The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain (59 page)

“Go it, Tommy; you’re ’most there!”

“—will tell the Master of the Hounds, and the Master will tell the Head Groom of the Stables, and the Head Groom will tell the Chief Equerry, and the Chief Equerry will tell the First Lord in Waiting, and the First Lord will tell the Lord High Chamberlain, and the Lord High Chamberlain will tell the Master of the Household, and the Master of the Household will tell the little pet page that fans the flies off the Emperor, and the page will get down on his knees and whisper it to his Majesty—and the game’s made!”

“I’ve
got
to get up and hurrah a couple of times, Tommy. It’s the grandest idea that ever was. What ever put it into your head?”

“Sit down and listen, and I’ll give you some wisdom—and don’t you ever forget it as long as you live. Now, then, who is the closest friend you’ve got, and the one you couldn’t and wouldn’t ever refuse anything in the world to?”

“Why, it’s you, Tommy. You know that.”

“Suppose you wanted to ask a pretty large favor of the cat’s-meat man. Well, you don’t know him, and he would tell you to go to thunder, for he is that kind of a person; but he is my next best friend after you, and would run his legs off to do me a kindness—
any
kindness, he don’t care what it is. Now, I’ll ask you: which is the most commonsensible—for you to go and ask him to tell the chestnut-woman about your watermelon cure, or for you to get me to do it for you?”

“To get you to do it for me, of course. I wouldn’t ever have thought of that, Tommy; it’s splendid!”

“It’s a
philosophy
, you see. Mighty good word—and large. It goes on this idea: everybody in the world, little and big, has one
special
friend, a friend that he’s
glad
to do favors to—not sour about it, but
glad
—glad clear to the marrow. And so, I don’t care where you start, you can get at anybody’s ear that you want to—I don’t care how low you are, nor how high he is. And it’s so simple: you’ve only to find the
first
friend, that is all; that ends your part of the work. He finds the next friend himself, and that one finds the third, and so on, friend after friend, link after link, like a chain; and you can go up it or down it, as high as you like or as low as you like.”

“It’s just beautiful, Tommy.”

“It’s as simple and easy as a-b-c; but did you ever hear of anybody trying it? No; everybody is a fool. He goes to a stranger without any introduction, or writes him a letter, and of course he strikes a cold wave—and serves him gorgeously right. Now, the Emperor don’t know me, but that’s no matter—he’ll eat his watermelon to-morrow. You’ll see. Hi-hi—stop! It’s the cat’s-meat man. Good-by, Jimmy; I’ll overtake him.”

He did overtake him, and said:

“Say, will you do me a favor?”

“
Will
I? Well, I should
say!
I’m your man. Name it, and see me fly!”

“Go tell the chestnut-woman to put down everything and carry this message to her first-best friend, and tell the friend to pass it along.” He worded the message, and said, “Now, then, rush!”

The next moment the chimney-sweep’s word to the Emperor was on its way.

3

The next evening, toward midnight, the doctors sat whispering together in the imperial sick-room and they were in deep trouble, for the Emperor was in very bad case. They could not hide it from themselves that every time they emptied a fresh drug-store into him he got worse. It saddened them, for they were expecting that result. The poor emaciated Emperor lay motionless, with his eyes closed, and the page that was his darling was fanning the flies away and crying softly. Presently the boy heard the silken rustle of a portière, and turned and saw the Lord High Great Master of the Household peering in at the door and excitedly motioning to him to come. Lightly and swiftly the page tip-toed his way to his dear and worshiped friend the Master, who said:

“Only you can persuade him, my child, and oh, don’t fail to do it! Take this, make him eat it, and he is saved.”

“On my head be it. He shall eat it!”

It was a couple of great slices of ruddy, fresh watermelon.

The next morning the news flew everywhere that the Emperor was sound and well again, and had hanged the doctors. A wave of joy swept the land, and frantic preparations were made to illuminate.

After breakfast his Majesty sat meditating. His gratitude was unspeakable, and he was trying to devise a reward rich enough to properly testify it to his benefactor. He got it arranged in his mind, and called the page, and asked him if he had invented that cure. The boy said no—he got it from the Master of the Household.

He was sent away, and the Emperor went to devising again. The Master was an earl; he would make him a duke, and give him a vast estate which belonged to a member of the Opposition. He had him called, and asked him if he was the inventor of the remedy. But the Master was an honest man, and said he got it of the Grand Chamberlain. He was sent away, and the Emperor thought some more. The Chamberlain was a viscount; he would make him an earl, and give him a large income. But the Chamberlain referred him to the First Lord in Waiting, and there was some more thinking; his Majesty thought out a smaller reward. But the First Lord in Waiting referred him back further, and he had to sit down and think out a further and becomingly and suitably smaller reward.

