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Chapter 2

When in doubt, tell the truth.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

About four days out from Victoria we plunged into hot weather, and all
the male passengers put on white linen clothes. One or two days later we
crossed the 25th parallel of north latitude, and then, by order, the
officers of the ship laid away their blue uniforms and came out in white
linen ones. All the ladies were in white by this time. This prevalence
of snowy costumes gave the promenade deck an invitingly cool, and
cheerful and picnicky aspect.

From my diary:

There are several sorts of ills in the world from which a person can
never escape altogether, let him journey as far as he will. One escapes
from one breed of an ill only to encounter another breed of it. We have
come far from the snake liar and the fish liar, and there was rest and
peace in the thought; but now we have reached the realm of the boomerang
liar, and sorrow is with us once more. The first officer has seen a man
try to escape from his enemy by getting behind a tree; but the enemy sent
his boomerang sailing into the sky far above and beyond the tree; then it
turned, descended, and killed the man. The Australian passenger has seen
this thing done to two men, behind two trees--and by the one arrow. This
being received with a large silence that suggested doubt, he buttressed
it with the statement that his brother once saw the boomerang kill a bird
away off a hundred yards and bring it to the thrower. But these are ills
which must be borne. There is no other way.

The talk passed from the boomerang to dreams--usually a fruitful subject,
afloat or ashore--but this time the output was poor. Then it passed to
instances of extraordinary memory--with better results. Blind Tom, the
negro pianist, was spoken of, and it was said that he could accurately
play any piece of music, howsoever long and difficult, after hearing it
once; and that six months later he could accurately play it again,
without having touched it in the interval. One of the most striking of
the stories told was furnished by a gentleman who had served on the staff
of the Viceroy of India. He read the details from his note-book, and
explained that he had written them down, right after the consummation of
the incident which they described, because he thought that if he did not
put them down in black and white he might presently come to think he had
dreamed them or invented them.

The Viceroy was making a progress, and among the shows offered by the
Maharajah of Mysore for his entertainment was a memory-exhibition.
The Viceroy and thirty gentlemen of his suite sat in a row, and the
memory-expert, a high-caste Brahmin, was brought in and seated on the
floor in front of them. He said he knew but two languages, the English
and his own, but would not exclude any foreign tongue from the tests to
be applied to his memory. Then he laid before the assemblage his program
--a sufficiently extraordinary one. He proposed that one gentleman
should give him one word of a foreign sentence, and tell him its place in
the sentence. He was furnished with the French word 'est', and was told
it was second in a sentence of three words. The next, gentleman gave him
the German word 'verloren' and said it was the third in a sentence of
four words. He asked the next gentleman for one detail in a sum in
addition; another for one detail in a sum of subtraction; others for
single details in mathematical problems of various kinds; he got them.
Intermediates gave him single words from sentences in Greek, Latin,
Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and other languages, and told him their
places in the sentences. When at last everybody had furnished him a
single rag from a foreign sentence or a figure from a problem, he went
over the ground again, and got a second word and a second figure and was
told their places in the sentences and the sums; and so on and so on. He
went over the ground again and again until he had collected all the parts
of the sums and all the parts of the sentences--and all in disorder, of
course, not in their proper rotation. This had occupied two hours.

The Brahmin now sat silent and thinking, a while, then began and repeated
all the sentences, placing the words in their proper order, and untangled
the disordered arithmetical problems and gave accurate answers to them
all.

In the beginning he had asked the company to throw almonds at him during
the two hours, he to remember how many each gentleman had thrown; but
none were thrown, for the Viceroy said that the test would be a
sufficiently severe strain without adding that burden to it.

General Grant had a fine memory for all kinds of things, including even
names and faces, and I could have furnished an instance of it if I had
thought of it. The first time I ever saw him was early in his first term
as President. I had just arrived in Washington from the Pacific coast, a
stranger and wholly unknown to the public, and was passing the White
House one morning when I met a friend, a Senator from Nevada. He asked
me if I would like to see the President. I said I should be very glad;
so we entered. I supposed that the President would be in the midst of a
crowd, and that I could look at him in peace and security from a
distance, as another stray cat might look at another king. But it was in
the morning, and the Senator was using a privilege of his office which I
had not heard of--the privilege of intruding upon the Chief Magistrate's
working hours. Before I knew it, the Senator and I were in the presence,
and there was none there but we three. General Grant got slowly up from
his table, put his pen down, and stood before me with the iron expression
of a man who had not smiled for seven years, and was not intending to
smile for another seven. He looked me steadily in the eyes--mine lost
confidence and fell. I had never confronted a great man before, and was
in a miserable state of funk and inefficiency. The Senator said:--

"Mr. President, may I have the privilege of introducing Mr. Clemens?"

The President gave my hand an unsympathetic wag and dropped it. He did
not say a word but just stood. In my trouble I could not think of
anything to say, I merely wanted to resign. There was an awkward pause,
a dreary pause, a horrible pause. Then I thought of something, and
looked up into that unyielding face, and said timidly:--

"Mr. President, I--I am embarrassed. Are you?"

His face broke--just a little--a wee glimmer, the momentary flicker of a
summer-lightning smile, seven years ahead of time--and I was out and gone
as soon as it was.

Ten years passed away before I saw him the second time. Meantime I was
become better known; and was one of the people appointed to respond to
toasts at the banquet given to General Grant in Chicago--by the Army of
the Tennessee when he came back from his tour around the world. I
arrived late at night and got up late in the morning. All the corridors
of the hotel were crowded with people waiting to get a glimpse of General
Grant when he should pass to the place whence he was to review the great
procession. I worked my way by the suite of packed drawing-rooms, and at
the corner of the house I found a window open where there was a roomy
platform decorated with flags, and carpeted. I stepped out on it, and
saw below me millions of people blocking all the streets, and other
millions caked together in all the windows and on all the house-tops
around. These masses took me for General Grant, and broke into volcanic
explosions and cheers; but it was a good place to see the procession, and
I stayed. Presently I heard the distant blare of military music, and far
up the street I saw the procession come in sight, cleaving its way
through the huzzaing multitudes, with Sheridan, the most martial
figure of the War, riding at its head in the dress uniform of a
Lieutenant-General.

And now General Grant, arm-in-arm with Major Carter Harrison, stepped out
on the platform, followed two and two by the badged and uniformed
reception committee. General Grant was looking exactly as he had looked
upon that trying occasion of ten years before--all iron and bronze
self-possession. Mr. Harrison came over and led me to the General and
formally introduced me. Before I could put together the proper remark,
General Grant said--

"Mr. Clemens, I am not embarrassed. Are you?"--and that little
seven-year smile twinkled across his face again.

Seventeen years have gone by since then, and to-day, in New York, the
streets are a crush of people who are there to honor the remains of the
great soldier as they pass to their final resting-place under the
monument; and the air is heavy with dirges and the boom of artillery, and
all the millions of America are thinking of the man who restored the
Union and the flag, and gave to democratic government a new lease of
life, and, as we may hope and do believe, a permanent place among the
beneficent institutions of men.

We had one game in the ship which was a good time-passer--at least it was
at night in the smoking-room when the men were getting freshened up from
the day's monotonies and dullnesses. It was the completing of
non-complete stories. That is to say, a man would tell all of a story
except the finish, then the others would try to supply the ending out of
their own invention. When every one who wanted a chance had had it, the
man who had introduced the story would give it its original ending--then
you could take your choice. Sometimes the new endings turned out to be
better than the old one. But the story which called out the most
persistent and determined and ambitious effort was one which had no
ending, and so there was nothing to compare the new-made endings with.
The man who told it said he could furnish the particulars up to a certain
point only, because that was as much of the tale as he knew. He had read
it in a volume of `sketches twenty-five years ago, and was interrupted
before the end was reached. He would give any one fifty dollars who
would finish the story to the satisfaction of a jury to be appointed by
ourselves. We appointed a jury and wrestled with the tale. We invented
plenty of endings, but the jury voted them all down. The jury was right.
It was a tale which the author of it may possibly have completed
satisfactorily, and if he really had that good fortune I would like to
know what the ending was. Any ordinary man will find that the story's
strength is in its middle, and that there is apparently no way to
transfer it to the close, where of course it ought to be. In substance
the storiette was as follows:

John Brown, aged thirty-one, good, gentle, bashful, timid, lived in a
quiet village in Missouri. He was superintendent of the Presbyterian
Sunday-school. It was but a humble distinction; still, it was his only
official one, and he was modestly proud of it and was devoted to its work
and its interests. The extreme kindliness of his nature was recognized
by all; in fact, people said that he was made entirely out of good
impulses and bashfulness; that he could always be counted upon for help
when it was needed, and for bashfulness both when it was needed and when
it wasn't.

Mary Taylor, twenty-three, modest, sweet, winning, and in character and
person beautiful, was all in all to him. And he was very nearly all in
all to her. She was wavering, his hopes were high. Her mother had been
in opposition from the first. But she was wavering, too; he could
see it. She was being touched by his warm interest in her two
charity-proteges and by his contributions toward their support. These
were two forlorn and aged sisters who lived in a log hut in a lonely
place up a cross road four miles from Mrs. Taylor's farm. One of the
sisters was crazy, and sometimes a little violent, but not often.

At last the time seemed ripe for a final advance, and Brown gathered his
courage together and resolved to make it. He would take along a
contribution of double the usual size, and win the mother over; with her
opposition annulled, the rest of the conquest would be sure and prompt.

He took to the road in the middle of a placid Sunday afternoon in the
soft Missourian summer, and he was equipped properly for his mission. He
was clothed all in white linen, with a blue ribbon for a necktie, and he
had on dressy tight boots. His horse and buggy were the finest that the
livery stable could furnish. The lap robe was of white linen, it was
new, and it had a hand-worked border that could not be rivaled in that
region for beauty and elaboration.

When he was four miles out on the lonely road and was walking his horse
over a wooden bridge, his straw hat blew off and fell in the creek, and
floated down and lodged against a bar. He did not quite know what to do.
He must have the hat, that was manifest; but how was he to get it?

Then he had an idea. The roads were empty, nobody was stirring. Yes, he
would risk it. He led the horse to the roadside and set it to cropping
the grass; then he undressed and put his clothes in the buggy, petted the
horse a moment to secure its compassion and its loyalty, then hurried to
the stream. He swam out and soon had the hat. When he got to the top of
the bank the horse was gone!

His legs almost gave way under him. The horse was walking leisurely
along the road. Brown trotted after it, saying, "Whoa, whoa, there's a
good fellow;" but whenever he got near enough to chance a jump for the
buggy, the horse quickened its pace a little and defeated him. And so
this went on, the naked man perishing with anxiety, and expecting every
moment to see people come in sight. He tagged on and on, imploring the
horse, beseeching the horse, till he had left a mile behind him, and was
closing up on the Taylor premises; then at last he was successful, and
got into the buggy. He flung on his shirt, his necktie, and his coat;
then reached for--but he was too late; he sat suddenly down and pulled up
the lap-robe, for he saw some one coming out of the gate--a woman; he
thought. He wheeled the horse to the left, and struck briskly up the
cross-road. It was perfectly straight, and exposed on both sides; but
there were woods and a sharp turn three miles ahead, and he was very
grateful when he got there. As he passed around the turn he slowed down
to a walk, and reached for his tr---- too late again.

He had come upon Mrs. Enderby, Mrs. Glossop, Mrs. Taylor, and Mary.
They were on foot, and seemed tired and excited. They came at once to
the buggy and shook hands, and all spoke at once, and said eagerly and
earnestly, how glad they were that he was come, and how fortunate it was.
And Mrs. Enderby said, impressively:

"It looks like an accident, his coming at such a time; but let no one
profane it with such a name; he was sent--sent from on high."

They were all moved, and Mrs. Glossop said in an awed voice:

"Sarah Enderby, you never said a truer word in your life. This is no
accident, it is a special Providence. He was sent. He is an angel--an
angel as truly as ever angel was--an angel of deliverance. I say angel,
Sarah Enderby, and will have no other word. Don't let any one ever say
to me again, that there's no such thing as special Providences; for if
this isn't one, let them account for it that can."

"I know it's so," said Mrs. Taylor, fervently. "John Brown, I could
worship you; I could go down on my knees to you. Didn't something tell
you?--didn't you feel that you were sent? I could kiss the hem of your
laprobe."

He was not able to speak; he was helpless with shame and fright. Mrs.
Taylor went on:

"Why, just look at it all around, Julia Glossop. Any person can see the
hand of Providence in it. Here at noon what do we see? We see the smoke
rising. I speak up and say, 'That's the Old People's cabin afire.'
Didn't I, Julia Glossop?"

"The very words you said, Nancy Taylor. I was as close to you as I am
now, and I heard them. You may have said hut instead of cabin, but in
substance it's the same. And you were looking pale, too."

"Pale? I was that pale that if--why, you just compare it with this
laprobe. Then the next thing I said was, 'Mary Taylor, tell the hired
man to rig up the team-we'll go to the rescue.' And she said, 'Mother,
don't you know you told him he could drive to see his people, and stay
over Sunday?' And it was just so. I declare for it, I had forgotten it.
'Then,' said I, 'we'll go afoot.' And go we did. And found Sarah
Enderby on the road."

"And we all went together," said Mrs. Enderby. "And found the cabin set
fire to and burnt down by the crazy one, and the poor old things so old
and feeble that they couldn't go afoot. And we got them to a shady place
and made them as comfortable as we could, and began to wonder which way
to turn to find some way to get them conveyed to Nancy Taylor's house.
And I spoke up and said--now what did I say? Didn't I say, 'Providence
will provide'?"

"Why sure as you live, so you did! I had forgotten it."

"So had I," said Mrs. Glossop and Mrs. Taylor; "but you certainly said
it. Now wasn't that remarkable?"

"Yes, I said it. And then we went to Mr. Moseley's, two miles, and all
of them were gone to the camp meeting over on Stony Fork; and then we
came all the way back, two miles, and then here, another mile--and
Providence has provided. You see it yourselves."

They gazed at each other awe-struck, and lifted their hands and said in
unison:

"It's per-fectly wonderful."

"And then," said Mrs. Glossop, "what do you think we had better do let
Mr. Brown drive the Old People to Nancy Taylor's one at a time, or put
both of them in the buggy, and him lead the horse?"

Brown gasped.

"Now, then, that's a question," said Mrs. Enderby. "You see, we are all
tired out, and any way we fix it it's going to be difficult. For if Mr.
Brown takes both of them, at least one of us must, go back to help him,
for he can't load them into the buggy by himself, and they so helpless."

"That is so," said Mrs. Taylor. "It doesn't look-oh, how would this do?
--one of us drive there with Mr. Brown, and the rest of you go along to
my house and get things ready. I'll go with him. He and I together can
lift one of the Old People into the buggy; then drive her to my house
and----

"But who will take care of the other one?" said Mrs. Enderby. "We
musn't leave her there in the woods alone, you know--especially the crazy
one. There and back is eight miles, you see."

They had all been sitting on the grass beside the buggy for a while, now,
trying to rest their weary bodies. They fell silent a moment or two, and
struggled in thought over the baffling situation; then Mrs. Enderby
brightened and said:

"I think I've got the idea, now. You see, we can't walk any more. Think
what we've done: four miles there, two to Moseley's, is six, then back to
here--nine miles since noon, and not a bite to eat; I declare I don't see
how we've done it; and as for me, I am just famishing. Now, somebody's
got to go back, to help Mr. Brown--there's no getting mound that; but
whoever goes has got to ride, not walk. So my idea is this: one of us to
ride back with Mr. Brown, then ride to Nancy Taylor's house with one of
the Old People, leaving Mr. Brown to keep the other old one company, you
all to go now to Nancy's and rest and wait; then one of you drive back
and get the other one and drive her to Nancy's, and Mr. Brown walk."

"Splendid!" they all cried. "Oh, that will do--that will answer
perfectly." And they all said that Mrs. Enderby had the best head for
planning, in the company; and they said that they wondered that they
hadn't thought of this simple plan themselves. They hadn't meant to take
back the compliment, good simple souls, and didn't know they had done it.
After a consultation it was decided that Mrs. Enderby should drive back
with Brown, she being entitled to the distinction because she had
invented the plan. Everything now being satisfactorily arranged and
settled, the ladies rose, relieved and happy, and brushed down their
gowns, and three of them started homeward; Mrs. Enderby set her foot on
the buggy-step and was about to climb in, when Brown found a remnant of
his voice and gasped out--

"Please Mrs. Enderby, call them back--I am very weak; I can't walk, I
can't, indeed."

"Why, dear Mr. Brown! You do look pale; I am ashamed of myself that I
didn't notice it sooner. Come back-all of you! Mr. Brown is not well.
Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Brown?--I'm real sorry. Are you
in pain?"

"No, madam, only weak; I am not sick, but only just weak--lately; not
long, but just lately."

The others came back, and poured out their sympathies and commiserations,
and were full of self-reproaches for not having noticed how pale he was.

And they at once struck out a new plan, and soon agreed that it was by
far the best of all. They would all go to Nancy Taylor's house and see
to Brown's needs first. He could lie on the sofa in the parlor, and
while Mrs. Taylor and Mary took care of him the other two ladies would
take the buggy and go and get one of the Old People, and leave one of
themselves with the other one, and----

By this time, without any solicitation, they were at the horse's head and
were beginning to turn him around. The danger was imminent, but Brown
found his voice again and saved himself. He said--

"But ladies, you are overlooking something which makes the plan
impracticable. You see, if you bring one of them home, and one remains
behind with the other, there will be three persons there when one of you
comes back for that other, for some one must drive the buggy back, and
three can't come home in it."

They all exclaimed, "Why, sure-ly, that is so!" and they were, all
perplexed again.

"Dear, dear, what can we do?" said Mrs. Glossop; "it is the most
mixed-up thing that ever was. The fox and the goose and the corn and
things--Oh, dear, they are nothing to it."

They sat wearily down once more, to further torture their tormented heads
for a plan that would work. Presently Mary offered a plan; it was her
first effort. She said:

"I am young and strong, and am refreshed, now. Take Mr. Brown to our
house, and give him help--you see how plainly he needs it. I will go
back and take care of the Old People; I can be there in twenty minutes.
You can go on and do what you first started to do--wait on the main road
at our house until somebody comes along with a wagon; then send and bring
away the three of us. You won't have to wait long; the farmers will soon
be coming back from town, now. I will keep old Polly patient and cheered
up--the crazy one doesn't need it."

This plan was discussed and accepted; it seemed the best that could be
done, in the circumstances, and the Old People must be getting
discouraged by this time.

Brown felt relieved, and was deeply thankful. Let him once get to the
main road and he would find a way to escape.

Then Mrs. Taylor said:

"The evening chill will be coming on, pretty soon, and those poor old
burnt-out things will need some kind of covering. Take the lap-robe with
you, dear."

"Very well, Mother, I will."

She stepped to the buggy and put out her hand to take it----

That was the end of the tale. The passenger who told it said that when
he read the story twenty-five years ago in a train he was interrupted at
that point--the train jumped off a bridge.

At first we thought we could finish the story quite easily, and we set to
work with confidence; but it soon began to appear that it was not a
simple thing, but difficult and baffling. This was on account of Brown's
character--great generosity and kindliness, but complicated with unusual
shyness and diffidence, particularly in the presence of ladies. There
was his love for Mary, in a hopeful state but not yet secure--just in a
condition, indeed, where its affair must be handled with great tact, and
no mistakes made, no offense given. And there was the mother wavering,
half willing-by adroit and flawless diplomacy to be won over, now, or
perhaps never at all. Also, there were the helpless Old People yonder in
the woods waiting-their fate and Brown's happiness to be determined by
what Brown should do within the next two seconds. Mary was reaching for
the lap-robe; Brown must decide-there was no time to be lost.

Of course none but a happy ending of the story would be accepted by the
jury; the finish must find Brown in high credit with the ladies, his
behavior without blemish, his modesty unwounded, his character for self
sacrifice maintained, the Old People rescued through him, their
benefactor, all the party proud of him, happy in him, his praises on all
their tongues.

We tried to arrange this, but it was beset with persistent and
irreconcilable difficulties. We saw that Brown's shyness would not allow
him to give up the lap-robe. This would offend Mary and her mother; and
it would surprise the other ladies, partly because this stinginess toward
the suffering Old People would be out of character with Brown, and partly
because he was a special Providence and could not properly act so. If
asked to explain his conduct, his shyness would not allow him to tell the
truth, and lack of invention and practice would find him incapable of
contriving a lie that would wash. We worked at the troublesome problem
until three in the morning.

Meantime Mary was still reaching for the lap-robe. We gave it up, and
decided to let her continue to reach. It is the reader's privilege to
determine for himself how the thing came out.

Mark Twain