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King William wears large bushy side-whiskers, and some critics have thought that this portrait would be more complete if they were added. But it was not possible. There was not room for side-whiskers and epaulets both, and so I let the whiskers go, and put in the epaulets, for the sake of style. That thing on his hat is an eagle. The Prussian eagle—it is a national emblem. When I say hat I mean helmet; but it seems impossible to make a picture of a helmet that a body can have confidence in.
I wish kind friends everywhere would aid me in my endeavor to attract a little attention to theGalaxyportraits. I feel persuaded it can be accomplished, if the course to be pursued be chosen with judgment. I write for that magazine all the time, and so do many abler men, and if I can get these portraits into universal favor, it is all I ask; the reading-matter will take care of itself.
There is nothing like it in the Vatican. It has none of that vagueness, that dreamy spirituality about it, which
many of the first critics of Arkansas have objected to in the Murillo
school of Art.Ruskin. The expression is very interesting.J.W. Titian. (Keeps a macaroni store in Venice, at the old family stand.) It is the neatest thing in still life I have seen for years.Rosa
Bonheur. The smile may be almost called unique.Bismarck. I never saw such character portrayed in a picture face before.De
Mellville. There is a benignant simplicity about the execution of this work which
warms the heart toward it as much, full as much, as it fascinates the eye.Landseer. One cannot see it without longing to contemplate the artist.Frederick
William. Send me the entire edition—together with the plate and the original
portrait—and name your own price. And—would you like to come
over and stay awhile with Napoleon at Wilhelmshohe? It shall not cost you
a cent.William III. Often a quite assified remark becomes sanctified by use and petrified by
custom; it is then a permanency, its term of activity a geologic period. Often a quite assified remark becomes sanctified by use and petrified by
custom; it is then a permanency, its term of activity a geologic period. The day after the arrival of Prince Henry I met an English friend, and he
rubbed his hands and broke out with a remark that was charged to the brim
with joy—joy that was evidently a pleasant salve to an old sore
place: “Many a time I've had to listen without retort to an old saying that is
irritatingly true, and until now seemed to offer no chance for a return
jibe: 'An Englishman does dearly love a lord'; but after this I shall talk
back, and say, 'How about the Americans?'” It is a curious thing, the currency that an idiotic saying can get. The
man that first says it thinks he has made a discovery. The man he says it
to, thinks the same. It departs on its travels, is received everywhere
with admiring acceptance, and not only as a piece of rare and acute
observation, but as being exhaustively true and profoundly wise; and so it
presently takes its place in the world's list of recognized and
established wisdoms, and after that no one thinks of examining it to see
whether it is really entitled to its high honors or not. I call to mind
instances of this in two well-established proverbs, whose dullness is not
surpassed by the one about the Englishman and his love for a lord: one of
them records the American's Adoration of the Almighty Dollar, the other
the American millionaire-girl's ambition to trade cash for a title, with a
husband thrown in. It isn't merely the American that adores the Almighty Dollar, it is the
human race. The human race has always adored the hatful of shells, or the
bale of calico, or the half-bushel of brass rings, or the handful of steel
fish-hooks, or the houseful of black wives, or the zareba full of cattle,
or the two-score camels and asses, or the factory, or the farm, or the
block of buildings, or the railroad bonds, or the bank stock, or the
hoarded cash, or—anything that stands for wealth and consideration
and independence, and can secure to the possessor that most precious of
all things, another man's envy. It was a dull person that invented the
idea that the American's devotion to the dollar is more strenuous than
another's. Rich American girls do buy titles, but they did not invent that idea; it
had been worn threadbare several hundred centuries before America was
discovered. European girls still exploit it as briskly as ever; and, when
a title is not to be had for the money in hand, they buy the husband
without it. They must put up the “dot,” or there is no trade. The
commercialization of brides is substantially universal, except in America.
