,

don’t you fret; she’ll BE here, and that’s absolutely certain,

and as sure as you are born. Come, now, let’s get to decorating—

not much time left.”

 

Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set about adoring

the house with flowers. Toward nine the three miners said that

as they had brought their instruments they might as well tune up,

for the boys and girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for

a good, old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet—

these were the instruments. The trio took their places side by side,

and began to play some rattling dance-music, and beat time with

their big boots.

 

It was getting very close to nine. Henry was standing in the door

with his eyes directed up the road, his body swaying to the torture

of his mental distress. He had been made to drink his wife’s

health and safety several times, and now Tom shouted:

 

“All hands stand by! One more drink, and she’s here!”

 

Joe brought the glasses on a waiter, and served the party.

I reached for one of the two remaining glasses, but Joe growled

under his breath:

 

“Drop that! Take the other.”

 

Which I did. Henry was served last. He had hardly swallowed his

drink when the clock began to strike. He listened till it finished,

his face growing pale and paler; then he said:

 

“Boys, I’m sick with fear. Help me—I want to lie down!”

 

They helped him to the sofa. He began to nestle and drowse,

but presently spoke like one talking in his sleep, and said:

“Did I hear horses’ feet? Have they come?”

 

One of the veterans answered, close to his ear: “It was Jimmy

Parish come to say the party got delayed, but they’re right up

the road a piece, and coming along. Her horse is lame, but she’ll

be here in half an hour.”

 

“Oh, I’m SO thankful nothing has happened!”

 

He was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth.

In a moment those handy men had his clothes off, and had tucked

him into his bed in the chamber where I had washed my hands.

They closed the door and came back. Then they seemed preparing to leave;

but I said: “Please don’t go, gentlemen. She won’t know me; I am

a stranger.”

 

They glanced at each other. Then Joe said:

 

“She? Poor thing, she’s been dead nineteen years!”

 

“Dead?”

 

“That or worse. She went to see her folks half a year after she

was married, and on her way back, on a Saturday evening, the Indians

captured her within five miles of this place, and she’s never been

heard of since.”

 

“And he lost his mind in consequence?”

 

“Never has been sane an hour since. But he only gets bad when

that time of year comes round. Then we begin to drop in here,

three days before she’s due, to encourage him up, and ask if he’s heard

from her, and Saturday we all come and fix up the house with flowers,

and get everything ready for a dance. We’ve done it every year

for nineteen years. The first Saturday there was twenty-seven

of us, without counting the girls; there’s only three of us now,

and the girls are gone. We drug him to sleep, or he would go wild;

then he’s all right for another year—thinks she’s with him till the

last three or four days come round; then he begins to look for her,

and gets out his poor old letter, and we come and ask him to read it

to us. Lord, she was a darling!”

***

A HELPLESS SITUATION

 

Once or twice a year I get a letter of a certain pattern,

a pattern that never materially changes, in form and substance,

yet I cannot get used to that letter—it always astonishes me.

It affects me as the locomotive always affects me: I saw to myself,

“I have seen you a thousand times, you always look the same way,

yet you are always a wonder, and you are always impossible; to contrive

you is clearly beyond human genius—you can’t exist, you don’t exist,

yet here you are!”

 

I have a letter of that kind by me, a very old one. I yearn to print it,

and where is the harm? The writer of it is dead years ago, no doubt,

and if I conceal her name and address—her this-world address—

I am sure her shade will not mind. And with it I wish to print

the answer which I wrote at the time but probably did not send.

If it went—which is not likely—it went in the form of a copy,

for I find the original still here, pigeonholed with the said letter.

To that kind of letters we all write answers which we do not send,

fearing to hurt where we have no desire to hurt; I have done it many

a time, and this is doubtless a case of the sort.

 

THE LETTER

 

X––, California, JUNE 3, 1879.

 

Mr. S. L. Clemens, HARTFORD, CONN.:

 

Dear Sir,—You will doubtless be surprised to know who has presumed

to write and ask a favor of you. Let your memory go back to your days

in the Humboldt mines—‘62-‘63. You will remember, you and Clagett

and Oliver and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-to which was

half-way up the gulch, and there were six log cabins in the camp—

strung pretty well separated up the gulch from its mouth at the

desert to where the last claim was, at the divide. The lean-to

you lived in was the one with a canvas roof that the cow fell down

through one night, as told about by you in ROUGHING IT—my uncle

Simmons remembers it very well. He lived in the principal cabin,

half-way up the divide, along with Dixon and Parker and Smith.

It had two rooms, one for kitchen and the other for bunks,

and was the only one that had. You and your party were there on

the great night, the time they had dried-apple-pie, Uncle Simmons

often speaks of it. It seems curious that dried-apple-pie should

have seemed such a great thing, but it was, and it shows how far

Humboldt was out of the world and difficult to get to, and how slim

the regular bill of fare was. Sixteen years ago—it is a long time.

I was a little girl then, only fourteen. I never saw you, I lived

in Washoe. But Uncle Simmons ran across you every now and then,

all during those weeks that you and party were there working

your claim which was like the rest. The camp played out long

and long ago, there wasn’t silver enough in it to make a button.

You never saw my husband, but he was there after you left, AND LIVED

IN THAT VERY LEAN-TO, a bachelor then but married to me now.

He often wishes there had been a photographer there in those days,

he would have taken the lean-to. He got hurt in the old Hal Clayton

claim that was abandoned like the others, putting in a blast

and not climbing out quick enough, though he scrambled the best

he could. It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute.

For weeks they thought he would not get over it but he did,

and is all right, now. Has been ever since. This is a long

introduction but it is the only way I can make myself known.

The favor I ask I feel assured your generous heart will grant:

Give me some advice about a book I have written. I do not claim

anything for it only it is mostly true and as interesting as most

of the books of the times. I am unknown in the literary world

and you know what that means unless one has some one of influence

(like yourself) to help you by speaking a good word for you.

I would like to place the book on royalty basis plan with any one you

would suggest.

 

This is a secret from my husband and family. I intend

it as a surprise in case I get it published.

 

Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write

me a letter to some publisher, or, better still, if you could see

them for me and then let me hear.

 

I appeal to you to grant me this favor. With deepest gratitude I

think you for your attention.

 

One knows, without inquiring, that the twin of that embarrassing

letter is forever and ever flying in this and that and the other

direction across the continent in the mails, daily, nightly, hourly,

unceasingly, unrestingly. It goes to every well-known merchant,

and railway official, and manufacturer, and capitalist, and Mayor,

and Congressman, and Governor, and editor, and publisher, and author,

and broker, and banker—in a word, to every person who is supposed

to have “influence.” It always follows the one pattern: “You do

not know me, BUT YOU ONCE KNEW A RELATIVE OF MINE,” etc., etc.

We should all like to help the applicants, we should all be glad

to do it, we should all like to return the sort of answer that

is desired, but—Well, there is not a thing we can do that would

be a help, for not in any instance does that latter ever come from

anyone who CAN be helped. The struggler whom you COULD help does

his own helping; it would not occur to him to apply to you, stranger.

He has talent and knows it, and he goes into his fight eagerly and

with energy and determination—all alone, preferring to be alone.

That pathetic letter which comes to you from the incapable,

the unhelpable—how do you who are familiar with it answer it?

What do you find to say? You do not want to inflict a wound;

you hunt ways to avoid that. What do you find? How do you get out

of your hard place with a contend conscience? Do you try to explain?

The old reply of mine to such a letter shows that I tried that once.

Was I satisfied with the result? Possibly; and possibly not;

probably not; almost certainly not. I have long ago forgotten all

about it. But, anyway, I append my effort:

 

THE REPLY

 

I know Mr. H., and I will go to him, dear madam, if upon reflection

you find you still desire it. There will be a conversation.

I know the form it will take. It will be like this:

 

MR. H. How do her books strike you?

 

MR. CLEMENS. I am not acquainted with them.

 

H. Who has been her publisher?

 

C. I don’t know.

 

H. She HAS one, I suppose?

 

C. I—I think not.

 

H. Ah. You think this is her first book?

 

C. Yes—I suppose so. I think so.

 

H. What is it about? What is the character of it?

 

C. I believe I do not know.

 

H. Have you seen it?

 

C. Well—no, I haven’t.

 

H. Ah-h. How long have you known her?

 

C. I don’t know her.

 

H. Don’t know her?

 

C. No.

 

H. Ah-h. How did you come to be interested in her book, then?

 

C. Well, she—she wrote and asked me to find a publisher for her,

and mentioned you.

 

H. Why should she