“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 recruitin’, 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, ’case it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich doin’s; becase my place was wid de officers, an’ it rasp’ me to have dem common sojers cavortin’ roun’ my kitchen like dat. But I always 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 guard at de house—de house was headquarters, 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’ smilin’ 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’ agin 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’nt 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 fogot 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.’
Henry Washington, Mary Ann Cord’s son, in later life.
“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’d 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 ain’t my Henry, what is you doin’ wid dis welt on yo’ wris’ an’ dat sk-yar on yo’ forehead!—de Lord God ob Heaven be praise’, I got my own agin!’
“O, no, Misto C., I ain’t had no trouble. An’ no joy!”
Mark Twain
MARK TWAIN
A Record of the Small Foolishnesses of Susie and “Bay” Clemens (Infants)
“And Mary treasured these sayings in her heart.”
[Begun in August at “Quarry Farm” on the Elmira hills—country residence of Mr. Crane.]
Hartford
1876
Olivia Susan Clemens
was born at the Langdon homestead in Elmira, N.Y., 19th March, 1872 and was named for her grandmother and her aunt Susan Crane.
From early babyhood until she was 3½ years old, she was addicted to sudden and raging tempests of passion. Coaxing was tried; reasoning was tried; diversion was tried; even bribery; also, deprivations of various kinds; also captivity in a corner; in fact, everything was tried that ever had been tried with any child—but all to no purpose. Indeed the storms grew more frequent. At last we dropped every feature of the system utterly and resorted to flogging. Since that day there has never been a better child. We had to whip her once a day, at first; then three times a week; then twice, then once a week; then twice a month. She is nearly 4½ years old, now, and I have only touched her once in the last 3 months. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was well said—and not by an amateur, I judge.
Susie never had but one nick-name, (a mistake—see below) and only kept that one a year. That was “Modoc,” (from the cut of her hair.) This was at the time of the Modoc war in the lava beds of northern California.
Susie began to talk a little when she was a year old. If an article pleased her, she said “Like it—awnt (want) it—hab (have) it—take it”—and took it, unless somebody got in ahead and prevented.
In the train, on the way from London to Edinburgh (16 months old) she developed a rather lame talent for crowing like a rooster. In Edinburgh her great friend and daily visitor for the 5 weeks we were there was the dearest man in all the land of Scotland—Dr. John Brown, author of “Rab and his Friends.” He had two names for her—“Little wifie” and “Megalopis,” for her large eyes seemed to him to warrant that sounding Greek epithet. When Susie is an old friendless woman and reads this page, let her remember that she has one thing to be proud of and grateful for—Dr. John Brown loved her and petted her.
Clara Clemens,
(commonly called “the Bay” at this date,) was born at Quarry Farm in the Elmira hills, 8th June 1874, and is 2 years and 2 months old at this writing. She was named for Miss Clara Spaulding, of Elmira, a very especial friend of her parents.
When she was an hour and 4 minutes old, she was shown to Susie. She looked like a velvet-headed grub worm squirming in a blanket—but no matter, Susie admired. She said, in her imperfect way, “Lat bay (baby) got boofu’ hair”—so Clara has been commonly called “Bay” to this day, but will take up her right name in time.
When the Bay was a week old, her adventures began. She was asleep on a pillow in a rocking chair in the parlor at Quarry Farm. I had forgotten her presence—if I knew it. I wound up a mechanical toy wagon and set it loose on the floor; I saw it was going to collide with the rocking chair, so I kicked the rocking chair across the house. The Bay lit on the floor with a thump, her head within two inches of the iron fender of the grate, but with the pillow undermost. So she came within 3 inches of an obituary.
From the Bay’s first birth-day till some weeks had passed, her chances were uncertain. She could live on nothing but breast m
ilk, and her mother could not furnish it. We got Mary Lewis, the colored wife of the colored lessee of Quarry Farm to supply it a couple of weeks; but the moment we tried to put her on prepared food she turned blue around her mouth and began to gasp. We thought she would not live 15 minutes. Then we got Maggie O’Day from Elmira, who brought her blind child with her and divided up her rations—not enough for the two; so we tried to eke out the Bay’s supply with prepared food, and failed. She turned blue again and came near perishing.
We never tried prepared food any more. Next we got Lizzie Botheker, and had to pay her worthless husband $60 to let her come, beside her wages of $5 per week.
Next we got Patrick’s wife (our coachman) Mary McAleer to furnish milk for the Bay.
Lastly we got Maria McLaughlin, wife of a worthless Irishman, and she staid a year till the Bay was weaned. Maria chewed, smoked, (swore, used obscene language in the kitchen) stole the beer from the cellar and got drunk every now and then, and was a hard lot in every possible way—but the Bay throve on her vices, right along. So the Bay’s name in full is Clara Langdon Lewis O’Day Botheker McAleer McLaughlin Clemens.
Maria McLaughlin was proprietor of a baby which was boarded at a house on the Gillette place, and by and by it died. Mrs. Clemens gave her $20 out of sympathy and to enable Maria to make a worthy and satisfactory funeral. It had that effect. Maria arrived home about 11 o’clock that night, as full as an egg and as unsteady on end. But the Bay was as empty as she was full; so after a steady pull of 20 minutes the Bay’s person was level full of milk punch constructed of lager beer, cheap whisky, rum and wretched brandy, flavored with chewing tobacco, cigar smoke and profanity, and the pair were regally “sprung” and serenely happy. The Bay never throve so robustly on any nurse’s milk as she did on Maria’s, for no other milk had so much substance to it.
We spent the summer of ’75 at the seaside at Newport, and the children used to sleep a couple of hours every day under umbrellas on the rocks within six feet of the wash of the waves, and that made them strong and hearty.
Susie began to talk at 1 year, and began to walk in London and perfected herself at 18 months in Edinburgh.
The Bay learned to walk early enough, but now at 2 years and 2 months she cannot say ten words, but understands the entire language.
*
When Susie was nearly 3 years old, I took a spring walk with her. She was drawing a baby carriage with 2 dolls in it, one with a straw hat on. The hat kept falling off and delaying the procession while Susie picked it up. Finally I dropped behind the carriage and said, “Now go on—if it falls off again, I’ll pick it up.” Nearly 2 days afterward, she said to her English nurse, Lizzy Wills:
“Lizzie, can you talk like papa? When my dolly’s hat fell, papa said, ‘I-f i-t f-a-l-l-s o-f-f a-g-a-i-n, I---l-l p-i-c-k i-t u-p.’”
Considering that she had probably never heard my drawling manner of speech imitated, this was not bad—nor reverent, either.
*
When Susie Clemens was something over 3 years old, her religious activities began to develop rapidly. Many of her remarks took cast from this interest.
She was found in the act of getting out her water colors one Sunday to make vari-colored splotches and splashes on paper—which she considered “pictures.” Her mother said:
“Susie, you forget it is Sunday.”
“But mamma, I was only going to paint a few pictures for Jesus, to take up with me when I go.”
Susy in 1873, aged seventeen months.
*
Her aunt Sue used to sing a hymn for her which ended—
“I love Jesus because he first loved me.”
Susie’s mother sang it for her some months afterward, ending it as above, of course. But Susie corrected her and said:
“No, that is not right, mamma—it is because he first loved Aunt Sue.” [The word “me” rather confused her.]
*
One day on the ombra Susie burst into song, as follows:
“O Jesus are you dead, so you cannot dance and sing!”
The air was exceedingly gay—rather pretty, too—and was accompanied by a manner and gestures that were equally gay and chipper. Her mother was astonished and distressed. She said:
“Why Susie! Did Maria teach you that dreadful song?”
“No, mamma; I made it myself all out of my own head. No-body helped me.”
She was plainly proud of it, and went on repeating it with great content.
[Maria McLaughlin was one of Clara Clemens’s innumerable wet nurses—a profane devil, and given to whiskey, tobacco, and some of the vices.]
*
1877. Jan. 29
About a fortnight ago Bay got what may be called about her first thrashing. Her mother took both children gravely to the bedchamber to punish them. It was all new to Bay and the novelty of it charmed her. Madam turned Susie across her lap and began to spat her (very lightly.) Bay was delighted with the episode. Then she was called for, and came skipping forward with jovial alacrity and threw herself across her mother’s lap as who should say, “My, but ain’t these good times!” The spat descended sharply, and by the war-whoop that followed, one perceived that the Bay’s ideas about these festivities had changed. The madam could not whip for laughing and had to leave the punishment but half performed.
*
1877 January
Mr. Frank D. Millet, the artist, was here to paint my portrait. One day Susie asked her mamma to read to her. Millet said—
“I’ll read to you, Susie.”
Susie said with a grave sweet grace and great dignity—
“I thank you, Mr. Millet, but I am a little more acquainted with mamma, and so I would rather she would do it.”
*
Feb. 15
The other evening, after the children’s prayers, Mrs. Clemens told Susie she must often think of Jesus and ask him to help her to overcome bad impulses. She said—
“I do think of him, mamma. Every day I see his cross on my Bible, and I think of him then—the cross they crucified him on—it was too bad—I was quite sorry.”
*
Feb. 1877.
The other evening while we were at dinner, the children came down from the nursery as usual to spend the hour between six and seven. They were in the library and the folding doors were open. Presently I heard Susie tell the Bay to lie down on the rug before the fire—which Bay did. Then Susie came into the dining room, turned, ran back, hovered over Bay and said—
“Now, Bay, you are a little dead baby, you know, and I am an angel come down to take you up to heaven. Come, now, get up—give me your hand—now we’ll run—that’s to pretend to be flying, you know. Ready, now—now we’re flying.”
When they came flying by the dinner table, something there attracted the Bay’s attention and she suddenly stopped, but Susie ran on, full of enthusiasm. She brought up behind a chair by a door and cried out—
“Come on, Bay—here’s heaven!”—then put her hand on the door knob and said,—“See! here’s Jesus!”
*
Mch 15. 1877.
The German letter inserted herea is from Rosa (Rosina Hay,) who has been with us since just before Susie’s second birth-day—a little over 3 years. Rosa is away on a day or two’s visit to New York. She wrote the letter here in Hartford in the nursery and so dated it; but she mailed it today in New York and Susie is very proud of it. Rosa has a very pretty gift at letter-writing.
Library of the Hartford house. Illustration from Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, October 1885.
*
May 4
When Miss Hesse ceased from her office of Private Secretary and took final leave of us today, Susie said gravely, “I am losing all my friends.” This is rather precocious flattery.
*
May 4
Yesterday Susie had a present of a new parasol, and hit Bay a whack with it—to see if it was substantial, perhaps. Rosa the nurse took it away from her and put it in the blue room. Susie
was vastly frightened and begged Rosa not to tell on her, but her pleadings failed. In the evening Susie said, with earnestness, “Mamma, I begged and begged, and begged Rosa not to tell you—but all in vain.”
*
May. 77
A month or more ago the Bay was naughty in the nursery and did not finish her dinner. In the evening she was hungry and her mamma gave her a cracker. I quote now from a letter written to me by mamma when I was in Baltimore 2 or 3 days ago:
“Last night, after George had wiped off her sticky fingers in the China Closet, Bay came out with her little sad, downcast look, and said, ‘I been litte naughty up ’tairs, can I have a cacker?’ [I found that the naughtiness had been invented for the occasion.]”
*
July 4 1877 At the farm.
Susie (being ordered to bed)—said, thoughtfully—“I wish I could sit up all night, as God does.”
*
May 1877b
Susie had been a little unreliable in stating facts, I had reproved her quite sharply for it, she went and sat down by herself for sometime and then said “Well mamma I don’t know what to do about it,—except that I am sorry and wont do so again”—
*
March 1877—Letter to Mr F. D. Millett from Susie—
Dear Mr Millett
Bay and I has both got valentines, I have a new fan and a German book and bay’s got a new carrage—Papa teached me that tick, tick—my Grandfathers clock was too large for the shelf so it stood 90 years on the floor. Mr Millett is that the same clock what is in your picture—Dear Mr Millett I give you my love, I put it on my heart to get the love out. The little Kittye is in Bays carrage my love and Susie Clemens
Write me a little note—
*
A Family Sketch and Other Private Writings Page 6