The Portable Mark Twain (13 page)

“Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she's broke, an' she got to sell all de niggers on de place. An' when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in Richmon', oh de good gracious! I know what dat mean!”

Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars.

“Dey put chains on us an' put us on a stan' as high as dis po'ch,—twenty foot high,—an' all de people stood aroun', crowds an' crowds. An' dey 'd come up dah an' look at us all roun', an' squeeze our arm, an' make us git up an' walk, an' den say, ‘Dis one too ole,' or ‘Dis one lame,' or ‘Dis one don't 'mount to much.' An' dey sole my ole man, an' took him away, an' dey begin to sell my chil'en an' take
dem
away, an' I begin to cry; an' de man say, ‘Shet up yo' dam blubberin',' an' hit me on de mouf wid his han'. An' when de las' one was gone but my little Henry, I grab'
him
clost up to my breas' so, an' I ris up an' says, ‘You shan't take him away,' I says; ‘I'll kill de man dat tetches him!' I says. But my little Henry whisper an' say, ‘I gwyne to run away, an' den I work an' buy yo' freedom.' Oh, bless de chile, he always so good! But dey got him—dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo'es mos' off of 'em, an' beat 'em over de head wid my chain; an'
dey
give it to
me,
too, but I didn't mine dat.

“Well, dah was my ole man gone, an' all my chil'en, all my seven chil'en—an' six of 'em I hain't set eyes on ag'in to dis day, an' dat's twenty-two years ago las' Easter. De man dat bought me b'long' in Newbern, an' he took me dah. Well, bymeby de years roll on an' de waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an' I was his family's cook. So when de Unions took dat town, dey all run away an' lef' me all by myse'f wid de other niggers in dat mons'us big house. So de big Union officers move in dah, an' dey ask me would I cook for
dem.
‘Lord bless you,' says I, ‘dat's what I's
for.
'

“Dey wa'n't no small-fry officers, mine you, dey was de biggest dey
is;
an' de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun'! De Gen'l he tole me to boss dat kitchen; an' he say, ‘If anybody come meddlin' wid you, you jist make 'em walk chalk; don't you be afeard,' he say; ‘you's 'mong frens, now.'

“Well, I thinks to myse'f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run away, he'd make to de Norf, o' course. So one day I comes in dah whah de big officers was, in de parlor, an' I drops a kurtchy, so, an' I up an' tole 'em 'bout my Henry, dey a-listenin' to my troubles jist de same as if I was white folks; an' I says, ‘What I come for is beca'se if he got away and got up Norf whah you gemmen comes from, you might 'a' seen him, maybe, an' could tell me so as I could fine him ag'in; he was very little, an' he had a sk-yar on his lef' wris', an' at de top of his forehead.' Den dey look mournful, an' de Gen'l say, ‘How long sence you los' him?' an' I say, ‘Thirteen year.' Den de Gen'l say, ‘He wouldn't be little no mo', now—he's a man!'

“I never thought o' dat befo'! He was only dat little feller to
me,
yit. I never thought 'bout him growin' up an' bein' big. But I see it den. None o' de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn't do nothin' for me. But all dat time, do'
I
didn't know it, my Henry
was
run off to de Norf, years an' years, an' he was a barber, too, an' worked for hisse'f. An' bymeby, when de waw come, he ups an' he says, ‘I's done barberin',' he says; ‘I's gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less'n she's dead.' So he sole out an' went to whah dey was recrutin', an' hired hisse'f out to de colonel for his servant; an' den he went all froo de battles everywhah, huntin' for his ole mammy; yes indeedy, he'd hire to fust one officer an' den another, tell he'd ransacked de whole Souf; but you see
I
didn't know nuffin 'bout
dis.
How was
I
gwyne to know it?

“Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern was always havin' balls an' carryin' on. Dey had 'em in my kitchen, heaps o' times, 'ca'se it was so big. Mine you, I was
down
on sich doin's; beca'se my place was wid de officers, an' it rasp' me to have dem common sojers cavortin' roun' my kitchen like dat. But I alway' stood aroun' an' kep' things straight, I did; an' sometimes dey'd git my dander up, an' den I'd make 'em clar dat kitchen, mine I
tell
you!

“Well, one night—it was a Friday night—dey comes a whole plattoon f'm a
nigger
ridgment dat was on gurad at de house,—de house was head-quarters, you know,—an' den I was jist a-
bilin'!
Mad? I was jist a-
boomin'!
I swelled aroun', an' swelled aroun'; I jist was a-itchin' for 'em to do somefin for to start me.
An'
dey was a-waltzin' an a-dancin'!
my!
but dey was havin' a time! an' I jist a-swellin' an' a-swellin' up! Pooty soon, 'long comes
sich
a spruce young nigger a-sailin' down de room wid a yaller wench roun' de wais'; an' roun' an' roun' an' roun' dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at 'em; an' when dey got abreas' o' me, dey went to kin' o' balancin' aroun', fust on one leg an' den on t'other, an' similin' at my big red turban, an' makin' fun, an' I ups an' says, ‘
Git
along wid you!—rubbage!' De young man's face kin o' changed, all of a sudden, for 'bout a second, but den he went to smilin' ag'in, same as he was befo'. Well, 'bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music an' b'long' to de ban', an' dey
never
could git along widout puttin' on airs. An' de very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into 'em! Dey laughed, an' dat made me wuss. De res' o' de niggers got to laughin', an' den my soul
alive
but I was hot! My eye was jist a-blazin'! I jist straightened myself up, so,—jist as I is now, plum to de ceilin', mos',—an' I digs my fists into my hips, an' I says, ‘Look-a-heah!' I says, ‘I want you niggers to understan' dat I wa' n't bawn in de mash to be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's Chickens,
I
is!' an' den I see dat young man stan' a-starin' an' stiff, lookin' kin' o' up at de ceilin' like he fo'got somefin, an' couldn't 'member it no mo'. Well, I jist march' on dem niggers,—so, lookin' like a gen'l,—an' dey jist cave' away befo' me an' out at de do'. An' as dis young man was a-goin' out, I heah him say to another nigger, ‘Jim,' he says, ‘you go 'long an' tell de cap'n I be on han' 'bout eight o'-clock in de mawnin'; dey's somefin on my mine,' he says; ‘I don't sleep no mo' dis night. You go 'long,' he says, ‘an' leave me by my own se'f.'

