The Complete Works of Mark Twain. Mark Twain
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Washington said he did not know that he had ever tasted better. He did not add that he detested turnips even when they were cooked — loathed them in their natural state. No, he kept this to himself, and praised the turnips to the peril of his soul.
“I thought you’d like them. Examine them — examine them — they’ll bear it. See how perfectly firm and juicy they are — they can’t start any like them in this part of the country, I can tell you. These are from New Jersey — I imported them myself. They cost like sin, too; but lord bless me, I go in for having the best of a thing, even if it does cost a little more — it’s the best economy, in the long run. These are the Early Malcolm — it’s a turnip that can’t be produced except in just one orchard, and the supply never is up to the demand. Take some more water, Washington — you can’t drink too much water with fruit — all the doctors say that. The plague can’t come where this article is, my boy!”
“Plague? What plague?”
“What plague, indeed? Why the Asiatic plague that nearly depopulated London a couple of centuries ago.”
“But how does that concern us? There is no plague here, I reckon.”
“Sh! I’ve let it out! Well, never mind — just keep it to yourself. Perhaps I oughtn’t said anything, but its bound to come out sooner or later, so what is the odds? Old McDowells wouldn’t like me to — to — bother it all, I’ll jest tell the whole thing and let it go. You see, I’ve been down to St. Louis, and I happened to run across old Dr. McDowells — thinks the world of me, does the doctor. He’s a man that keeps himself to himself, and well he may, for he knows that he’s got a reputation that covers the whole earth — he won’t condescend to open himself out to many people, but lord bless you, he and I are just like brothers; he won’t let me go to a hotel when I’m in the city — says I’m the only man that’s company to him, and I don’t know but there’s some truth in it, too, because although I never like to glorify myself and make a great to-do over what I am or what I can do or what I know, I don’t mind saying here among friends that I am better read up in most sciences, maybe, than the general run of professional men in these days. Well, the other day he let me into a little secret, strictly on the quiet, about this matter of the plague.
“You see it’s booming right along in our direction — follows the Gulf Stream, you know, just as all those epidemics do, and within three months it will be just waltzing through this land like a whirlwind! And whoever it touches can make his will and contract for the funeral. Well you can’t cure it, you know, but you can prevent it. How? Turnips! that’s it! Turnips and water! Nothing like it in the world, old McDowells says, just fill yourself up two or three times a day, and you can snap your fingers at the plague. Sh! — keep mum, but just you confine yourself to that diet and you’re all right. I wouldn’t have old McDowells know that I told about it for anything — he never would speak to me again. Take some more water, Washington — the more water you drink, the better. Here, let me give you some more of the turnips. No, no, no, now, I insist. There, now. Absorb those. They’re, mighty sustaining — brim full of nutriment — all the medical books say so. Just eat from four to seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and drink from a pint and a half to a quart of water, and then just sit around a couple of hours and let them ferment. You’ll feel like a fighting cock next day.”
Fifteen or twenty minutes later the Colonel’s tongue was still chattering away — he had piled up several future fortunes out of several incipient “operations” which he had blundered into within the past week, and was now soaring along through some brilliant expectations born of late promising experiments upon the lacking ingredient of the eye-water. And at such a time Washington ought to have been a rapt and enthusiastic listener, but he was not, for two matters disturbed his mind and distracted his attention. One was, that he discovered, to his confusion and shame, that in allowing himself to be helped a second time to the turnips, he had robbed those hungry children. He had not needed the dreadful “fruit,” and had not wanted it; and when he saw the pathetic sorrow in their faces when they asked for more and there was no more to give them, he hated himself for his stupidity and pitied the famishing young things with all his heart. The other matter that disturbed him was the dire inflation that had begun in his stomach. It grew and grew, it became more and more insupportable. Evidently the turnips were “fermenting.” He forced himself to sit still as long as he could, but his anguish conquered him at last.
He rose in the midst of the Colonel’s talk and excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement. The Colonel followed him to the door, promising over and over again that he would use his influence to get some of the Early Malcolms for him, and insisting that he should not be such a stranger but come and take pot-luck with him every chance he got. Washington was glad enough to get away and feel free again. He immediately bent his steps toward home.
In bed he passed an hour that threatened to turn his hair gray, and then a blessed calm settled down upon him that filled his heart with gratitude. Weak and languid, he made shift to turn himself about and seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hovered upon the brink of unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sigh, and said to himself that in his heart he had cursed the Colonel’s preventive of rheumatism, before, and now let the plague come if it must — he was done with preventives; if ever any man beguiled him with turnips and water again, let him die the death.
If he dreamed at all that night, no gossiping spirit disturbed his visions to whisper in his ear of certain matters just then in bud in the East, more than a thousand miles away that after the lapse of a few years would develop influences which would profoundly affect the fate and fortunes of the Hawkins family.
CHAPTER XII.
“Oh, it’s easy enough to make a fortune,” Henry said.
“It seems to be easier than it is, I begin to think,” replied Philip.
“Well, why don’t you go into something? You’ll never dig it out of the Astor Library.”
If there be any place and time in the world where and when it seems easy to “go into something” it is in Broadway on a spring morning, when one is walking cityward, and has before him the long lines of palace-shops with an occasional spire seen through the soft haze that lies over the lower town, and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic.
To the young American, here or elsewhere, the paths to fortune are innumerable and all open; there is invitation in the air and success in all his wide horizon. He is embarrassed which to choose, and is not unlikely to waste years in dallying with his chances, before giving himself to the serious tug and strain of a single object. He has no traditions to bind him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away from the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way for himself.
Philip Sterling used to say that if he should seriously set himself for ten years to any one of the dozen projects that were in his brain, he felt that he could be a rich man. He wanted to be rich, he had a sincere desire for a fortune, but for some unaccountable reason he hesitated about addressing himself to the narrow work of getting it. He never walked Broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life, without feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously taking the elastic step of one well-to-do in this prosperous world.
Especially at night in the crowded theatre — Philip was too young to remember the old Chambers’ Street box, where the serious Burton led his hilarious and pagan crew — in the intervals of the screaming comedy, when the orchestra scraped and grunted and tooted its dissolute tunes, the world seemed full of opportunities to Philip, and his heart exulted with a conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck.
Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting, on the stage, where virtue had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps it was the excessive light of the house, or the music, or the buzz of the excited talk between acts, perhaps it was youth which believed everything, but for some reason