Then, to break the tediousness of the inquiry and hurry the business, he sent for the Grand High Chief Detective, and commanded him to trace the cure to the bottom, so that he could properly reward his benefactor.

At nine in the evening the High Chief Detective brought the word. He had traced the cure down to a lad named Jimmy, a chimney-sweep. The Emperor said, with deep feeling:

“Brave boy, he saved my life, and shall not regret it!”

And sent him a pair of his own boots; and the next best ones he had, too. They were too large for Jimmy, but they fitted the Zulu, so it was all right, and everything as it should be.

CONCLUSION TO THE FIRST STORY

“There—do you get the idea?”

“I am obliged to admit that I do. And it will be as you have said. I will transact the business to-morrow. I intimately know the Director-General’s nearest friend. He will give me a note of introduction, with a word to say my matter is of real importance to the government. I will take it along, without an appointment, and send it in, with my card, and I sha’n’t have to wait so much as half a minute.”

That turned out true to the letter, and the government adopted the boots.

1901

THE BELATED RUSSIAN PASSPORT
                                                                                                                                       

One fly makes a summer.
—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

A
GREAT beer-saloon in the Friedrichstrasse, Berlin, toward mid-afternoon. At a hundred round tables gentlemen sat smoking and drinking; flitting here and there and everywhere were white-aproned waiters bearing foaming mugs to the thirsty. At a table near the main entrance were grouped half a dozen lively young fellows—American students—drinking good-by to a visiting Yale youth on his travels, who had been spending a few days in the German capital.

“But why do you cut your tour short in the middle, Parrish?” asked one of the students. “I wish I had your chance. What do you want to go home for?”

“Yes,” said another, “What is the idea? You want to explain, you know, because it looks like insanity. Homesick?”

A girlish blush rose in Parrish’s fresh young face, and after a little hesitation he confessed that that was his trouble.

“I was never away from home before,” he said, “and every day I get more and more lonesome. I have not seen a friend for weeks, and it’s been horrible. I meant to stick the trip through, for pride’s sake, but seeing you boys has finished me. It’s been heaven to me, and I can’t take up that companionless dreariness again. If I had company—but I haven’t, you know, so it’s no use. They used to call me Miss Nancy when I was a small chap, and I reckon I’m that yet—girlish and timorous, and all that. I ought to have
been
a girl! I can’t stand it; I’m going home.”

The boys rallied him good-naturedly, and said he was making the mistake of his life; and one of them added that he ought at least to see St. Petersburg before turning back.

“Don’t!” said Parrish, appealingly. “It was my dearest dream, and I’m throwing it away. Don’t say a word more on that head, for I’m made of water, and can’t stand out against anybody’s persuasion. I
can’t
go alone; I think I should die.” He slapped his breast pocket, and added: “Here is my protection against a change of mind; I’ve bought ticket and sleeper for Paris, and I leave to-night. Drink, now—this is on me—bumpers—this is for home!”

The good-bys were said, and Alfred Parrish was left to his thoughts and his loneliness. But for a moment only. A sturdy middle-aged man with a brisk and businesslike bearing, and an air of decision and confidence suggestive of military training, came bustling from the next table, and seated himself at Parrish’s side, and began to speak, with concentrated interest and earnestness. His eyes, his face, his person, his whole system, seemed to exude energy. He was full of steam—racing pressure—one could almost hear his gauge-cocks sing. He extended a frank hand, shook Parrish’s cordially, and said, with a most convincing air of strenuous conviction:

“Ah, but you
mustn’t;
really you mustn’t; it would be the greatest mistake; you would always regret it. Be persuaded, I beg you; don’t do it—don’t!”

There was such a friendly note in it, and such a seeming of genuineness, that it brought a sort of uplift to the youth’s despondent spirits, and a telltale moisture betrayed itself in his eyes, an unintentional confession that he was touched and grateful. The alert stranger noted that sign, was quite content with that response, and followed up his advantage without waiting for a spoken one:

“No, don’t do it; it would be a mistake. I have heard everything that was said—you will pardon that—I was so close by that I couldn’t help it. And it troubled me to think that you would cut your travels short when you really
want
to see St. Petersburg, and are right here almost in sight of it! Reconsider it—ah, you
must
reconsider it. It is such a short distance—it is very soon done and very soon over—and think what a memory it will be!”

