by Twain, Mark
“James, I might have known you would say some awful thing like that. Some day a judgment will overtake you when you least expect it. And after saying what you have said about Mr. Rucker, perhaps you will feel some natural shame when you learn what he has been saying to me about our Oscar.”
“What was it? What did he say?”
“He said there was not another youth of seventeen in the Sunday School that was so bright.”
“Bright. What of that? He is bright enough, but what is brightness worth when it is allied to constitutional and indestructible instability of character? Oscar’s a fool.”
“For pity’s sake! And he your own son.”
“It’s what he is. He is a fool. And I can’t help his being my son. It is one of those judgments that overtake a person when he is least expecting it.”
“James, I wonder how you can say such things. The idea of calling your own son a judgment.”
“Oh, call him a benefaction if you like.”
“I do call him one, James; and I bless the day that God in his loving thoughtfulness gave him to us.”
“That is pure flattery.”
“James Carpenter!”
“That is what it is, and you know it. What is there about it to suggest loving thoughtfulness—or any kind of thoughtfulness? It was an inadvertence.”
“James, such language is perfectly shocking. It is profanity.”
“Profanity is better than flattery. The trouble with you Presbyterians and other church-people is that you exercise no discrimination. Whatever comes, you praise; you call it praise, and you think it praise; yet in the majority of cases it is flattery. Flattery, and undignified; undignified and unworthy. Your singular idea that Oscar was a result of thoughtfulness—”
“James, I won’t listen to such talk! If you would go to church yourself, instead of finding fault with people who do, it would be better.”
“But I don’t find fault with people who do.”
“Didn’t you just say that they exercise no discrimination, and all that?”
“Certainly, but I did not say that that was an effect of going to church. It probably is; and now that you press me, I think it is; but I didn’t quite say it.”
“Well, James, you as good as said it; and now it comes out that at bottom you thought it. It shows how staying away from church makes a person uncharitable in his judgments and opinions.”
“Oh, come!”
“But it does.”
“I dissent—distinctly.”
“Now James, how can you know? In the nineteen years that we have been married, you have been to church only once, and that was nearly nineteen years ago. You have been uncharitable in your judgments ever since—more or less so.”
“I do not quite catch your argument. Do you mean that going to church only once made me uncharitable for life?”
“James, you know very well that I meant nothing of the kind. You just said that to provoke me. You know perfectly well that I meant—I meant—now you have got me all confused, and I don’t know what I did mean.”
“Don’t trouble about it, Sarah. It’s not like having a new experience, you know. For—”
“That will do, James. I do not wish to hear anything more about it. And as for Oscar—”
“Good—let us have some more Oscar for a change. Is it true that he has resigned from the Cadets of Temperance?”
“Ye-s.”
“I thought he would.”
“Indeed? And what made you think it?”
“Because he has been a member three months.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“It’s his limit.”
“What do you mean by that, James?”
“Three months is his limit—in most things. When it isn’t three weeks or three days or three hours. You must have noticed that. He revolves in threes—it is his make. He is a creature of enthusiasms. Burning enthusiasms. They flare up, and light all the region round. For three months, or weeks, or days. Then they go out and he catches fire in another place. You remember he was the joy of the Methodist Sunday school at 7—for three months. Then he was the joy of the Campbellite Sunday school—for three months. Then of the Baptist—for three months. Then of the Presbyterian—for three months. Then he started over again with the Methodist contingent, and went through the list again; and yet again; and still again; and so on. He has been the hope and joy of each of those sources of spiritual supply nine times in nine years; and from Mr. Rucker’s remark I gather that he is now booming the Presbyterian interest once more. As concerns the Cadets of Temperance, I was just thinking that his quarterly period—”
“James, it makes me sick to hear you talk like that. You have never loved your boy. And you never encourage him. You know how sensitive he is to slights and neglect, yet you have always neglected him. You know how quickly he responds to praise, and how necessary praise and commendation and encouragement are to him—indeed they are his very life—yet he gets none of these helps from you. How can you expect him to be steadfast; how can you expect him to keep up his heart in his little affairs and plans when you never show any interest in them and never applaud anything he does?”
“Applaud? What is there to applaud? It is just as you say: praise is his meat and bread—it is his life. And there never was such an unappeasable appetite. So long as you feed him praise, he gorges, gorges, gorges, and is obscenely happy; the moment you stop he is famished—famished and wretched; utterly miserable, despondent, despairing. You ought to know all about it. You have tried to keep him fed-up, all his life, and you know what a job it is. I detest that word—encouragement—where the male sex is concerned. The boy that needs much of it is a girl in disguise. He ought to put on petticoats. Praise has a value—when it is earned. When it isn’t earned, the male creature receiving it ought to despise it; and will, when there is a proper degree of manliness in him. Sarah, if it is possible to make anything creditable out of the boy, only a strong hand can do it. Not yours, and not mine. You are all indulgence, I all indifference. The earlier the strong hand takes him in charge, the better. And not here in Dawson’s Landing, where he can be always running home for sympathy and pettings, but in some other place—as far off as St Louis, say. You gasp!”
“Oh, James, James, you can’t mean what you say! Oh, I never could bear it; oh, I know I never could.”
“Now come, don’t cry, Sarah. Be reasonable. You don’t want the boy ruined. Now do you?”
“But oh, to have him away off there, and I not by if anything should happen.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. He—”
“James—he might get sick. And if I were not there—”
“But you can go there, if he gets sick. Let us not borrow trouble—there is time enough. Other boys go from home—it is nothing new—and if Oscar doesn’t, he will be ruined. Now you know Underwood—a good man, and an old and trusty friend of mine.”
“The printer?”
“Yes. I have been corresponding with him. He is willing to take Oscar as an apprentice. Now doesn’t that strike you pleasantly?”
“Why—yes. If he must go away from home—oh, dear, dear, dear!—why of course I would rather have him with Mr. Underwood than with anyone else. I want to see Oscar succeed in the world; I desire it as much as you can. But surely there are other ways than the one proposed; and ways more soothing to one’s pride, too. Why should our son be a common mechanic—a printer? As far back as we can go there have been no mechanics in your family, and none in mine. In Virginia, for more than two centuries they have been as good as anybody about them; they have been slave-holding planters, professional men, politicians—now and then a merchant, but never a mechanic. They have always been gentlemen. And they were that in England before they came over. Isn’t it so?”
“I am not denying it. Go on.”
“Don’t speak in that tired way, James. You always act annoyed when I speak of our ancestors, and once you said ‘Damn the ancestors.’ I remember it very well
. I wonder you could say such a horrid thing about them, knowing, as you do, how brief this life is, and how soon you must be an ancestor yourself.”
“God forgive me, I never thought of that.”
“I heard that, James—heard every word of it; and you said it ironically, too, which is not good taste—no better taste than muttering it was—muttering to yourself like that when your wife is talking to you.”
“Well, I’m sorry; go on, I won’t do it again. But if the irony was the thing that pinched, that was a quite unnecessary unkindness; I could have said it seriously, and so saved you the hurt.”
“Seriously? How do you mean?”
“Oh, sometimes I feel as if I could give anything to give it all up and lie down in the peace and the quiet and be an ancestor, I do get so tired of being posterity. It is when things go wrong and I am low spirited that I feel like that. At such times—peculiarly dark times, times of deep depression, when the heart is bruised and sore and the light of life is veiled in shadows—it has seemed to me that I would rather be a dog’s ancestor than a lieutenant governor’s posterity.”
“For shame! James, it is the same as saying I am a disappointment to you, and that you would be happier without me than with me. Oh, James, how could you say such a thing?”
“I didn’t say it.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that sometimes I would rather be an ancestor than posterity.”
“Well, isn’t that separating us?”
“No—for I included you.”
“That is different. But James you didn’t say so. It sounded as if you only wanted to be an ancestor by yourself, and of course that hurt me. Did you always think of me, James? Did you always include me? Did you wish I was an ancestor as often as you wished you were one?”
“Yes. Oftener. Twice as often.”
“How good you are, James—when you want to be. But you are not always good; I wish you were. Still, I am satisfied with you, just as you are; I don’t want you changed. You don’t want me changed, do you, James?”
“No, I don’t think of any change that I would want to risk.”
“How lovely of you!”
“Don’t mention it. Now, as I remember it, your argument had reached the point where—well, I think you had about finished with the ancestry, and—”
“Yes—and was coming to you. You are county judge—the position of highest dignity in the gift of the ballot—and yet you would see your son become a mechanic.”
“I would see him become a man. He needn’t remain a mechanic, if you think it would damage his chances for the peerage.”
“The peerage! I never said anything about the peerage. He would never get rid of the stain. It would always be remembered that he had been a mechanic.”
“To his discredit? Nonsense. Who would remember it as a smirch?”
“Well, I would, for one. And so would the widow Buckner—”
“Grand-daughter of a Hessian corporal, whom she has painted up in a breastpin as an English general. She despise mechanics! Why, her ancestors were bought and sold in shoals in Cassel, at the price of a pound of candles apiece. And it was an overcharge.”
“Well, there’s Miss Rector—”
“Bosh!”
“It isn’t bosh! She—”
“Oh, I know all about that old Tabby. She claims to be descended in an illegal and indelicate way from Charles II. That is no distinction; we are all that. Come, she is no aristocracy. Her opinion is of no consequence. That poor scraggy old thing—why, she is the descendant of an interminable line of Presbyterian Scotch fishermen, and is built, from the ground up, out of hereditary holiness and herring-bones.”
“James, it is scandalous to talk so. She—”
“Get back on your course, Sarah. We can discuss the Hessian and the osteological remains another time. You were coming to some more reasons why Oscar should not be a printer.”
“Yes. It is not a necessity—either moneywise or otherwise. You are comfortably off and need no help from earnings of his. By grace of his grandfather he has a permanent income of four hundred dollars a year, which makes him rich—at least for this town and region.”
“Yes; and fortunately for him it is but a life-interest and he can never touch the principal; otherwise I would rather have a hatful of smoke than that property.”
“Well, that is neither here nor there. He has that income; and has six hundred dollars saved from it and laid up.”
“Don’t let him find it out, Sarah.”
“I—I—he already knows it, James. I did not mean to tell him; it escaped me when I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
“I am, too. But it is no matter—yet awhile. It is out of his reach until he is of age.”
Sarah said nothing, but she was a little troubled. She had lent trifles of money to Oscar from time to time, against the day of his financial independence.
Judge Carpenter mused a while, then said—
“Sarah, I think your objections to my project are not very strong. I believe we must let it stand, unless you can suggest something better. What is your idea about the boy?”
“I think he ought to be trained to one of the professions, James.”
“Um-m. Medicine and surgery?”
“Oh, dear no! not surgery. He is too kind-hearted to give pain, and the sight of blood distresses him. A physician has to turn out of his bed at all hours and expose himself to all weathers. I should be afraid of that—for his health, I mean. I should prefer the law. There is opportunity for advancement in that; such a long and grand line of promotions open to one who is diligent and has talent. James, only think of it—he could become Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States!”
“Could? Would, you mean.”
“Oh, James, do you think he would?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Oh, James, what makes you think so?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then what made you say so?”
“I don’t know.”
“James, I think you are the most provoking man that ever—James, are you trifling with me? But I know you are—I can see it. I don’t see how you can act so. I think he would be a great lawyer. If you have doubts—”
“Well, Sarah, I have. He has a fair education; good enough for the business—here in a region where lawyers are hardly ever college-bred men; he has a brighter mind than the average, hereabouts—very much brighter than the average, indeed; he is honest, upright, honorable, his impulses are always high, never otherwise—but he would make a poor lawyer. He has no firmness, no steadfastness, he is as changeable as the wind. He will stick at a thing no longer than the novelty of it lasts, and the praises—then he is off again. When his whole heart is in something and all his fires blazing, anybody can squirt a discouraging word on them and put them out; and any wordy, half-clever person can talk him out of his dearest opinion and make him abandon it. This is not the stuff that good lawyers are made of.”
“James, you cannot be right. It cannot be as bad as you think; you are prejudiced. You never would consent to see any but the most unfavorable side of Oscar. Do you believe he is unfitted for all the professions?”
“All but one.”
“Which one?”
“The pulpit.”
“James, I could hug you for that! It was the secret wish of my heart—my day-dream all these years; but I never dared to speak of it to you, of all creatures. Oh, James, do you think, do you really and seriously think that he would make a name for himself in the pulpit—be spoken of, written about?”
“I know it.”
“Oh, it is too good, too lovely! Think of it—our Oscar famous! You really believe he would be famous!”
“No. Notorious.”
“Well—what is the difference?”
“There is a good deal.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Why, fame is
a great and noble thing—and permanent. Notoriety is a noise—just a noise, and doesn’t last.”
“So that is what you think our Oscar would reach. Then pray, why do you think him suited for the pulpit?”
“The law is a narrow field, Sarah; in fact it is merely a groove. Or, you may call it a house with only one room in it. But in religion there are a hundred sects. It is a hotel. Oscar could move from room to room, you know.”
“James!”
“Yes, he could. He could move every quarter, and take a fresh start. And every time he moved, there would be a grand to-do about it. The newspapers would be full of it. That would make him happy. It is my opinion that he ought to be dedicated to this career of sparkling holiness, usefulness and health-giving theological travel.”
Sarah’s face flushed and all her frame quivered with anger. Her breath came in gasps; for the moment she could not get her voice. Then she got it, but before she could use it the thin pipe of a boy calling to a mate pierced to her ear through the still and murky air—
“Thug Carpenter’s got drownded!”
“Oh, James, our Oscar—drowned!” She sank into a chair, pallid and faint, and muttered, “The judgment—I warned you.”
Chapter 2
“Drownded, you say?” This from another boy.
“Well, not just entirely, but he’s goin’ to be. The ice is breaking up, and he’s got caught all by himself on t’other side of the split, about a half a mile from shore. He’s a goner!”
Sarah Carpenter was on her feet in a moment, and fumbling with bonnet and shawl with quaking hands. “Quick, James, there’s hope yet!” The Judge was getting into his overcoat with all haste. Outside, the patter of hurrying footsteps was heard, and a confusion of excited voices; through the window one could see the village population pouring out upon the white surface of the vast Mississippi in a ragged long stream, the further end of it, away toward the middle of the river, reduced by distance to a creeping swarm of black ants.
Now arose the ringing sound of flying hoofs, and a trim and fair young girl, bareheaded and riding bareback and astride, went thundering by on a great black horse.
“There goes Hellfire Hotchkiss! Oh, James, he’s saved, if anybody can save him!”