It exists with us, to some little extent, but in no degree approaching a
custom. “The Englishman dearly loves a lord.” What is the soul and source of this love? I think the thing could be more
correctly worded: “The human race dearly envies a lord.” That is to say, it envies the lord's place. Why? On two accounts, I think:
its Power and its Conspicuousness. Where Conspicuousness carries with it a Power which, by the light of our
own observation and experience, we are able to measure and comprehend, I
think our envy of the possessor is as deep and as passionate as is that of
any other nation. No one can care less for a lord than the backwoodsman,
who has had no personal contact with lords and has seldom heard them
spoken of; but I will not allow that any Englishman has a profounder envy
of a lord than has the average American who has lived long years in a
European capital and fully learned how immense is the position the lord
occupies. Of any ten thousand Americans who eagerly gather, at vast inconvenience,
to get a glimpse of Prince Henry, all but a couple of hundred will be
there out of an immense curiosity; they are burning up with desire to see
a personage who is so much talked about. They envy him; but it is
Conspicuousness they envy mainly, not the Power that is lodged in his
royal quality and position, for they have but a vague and spectral
knowledge and appreciation of that; through their environment and
associations they have been accustomed to regard such things lightly, and
as not being very real; consequently, they are not able to value them
enough to consumingly envy them. But, whenever an American (or other human being) is in the presence, for
the first time, of a combination of great Power and Conspicuousness which
he thoroughly understands and appreciates, his eager curiosity and
pleasure will be well-sodden with that other passion—envy—whether
he suspects it or not. At any time, on any day, in any part of America,
you can confer a happiness upon any passing stranger by calling his
attention to any other passing stranger and saying: “Do you see that gentleman going along there? It is Mr. Rockefeller.” Watch his eye. It is a combination of power and conspicuousness which the
man understands. When we understand rank, we always like to rub against it. When a man is
conspicuous, we always want to see him. Also, if he will pay us an
attention we will manage to remember it. Also, we will mention it now and
then, casually; sometimes to a friend, or if a friend is not handy, we
will make out with a stranger. Well, then, what is rank, and what is conspicuousness? At once we think of
kings and aristocracies, and of world-wide celebrities in soldierships,
the arts, letters, etc., and we stop there. But that is a mistake. Rank
holds its court and receives its homage on every round of the ladder, from
the emperor down to the rat-catcher; and distinction, also, exists on
every round of the ladder, and commands its due of deference and envy. To worship rank and distinction is the dear and valued privilege of all
the human race, and it is freely and joyfully exercised in democracies as
well as in monarchies—and even, to some extent, among those
creatures whom we impertinently call the Lower Animals. For even they have
some poor little vanities and foibles, though in this matter they are
paupers as compared to us. A Chinese Emperor has the worship of his four hundred millions of
subjects, but the rest of the world is indifferent to him. A Christian
Emperor has the worship of his subjects and of a large part of the
Christian world outside of his domains; but he is a matter of indifference
to all China. A king, class A, has an extensive worship; a king, class B,
has a less extensive worship; class C, class D, class E get a steadily
diminishing share of worship; class L (Sultan of Zanzibar), class P
(Sultan of Sulu), and class W (half-king of Samoa), get no worship at all
outside their own little patch of sovereignty. Take the distinguished people along down. Each has his group of
homage-payers. In the navy, there are many groups; they start with the
Secretary and the Admiral, and go down to the quartermaster—and
below; for there will be groups among the sailors, and each of these
groups will have a tar who is distinguished for his battles, or his
strength, or his daring, or his profanity, and is admired and envied by
his group. The same with the army; the same with the literary and
journalistic craft; the publishing craft; the cod-fishery craft; Standard
Oil; U. S. Steel; the class A hotel—and the rest of the alphabet in
that line; the class A prize-fighter—and the rest of the alphabet in
his line—clear down to the lowest and obscurest six-boy gang of
little gamins, with its one boy that can thrash the rest, and to whom he
is king of Samoa, bottom of the royal race, but looked up to with a most
ardent admiration and envy. There is something pathetic, and funny, and pretty, about this human
race's fondness for contact with power and distinction, and for the
reflected glory it gets out of it. The king, class A, is happy in the
state banquet and the military show which the emperor provides for him,
and he goes home and gathers the queen and the princelings around him in
the privacy of the spare room, and tells them all about it, and says: “His Imperial Majesty put his hand upon my shoulder in the most friendly
way—just as friendly and familiar, oh, you can't imagine it!—and
everybodyseeinghim do it; charming, perfectly charming!” The king, class G, is happy in the cold collation and the police parade
provided for him by the king, class B, and goes home and tells the family
all about it, and says: “And His Majesty took me into his own private cabinet for a smoke and a
chat, and there we sat just as sociable, and talking away and laughing and
chatting, just the same as if we had been born in the same bunk; and all
the servants in the anteroom could see us doing it! Oh, it was too lovely
for anything!” The king, class Q, is happy in the modest entertainment furnished him by
the king, class M, and goes home and tells the household about it, and is
as grateful and joyful over it as were his predecessors in the gaudier