Then he went on and made a picture of the Russian capital and its wonders, which made Alfred Parrish’s mouth water and his roused spirits cry out with longing. Then—

“Of course you must see St. Petersburg—you
must!
Why, it will be a joy to you—a joy! I know, because I know the place as familiarly as I know my own birthplace in America. Ten years—I’ve known it ten years. Ask anybody there; they’ll tell you; they all know me—Major Jackson. The very dogs know me. Do go; oh, you must go; you must, indeed.”

Alfred Parrish was quivering with eagerness now. He would go. His face said it as plainly as his tongue could have done it. Then—the old shadow fell,—and he said, sorrowfully:

“Oh, no—no, it’s no use; I can’t. I should die of the loneliness.”

The Major said, with astonishment: “The—loneliness! Why, I’m going
with
you!”

It was startlingly unexpected. And not quite pleasant. Things were moving too rapidly. Was this a trap? Was this stranger a sharper? Whence all this gratuitous interest in a wandering and unknown lad? Then he glanced at the Major’s frank and winning and beaming face, and was ashamed; and wished he knew how to get out of this scrape without hurting the feelings of its contriver. But he was not handy in matters of diplomacy, and went at the difficulty with conscious awkwardness and small confidence. He said, with a quite overdone show of unselfishness:

“Oh no, no, you are too kind; I couldn’t—I couldn’t allow you to put yourself to such an inconvenience on my—”

“Inconvenience? None in the world, my boy; I was going to-night, anyway; I leave in the express at nine. Come! we’ll go together. You sha’n’t be lonely a single minute. Come along—say the word!”

So that excuse had failed. What to do now? Parrish was disheartened; it seemed to him that no subterfuge which his poor invention could contrive would ever rescue him from these toils. Still, he must make another effort, and he did; and before he had finished his new excuse he thought he recognized that it was unanswerable:

“Ah, but most unfortunately luck is against me, and it is impossible. Look at these”—and he took out his tickets and laid them on the table. “I am booked through to Paris, and I couldn’t get these tickets and baggage coupons changed for St. Petersburg, of course, and would have to lose the money; and if I could afford to lose the money I should be rather short after I bought the new tickets—for there is all the cash I’ve got about me”—and he laid a five-hundred-mark bank-note on the table.

In a moment the Major had the tickets and coupons and was on his feet, and saying, with enthusiasm:

“Good! It’s all right, and everything safe. They’ll change the tickets and baggage pasters for
me;
they all know me—everybody knows me. Sit right where you are; I’ll be back right away.” Then he reached for the bank-note, and added, “I’ll take this along, for there will be a little extra pay on the new tickets, maybe”—and the next moment he was flying out at the door.

2

Alfred Parrish was paralyzed. It was all so sudden. So sudden, so daring, so incredible, so impossible. His mouth was open, but his tongue wouldn’t work; he tried to shout “Stop him,” but his lungs were empty; he wanted to pursue, but his legs refused to do anything but tremble; then they gave way under him and let him down into his chair. His throat was dry, he was gasping and swallowing with dismay, his head was in a whirl. What must he do? He did not know. One thing seemed plain, however—he must pull himself together, and try to overtake that man. Of course the man could not get back the ticket-money, but would he throw the tickets away on that account? No; he would certainly go to the station and sell them to some one at half-price; and today, too, for they would be worthless to-morrow, by German custom. These reflections gave him hope and strength, and he rose and started. But he took only a couple of steps, then he felt a sudden sickness, and tottered back to his chair again, weak with a dread that his movement had been noticed—for the last round of beer was at his expense; it had not been paid for, and he hadn’t a pfennig. He was a prisoner—Heaven only could know what might happen if he tried to leave the place. He was timid, scared, crushed; and he had not German enough to state his case and beg for help and indulgence.

Then his thoughts began to persecute him. How could he have been such a fool? What possessed him to listen to such a manifest adventurer?
And here comes the waiter!
He buried himself in the newspaper—trembling. The waiter passed by. It filled him with thankfulness. The hands of the clock seemed to stand still, yet he could not keep his eyes from them.

Ten minutes dragged by. The waiter again! Again he hid behind the paper. The waiter paused—apparently a week—then passed on.

Another ten minutes of misery—once more the waiter; this time he wiped off the table, and seemed to be a month at it; then paused two months, and went away.

Parrish felt that he could not endure another visit; he must take the chances: he must run the gantlet; he must escape. But the waiter stayed around about the neighborhood for five minutes—months and months seemingly, Parrish watching him with a despairing eye, and feeling the infirmities of age creeping upon him and his hair gradually turning gray.

At last the waiter wandered away—stopped at a table, collected a bill, wandered farther, collected another bill, wandered farther—Parrish’s praying eye riveted on him all the time, his heart thumping, his breath coming and going in quick little gasps of anxiety mixed with hope.

The waiter stopped again to collect, and Parrish said to himself, it is now or never! and started for the door. One step—two steps—three—four—he was nearing the door—five—his legs shaking under him—was that a swift step behind him?—the thought shriveled his heart—six steps—seven, and he was out!—eight—nine—ten—eleven—twelve—there
is
a pursuing step!—he turned the corner, and picked up his heels to fly—a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and the strength went out of his body.

It was the Major. He asked not a question, he showed no surprise. He said, in his breezy and exhilarating fashion:

“Confound those people, they delayed me; that’s why I was gone so long. New man in the ticket-office, and he didn’t know me, and wouldn’t make the exchange because it was irregular; so I had to hunt up my old friend, the great mogul—the station-master, you know—hi, there, cab! cab!—jump in, Parrish!—Russian consulate, cabby, and let them fly!—so, as I say, that all cost time. But it’s all right now, and everything straight; your luggage reweighed, rechecked, fare-ticket and sleeper changed, and I’ve got the documents for it in my pocket; also the change—I’ll keep it for you. Whoop along, cabby, whoop along; don’t let them go to sleep!”

Poor Parrish was trying his best to get in a word edgeways, as the cab flew farther and farther from the bilked beer-hall, and now at last he succeeded, and wanted to return at once and pay his little bill.

“Oh, never mind about that,” said the Major, placidly; “that’s all right, they know me, everybody knows me—I’ll square it next time I’m in Berlin—push along, cabby, push along—no great lot of time to spare, now.”

They arrived at the Russian consulate, a moment after-hours, and hurried in. No one there but a clerk. The Major laid his card on the desk, and said, in the Russian tongue, “Now, then, if you’ll visé this young man’s passport for Petersburg as quickly as—”

“But, dear sir, I’m not authorized, and the consul has just gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Out in the country, where he lives.”

“And he’ll be back—”

“Not till morning.”

“Thunder! Oh, well, look here, I’m Major Jackson—he knows me, everybody knows me. You visé it yourself; tell him Major Jackson asked you; it’ll be all right.”

But it would be desperately and fatally irregular; the clerk could not be persuaded; he almost fainted at the idea.

“Well, then, I’ll tell you what to do,” said the Major. “Here’s stamps and fee—visé it in the morning, and start it along by mail.”

The clerk said, dubiously, “He—well, he may perhaps do it, and so—”

“May? He
will!
He knows me—everybody knows me.”

“Very well,” said the clerk, “I will tell him what you say.” He looked bewildered, and in a measure subjugated; and added, timidly: “But—but—you know you will beat it to the frontier twenty-four hours. There are no accommodations there for so long a wait.”

“Who’s going to
wait?
Not I, if the court knows herself.”

The clerk was temporarily paralyzed, and said, “Surely, sir, you don’t wish it sent to Petersburg!”

“And why not?”

“And the owner of it tarrying at the frontier, twenty-five miles away? It couldn’t do him any good, in those circumstances.”

“Tarry—the mischief! Who said he was going to do any tarrying?”

“Why, you know, of course, they’ll stop him at the frontier if he has no passport.”

“Indeed they won’t! The Chief Inspector knows me—everybody does. I’ll be responsible for the young man. You send it straight through to Petersburg—Hôtel de l’Europe, care Major Jackson: tell the consul not to worry, I’m taking all the risks myself.”

The clerk hesitated, then chanced one more appeal:

“You must bear in mind, sir, that the risks are peculiarly serious, just now. The new edict is in force.”

“What is it?”

“Ten years in Siberia for being in Russia without a passport.”

“Mm—damnation!” He said it in English, for the Russian tongue is but a poor stand-by in spiritual emergencies. He mused a moment, then brisked up and resumed in Russian: “Oh, it’s all right—label her St. Petersburg and let her sail! I’ll fix it. They all know me there—all the authorities—everybody.”

3

The Major turned out to be an adorable traveling-companion, and young Parrish was charmed with him. His talk was sunshine and rainbows, and lit up the whole region around, and keep it gay and happy and cheerful; and he was full of accommodating ways, and knew all about how to do things, and when to do them, and the best way. So the long journey was a fairy dream for that young lad who had been so lonely and forlorn and friendless so many homesick weeks. At last, when the two travelers were approaching the frontier, Parrish said something about passports; then started, as if recollecting something, and added: