The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain (58 page)

“Did you love her very, very,
very
much?”

“Ah, you shall judge by this: she commanded and I obeyed!”

“I think you are lovely! Will you kiss me?”

“Thankfully—and hold it a privilege, too. There—this one is for you; and there—this one is for her. You made it a request; and you could have made it a command, for you are representing her, and what you command I must obey.”

The child clapped her hands with delight at the idea of this grand promotion—then her ear caught an approaching sound: she measured tramp of marching men.

“Soldiers!—soldiers, Lord General! Abby wants to see them!”

“You shall, dear; but wait a moment, I have a commission for you.”

An officer entered and bowed low, saying, “They are come, your Highness,” bowed again, and retired.

The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little disks of sealing-wax, two white, and one a ruddy red—for this one’s mission was to deliver death to the Colonel who should get it.

“Oh, what a lovely red one! Are they for me?”

“No, dear; they are for others. Lift the corner of that curtain, there, which hides an open door; pass through, and you will see three men standing in a row, with their backs toward you and their hands behind their backs—so—each with one hand open, like a cup. Into each of the open hands drop one of those things, then come back to me.”

Abby disappeared behind the curtain, and the Protector was alone. He said, reverently: “Of a surety that good thought came to me in my perplexity from Him who is an ever-present help to them that are in doubt and seek His aid. He knoweth where the choice should fall, and has sent His sinless messenger to do His will. Another would err, but He cannot err. Wonderful are His ways, and wise—blessed be His holy Name!”

The small fairy dropped the curtain behind her and stood for a moment conning with alert curiosity the appointments of the chamber of doom, and the rigid figures of the soldiery and the prisoners; then her face lighted merrily, and she said to herself: “Why, one of them is papa! I know his back. He shall have the prettiest one!” She tripped gaily forward and dropped the disks into the open hands, then peeped around under her father’s arm and lifted her laughing face and cried out:

“Papa! papa! look what you’ve got.
I
gave it to you!”

He glanced at the fatal gift, then sunk to his knees and gathered his innocent little executioner to his breast in an agony of love and pity. Soldiers, officers, released prisoners, all stood paralyzed, for a moment, at the vastness of this tragedy, then the pitiful scene smote their hearts, their eyes filled, and they wept unashamed. There was deep and reverent silence during some minutes, then the officer of the guard moved reluctantly forward and touched his prisoner on the shoulder, saying, gently:

“It grieves me, sir, but my duty commands.”

“Commands what?” said the child.

“I must take him away. I am so sorry.”

“Take him away? Where?”

“To—to—God help me!—to another part of the fortress.”

“Indeed you can’t. My mamma is sick, and I am going to take him home.” She released herself and climbed upon her father’s back and put her arms around his neck. “Now Abby’s ready, papa—come along.”

“My poor child, I can’t. I must go with them.”

The child jumped to the ground and looked about her, wondering. Then she ran and stood before the officer and stamped her small foot indignantly and cried out:

“I told you my mamma is sick, and you might have listened. Let him go—you
must!
”

“Oh, poor child, would God I could, but indeed I must take him away. Attention, guard! . . . fall in! . . . shoulder arms!” . . .

Abby was gone—like a flash of light. In a moment she was back, dragging the Lord Protector by the hand. At this formidable apparition all present straightened up, the officers saluting and the soldiers presenting arms.

“Stop them, sir! My mamma is sick and wants my papa, and I
told
them so, but they never even listened to me, and are taking him away.”

The Lord General stood as one dazed.

“
Your
papa, child? Is he your papa?”

“Why, of course—he was
always
it. Would I give the pretty red one to any other, when I love him so? No!”

A shocked expression rose in the Protector’s face, and he said:

“Ah, God help me! through Satan’s wiles I have done the cruelest thing that ever man did—and there is no help, no help! What can I do?”

Abby cried out, distressed and impatient: “Why you can make them let him go,” and she began to sob. “Tell them to do it! You told me to command, and now the very first time I tell you to do a thing you don’t do it!”

A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and the Lord General laid his hand upon the small tyrant’s head and said: “God be thanked for the saving accident of that unthinking promise; and you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my forgotten pledge, O incomparable child! Officer, obey her command—she speaks by my mouth. The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!”

1901

TWO LITTLE TALES
                                                                                                                                       

FIRST STORY: THE MAN WITH A MESSAGE FOR THE DIRECTOR-GENERAL

S
OME DAYS ago, in this second month of 1900, a friend made an afternoon call upon me here in London. We are of that age when men who are smoking away their times in chat do not talk quite so much about the pleasantnesses of life as about its exasperations. By and by this friend began to abuse the War Office. It appeared that he had a friend who had been inventing something which could be made very useful to the soldiers in South Africa. It was a light and very cheap and durable boot, which would remain dry in wet weather, and keep its shape and firmness. The inventor wanted to get the government’s attention called to it, but he was an unknown man and knew the great officials would pay no heed to a message from him.

“This shows that he was an ass—like the rest of us,” I said, interrupting. “Go on.”

“But why have you said that? The man spoke the truth.”

“The man spoke a lie. Go on.”

“I will
prove
that he—”

“You can’t prove anything of the kind. I am very old and very wise. You must not argue with me: it is irreverent and offensive. Go on.”

“Very well. But you will presently see. I am not unknown, yet even
I
was not able to get the man’s message to the Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department.”

“This is another lie. Pray go on.”

“But I assure you on my honor that I failed.”

“Oh, certainly. I knew
that
. You didn’t need to tell me.”

“Then where is the lie?”

“It is in your intimation that you were
not able
to get the Director-General’s immediate attention to the man’s message. It is a lie, because you
could
have gotten his immediate attention to it.”

“I tell you I couldn’t. In three months I haven’t accomplished it.”

“Certainly. Of course. I could know that without your telling me. You
could
have gotten his immediate attention if you had gone at it in a sane way; and so could the other man.”

“I
did
go at it in a sane way.”

“You didn’t.”

“How do
you
know? What do you know about the circumstances?”

“Nothing at all. But you didn’t go at it in a sane way. That much I know to a certainty.”

“How can you know it, when you don’t know what method I used?”

“I know by the result. The result is perfect proof. You went at it in an insane way. I am very old and very w—”

“Oh, yes, I know. But will you let me tell you
how
I proceeded? I think that will settle whether it was insanity or not.”

“No; that has already been settled. But go on, since you so desire to expose yourself. I am very o—”

“Certainly, certainly. I sat down and wrote a courteous letter to the Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department, explai—”

“Do you know him personally?”

“No.”

“You have scored one for my side. You began insanely. Go on.”

“In the letter I made the great value and inexpensiveness of the invention clear, and offered to—”

“Call and see him? Of course you did. Score two against yourself. I am v—”

“He didn’t answer for three days.”

“Necessarily. Proceed.”

“Send me three gruff lines thanking me for my trouble, and proposing—”

“Nothing.”

“That’s it—proposing nothing. Then I wrote him more elaborately and—”

“Score three—”

—“and got no answer. At the end of a week I wrote and asked, with some touch of asperity, for an answer to that letter.”

“Four. Go on.”

“An answer came back saying the letter had not been received, and asking for a copy. I traced the letter through the post-office, and found that it
had
been received; but I sent a copy and said nothing. Two weeks passed without further notice of me. In the mean time I gradually got myself cooled down to a polite-letter temperature. Then I wrote and proposed an interview for next day, and said that if I did not hear from him in the mean time I should take his silence for assent.”

“Score five.”

“I arrived at twelve sharp, and was given a chair in the anteroom and told to wait. I waited until half past one; then I left, ashamed and angry. I waited another week, to cool down; then I wrote and made another appointment with him for next day noon.”

“Score six.”

“He answered, assenting. I arrived promptly, and kept a chair warm until half past two. I left then, and shook the dust of that place from my shoes for good and all. For rudeness, inefficiency, incapacity, indifference to the army’s interests, the Director-General of the Shoe-Leather Department of the War Office is, in my o—”

“Peace! I am very old and very wise, and have seen many seemingly intelligent people who hadn’t common sense enough to go at a simple and easy thing like this in a common-sense way. You are not a curiosity to me; I have personally known millions and billions like you. You have lost three months quite unnecessarily; the inventor has lost three months; the soldiers have lost three—nine months altogether. I will now read you a little tale which I wrote last night. Then you will call on the Director-General at noon tomorrow and transact your business.”

“Splendid! Do you know him?”

“No; but listen to the tale.”

SECOND STORY: HOW THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP GOT THE EAR OF THE EMPEROR

Summer was come, and all the strong were bowed by the burden of the awful heat, and many of the weak were prostrate and dying. For weeks the army had been wasting away with a plague of dysentery, that scourge of the soldier, and there was but little help. The doctors were in despair; such efficacy as their drugs and their science had once had—and it was not much at its best—was a thing of the past, and promised to remain so.

The Emperor commanded the physicians of greatest renown to appear before him for a consultation, for he was profoundly disturbed. He was very severe with them, and called them to account for letting his soldiers die; and asked them if they knew their trade, or didn’t; and were they properly healers, or merely assassins? Then the principal assassin, who was also the oldest doctor in the land and the most venerable in appearance, answered and said:

“We have done what we could, your Majesty, and for a good reason it has been little. No medicine and no physician can cure that disease; only nature and a good constitution can do it. I am old, and I know. No doctor and no medicine can cure it—I repeat it and I emphasize it. Sometimes they seem to help nature a little—a very little—but as a rule, they merely do damage.”

The Emperor was a profane and passionate man, and he deluged the doctors with rugged and unfamiliar names, and drove them from his presence.

Within a day he was attacked by that fell disease himself The news flew from mouth to mouth, and carried consternation with it over all the land.

All the talk was about this awful disaster, and there was general depression, for few had hope. The Emperor himself was very melancholy, and sighed and said:

“The will of God be done. Send for the assassins again, and let us get over with it.”

They came, and felt his pulse and looked at his tongue, and fetched the drug-store and emptied it into him, and sat down patiently to wait—for they were not paid by the job, but by the year.

2

Tommy was sixteen and a bright lad, but he was not in society. His rank was too humble for that, and his employment too base. In fact, it was the lowest of all employments, for he was second in command to his father, who emptied cesspools and drove a night-cart. Tommy’s closest friend was Jimmy the chimney-sweep, a slim little fellow of fourteen, who was honest and industrious, and had a good heart, and supported a bedridden mother by his dangerous and unpleasant trade.

About a month after the Emperor fell ill, these two lads met one evening about nine. Tommy was on his way to his night-work, and of course was not in his Sundays, but in his dreadful work-clothes, and not smelling very well. Jimmy was on his way home from his day’s labor, and was blacker than any other object imaginable, and he had his brushes on his shoulder and his soot-bag at his waist, and no feature of his sable face was distinguishable except his lively eyes.

They sat down on the curbstone to talk; and of course it was upon the one subject—the nation’s calamity, the Emperor’s disorder. Jimmy was full of a great project, and burning to unfold it. He said:

“Tommy, I can cure his Majesty. I know how to do it.”

Tommy was surprised.

“What! You?”

“Yes, I.”

“Why, you little fool, the best doctors can’t.”

“I don’t care: I can do it. I can cure him in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, come off! What are you giving me?”

“The facts—that’s all.”

Jimmy’s manner was so serious that it sobered Tommy, who said:

“I believe you are in earnest, Jimmy. Are you in earnest?”

“I give you my word.”

“What is the plan? How’ll you cure him?”

“Tell him to eat a slice of ripe watermelon.”

It caught Tommy rather suddenly, and he was shouting with laughter at the absurdity of the idea before he could put on a stopper. But he sobered down when he saw that Jimmy was wounded. He patted Jimmy’s knee affectionately, not minding the soot, and said:

“I take the laugh all back. I didn’t mean any harm, Jimmy, and I won’t do it again. You see, it seemed so funny, because wherever there’s a soldier-camp and dysentery, the doctors always put up a sign saying anybody caught bringing watermelons there will be flogged with the cat till he can’t stand.”

“I know it—the idiots!” said Jimmy, with both tears and anger in his voice. “There’s plenty of watermelons, and not one of all those soldiers ought to have died.”

