Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0146/01460.txt

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$Title{Pudd'nhead Wilson
Chapter II}
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$Author{Twain, Mark}
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$Subject{roxy
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$Date{1905}
$Log{See Marse Percy And Slave*0146001.scf
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Title:       Pudd'nhead Wilson
Author:      Twain, Mark
Date:        1905

Chapter II

     Adam was but human - this explains it all.  He did not want the
     apple for the apple's sake, he wanted it only because it was
     forbidden.  The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he
     would have eaten the serpent.

                    - Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.

     Pudd'nhead Wilson had a trifle of money when he arrived, and he bought
a small house on the extreme western verge of the town.  Between it and Judge
Driscoll's house there was only a grassy yard, with a paling fence dividing
the properties in the middle.  He hired a small office down in the town and
hung out a tin sign with these words on it:

     David Wilson.
     Attorney and Counselor-at-Law.
     Surveying, Conveyancing, etc.

     But his deadly remark had ruined his chance - at least in the law.  No
clients came.  He took down his sign after a while and put it up on his own
house with the law features knocked out of it.  It offered his services now in
the humble capacities of land-surveyor and expert accountant.  Now and then he
got a job of surveying to do, and now and then a merchant got him to
straighten out his books.  With Scotch patience and pluck he resolved to live
down his reputation and work his way into the legal field yet.  Poor fellow!
he could not foresee that it was going to take him such a weary long time to
do it.

     He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his
hands, for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into the
universe of ideas, and studied it and experimented upon it at his house.  One
of his pet fads was palmistry.  To another one he gave no name, neither would
he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely said it was an
amusement.  In fact, he had found that his fads added to his reputation as
a pudd'nhead; therefore he was growing chary of being too communicative about
them.  The fad without a name was one which dealt with people's fingermarks.
He carried in his coat pocket a shallow box with grooves in it, and in the
grooves strips of glass five inches long and three inches wide.  Along the
lower edge of each strip was pasted a slip of white paper.  He asked people
to pass their hands through their hair (thus collecting upon them a thin
coating of the natural oil) and then make a thumbmark on a glass strip,
following it with the mark of the ball of each finger in succession.  Under
this row of faint grease-prints he would write a record on the strip of white
paper - thus:

     John Smith, right hand -

and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand on
another glass strip, and add name and date and the words "left hand." The
strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place among what
Wilson called his "records."

     He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there - if he
found anything - he revealed to no one.  Sometimes he copied on paper the
involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of a finger, and then vastly
enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine its web of curving
lines with ease and convenience.

     One sweltering afternoon - it was the first day of July, 1830 - he was
at work over a set of tangled account-books in his work-room, which looked
westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation outside disturbed
him.  It was carried on in yells, which showed that the people engaged in it
were not close together:

     "Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?" This from the distant voice.

     "Fust-rate; how does you come on, Jasper?" This yell was from close by.

     "Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of.  I's gwine to come
a-court'n' you bimeby, Roxy."

     "You is, you black mud-cat!  Yah - yah - yah!  I got somep'n' better to
do den 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is.  Is ole Miss Cooper's Nancy
done give you de mitten?" Roxy followed this sally with another discharge of
care-free laughter.

     "You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you hussy - yah -
 yah - yah!  Dat's de time I got you!"

     "Oh, yes, you got me, hain't you.  'Clah to goodness if dat conceit o'
yo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'.  If you b'longed to me
I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone.  Fust time I runs
acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so."

     This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of the wit exchanged
- for wit they considered it.

     Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not
work while their chatter continued.  Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal-black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow in the
pelting sun - at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only preparing for
it by taking an hour's rest before beginning.  In front of Wilson's porch
stood Roxy, with a local hand-made baby-wagon, in which sat her two charges -
 one at each end and facing each other.  From Roxy's manner of speech, a
stranger would have expected her to be black, but she was not.  Only one-
sixteenth of her was black, and that sixteenth did not show.  She was of
majestic form and stature, her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and
her gestures and movements distinguished by a noble and stately grace.  Her
complexion was very fair, with the rosy glow of vigorous health in the
cheeks, her face was full of character and expression, her eyes were brown
and liquid, and she had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was also brown,
but the fact was not apparent because her head was bound about with a
checkered handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it.  Her face was
shapely, intelligent, and comely - even beautiful.  She had an easy,
independent carriage - when she was among her own caste - and a high and
"sassy" way, withal; but of course she was meek and humble enough where white
people were.

     To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one-
sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and made
her a negro.  She was a slave, and salable as such.  Her child was thirty-
one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of law and custom
a negro.  He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his white comrade, but even
the father of the white child was able to tell the children apart - little
as he had commerce with them - by their clothes; for the white babe wore
ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace, while the other wore merely a
coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached to its knees, and no jewelry.

     The white child's name was Thomas a Becket Driscoll, the other's name
was Valet┌ de Chambre; no surname - slaves hadn't the privilege.  Roxana had
heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her ear, and
as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling.  It soon
got shortened to "Chambers," of course.

     Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wit began to play out,
he stepped outside to gather in a record or two.  Jasper went to work
energetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed.  Wilson
inspected the children and asked:

     "How old are they, Roxy?"

     "Bofe de same age, sir - five months.  Bawn de fust o' Feb'uary."

     "They're handsome little chaps.  One's just as handsome as the other,
too."

     A delighted smile exposed the girl's white teeth, and she said:

     "Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it's pow'ful nice o' you to say dat,
'ca'se one of 'em ain't on'y a nigger.  Mighty prime little nigger, I al'ays
says, but dat's ca'se it's mine, o' course."

     "How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven't any clothes on?"

     Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:

     "Oh, I kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy couldn't,
not to save his life."

     Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy's finger-prints
for his collection - right hand and left - on a couple of his glass strips;
then labeled and dated them, and took the "records" of both children, and
labeled and dated them also.

     Two months later, on the 3d of September, he took this trio of finger-
marks again.  He liked to have a "series," two or three "takings" at
intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed by others at
intervals of several years.

     The next day - that is to say, on the 4th of September - something
occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana.  Mr. Driscoll missed another
small sum of money - which is a way of saying that this was not a new thing,
but had happened before.  In truth, it had happened three times before.
Driscoll's patience was exhausted.  He was a fairly humane man toward slaves
and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward the erring of his
own race.  Theft he could not abide, and plainly there was a thief in his
house.  Necessarily the thief must be one of his negroes.  Sharp measures
must be taken.  He called his servants before him.  There were three of
these, besides Roxy; a man, a woman, and a boy twelve years old.  They were
not related.  Mr. Driscoll said:

     "You have all been warned before.  It has done no good.  This time I
will teach you a lesson.  I will sell the thief.  Which of you is the guilty
one?"

[See Marse Percy And Slave: "You have all been warned before."]


     They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home, and a
new one was likely to be a change for the worse.  The denial was general.
None had stolen anything - not money, anyway - a little sugar, or cake, or
honey, or something like that, that "Marse Percy wouldn't mind or miss," but
not money - never a cent of money.  They were eloquent in their
protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them.  He answered each in
turn with a stern "Name the thief!"

     The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others
were guilty, but she did not know them to be so.  She was horrified to think
how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been saved in the nick
of time by a revival in the colored Methodist church, a fortnight before, at
which time and place she "got religion." The very next day after that
gracious experience, while her change of style was fresh upon her and she
was vain of her purified condition, her master left a couple of dollars lying
unprotected on his desk, and she happened upon that temptation when she was
polishing around with a dust-rag.  She looked at the money awhile with a
steadily rising resentment, then she burst out with:

     "Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had 'a' be'n put off till to-morrow!"

     Then she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the
kitchen cabinet got it.  She made this sacrifice as a matter of religious
etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to be wrested into
a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety, then she would be
rational again, and the next two dollars that got left out in the cold would
find a comforter - and she could name the comforter.

     Was she bad?  Was she worse than the general run of her race?  No. They
had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin to take
military advantage of the enemy - in a small way; in a small way, but not in
a large one.  They would smouch provisions from the pantry whenever they got
a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax, or an emery-bag, or a paper
of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill, or small articles of
clothing, or any other property of light value; and so far were they from
considering such reprisals sinful, that they would go to church and shout and
pray the loudest and sincerest with their plunder in their pockets.  A farm
smoke-house had to be kept heavily padlocked, for even the colored deacon
himself could not resist a ham when Providence showed him in a dream, or
otherwise, where such a thing hung lonesome and longed for some one to love.
But with a hundred hanging before him the deacon would not take two - that
is, on the same night.  On frosty nights the humane negro prowler would warm
the end of a plank and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting
in a tree; a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly
clucking her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and
later into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the
man who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure - his liberty - he was
not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the Last Great
Day.

     "Name the thief!"

     For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same
hard tone.  And now he added these words of awful import:

     "I give you one minute" - he took out his watch.  "If at the end of that
time you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four of you, but - I
will sell you Down the River!"

     It was equivalent to condemning them to hell!  No Missouri negro doubted
this.  Roxy reeled in her tracks and the color vanished out of her face; the
others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot; tears gushed from
their eyes, their supplicating hands went up, and three answers came in the
one instant:

     "I done it!"

     "I done it!"

     "I done it! - have mercy, marster - Lord have mercy on us po' niggers!"

     "Very good," said the master, putting up his watch, "I will sell you
here though you don't deserve it.  You ought to be sold down the river."

     The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude, and
kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his goodness and
never cease to pray for him as long as they lived.  They were sincere, for
like a god he had stretched forth his mighty hand and closed the gates of
hell against them.  He knew, himself, that he had done a noble and gracious
thing, and was privately well pleased with his magnanimity; and that night
he set the incident down in his diary, so that his son might read it in
after years, and be thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity
himself.