attentions that had fallen to their larger lot. Emperors, kings, artisans, peasants, big people, little people—at
the bottom we are all alike and all the same; all just alike on the
inside, and when our clothes are off, nobody can tell which of us is
which. We are unanimous in the pride we take in good and genuine
compliments paid us, and distinctions conferred upon us, in attentions
shown. There is not one of us, from the emperor down, but is made like
that. Do I mean attentions shown us by the guest? No, I mean simply
flattering attentions, let them come whence they may. We despise no source
that can pay us a pleasing attention—there is no source that is
humble enough for that. You have heard a dear little girl say to a frowzy
and disreputable dog: “He came right to me and let me pat him on the head,
and he wouldn't let the others touch him!” and you have seen her eyes
dance with pride in that high distinction. You have often seen that. If
the child were a princess, would that random dog be able to confer the
like glory upon her with his pretty compliment? Yes; and even in her
mature life and seated upon a throne, she would still remember it, still
recall it, still speak of it with frank satisfaction. That charming and
lovable German princess and poet, Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania,
remembers yet that the flowers of the woods and fields “talked to her”
when she was a girl, and she sets it down in her latest book; and that the
squirrels conferred upon her and her father the valued compliment of not
being afraid of them; and “once one of them, holding a nut between its
sharp little teeth, ran right up against my father”—it has the very
note of “He came right to me and let me pat him on the head”—“and
when it saw itself reflected in his boot it was very much surprised, and
stopped for a long time to contemplate itself in the polished leather”—then
it went its way. And the birds! she still remembers with pride that “they
came boldly into my room,” when she had neglected her “duty” and put no
food on the window-sill for them; she knew all the wild birds, and forgets
the royal crown on her head to remember with pride that they knew her;
also that the wasp and the bee were personal friends of hers, and never
forgot that gracious relationship to her injury: “never have I been stung
by a wasp or a bee.” And here is that proud note again that sings in that
little child's elation in being singled out, among all the company of
children, for the random dog's honor-conferring attentions. “Even in the
very worst summer for wasps, when, in lunching out of doors, our table was
covered with them and every one else was stung, they never hurt me.” When a queen whose qualities of mind and heart and character are able to
add distinction to so distinguished a place as a throne, remembers with
grateful exultation, after thirty years, honors and distinctions conferred
upon her by the humble, wild creatures of the forest, we are helped to
realize that complimentary attentions, homage, distinctions, are of no
caste, but are above all cast—that they are a nobility-conferring
power apart. We all like these things. When the gate-guard at the railway-station
passes me through unchallenged and examines other people's tickets, I feel
as the king, class A, felt when the emperor put the imperial hand on his
shoulder, “everybody seeing him do it”; and as the child felt when the
random dog allowed her to pat his head and ostracized the others; and as
the princess felt when the wasps spared her and stung the rest; and I felt
just so, four years ago in Vienna (and remember it yet), when the helmeted
police shut me off, with fifty others, from a street which the Emperor was
to pass through, and the captain of the squad turned and saw the situation
and said indignantly to that guard: “Can't you see it is the Herr Mark Twain? Let him through!” It was four years ago; but it will be four hundred before I forget the
wind of self-complacency that rose in me, and strained my buttons when I
marked the deference for me evoked in the faces of my fellow-rabble, and
noted, mingled with it, a puzzled and resentful expression which said, as
plainly as speech could have worded it: “And who in the nation is the Herr
Mark Twainum gotteswillen?” How many times in your life have you heard this boastful remark: “I stood as close to him as I am to you; I could have put out my hand and
touched him.” We have all heard it many and many a time. It was a proud distinction to
be able to say those words. It brought envy to the speaker, a kind of
glory; and he basked in it and was happy through all his veins. And who
was it he stood so close to? The answer would cover all the grades.
Sometimes it was a king; sometimes it was a renowned highwayman; sometimes
it was an unknown man killed in an extraordinary way and made suddenly
famous by it; always it was a person who was for the moment the subject of
public interest of a village. “I was there, and I saw it myself.” That is a common and envy-compelling
remark. It can refer to a battle; to a hanging; to a coronation; to the
killing of Jumbo by the railway-train; to the arrival of Jenny Lind at the
Battery; to the meeting of the President and Prince Henry; to the chase of
a murderous maniac; to the disaster in the tunnel; to the explosion in the
subway; to a remarkable dog-fight; to a village church struck by
lightning. It will be said, more or less causally, by everybody in America
who has seen Prince Henry do anything, or try to. The man who was absent
and didn't see him to anything, will scoff. It is his privilege; and he
can make capital out of it, too; he will seem, even to himself, to be
different from other Americans, and better. As his opinion of his superior
Americanism grows, and swells, and concentrates and coagulates, he will go
further and try to belittle the distinction of those that saw the Prince
do things, and will spoil their pleasure in it if he can. My life has been
embittered by that kind of person. If you are able to tell of a special
distinction that has fallen to your lot, it gravels them; they cannot bear
it; and they try to make believe that the thing you took for a special
distinction was nothing of the kind and was meant in quite another way.
