The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain (Illustrated). Mark Twain
here, and there, and everywhere, always imagining they are attracting the admiring eye – well, they just think they are the very most important people in heaven. And when you see one of them come sailing around with one wing tipped up and t’other down, you make up your mind he is saying to himself: ‘I wish Mary Ann in Arkansaw could see me now. I reckon she’d wish she hadn’t shook me.’ No, they’re just for show, that’s all – only just for show.”
“I judge you’ve got it about right, Sandy,” says I.
“Why, look at it yourself,” says he. “You ain’t built for wings – no man is. You know what a grist of years it took you to come here from the earth – and yet you were booming along faster than any cannon-ball could go. Suppose you had to fly that distance with your wings – wouldn’t eternity have been over before you got here? Certainly. Well, angels have to go to the earth every day – millions of them – to appear in visions to dying children and good people, you know – it’s the heft of their business. They appear with their wings, of course, because they are on official service, and because the dying persons wouldn’t know they were angels if they hadn’t wings – but do you reckon they fly with them? It stands to reason they don’t. The wings would wear out before they got half-way; even the pin-feathers would be gone; the wing frames would be as bare as kite sticks before the paper is pasted on. The distances in heaven are billions of times greater; angels have to go all over heaven every day; could they do it with their wings alone? No, indeed; they wear the wings for style, but they travel any distance in an instant by wishing. The wishing-carpet of the Arabian Nights was a sensible idea – but our earthly idea of angels flying these awful distances with their clumsy wings was foolish.
“Our young saints, of both sexes, wear wings all the time – blazing red ones, and blue and green, and gold, and variegated, and rainbowed, and ring-streaked-and-striped ones – and nobody finds fault. It is suitable to their time of life. The things are beautiful, and they set the young people off. They are the most striking and lovely part of their outfit – a halo don’t begin.”
“Well,” says I, “I’ve tucked mine away in the cupboard, and I allow to let them lay there till there’s mud.”
“Yes – or a reception.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, you can see one tonight if you want to. There’s a barkeeper from Jersey City going to be received.”
“Go on – tell me about it.”
“This barkeeper got converted at a Moody and Sankey meeting, in New York, and started home on the ferry-boat, and there was a collision and he got drowned. He is of a class that think all heaven goes wild with joy when a particularly hard lot like him is saved; they think all heaven turns out hosannahing to welcome them; they think there isn’t anything talked about in the realms of the blest but their case, for that day. This barkeeper thinks there hasn’t been such another stir here in years, as his coming is going to raise. – And I’ve always noticed this peculiarity about a dead barkeeper – he not only expects all hands to turn out when he arrives, but he expects to be received with a torchlight procession.”
“I reckon he is disappointed, then.”
“No, he isn’t. No man is allowed to be disappointed here. Whatever he wants, when he comes – that is, any reasonable and unsacrilegious thing – he can have. There’s always a few millions or billions of young folks around who don’t want any better entertainment than to fill up their lungs and swarm out with their torches and have a high time over a barkeeper. It tickles the barkeeper till he can’t rest, it makes a charming lark for the young folks, it don’t do anybody any harm, it don’t cost a rap, and it keeps up the place’s reputation for making all comers happy and content.”
“Very good. I’ll be on hand and see them land the barkeeper.”
“It is manners to go in full dress. You want to wear your wings, you know, and your other things.”
“Which ones?”
“Halo, and harp, and palm branch, and all that.”
“Well,” says I, “I reckon I ought to be ashamed of myself, but the fact is I left them laying around that day I resigned from the choir. I haven’t got a rag to wear but this robe and the wings.”
“That’s all right. You’ll find they’ve been raked up and saved for you. Send for them.”
“I’ll do it, Sandy. But what was it you was saying about unsacrilegious things, which people expect to get, and will be disappointed about?”
“Oh, there are a lot of such things that people expect and don’t get. For instance, there’s a Brooklyn preacher by the name of Talmage, who is laying up a considerable disappointment for himself. He says, every now and then in his sermons, that the first thing he does when he gets to heaven, will be to fling his arms around Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and kiss them and weep on them. There’s millions of people down there on earth that are promising themselves the same thing. As many as sixty thousand people arrive here every single day, that want to run straight to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and hug them and weep on them. Now mind you, sixty thousand a day is a pretty heavy contract for those old people. If they were a mind to allow it, they wouldn’t ever have anything to do, year in and year out, but stand up and be hugged and wept on thirty-two hours in the twenty-four. They would be tired out and as wet as muskrats all the time. What would heaven be, to them? It would be a mighty good place to get out of – you know that, yourself. Those are kind and gentle old Jews, but they ain’t any fonder of kissing the emotional highlights of Brooklyn than you be. You mark my words, Mr. T.’s endearments are going to be declined, with thanks. There are limits to the privileges of the elect, even in heaven. Why, if Adam was to show himself to every new comer that wants to call and gaze at him and strike him for his autograph, he would never have time to do anything else but just that. Talmage has said he is going to give Adam some of his attentions, as well as A., I., and J. But he will have to change his mind about that.”
“Do you think Talmage will really come here?”
“Why, certainly, he will; but don’t you be alarmed; he will run with his own kind, and there’s plenty of them. That is the main charm of heaven – there’s all kinds here – which wouldn’t be the case if you let the preachers tell it. Anybody can find the sort he prefers, here, and he just lets the others alone, and they let him alone. When the Deity builds a heaven, it is built right, and on a liberal plan.”
Sandy sent home for his things, and I sent for mine, and about nine in the evening we begun to dress. Sandy says:
“This is going to be a grand time for you, Stormy. Like as not some of the patriarchs will turn out.”
“No, but will they?”
“Like as not. Of course they are pretty exclusive. They hardly ever show themselves to the common public. I believe they never turn out except for an eleventh-hour convert. They wouldn’t do it then, only earthly tradition makes a grand show pretty necessary on that kind of an occasion.”
“Do they all turn out, Sandy?”
“Who? – all the patriarchs? Oh, no – hardly ever more than a couple. You will be here fifty thousand years – maybe more – before you get a glimpse of all the patriarchs and prophets. Since I have been here, Job has been to the front once, and once Ham and Jeremiah both at the same time. But the finest thing that has happened in my day was a year or so ago; that was Charles Peace’s reception – him they called ‘the Bannercross Murderer’ – an Englishman. There were four patriarchs and two prophets on the Grand Stand that time – there hasn’t been anything like it since Captain Kidd came; Abel was there – the first time in twelve hundred years. A report got around that Adam was coming; well, of course, Abel was enough to bring a crowd, all by himself, but there is nobody that can draw like Adam. It was a false report, but it got around, anyway, as I say, and it will be a long day before I see the like of it again. The reception was in the English department, of course, which is eight hundred and eleven million miles from the New