“Dis was 'bout one o'clock in de mawnin'. Well, 'bout seven, I was up an' on han', gittin' de officers' breakfast. I was a-stoopin' down by de stove,—jist so, same as if yo' foot was de stove,—an' I opened de stove do' wid my right han',—so, pushin' it back, jist as I pushes yo' foot,—an' I'd jist got de pan o' hot biscuits in my han' an' was 'bout to raise up, when I see a black face come aroun' under mine, an' de eyes a-lookin' up into mine, jist as I's a-lookin' up clost under yo' face now; an' I jist stopped
right dah,
an' never budged! jist gazed, an' gazed, so; an' de pan begin to tremble, an' all of a sudden I
knowed!
De pan drop' on de flo' an' I grab his lef' han' an' shove back his sleeve,—jist so, as I's doin' to you,—an' den I goes for his forehead an' push de hair back, so, an' ‘Boy!' I says, ‘if you an't my Henry, what is you doin' wid dis welt on yo' wris' an' dat sky-yar on yo' forehead? De Lord God ob heaven be praise', I got my own ag'in!'

“Oh, no, Misto C—,
I
hain't had no trouble. An' no
joy!
”

The Innocents Abroad
was Twain's first successful book and remains one of his funniest. It is the comic record of Twain's travels in Europe and the Holy Land in the company of Americans, most of whom he found so proper and self-righteous that he came to call them “pilgrims.” Part of the satirical purpose of the book is to expose sacred sites as bleak and uninviting and the travelers' giddy and reverential regard of them as overblown and sentimental. His simpleminded weeping over the tomb of his dead relative, Adam, is a case in point. There are moments, however, when Twain drops his role as comic iconoclast and antic realist and offers solemn and presumably sincere descriptions of places and people that are admiring, most notably the place of the Crucifixion and the Sphinx. His description of the Sea of Galilee belongs in this latter group.

The celebrated Sea of Galilee is not so large a sea as Lake Tahoe
¹
by a good deal—it is just about two-thirds as large. And when we come to speak of beauty, this sea is no more to be compared to Tahoe than a meridian of longitude is to a rainbow. The dim waters of this pool can not suggest the limpid brilliancy of Tahoe; these low, shaven, yellow hillocks of rocks and sand, so devoid of perspective, can not suggest the grand peaks that compass Tahoe like a wall, and whose ribbed and chasmed fronts are clad with stately pines that seem to grow small and smaller as they climb, till one might fancy them reduced to weeds and shrubs far upward, where they join the everlasting snows. Silence and solitude brook over Tahoe; and silence and solitude brood also over this lake of Genessaret. But the solitude of the one is as cheerful and fascinating as the solitude of the other is dismal and repellant.

In the early morning one watches the silent battle of dawn and darkness upon the waters of Tahoe with a placid interest; but when the shadows sulk away and one by one the hidden beauties of the shore unfold themselves in the full splendor of noon; when the still surface is belted like a rainbow with broad bars of blue and green and white, half the distance from circumference to centre; when, in the lazy summer afternoon, he lies in a boat, far out to where the dead blue of the deep water begins, and smokes the pipe of peace and idly winks at the distant crags and patches of snow from under his cap-brim; when the boat drifts shoreward to the white water, and he lolls over the gunwale and gazes by the hour down through the crystal depths and notes the colors of the pebbles and reviews the finny armies gliding in procession a hundred feet below; when at night he sees moon and stars, mountain ridges feathered with pines, jutting white capes, bold promontories, grand sweeps of rugged scenery topped with bald, glimmering peaks, all magnificently pictured in the polished mirror of the lake, in richest, softest detail, the tranquil interest that was born with the morning deepens and deepens, by sure degrees, till it culminates at last in resistless fascination!

It is solitude, for birds and squirrels on the shore and fishes in the water are all the creatures that are near to make it otherwise, but it is not the sort of solitude to make one dreary. Come to Galilee for that. If these unpeopled deserts, these rusty mounds of barrenness, that never, never, never do shake the glare from their harsh outlines, and fade and faint into vague perspective; that melancholy ruin of Capernaum; this stupid village of Tiberias, slumbering under its six funereal plumes of palms; yonder desolate declivity where the swine of the miracle ran down into the sea, and doubtless thought it was better to swallow a devil or two and get drowned into the bargain than have to live longer in such a place; this cloudless, blistering sky; this solemn, sailless, tintless lake, reposing within its rim of yellow hills and low, steep banks, and looking just as expressionless and unpoetical (when we leave its sublime history out of the question,) as any metropolitan reservoir in Christendom—if these things are not food for rock me to sleep, mother, none exist, I think.

But I should not offer the evidence for the prosecution and leave the defense unheard. Wm. C. Grimes deposes as follows: