The Complete Satires & Essays of Mark Twain. Марк Твен
knee-deep towards home mos’ dead, he so sk’yerd — en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it ‘us comin’ after him! “Bzzz — zzz — zzz — W-h-o — g-o-t m-y — g-o-l-d-e-n — arm?”
When he git to de pasture he hear it agin closter now, en a-comin’! — a-comin’ back dah in de dark en de storm — (repeat the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay dah shiverin’ en shakin’ — en den way out dah he hear it agin! — en a-comin’! En bimeby he hear (pause — awed, listening attitude) — pat — pat — pat — hit’s acomin’ upstairs! Den he hear de latch, en he know it’s in de room!
Den pooty soon he know it’s a-stannin’ by de bed! (Pause.) Den — he know it’s a-bendin’ down over him — en he cain’t skasely git his breath! Den — den — he seem to feel someth’ n c-o-l-d, right down ‘most agin his head! (Pause.)
Den de voice say, right at his year — ”W-h-o g-o-t — m-y — g-o-l-d-e-n arm?” (You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor — a girl, preferably — and let that aweinspiring pause begin to build itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, “You’ve got it!”)
If you’ve got the pause right, she’ll fetch a dear little yelp and spring right out of her shoes. But you must get the pause right; and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever undertook.
MENTAL TELEGRAPHY AGAIN
I have three or four curious incidents to tell about. They seem to come under the head of what I named “Mental Telegraphy” in a paper written seventeen years ago, and published long afterwards. — The paper entitled “Mental Telegraphy,” which originally appeared in Harper’s Magazine for December, 1893, is included in the volume entitled The American Claimant and Other Stories and Sketches.
Several years ago I made a campaign on the platform with Mr. George W. Cable. In Montreal we were honored with a reception. It began at two in the afternoon in a long drawing-room in the Windsor Hotel. Mr. Cable and I stood at one end of this room, and the ladies and gentlemen entered it at the other end, crossed it at that end, then came up the long left-hand side, shook hands with us, said a word or two, and passed on, in the usual way. My sight is of the telescopic sort, and I presently recognized a familiar face among the throng of strangers drifting in at the distant door, and I said to myself, with surprise and high gratification, “That is Mrs. R.; I had forgotten that she was a Canadian.” She had been a great friend of mine in Carson City, Nevada, in the early days. I had not seen her or heard of her for twenty years; I had not been thinking about her; there was nothing to suggest her to me, nothing to bring her to my mind; in fact, to me she had long ago ceased to exist, and had disappeared from my consciousness. But I knew her instantly; and I saw her so clearly that I was able to note some of the particulars of her dress, and did note them, and they remained in my mind. I was impatient for her to come. In the midst of the handshakings I snatched glimpses of her and noted her progress with the slow-moving file across the end of the room; then I saw her start up the side, and this gave me a full front view of her face. I saw her last when she was within twenty-five feet of me. For an hour I kept thinking she must still be in the room somewhere and would come at last, but I was disappointed.
When I arrived in the lecture-hall that evening some one said: “Come into the waiting-room; there’s a friend of yours there who wants to see you. You’ll not be introduced — you are to do the recognizing without help if you can.”
I said to myself: “It is Mrs. R.; I shan’t have any trouble.”
There were perhaps ten ladies present, all seated. In the midst of them was Mrs. R., as I had expected. She was dressed exactly as she was when I had seen her in the afternoon. I went forward and shook hands with her and called her by name, and said:
“I knew you the moment you appeared at the reception this afternoon.” She looked surprised, and said: “But I was not at the reception. I have just arrived from Quebec, and have not been in town an hour.”
It was my turn to be surprised now. I said: “I can’t help it. I give you my word of honor that it is as I say. I saw you at the reception, and you were dressed precisely as you are now. When they told me a moment ago that I should find a friend in this room, your image rose before me, dress and all, just as I had seen you at the reception.”
Those are the facts. She was not at the reception at all, or anywhere near it; but I saw her there nevertheless, and most clearly and unmistakably. To that I could make oath. How is one to explain this? I was not thinking of her at the time; had not thought of her for years. But she had been thinking of me, no doubt; did her thoughts flit through leagues of air to me, and bring with it that clear and pleasant vision of herself? I think so. That was and remains my sole experience in the matter of apparitions — I mean apparitions that come when one is (ostensibly) awake. I could have been asleep for a moment; the apparition could have been the creature of a dream. Still, that is nothing to the point; the feature of interest is the happening of the thing just at that time, instead of at an earlier or later time, which is argument that its origin lay in thought-transference.
My next incident will be set aside by most persons as being merely a “coincidence,” I suppose. Years ago I used to think sometimes of making a lecturing trip through the antipodes and the borders of the Orient, but always gave up the idea, partly because of the great length of the journey and partly because my wife could not well manage to go with me. Towards the end of last January that idea, after an interval of years, came suddenly into my head again — forcefully, too, and without any apparent reason. Whence came it? What suggested it? I will touch upon that presently.
I was at that time where I am now — in Paris. I wrote at once to Henry M. Stanley (London), and asked him some questions about his Australian lecture tour, and inquired who had conducted him and what were the terms. After a day or two his answer came. It began:
“The lecture agent for Australia and New Zealand is par
excellence Mr. R. S. Smythe, of Melbourne.”
He added his itinerary, terms, sea expenses, and some other matters, and advised me to write Mr. Smythe, which I did — February 3d. I began my letter by saying in substance that while he did not know me personally we had a mutual friend in Stanley, and that would answer for an introduction. Then I proposed my trip, and asked if he would give me the same terms which he had given Stanley.
I mailed my letter to Mr. Smythe February 6th, and three days later I got a letter from the selfsame Smythe, dated Melbourne, December 17th. I would as soon have expected to get a letter from the late George Washington. The letter began somewhat as mine to him had begun — with a self-introduction:
“DEAR MR. CLEMENS, — It is so long since Archibald Forbes and I
spent that pleasant afternoon in your comfortable house at
Hartford that you have probably quite forgotten the occasion.”
In the course of his letter this occurs:
“I am willing to give you” here he named the terms which he
had given Stanley “for an antipodean tour to last, say, three
months.”
Here was the single essential detail of my letter answered three days after I had mailed my inquiry. I might have saved myself the trouble and the postage — and a few years ago I would have done that very thing, for I would have argued that my sudden and strong impulse to write and ask some questions of a stranger on the under side of the globe meant that the impulse came from that stranger, and that he would answer my questions