Once I was received in private audience by an emperor. Last week I was
telling a jealous person about it, and I could see him wince under it, see
him bite, see him suffer. I revealed the whole episode to him with
considerable elaboration and nice attention to detail. When I was through,
he asked me what had impressed me most. I said: “His Majesty's delicacy. They told me to be sure and back out from the
presence, and find the door-knob as best I could; it was not allowable to
face around. Now the Emperor knew it would be a difficult ordeal for me,
because of lack of practice; and so, when it was time to part, he turned,
with exceeding delicacy, and pretended to fumble with things on his desk,
so I could get out in my own way, without his seeing me.” It went home! It was vitriol! I saw the envy and disgruntlement rise in
the man's face; he couldn't keep it down. I saw him try to fix up
something in his mind to take the bloom off that distinction. I enjoyed
that, for I judged that he had his work cut out for him. He struggled
along inwardly for quite a while; then he said, with a manner of a person
who has to say something and hasn't anything relevant to say: “You said he had a handful of special-brand cigars on the table?” “Yes;Inever saw anything to match them.” I had him again. He had to fumble around in his mind as much as another
minute before he could play; then he said in as mean a way as I ever heard
a person say anything: “He could have been counting the cigars, you know.” I cannot endure a man like that. It is nothing to him how unkind he is, so
long as he takes the bloom off. It is all he cares for. “An Englishman (or other human being) does dearly love a lord,” (or other
conspicuous person.) It includes us all. We love to be noticed by the
conspicuous person; we love to be associated with such, or with a
conspicuous event, even in a seventh-rate fashion, even in the
forty-seventh, if we cannot do better. This accounts for some of our
curious tastes in mementos. It accounts for the large private trade in the
Prince of Wales's hair, which chambermaids were able to drive in that
article of commerce when the Prince made the tour of the world in the long
ago—hair which probably did not always come from his brush, since
enough of it was marketed to refurnish a bald comet; it accounts for the
fact that the rope which lynches a negro in the presence of ten thousand
Christian spectators is salable five minutes later at two dollars and
inch; it accounts for the mournful fact that a royal personage does not
venture to wear buttons on his coat in public. We do love a lord—and by that term I mean any person whose situation
is higher than our own. The lord of the group, for instance: a group of
peers, a group of millionaires, a group of hoodlums, a group of sailors, a
group of newsboys, a group of saloon politicians, a group of college
girls. No royal person has ever been the object of a more delirious
loyalty and slavish adoration than is paid by the vast Tammany herd to its
squalid idol of Wantage. There is not a bifurcated animal in that
menagerie that would not be proud to appear in a newspaper picture in his
company. At the same time, there are some in that organization who would
scoff at the people who have been daily pictured in company with Prince
Henry, and would say vigorously thattheywould not consent to be
photographed with him—a statement which would not be true in any
instance. There are hundreds of people in America who would frankly say to
you that they would not be proud to be photographed in a group with the
Prince, if invited; and some of these unthinking people would believe it
when they said it; yet in no instance would it be true. We have a large
population, but we have not a large enough one, by several millions, to
furnish that man. He has not yet been begotten, and in fact he is not
begettable. You may take any of the printed groups, and there isn't a person in the
dim background who isn't visibly trying to be vivid; if it is a crowd of
ten thousand—ten thousand proud, untamed democrats, horny-handed
sons of toil and of politics, and fliers of the eagle—there isn't
one who is trying to keep out of range, there isn't one who isn't plainly
meditating a purchase of the paper in the morning, with the intention of
hunting himself out in the picture and of framing and keeping it if he
shall find so much of his person in it as his starboard ear. We all love to get some of the drippings of Conspicuousness, and we will
put up with a single, humble drip, if we can't get any more. We may
pretend otherwise, in conversation; but we can't pretend it to ourselves
privately—and we don't. We do confess in public that we are the
noblest work of God, being moved to it by long habit, and teaching, and
superstition; but deep down in the secret places of our souls we recognize
that, if wearethe noblest work, the less said about it the
better. We of the North poke fun at the South for its fondness of titles—a
fondness for titles pure and simple, regardless of whether they are
genuine or pinchbeck. We forget that whatever a Southerner likes the rest
of the human race likes, and that there is no law of predilection lodged
in one people that is absent from another people. There is no variety in
the human race. We are all children, all children of the one Adam, and we
love toys. We can soon acquire that Southern disease if some one will give
it a start. It already has a start, in fact. I have been personally
acquainted with over eighty-four thousand persons who, at one time or
another in their lives, have served for a year or two on the staffs of our
multitudinous governors, and through that fatality have been generals
temporarily, and colonels temporarily, and judge-advocates temporarily;
but I have known only nine among them who could be hired to let the title
go when it ceased to be legitimate. I know thousands and thousands of
governors who ceased to be governors away back in the last century; but I
am acquainted with only three who would answer your letter if you failed
to call them “Governor” in it. I know acres and acres of men who have done
time in a legislature in prehistoric days, but among them is not half an
acre whose resentment you would not raise if you addressed them as “Mr.”
instead of “Hon.” The first thing a legislature does is to convene in an
impressive legislative attitude, and get itself photographed. Each member
frames his copy and takes it to the woods and hangs it up in the most
aggressively conspicuous place in his house; and if you visit the house
and fail to inquire what that accumulation is, the conversation will be
brought around to it by that aforetime legislator, and he will show you a
figure in it which in the course of years he has almost obliterated with
the smut of his finger-marks, and say with a solemn joy, “It's me!” Have you ever seen a country Congressman enter the hotel breakfast-room in
Washington with his letters?—and sit at his table and let on to read
them?—and wrinkle his brows and frown statesman-like?—keeping
a furtive watch-out over his glasses all the while to see if he is being
observed and admired?—those same old letters which he fetches in
every morning? Have you seen it? Have you seen him show off? It isthesight of the national capital. Except one; a pathetic one. That is the
ex-Congressman: the poor fellow whose life has been ruined by a two-year
taste of glory and of fictitious consequence; who has been superseded, and
ought to take his heartbreak home and hide it, but cannot tear himself
away from the scene of his lost little grandeur; and so he lingers, and
still lingers, year after year, unconsidered, sometimes snubbed, ashamed
of his fallen estate, and valiantly trying to look otherwise; dreary and
depressed, but counterfeiting breeziness and gaiety, hailing with chummy
familiarity, which is not always welcomed, the more-fortunates who are
still in place and were once his mates. Have you seen him? He clings
piteously to the one little shred that is left of his departed distinction—the
“privilege of the floor”; and works it hard and gets what he can out of
it. That is the saddest figure I know of. Yes, we do so love our little distinctions! And then we loftily scoff at a
Prince for enjoying his larger ones; forgetting that if we only had his
chance—ah! “Senator” is not a legitimate title. A Senator has no
more right to be addressed by it than have you or I; but, in the several
state capitals and in Washington, there are five thousand Senators who
take very kindly to that fiction, and who purr gratefully when you call
them by it—which you may do quite unrebuked. Then those same
Senators smile at the self-constructed majors and generals and judges of
the South! Indeed, we do love our distinctions, get them how we may. And we work them
for all they are worth. In prayer we call ourselves “worms of the dust,”
but it is only on a sort of tacit understanding that the remark shall not
be taken at par.We—worms of the dust! Oh, no, we are not
that. Except in fact; and we do not deal much in fact when we are
contemplating ourselves. As a race, we do certainly love a lord—let him be Croker, or a duke,
or a prize-fighter, or whatever other personage shall chance to be the
head of our group. Many years ago, I saw a greasy youth in overalls
standing by theHeraldoffice, with an expectant look in his face.
Soon a large man passed out, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. That was
what the boy was waiting for—the large man's notice. The pat made
him proud and happy, and the exultation inside of him shone out through
his eyes; and his mates were there to see the pat and envy it and wish
they could have that glory. The boy belonged down cellar in the
press-room, the large man was king of the upper floors, foreman of the
composing-room. The light in the boy's face was worship, the foreman was
his lord, head of his group. The pat was an accolade. It was as precious
to the boy as it would have been if he had been an aristocrat's son and
the accolade had been delivered by his sovereign with a sword. The
quintessence of the honor was all there; there was no difference in
values; in truth there was no difference present except an artificial one—clothes. All the human race loves a lord—that is, loves to look upon or be
noticed by the possessor of Power or Conspicuousness; and sometimes
animals, born to better things and higher ideals, descend to man's level
in this matter. In the Jardin des Plantes I have see a cat that was so
vain of being the personal friend of an elephant that I was ashamed of
her. MONDAY.—This new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the
way. It is always hanging around and following me about. I don't like
this; I am not used to company. I wish it would stay with the other
animals.... Cloudy today, wind in the east; think we shall have rain....We?Where did I get that word—the new creature uses it. TUESDAY.—Been examining the great waterfall. It is the finest thing
on the estate, I think. The new creature calls it Niagara Falls—why,
I am sure I do not know. Says itlookslike Niagara Falls. That is
not a reason, it is mere waywardness and imbecility. I get no chance to
name anything myself. The new creature names everything that comes along,
before I can get in a protest. And always that same pretext is offered—itlookslike the thing. There is a dodo, for instance. Says the
moment one looks at it one sees at a glance that it “looks like a dodo.”
It will have to keep that name, no doubt. It wearies me to fret about it,
and it does no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a dodo than I do. WEDNESDAY.—Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have
it to myself in peace. The new creature intruded. When I tried to put it
out it shed water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it away with
the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of the other animals
make when they are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is always
talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur; but
I do not mean it so. I have never heard the human voice before, and any
new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these
dreaming solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. And this new
sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my ear,
first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only to sounds that
are more or less distant from me. FRIDAY. The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do. I
had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty—Garden
Of Eden.Privately, I continue to call it that, but not any longer
publicly. The new creature says it is all woods and rocks and scenery, and
therefore has no resemblance to a garden. Says itlookslike a
park, and does not look like anythingbuta park. Consequently,
without consulting me, it has been new-namedNiagara Falls Park.
This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me. And already there is a
sign up: My life is not as happy as it was. SATURDAY.—The new creature eats too much fruit. We are going to run
short, most likely. “We” again—that isitsword; mine, too,
now, from hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this morning. I do not go
out in the fog myself. This new creature does. It goes out in all
weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It used to
be so pleasant and quiet here. SUNDAY.—Pulled through. This day is getting to be more and more
trying. It was selected and set apart last November as a day of rest. I
had already six of them per week before. This morning found the new
creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree. MONDAY.—The new creature says its name is Eve. That is all right, I
have no objections. Says it is to call it by, when I want it to come. I
said it was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised me in its
respect; and indeed it is a large, good word and will bear repetition. It
says it is not an It, it is a She. This is probably doubtful; yet it is
all one to me; what she is were nothing to me if she would but go by
herself and not talk. TUESDAY.—She has littered the whole estate with execrable names and
offensive signs: She says this park would make a tidy summer resort if there was any custom
for it. Summer resort—another invention of hers—just words,
without any meaning. What is a summer resort? But it is best not to ask
her, she has such a rage for explaining. FRIDAY.—She has taken to beseeching me to stop going over the Falls.
What harm does it do? Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why; I have
always done it—always liked the plunge, and coolness. I supposed it
was what the Falls were for. They have no other use that I can see, and
they must have been made for something. She says they were only made for
scenery—like the rhinoceros and the mastodon. I went over the Falls in a barrel—not satisfactory to her. Went over
in a tub—still not satisfactory. Swam the Whirlpool and the Rapids
in a fig-leaf suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious complaints about
my extravagance. I am too much hampered here. What I need is a change of
scene. SATURDAY.—I escaped last Tuesday night, and traveled two days, and
built me another shelter in a secluded place, and obliterated my tracks as
well as I could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast which she has
tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful noise again, and
shedding that water out of the places she looks with. I was obliged to
return with her, but will presently emigrate again when occasion offers.
She engages herself in many foolish things; among others; to study out why
the animals called lions and tigers live on grass and flowers, when, as
she says, the sort of teeth they wear would indicate that they were
intended to eat each other. This is foolish, because to do that would be
to kill each other, and that would introduce what, as I understand, is
called “death”; and death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the
Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts. SUNDAY.—Pulled through. MONDAY.—I believe I see what the week is for: it is to give time to
rest up from the weariness of Sunday. It seems a good idea. ... She has
been climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it. She said nobody was
looking. Seems to consider that a sufficient justification for chancing
any dangerous thing. Told her that. The word justification moved her
admiration—and envy, too, I thought. It is a good word. TUESDAY.—She told me she was made out of a rib taken from my body.
This is at least doubtful, if not more than that. I have not missed any
rib.... She is in much trouble about the buzzard; says grass does not
agree with it; is afraid she can't raise it; thinks it was intended to
live on decayed flesh. The buzzard must get along the best it can with
what is provided. We cannot overturn the whole scheme to accommodate the
buzzard. SATURDAY.—She fell in the pond yesterday when she was looking at
herself in it, which she is always doing. She nearly strangled, and said
it was most uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the creatures which
live in there, which she calls fish, for she continues to fasten names on
to things that don't need them and don't come when they are called by
them, which is a matter of no consequence to her, she is such a numbskull,
anyway; so she got a lot of them out and brought them in last night and
put them in my bed to keep warm, but I have noticed them now and then all
day and I don't see that they are any happier there then they were before,
only quieter. When night comes I shall throw them outdoors. I will not
sleep with them again, for I find them clammy and unpleasant to lie among
when a person hasn't anything on. SUNDAY.—Pulled through. TUESDAY.—She has taken up with a snake now. The other animals are
glad, for she was always experimenting with them and bothering them; and I
am glad because the snake talks, and this enables me to get a rest. FRIDAY.—She says the snake advises her to try the fruit of the tree,
and says the result will be a great and fine and noble education. I told
her there would be another result, too—it would introduce death into
the world. That was a mistake—it had been better to keep the remark
to myself; it only gave her an idea—she could save the sick buzzard,
and furnish fresh meat to the despondent lions and tigers. I advised her
to keep away from the tree. She said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will
emigrate. WEDNESDAY.—I have had a variegated time. I escaped last night, and
rode a horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping to get clear of the
Park and hide in some other country before the trouble should begin; but
it was not to be. About an hour after sun-up, as I was riding through a
flowery plain where thousands of animals were grazing, slumbering, or
playing with each other, according to their wont, all of a sudden they
broke into a tempest of frightful noises, and in one moment the plain was
a frantic commotion and every beast was destroying its neighbor. I knew
what it meant—Eve had eaten that fruit, and death was come into the
world. ... The tigers ate my house, paying no attention when I ordered
them to desist, and they would have eaten me if I had stayed—which I
didn't, but went away in much haste.... I found this place, outside the
Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few days, but she has found me out.
Found me out, and has named the place Tonawanda—says itlookslike that. In fact I was not sorry she came, for there are but meager
pickings here, and she brought some of those apples. I was obliged to eat
them, I was so hungry. It was against my principles, but I find that
principles have no real force except when one is well fed.... She came
curtained in boughs and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what she
meant by such nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down, she
tittered and blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush before,
and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic. She said I would soon know how
it was myself. This was correct. Hungry as I was, I laid down the apple
half-eaten—certainly the best one I ever saw, considering the
lateness of the season—and arrayed myself in the discarded boughs
and branches, and then spoke to her with some severity and ordered her to
go and get some more and not make a spectacle of herself. She did it, and
after this we crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and
collected some skins, and I made her patch together a couple of suits
proper for public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is true, but
stylish, and that is the main point about clothes.... I find she is a good
deal of a companion. I see I should be lonesome and depressed without her,
now that I have lost my property. Another thing, she says it is ordered
that we work for our living hereafter. She will be useful. I will
superintend. TEN DAYS LATER.—She accusesmeof being the cause of our
disaster! She says, with apparent sincerity and truth, that the Serpent
assured her that the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts. I
said I was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any chestnuts. She said the
Serpent informed her that “chestnut” was a figurative term meaning an aged
and moldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I have made many jokes to pass
the weary time, and some of them could have been of that sort, though I
had honestly supposed that they were new when I made them. She asked me if
I had made one just at the time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit
that I had made one to myself, though not aloud. It was this. I was
thinking about the Falls, and I said to myself, “How wonderful it is to
see that vast body of water tumble down there!” Then in an instant a
bright thought flashed into my head, and I let it fly, saying, “It would
be a deal more wonderful to see it tumbleupthere!”—and I
was just about to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature broke
loose in war and death and I had to flee for my life. “There,” she said,
with triumph, “that is just it; the Serpent mentioned that very jest, and
called it the First Chestnut, and said it was coeval with the creation.”
Alas, I am indeed to blame. Would that I were not witty; oh, that I had
never had that radiant thought! NEXT YEAR.—We have named it Cain. She caught it while I was up
country trapping on the North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber a
couple of miles from our dug-out—or it might have been four, she
isn't certain which. It resembles us in some ways, and may be a relation.
That is what she thinks, but this is an error, in my judgment. The
difference in size warrants the conclusion that it is a different and new
kind of animal—a fish, perhaps, though when I put it in the water to
see, it sank, and she plunged in and snatched it out before there was
opportunity for the experiment to determine the matter. I still think it
is a fish, but she is indifferent about what it is, and will not let me
have it to try. I do not understand this. The coming of the creature seems
to have changed her whole nature and made her unreasonable about
experiments. She thinks more of it than she does of any of the other
animals, but is not able to explain why. Her mind is disordered—everything
shows it. Sometimes she carries the fish in her arms half the night when
it complains and wants to get to the water. At such times the water comes
out of the places in her face that she looks out of, and she pats the fish
on the back and makes soft sounds with her mouth to soothe it, and betrays
sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways. I have never seen her do like
this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly. She used to carry
the young tigers around so, and play with them, before we lost our
property, but it was only play; she never took on about them like this
when their dinner disagreed with them. SUNDAY.—She doesn't work, Sundays, but lies around all tired out,
and likes to have the fish wallow over her; and she makes fool noises to
amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it laugh. I have
not seen a fish before that could laugh. This makes me doubt.... I have
come to like Sunday myself. Superintending all the week tires a body so.
There ought to be more Sundays. In the old days they were tough, but now
they come handy. WEDNESDAY.—It isn't a fish. I cannot quite make out what it is. It
makes curious devilish noises when not satisfied, and says “goo-goo” when
it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk; it is not a bird, for it
doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for it doesn't hop; it is not a snake, for
it doesn't crawl; I feel sure it is not a fish, though I cannot get a
chance to find out whether it can swim or not. It merely lies around, and
mostly on its back, with its feet up. I have not seen any other animal do
that before. I said I believed it was an enigma; but she only admired the
word without understanding it. In my judgment it is either an enigma or
some kind of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what its
arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex me so. THREE MONTHS LATER.—The perplexity augments instead of diminishing.
