The $30,000 Bequest, Mark Twain [best book club books for discussion TXT] 📗

it all.

When Homer describes the battle of the gods and noble men fighting

with giants and dragons, they represent under this image our struggles

with the delusions of our passions. You have exalted me, an unhappy girl,

to the skies; you have called me a saint, and portrayed in your

imagination an angel in human form. Let her remain such to you,

let her continue to be as you have supposed, and be assured that she

will consider a share in your esteem as her highest treasure.

Think not that I would allure you from the path in which your

conscience leads you; for you know I respect the conscience of others,

as I would die for my own. Elfonzo, if I am worthy of thy love,

let such conversation never again pass between us. Go, seek a nobler

theme! we will seek it in the stream of time, as the sun set in

the Tigris.” As she spake these words she grasped the hand of Elfonzo,

saying at the same time—“Peace and prosperity attend you, my hero;

be up and doing!” Closing her remarks with this expression,

she walked slowly away, leaving Elfonzo astonished and amazed.

He ventured not to follow or detain her. Here he stood alone,

gazing at the stars; confounded as he was, here he stood.

 

Yes; there he stood. There seems to be no doubt about that.

Nearly half of this delirious story has now been delivered to the reader.

It seems a pity to reduce the other half to a cold synopsis.

Pity! it is more than a pity, it is a crime; for to synopsize McClintock

is to reduce a sky-flushing conflagration to dull embers, it is to

reduce barbaric splendor to ragged poverty. McClintock never wrote

a line that was not precious; he never wrote one that could be spared;

he never framed one from which a word could be removed without damage.

Every sentence that this master has produced may be likened to a

perfect set of teeth, white, uniform, beautiful. If you pull one,

the charm is gone.

 

Still, it is now necessary to begin to pull, and to keep it up;

for lack of space requires us to synopsize.

 

We left Elfonzo standing there amazed. At what, we do not know.

Not at the girl’s speech. No; we ourselves should have been

amazed at it, of course, for none of us has ever heard anything

resembling it; but Elfonzo was used to speeches made up of noise

and vacancy, and could listen to them with undaunted mind like

the “topmost topaz of an ancient tower”; he was used to making

them himself; he—but let it go, it cannot be guessed out; we shall

never know what it was that astonished him. He stood there awhile;

then he said, “Alas! am I now Grief’s disappointed son at last?”

He did not stop to examine his mind, and to try to find out what

he probably meant by that, because, for one reason, “a mixture

of ambition and greatness of soul moved upon his young heart,”

and started him for the village. He resumed his bench in school,

“and reasonably progressed in his education.” His heart was heavy,

but he went into society, and sought surcease of sorrow in its

light distractions. He made himself popular with his violin,

“which seemed to have a thousand chords—more symphonious than the

Muses of Apollo, and more enchanting than the ghost of the Hills.”

This is obscure, but let it go.

 

During this interval Leos did some unencouraged courting, but at last,

“choked by his undertaking,” he desisted.

 

Presently “Elfonzo again wends his way to the stately walls and

new-built village.” He goes to the house of his beloved; she opens

the door herself. To my surprise—for Ambulinia’s heart had still

seemed free at the time of their last interview—love beamed from the

girl’s eyes. One sees that Elfonzo was surprised, too; for when he caught

that light, “a halloo of smothered shouts ran through every vein.”

A neat figure—a very neat figure, indeed! Then he kissed her.

“The scene was overwhelming.” They went into the parlor. The girl

said it was safe, for her parents were abed, and would never know.

Then we have this fine picture—flung upon the canvas with hardly

an effort, as you will notice.

 

Advancing toward him, she gave a bright display of her rosy neck,

and from her head the ambrosial locks breathed divine fragrance;

her robe hung waving to his view, while she stood like a goddess

confessed before him.

 

There is nothing of interest in the couple’s interview. Now at this

point the girl invites Elfonzo to a village show, where jealousy is

the motive of the play, for she wants to teach him a wholesome lesson,

if he is a jealous person. But this is a sham, and pretty shallow.

McClintock merely wants a pretext to drag in a plagiarism of his upon

a scene or two in “Othello.”

 

The lovers went to the play. Elfonzo was one of the fiddlers.

He and Ambulinia must not been seen together, lest trouble follow with

the girl’s malignant father; we are made to understand that clearly.

So the two sit together in the orchestra, in the midst of the musicians.