“But, Jimmy, what put the notion into your head?”

“It isn’t a notion; it’s a fact. Do you know that old gray-headed Zulu? Well, this long time back he has been curing a lot of our friends, and my mother has seen him do it, and so have I. It takes only one or two slices of melon, and it don’t make any difference whether the disease is new or old; it cures it.”

“It’s very odd. But, Jimmy, if it is so, the Emperor ought to be told of it.”

“Of course; and my mother has told people, hoping they could get the word to him; but they are poor working-folks and ignorant, and don’t know how to manage it.”

“Of course they don’t, the blunderheads,” said Tommy, scornfully. “
I’ll
get it to him!”

“You? You night-cart polecat!” And it was Jimmy’s turn to laugh. But Tommy retorted sturdily:

“Oh, laugh if you like; but I’ll
do
it!”

It had such an assured and confident sound that it made an impression, and Jimmy asked gravely:

“Do you know the Emperor?”

“Do
I
know him? Why, how you talk! Of course I don’t.”

“Then how’ll you do it?”

“It’s very simple and very easy. Guess. How would
you
do it, Jimmy?”

“Send him a letter. I never thought of it till this minute. But I’ll bet that’s your way.”

“I’ll bet it ain’t. Tell me, how would you send it?”

“Why, through the mail, of course.”

Tommy overwhelmed him with scoffings, and said:

“Now, don’t you suppose every crank in the empire is doing the same thing? Do you mean to say you haven’t thought of that?”

“Well—no,” said Jimmy, abashed.

“You
might
have thought of it, if you weren’t so young and inexperienced. Why, Jimmy, when even a common
general, or a poet, or an actor, or anybody that’s a little famous
gets sick, all the cranks in the kingdom load up the mails with certain-sure quack cures for him. And so, what’s bound to happen when it’s the Emperor?”

“I suppose it’s worse,” said Jimmy, sheepishly.

“Well, I should think so! Look here, Jimmy: every single night we cart off as many as six loads of that kind of letters from the back yard of the palace, where they’re thrown. Eighty thousand letters in one night! Do you reckon anybody reads them? Sho! not a single one. It’s what would happen to your letter if you wrote it—which you won’t, I reckon?”

“No,” sighed Jimmy, crushed.

“But it’s all right, Jimmy. Don’t you fret: there’s more than one way to skin a cat.
I’ll
get the word to him.”

“Oh, if you only
could
, Tommy, I should love you forever!”

“I’ll do it, I tell you. Don’t you worry; you depend on me.”

“Indeed I will, Tommy, for you do know so much. You’re not like other boys: they never know anything. How’ll you manage, Tommy?”

Tommy was greatly pleased. He settled himself for reposeful talk, and said:

“Do you know that ragged poor thing that thinks he’s a butcher because he goes around with a basket and sells cat’s meat and rotten livers? Well, to begin with, I’ll tell
him
.”

Jimmy was deeply disappointed and chagrined, and said:

“Now, Tommy, it’s a shame to talk so. You know my heart’s in it, and it’s not right.”

Tommy gave him a love-pat, and said:

“Don’t you be troubled, Jimmy.
I
know what I’m about. Pretty soon you’ll see. That half-breed butcher will tell the old woman that sells chestnuts at the corner of the lane—she’s his closest friend, and I’ll ask him to; then, by request, she’ll tell her rich aunt that keeps the little fruit-shop on the corner two blocks above; and that one will tell her particular friend, the man that keeps the game-shop; and he will tell his friend the sergeant of police; and the sergeant will tell his captain, and the captain will tell the magistrate, and the magistrate will tell his brother-in-law the county judge, and the county judge will tell the sheriff, and the sheriff will tell the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor will tell the President of the Council, and the President of the Council will tell the—”

“By George, but it’s a wonderful scheme, Tommy! How ever
did
you—”

“—Rear-Admiral, and the Rear will tell the Vice, and the Vice will tell the Admiral of the Blue, and the Blue will tell the Red, and the Red will tell the White, and the White will tell the First Lord of the Admiralty, and the First Lord will tell the Speaker of the House, and the Speaker—”