A Tramp Abroad
the least cold, he would try to come into the house.”
I was rather afraid to proceed. Evidently Darley was not a man--he
must be some other kind of animal--possibly a dog, maybe an elephant.
However, tails are common to all animals, so I ventured to say:
“And what a tail he had!”
“ONE! He had a thousand!”
This was bewildering. I did not quite know what to say, so I only said:
“Yes, he WAS rather well fixed in the matter of tails.”
“For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,” said she.
It was getting pretty sultry for me. I said to myself, “Is it possible
she is going to stop there, and wait for me to speak? If she does, the
conversation is blocked. A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which
a person cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more or
less preparation. As to diving rashly into such a vast subject--”
But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts by saying:
“Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was simply no
end to them if anybody would listen. His own quarters were comfortable
enough, but when the weather was cold, the family were sure to have his
company--nothing could keep him out of the house. But they always bore
it kindly because he had saved Tom's life, years before. You remember
Tom?
“Oh, perfectly. Fine fellow he was, too.”
“Yes he was. And what a pretty little thing his child was!”
“You may well say that. I never saw a prettier child.”
“I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play with it.”
“So did I.”
“You named it. What WAS that name? I can't call it to mind.”
It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty thin, here. I would
have given something to know what the child's was. However, I had the
good luck to think of a name that would fit either sex--so I brought it
out:
“I named it Frances.”
“From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died, too--one
that I never saw. What did you call that one?”
I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead and she had
never seen it, I thought I might risk a name for it and trust to luck.
Therefore I said:
“I called that one Thomas Henry.”
She said, musingly:
“That is very singular ... very singular.”
I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was in a good deal of
trouble, but I believed I could worry through if she wouldn't ask me
to name any more children. I wondered where the lightning was going to
strike next. She was still ruminating over that last child's title, but
presently she said:
“I have always been sorry you were away at the time--I would have had
you name my child.”
“YOUR child! Are you married?”
“I have been married thirteen years.”
“Christened, you mean.”
“No, married. The youth by your side is my son.”
“It seems incredible--even impossible. I do not mean any harm by it, but
would you mind telling me if you are any over eighteen?--that is to say,
will you tell me how old you are?”
“I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were talking about. That
was my birthday.”
That did not help matters, much, as I did not know the date of the
storm. I tried to think of some non-committal thing to say, to keep up
my end of the talk, and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences
as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be about out of
non-committal things. I was about to say, “You haven't changed a bit
since then”--but that was risky. I thought of saying, “You have improved
ever so much since then”--but that wouldn't answer, of course. I was
about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change, when the girl
slipped in ahead of me and said:
“How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times--haven't you?”
“I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!” said I,
with emotion; and I could have added, with a near approach to truth,
“and I would rather be scalped than spend another one like it.” I was
holily grateful to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make my
good-bys and get out, when the girl said:
“But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me.”
“Why, what is that?”
“That dead child's name. What did you say it was?”
Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the child's name;
I hadn't imagined it would be needed again. However, I had to pretend to
know, anyway, so I said:
“Joseph William.”
The youth at my side corrected me, and said:
“No, Thomas Henry.”
I thanked him--in words--and said, with trepidation:
“O yes--I was thinking of another child that I named--I have named
a great many, and I get them confused--this one was named Henry
Thompson--”
“Thomas Henry,” calmly interposed the boy.
I thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered out:
“Thomas Henry--yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name. I named
him for Thomas--er--Thomas Carlyle, the great author, you know--and
Henry--er--er--Henry the Eighth. The parents were very grateful to have
a child named Thomas Henry.”
“That makes it more singular than ever,” murmured my beautiful friend.
“Does it? Why?”
“Because when the parents speak of that child now, they always call it
Susan Amelia.”
That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely out of
verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie, and that I would not
do; so I simply sat still and suffered--sat mutely and resignedly there,
and sizzled--for I was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes.
Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:
“I HAVE enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not. I saw very
soon that you were only pretending to know me, and so as I had wasted a
compliment on you in the beginning, I made up my mind to punish you. And
I have succeeded pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George and
Tom and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore could
not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn the names of those
imaginary children, too. One can get quite a fund of information out
of you if one goes at it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweeping
away of the forward boats, were facts--all the rest was fiction. Mary
was my sister; her full name was Mary ------. NOW do you remember me?”
“Yes,” I said, “I do remember you now; and you are as hard-headed as you
were thirteen years ago in that ship, else you wouldn't have punished me
so. You haven't changed your nature nor your person, in any way at all;
you look as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful as you were
then, and you have transmitted a deal of your comeliness to this fine
boy. There--if that speech moves you any, let's fly the flag of truce,
with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it.”
All of which was agreed to and accomplished, on the spot. When I went
back to Harris, I said:
“Now you see what a person with talent and address can do.”
“Excuse me, I see what a person of colossal ignorance and simplicity can
do. The idea of your going and intruding on a party of strangers, that
way, and talking for half an hour; why I never heard of a man in his
right mind doing such a thing before. What did you say to them?”
“I never said any harm. I merely asked the girl what her name was.”
“I don't doubt it. Upon my word I don't. I think you were capable of it.
It was stupid in me to let you go over there and make such an exhibition
of yourself. But you know I couldn't really believe you would do such an
inexcusable thing. What will those people think of us? But how did you
say it?--I mean the manner of it. I hope you were not abrupt.”
“No, I was careful about that. I said, 'My friend and I would like to
know what your name is, if you don't mind.'”
“No, that was not abrupt. There is a polish about it that does you
infinite credit. And I am glad you put me in; that was a delicate
attention which I appreciate at its full value. What did she do?”
“She didn't do anything in particular. She told me her name.”
“Simply told you her name. Do you mean to say she did not show any
surprise?”
“Well, now I come to think, she did show something; maybe it was
surprise; I hadn't thought of that--I took it for gratification.”
“Oh, undoubtedly you were right; it must have been gratification; it
could not be otherwise than gratifying to be assaulted by a stranger
with such a question as that. Then what did you do?”
“I offered my hand and the party gave me a shake.”
“I saw it! I did not believe my own eyes, at the time. Did the gentleman
say anything about cutting your throat?”
“No, they all seemed glad to see me, as far as I could judge.”
“And do you know, I believe they were. I think they said to themselves,
'Doubtless this curiosity has got away from his keeper--let us amuse
ourselves with him.' There is no other way of accounting for their
facile docility. You sat down. Did they ASK you to sit down?”
“No, they did not ask me, but I suppose they did not think of it.”
“You have an unerring instinct. What else did you do? What did you talk
about?”
“Well, I asked the girl how old she was.”
“UNdoubtedly. Your delicacy is beyond praise. Go on, go on--don't mind
my apparent misery--I always look so when I am steeped in a profound and
reverent joy. Go on--she told you her age?”
“Yes, she told me her age, and all about her mother, and her
grandmother, and her other relations, and all about herself.”
“Did she volunteer these statistics?”
“No, not exactly that. I asked the questions and she answered them.”
“This is divine. Go on--it is not possible that you forgot to inquire
into her politics?”
“No, I thought of that. She is a democrat, her husband is a republican,
and both of them are Baptists.”
“Her husband? Is that child married?”
“She is not a child. She is married, and that is her husband who is
there with her.”
“Has she any children.”
“Yes--seven and a half.”
“That is impossible.”
“No, she has them. She told me herself.”
“Well, but seven and a HALF? How do you make out the half? Where does
the half come in?”
“There is a child which she had by another husband--not this one
but another one--so it is a stepchild, and they do not count in full
measure.”
“Another husband? Has she another husband?”
“Yes, four. This one is number four.”
“I don't believe a word of it. It is impossible, upon its face. Is that
boy there her brother?”
“No, that is her son. He is her youngest. He is not as old as he looked;
he is only eleven and a half.”
“These things are all manifestly impossible. This is a wretched
business. It is a plain case: they simply took your measure, and
concluded to fill you up. They seem to have succeeded. I am glad I am
not in the mess; they may at least be charitable enough to think there
ain't a pair of us. Are they going to stay here long?”
“No, they leave before noon.”
“There is one man who is deeply grateful for that. How did you find out?
You asked, I suppose?”
“No, along at first I inquired into their plans, in a general way, and
they said they were going to be here a week, and make trips round about;
but toward the end of the interview, when I said you and I would tour
around with them with pleasure, and offered to bring you over and
introduce you, they hesitated a little, and asked if you were from the
same establishment that I was. I said you were, and then they said they
had changed their mind and considered it necessary to start at once and
visit a sick relative in Siberia.”
“Ah, me, you struck the summit! You struck the loftiest altitude of
stupidity that human effort has ever reached. You shall have a monument
of jackasses' skulls as high as the Strasburg spire if you die before
I do. They wanted to know I was from the same 'establishment' that you
hailed from, did they? What did they mean by 'establishment'?”