This does not seem to be good art. In the first place, the girl would

be in the way, for orchestras are always packed closely together,

and there is no room to spare for people’s girls; in the next place,

one cannot conceal a girl in an orchestra without everybody taking

notice of it. There can be no doubt, it seems to me, that this is

bad art.

 

Leos is present. Of course, one of the first things that catches

his eye is the maddening spectacle of Ambulinia “leaning upon

Elfonzo’s chair.” This poor girl does not seem to understand even

the rudiments of concealment. But she is “in her seventeenth,”

as the author phrases it, and that is her justification.

 

Leos meditates, constructs a plan—with personal violence as a basis,

of course. It was their way down there. It is a good plain plan,

without any imagination in it. He will go out and stand at the

front door, and when these two come out he will “arrest Ambulinia

from the hands of the insolent Elfonzo,” and thus make for himself

a “more prosperous field of immortality than ever was decreed

by Omnipotence, or ever pencil drew or artist imagined.” But, dear me,

while he is waiting there the couple climb out at the back window

and scurry home! This is romantic enough, but there is a lack

of dignity in the situation.

 

At this point McClintock puts in the whole of his curious play—

which we skip.

 

Some correspondence follows now. The bitter father and the

distressed lovers write the letters. Elopements are attempted.

They are idiotically planned, and they fail. Then we have several

pages of romantic powwow and confusion dignifying nothing.

Another elopement is planned; it is to take place on Sunday,

when everybody is at church. But the “hero” cannot keep the secret;

he tells everybody. Another author would have found another

instrument when he decided to defeat this elopement; but that is

not McClintock’s way. He uses the person that is nearest at hand.

 

The evasion failed, of course. Ambulinia, in her flight,

takes refuge in a neighbor’s house. Her father drags her home.

The villagers gather, attracted by the racket.

 

Elfonzo was moved at this sight. The people followed on to see

what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks,

kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father,

thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence

into a solitary apartment, when she exclaimed, “Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh,

Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste,

come thou to my relief. Ride on the wings of the wind! Turn thy

force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like a whirlwind,

over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh friends! if any

pity me, let your last efforts throng upon the green hills,

and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing

but innocent love.” Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, “My God,

can I stand this! arouse up, I beseech you, and put an end to

this tyranny. Come, my brave boys,” said he, “are you ready to go

forth to your duty?” They stood around him. “Who,” said he,

“will call us to arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye,

the first who will meet the foe! Who will go forward with me

in this ocean of grievous temptation? If there is one who desires

to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion,

and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this,

which calls aloud for a speedy remedy.” “Mine be the deed,”

said a young lawyer, “and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her

station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you;

what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not

to win a victory? I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty;

nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak

with that of my own. But God forbid that our fame should soar

on the blood of the slumberer.” Mr. Valeer stands at his door

with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon

[3] ready to strike the first man who should enter his door.

“Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue

of my Ambulinia?” said Elfonzo. “All,” exclaimed the multitude;

and onward they went, with their implements of battle. Others, of a

more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of

the contest.

 

It will hardly be believed that after all this thunder and lightning

not a drop of rain fell; but such is the fact. Elfonzo and his

gang stood up and black-guarded Mr. Valeer with vigor all night,

getting their outlay back with interest; then in the early

morning the army and its general retired from the field,

leaving the victory with their solitary adversary and his crowbar.

This is the first time this has happened in romantic literature.

The invention is original. Everything in this book is original;

there is nothing hackneyed about it anywhere. Always, in other

romances, when you find the author leading up to a climax,

you know what is going to happen. But in this book it is different;

the thing which seems inevitable and unavoidable never happens;

it is circumvented by the art of the author every time.

 

Another elopement was attempted. It failed.

 

We have now arrived at the end. But it is not exciting.

McClintock thinks it is; but it isn’t. One day Elfonzo sent Ambulinia

another note—a note proposing elopement No. 16. This time the plan

is admirable; admirable, sagacious, ingenious, imaginative, deep—

oh, everything, and perfectly easy. One wonders why it was never

thought of before. This is the scheme. Ambulinia is to leave the

breakfast-table, ostensibly to “attend to the placing of those flowers,

which should have been done a week ago”—artificial ones, of course;

the others wouldn’t keep so long—and then, instead of fixing

the flowers, she is to walk out to the grove, and go off with Elfonzo.

The invention of this plan overstrained the author that is plain,

for he straightway shows failing powers. The details of the plan

are not many or elaborate. The author shall state them himself—

this good soul, whose intentions are always better than his