A Family Sketch and Other Private Writings

by Twain, Mark, Griffin, Benjamin

  “How are you going to act it, Bay?”

  “Well, Susie and I will come into the library, from the hall, and talk a good deal of talk about colors—but we won’t say anything about red—only colors, that’s all. Then we will go out and come in again, and be all the time talking about something that’s just, or ain’t just. Next we’ll come in talking about a girl, but we won’t ever say her, but always say she.” [Red—just—her—register!]

  And they gravely played it that way, that night, and were vastly gratified to see how promptly we guessed it.

  *

  Mem.

  July 1882. Susie 10 years old. Came to mamma’s room and asked if she should ring for the nurse: Jean, in the nursery, was crying. Mamma asked, “Is she crying hard?” (meaning, cross or ugly.) “Well, no—it’s a weary, lonesome cry.”

  She is growing steadily into an admirably discriminating habit of language. Yes, and into the use of pretty large words, too, sometimes—as witness: The night before, I referred to some preference expressed by Jean. Susie wanted at once to know how she expressed it—inasmuch as Jean knows only about a dozen words. I said, “Why she spoke up, with marked asperity, and exclaimed, ‘Well, Mr. Clemens, you may support that fallacy, if native perversity and a fatuous imagination so move you; but the exact opposite is my distinct and decided preference.’”

  Susie’s grave eyes stood wide open during this speech; she was silent a moment to let it soak home, then said in a tone of absolute conviction, “Well, papa, that is an exaggeration!”

  *

  Mem.

  Once when Bay was 3 or 4 years old, she said, “Mamma, I brang you these flowers”—paused, then corrected herself—“No, I brung them.”

  *

  July 1882. Elsewhere I have spoken of Susie’s proclivity for large words. The other day Bay crept behind Clara Spaulding’s chair, and nearly succeeded in touching her cheek with a wet little wee turtle. Clara S. gave a slight scream, and Susie (who was watching,) was racked and torn with laughter—and said: “Aunt Clara, if it had actually touched your cheek, I should have been transformed!” [Meant transported—with glee.]

  *

  July, 1882. Jean is two years old, now, and brokenly says a few dozen disconnected words, half of them German and the other half English.

  *

  Dec. 1. ’82. Clara 8 years old last June.

  AN ACTOR’S FATAL SHOT.

  CINCINNATI, Nov. 30. 1882—This afternoon at the Coliseum theater, in the fourth act of the play “Si Slocum,” Frank Frayne, in shooting the apple off the head of Lucy Slocum, personated by Miss Annie Van Behren, missed the apple and shot Miss Van Behren in the head. She died in fifteen minutes. Frayne was immediately arrested. The curtain fell and the play was stopped. The audience supposed the victim was only slightly hurt. Frayne used a Stevens’ rifle, No. 22 calibre, and was executing his backward shot. The catch snap of the rifle was imperfect and slipped just as the hammer fell, blowing the cartridge shell out backwards.

  When the curtain went down after the fatal shot, the excitement behind the scenes was so great as to create alarm lest a panic might ensue among the audience of 2,300. Frayne’s cries and lamentations were so violent that he was heard before the curtain. Manager Fennessey was too much excited to say anything, but he sent a friend to the front to say that the accident was slight and that the play would not proceed further. The audience then retired in order, although one lady fainted. Manager Fennessey took charge of Frayne, and though the latter demanded to be locked up, he got Mr. H. H. Erick to go before Judge Higley, of the police court, and give a bond for his release from arrest. The bond was fixed at $3,000. Frayne’s mental condition was such that one or two of his friends kept close watch over him at his hotel. The theater is closed for to-night and probably will not be opened this week. The coroner viewed the body of Miss Van Behren and it was then removed to Undertaker Habig’s where it will lie until word is received from her friends in Brooklyn. It is said that she was engaged to be married shortly to Frayne.

  The above telegram was read at breakfast this morning and the fearful scene in the theatre discussed. Then there was a pause of horror. Clara, whose thoughts were with the poor actor, broke it with this remark, uttered with cast-iron gravity:

  “I should think he would have been embarrassed.”

  She was immortally embarrassed, herself, when she perceived by the resulting burst of laughter, that she had got the wrong word by the tail.

  *

  Dec. 1882.

  Jean, 2½ years old, now, talks a lot of rot, in German and English, badly mixed. She says nothing original or reportable, however. Calls herself “Besshy Mish Chain” (Blessed Miss Jane), and “Deedo fen” (Theodore’s friend.) She also calls herself “Asshu cumbit” (Aunt Sue’s comfort.) There’s considerable music in it (to us,) when, as she starts down at 6 p.m., we call out to know who’s coming, she answers from the unseen remotenesses of the head of the stairs, “Besshy Mish Chain coming, Mamma.”

  She calls Susie and Clara “Guck and Ben.” We have dropped “Bay” and adopted “Ben,” in consequence.

  Jean is incomparably sweet, and good, and entertaining. Sits in my lap, at the fag-end of dinner, and eats “Jean quum” (crumbs,) and messes-up the table with “Jean shawt” (salt,) puts “Jean fum” (plums—i.e. grapes) in “Jean himble-bo” (finger-bowl) and says “Naughty George—ve’y naughty George,” when George brushes off her salt. Won’t consent that she is mamma’s blessed Miss Jane—no, is “Papa besshy Mish Chain.”

  *

  Ben had a birth-day party of 67 children, 8th of June, and at it Jean picked up scarlet fever and was a prisoner some weeks. It delayed our journey to Elmira by six weeks, and delayed “Life on the Mississippi” more than twice as long.

  *

  1882. Xmas. Eve.

  Mamma brought home a variety of presents for distribution, and allowed Susie to see those that were to be sent to Patrick’s family. Among these was an unusually handsome and valuable sled for Jimmy, on which a stag was painted, and also, in gilt letters the word “DEER.” Susie was enthusiastic over everything until she came to this sled; then she became sober and silent. Yet this sled was the very thing she was expected to be most eloquent over, for it was the jewel of the lot. Mamma was surprised; also disappointed; and said, “Why Susie, doesn’t it please you?—isn’t it fine?”

  Susie hesitated; plainly did not like to have to say the thing that was in her mind; but being pressed, she got it out—haltingly: “Well, mamma, it is fine, and of course it did cost a good deal—but—why should that be mentioned?” And seeing she was not understood, she pointed to that word “deer!” Poor thing, her heart was in the right place, but her orthography wasn’t. However, she knows the difference between dear and deer now—and permanently.

  *

  Susie said to aunt Clara the immaculate conception was not puzzling to her.

  *

  1883 March and April.

  During these months and part or all of February, Patrick’s seven children had a rough time of it, with the dire scarlet fever. Two of them escaped very narrowly. Clara Spaulding arrived on a visit, and Susie gave her a full and animated account of these momentous and marvelous things. Aunt Clara said:

  “Why, considering how very very low, those two were, it seems next to miraculous that they got well. But they did get well?”

  “Yes—both of them.” Then, after a pause—pensively: “It was a great disappointment to us.”

  Aunt Clara was astounded—in fact, pretty nearly paralyzed; but she didn’t “let on”—only said—

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, aunt Clara”—another pause—grave deliberation, to get her thought into form—“Well, you see, aunt Clara, we’ve never had any experience of a funeral.”

  “Oh, I see. But you—you didn’t want the children to die?”

  “Well, no—not that, exactly. But—in case they did die—well,—they—we—well, you know, we’ve nev
er had a funeral.”

  “Still, it was scarlet fever, and you wouldn’t have been allowed to attend it.”

  “No—I suppose Mamma wouldn’t have let us. But then, you know, we could have observed it.”

  It was the eclat of the thing—the pomp, and solemnity and commotion. That is what Susie was after.

  *

  1883 May 1.

  Good Memory. Two months ago I took Jean in the nursery bathroom, gave her a lecture about some bad behavior, and then spanked her. The result was disastrous. She went into a passion of furious and vindictive crying, mixed with yells for Rosa. I whipped her again, after vainly trying to get her to say “Please.” Her constant reply was “I won’t—Jean won’t.” I whipped her a third time—between spats reiterating gently and kindly, “Only say please—that is all—then Jean can go to Rosa.” She merely continued to howl, and call for Rosa, and say “I won’t!” Most fortunately mamma came in and proposed to continue the thing and give me a rest. I was mighty glad to get out of the dilemma—and was resolved to not get into another like it soon. Of course mamma, with her superior tact, soon got out of Jean all that was wanted.

  I naturally supposed that my effort had gone for nothing. But not so. A full month later, Rosa heard a mouse gnawing, in the nursery one midnight, and said “Shoo!” Jean sat up in her crib and said—

  “Better go way, mousie—papa come, take you in bath woom and spat you and make you say pease.”

  And last night she suggested that Rosa had been naughty about something, and wanted me to take her in the bath-room and spank her and make her say “pease.”

  *

  1883 June 8 Clara’s birthday—aged 9.

  Clara picked up a book—“Daniel Boone, by John S. C. Abbott” and found on the fly-leaf a comment of mine, in pencil; puzzled over it, couldn’t quite make it out; her mother took it and read it to her, as follows: “A poor slovenly book; a mess of sappy drivel and bad grammar.” Clara said, with entire seriousness (not comprehending the meaning but charmed with the sound of the words,) “O, that must be lovely!” and carried the book away and buried herself in it.

  *

  1883 Summer at the Farm.

  Poor Jean, now three years old, has been neglected in this record. But it is largely her own fault, she having been chary of making reportable speeches.

  The other day she asked if she might go and swing herself in “the big swing.” Mamma denied the petition, and suggested that Jean was too small. Jean responded, “I can if I could, mamma.” (Meaning, I can swing myself, if I could get permission.)

  Jean in 1884, aged three.

  *

  Toward Xmas. Hartford.

  OBITUARY.

  Death of Hon. Jacob Burrough of Cape Girardeau.

  Special to the Republican.

  CAPE GIRARDEAU, Mo., Dec. 3.—Hon. Jacob H. Burrough, an old and prominent citizen, died of paralysis last night in this city in the fifty-eighth year of his age. Judge Burrough had been in failing health for about a year and, while on a visit to Minneapolis last summer for his health, had a stroke of paralysis which hastened his return to his home. On last Friday night he experienced a second stroke which terminated fatally.

  He had filled numerous offices of honor and trust. Prominent among them were those of probate judge, regent of the S.E. Normal school and city auditor. He leaves a wife and three grown children who have the sincere sympathy of the whole community. The funeral services will take place to-morrow and will be conducted by Rev. J. W. Rosenborough of the Presbyterian church. The remains will be interred in Larimer cemetery.

  I stepped into the nursery on my way to the billiard room after breakfast. I had a newspaper-cutting in my hand, just received in the mail, and its spirit was upon me—the spirit of funerals and gloom. Jean sat playing on the floor, the incandescent core of a conflagration of flooding sunlight—and she and her sunny splendors were suggestive of just the opposite spirit. She said, with great interest,—

  “What is it in the little piece of paper you got in yo’ hand, papa—what do it say?”

  I said, impressively, and meaning to impress her,—

  “It tells about an old, old friend of mine, Jean—friend away back yonder years and years and years ago, when I was young—very dear friend, and now he is dead, Jean.”

  She uttered an ejaculation and I a response.

  Then she looked earnestly up from down there, and said,—

  “Is he gone up in heaven, papa?”

  “Yes,” I said, “he is gone up in heaven.”

  A reflective pause—then she said,—

  “Was he down on the earth, papa—down here?”

  “Yes, he was down here on the earth, where we are.”

  She lowered her face, now grown very grave, and reflected again, two or three moments. Then she lifted it quickly to mine, and inquired with a burning interest,—

  “And did along comed a blackbird and nipped off his nose?”

  The solemnity of the occasion was gone to the devil in a moment—as far as I was concerned; though Jean was not aware that she had done anything toward that result. She was asking simply and solely for information, and was not intending to be lightsome or frivolous.

  *

  May, ’84

  A heavy wagon went by, outside—we all questioned what the noise might be. Jean said, “I hear it thunder, and that’s Elisa.” (German nurse.)

  *

  Mention was made of a certain young lady, at breakfast; and Susie remarked that she was very pretty. Her mother said no, she had a good face, a face which answered to her exceptionally fine character, but she would hardly call it a pretty face. Susie said—

  “But mama, I think that when a person has a good figure and a pleasant face that one likes to look at, she is pretty.”

  Rev. Thos. K. Beecher was present, and said it was a nice distinction, and that Susie’s position was sound.

  *

  Following out a suggestion made by Mrs. Henry J. Brooks, we established the rule that each member of the household must come to table armed with a fact. Susie’s first fact was in substance as follows:

  Two great exiles and former opponents in the field, met in Ephesus, Hannibal and Scipio. Scipio asked Hannibal whom he considered the greatest general the world had produced.

  “Alexander”—and he explained why.

  “And who was the next greatest?”

  “Pyrrhus”—and he explained why.

  “But where do you place yourself then?”

  “If I had conquered you, I would place myself before the others.”

  And Susie’s comment was:

  “That attracted me, it was just like papa—he is so frank about his books.”

  (So frank in praising them.)

  *

  Apl. 4 1885.

  [General Grant is still living, this morning.]

  *

  Susie: “I think it is pitiful, mamma’s faith in Jean’s ability to keep a secret.” [At breakfast, this—the mamma thus discussed and brought under criticism, sick and upstairs abed. I carried it straight up. Great fun.]

  [Jean keeps part of a secret, but always lets the other part—the important part—out.]

  *

  Apl. 4 1885. Susie 13

  Susie began writing a biography of me ten or fifteen days ago; the dearest compliment I could imagine, and the most gratifying.

  *

  June 1885.

  Susie thoughtfully: “How one happiness gets in the way of another, and one cannot have them both!” “What is it, now?” “Well, I am to go to Cousin Susie Warner’s in the morning, and now I have been to the kitchen and it turns out that we are going to have Miss Corey and fish balls for breakfast.” [The collocation is the point—if you don’t perceive it yourself.]

  *

  June 7th.

  Jean: “I wonder God lets us have so much ducks—Patrick kills them so.”

  *

  Sept. ’84.

  Old Clark, the low-do
wn, the intemperate, used to go by the farm, last month, swearing. Susie’s excuse for him (to Miss Foote) was, “he can’t help it, he doesn’t know any nice intellectual naughty words.” [From which the necessary inference is that she moves in a circle which does.]

  a[It is missing—BG.]

  b[This entry and the two after it were written by Livy—BG.]

  MARK TWAIN

  At the Farm

  Summer of 1884—Jean nearly 4 yrs old.

  She goes out to the barn with one of us every evening toward 6 o’clock, to look at the cows—which she adores—no weaker word can express her feeling for them. She sits rapt and contented while David milks the three, making a remark now and then—always about the cows. The time passes slow and drearily for her attendant, but not for her—she could stand a week of it. When the milking is finished and “Blanche,” “Jean” and “the cross cow” turned into the adjoining little cow-lot, we have to set Jean on a shed in that lot, and stay by her half an hour till Elisa the German nurse comes to take her to bed. The cows merely stand there, amongst the ordure, which is dry or sloppy according to the weather, and do nothing—yet the mere sight of them is all-sufficient for Jean; she requires nothing more. The other evening, after contemplating them a long time, as they stood in the muddy muck chewing the cud, she said with deep and reverent appreciation—

  “Ain’t this a sweet little garden!”

  *

  Susie (aged 12) came to her mother a week or two ago with a weight on her conscience. But she found it hard to begin her confession, her crime was of such an unworthy sort. Finally, under encouragement, she got a start, and said—

  “Well, mama, you know Jervis and Julia are always talking about uncle Charley as if he was just everything—as if nobody in the world was so great and remarkable as he is. I’m proud of papa, and I can’t bear it to have them always talking that way about uncle Charley: why it’s just as if he was papa’s equal. Well, this afternoon Jervis—what do you reckon he asked me? He asked me what Manuscript was. I told him, and then—well, mama, I couldn’t help it,—I said that if his papa was an author, he wouldn’t have to ask that question. I was ashamed, right away, but you know it was too late, mama.”