I sleep but little. It has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its
four legs now. Yet it differs from the other four legged animals, in that
its front legs are unusually short, consequently this causes the main part
of its person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air, and this is not
attractive. It is built much as we are, but its method of traveling shows
that it is not of our breed. The short front legs and long hind ones
indicate that it is a of the kangaroo family, but it is a marked variation
of that species, since the true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never
does. Still it is a curious and interesting variety, and has not been
catalogued before. As I discovered it, I have felt justified in securing
the credit of the discovery by attaching my name to it, and hence have
called itKangaroorum Adamiensis.... It must have been a young one
when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since. It must be five times as
big, now, as it was then, and when discontented it is able to make from
twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it made at first. Coercion does
not modify this, but has the contrary effect. For this reason I
discontinued the system. She reconciles it by persuasion, and by giving it
things which she had previously told me she wouldn't give it. As already
observed, I was not at home when it first came, and she told me she found
it in the woods. It seems odd that it should be the only one, yet it must
be so, for I have worn myself out these many weeks trying to find another
one to add to my collection, and for this to play with; for surely then it
would be quieter and we could tame it more easily. But I find none, nor
any vestige of any; and strangest of all, no tracks. It has to live on the
ground, it cannot help itself; therefore, how does it get about without
leaving a track? I have set a dozen traps, but they do no good. I catch
all small animals except that one; animals that merely go into the trap
out of curiosity, I think, to see what the milk is there for. They never
drink it. THREE MONTHS LATER.—The Kangaroo still continues to grow, which is
very strange and perplexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its
growth. It has fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur, but exactly
like our hair except that it is much finer and softer, and instead of
being black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the capricious and
harassing developments of this unclassifiable zoological freak. If I could
catch another one—but that is hopeless; it is a new variety, and the
only sample; this is plain. But I caught a true kangaroo and brought it
in, thinking that this one, being lonesome, would rather have that for
company than have no kin at all, or any animal it could feel a nearness to
or get sympathy from in its forlorn condition here among strangers who do
not know its ways or habits, or what to do to make it feel that it is
among friends; but it was a mistake—it went into such fits at the
sight of the kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one before. I
pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is nothing I can do to make
it happy. If I could tame it—but that is out of the question; the
more I try the worse I seem to make it. It grieves me to the heart to see
it in its little storms of sorrow and passion. I wanted to let it go, but
she wouldn't hear of it. That seemed cruel and not like her; and yet she
may be right. It might be lonelier than ever; for since I cannot find
another one, how couldit? FIVE MONTHS LATER.—It is not a kangaroo. No, for it supports itself
by holding to her finger, and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and
then falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear; and yet it has no
tail—as yet—and no fur, except upon its head. It still keeps
on growing—that is a curious circumstance, for bears get their
growth earlier than this. Bears are dangerous—since our catastrophe—and
I shall not be satisfied to have this one prowling about the place much
longer without a muzzle on. I have offered to get her a kangaroo if she
would let this one go, but it did no good—she is determined to run
us into all sorts of foolish risks, I think. She was not like this before
she lost her mind. A FORTNIGHT LATER.—I examined its mouth. There is no danger yet: it
has only one tooth. It has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it
ever did before—and mainly at night. I have moved out. But I shall
go over, mornings, to breakfast, and see if it has more teeth. If it gets
a mouthful of teeth it will be time for it to go, tail or no tail, for a
bear does not need a tail in order to be dangerous. FOUR MONTHS LATER.—I have been off hunting and fishing a month, up
in the region that she calls Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is
because there are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has learned
to paddle around all by itself on its hind legs, and says “poppa” and
“momma.” It is certainly a new species. This resemblance to words may be
purely accidental, of course, and may have no purpose or meaning; but even
in that case it is still extraordinary, and is a thing which no other bear
can do. This imitation of speech, taken together with general absence of
fur and entire absence of tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a new
kind of bear. The further study of it will be exceedingly interesting.
Meantime I will go off on a far expedition among the forests of the north
and make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be another one
somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it has company of its
own species. I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this one first. THREE MONTHS LATER.—It has been a weary, weary hunt, yet I have had
no success. In the mean time, without stirring from the home estate, she
has caught another one! I never saw such luck. I might have hunted these
woods a hundred years, I never would have run across that thing. NEXT DAY.—I have been comparing the new one with the old one, and it
is perfectly plain that they are of the same breed. I was going to stuff
one of them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against it for some
reason or other; so I have relinquished the idea, though I think it is a
mistake. It would be an irreparable loss to science if they should get
away. The old one is tamer than it was and can laugh and talk like a
parrot, having learned this, no doubt, from being with the parrot so much,
and having the imitative faculty in a highly developed degree. I shall be
astonished if it turns out to be a new kind of parrot; and yet I ought not
to be astonished, for it has already been everything else it could think
of since those first days when it was a fish. The new one is as ugly as
the old one was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat complexion and
the same singular head without any fur on it. She calls it Abel. TEN YEARS LATER.—They areboys; we found it out long ago. It
was their coming in that small immature shape that puzzled us; we were not
used to it. There are some girls now. Abel is a good boy, but if Cain had
stayed a bear it would have improved him. After all these years, I see
that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live
outside the Garden with her than inside it without her. At first I thought
she talked too much; but now I should be sorry to have that voice fall
silent and pass out of my life. Blessed be the chestnut that brought us
near together and taught me to know the goodness of her heart and the
sweetness of her spirit!
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