The Californian's Tale

Mark Twain

Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, tramping all day long with

pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful of dirt here and there, always expecting to

make a rich strike, and never doing it. It was a lovely reason, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and

had once been populous, long years before, but now the people had vanished and the

charming paradise was a solitude. They went away when the surface diggings gave out. In

one place, where a busy little city with banks and newspapers and fire companies and a

mayor and aldermen had been, was nothing but a wide expanse of emerald turf, with not

even the faintest sign that human life had ever been present there. This was down toward

the predecessors of the cottage-builders. In some few cases these cabins were still occupied;

and when this was so, you could depend upon it that the occupant was the very pioneer who

had built the cabin; and you could depend on another thing, too--that he was there because

he had once had his opportunity to go home to the States rich, and had not done it; had

rather lost his wealth, and had then in his humiliation resolved to sever all communication

with his home relatives and friends, and be to them thenceforth as one dead. Round about

California in that day were scattered a host of these living dead men-- pride-smitten poor

fellows, grizzled and old at forty, whose secret thoughts were made all of regrets and

longings--regrets for their wasted lives, and longings to be out of the struggle and done with

it all.

being lived in and petted and cared for and looked after; and so had its front yard, which

was a garden of flowers, abundant, gay, and flourishing. I was invited in, of course, and

required to make myself at home-- it was the custom of the country..

It was delightful to be in such a place, after long weeks of daily and nightly familiarity with

miners' cabins--with all which this implies of dirt floor, never-made beds, tin plates and

cups, bacon and beans and black coffee, and nothing of ornament but war pictures from the

Eastern illustrated papers tacked to the log walls. That was all hard, cheerless, materialistic

desolation, but here was a nest which had aspects to rest the tired eye and refresh that

something in one's nature which, after long fasting, recognizes, when confronted by the

belongings of art, howsoever cheap and modest they may be, that it has unconsciously been

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and framed lithographs, and bright-colored tidies and lamp-mats, and Windsor chairs, and

varnished what-nots, with sea-shells and books and china vases on them, and the score of

with which women drape with careful negligence the upper part of a picture-frame was out

of adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautious pains, stepping back several

times to gauge the effect before he got it to suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or

two with his hand, and said: "She always does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, but it

does lack something until you've done that--you can see it yourself after it's done, but that is

all you know; you can't find out the law of it. It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the

child's hair after she's got it combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all these things

so much that I can do them all just her way, though I don't know the law of any of them. But

she knows the law. She knows the why and the how both; but I don't know the why; I only

know the how."

gratified words:

"All her work; she did it all herself--every bit. Nothing here that hasn't felt the touch of her

hand. Now you would think-- But I mustn't talk so much."

By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail of the room's

belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place, where everything he sees is a

comfort to his eye and his spirit; and I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable

ways, you know, that there was something there somewhere that the man wanted me to

discover for myself. I knew it perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me by furtive

indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the right track, being eager to gratify him. I

failed several times, as I could see out of the corner of my eye without being told; but at last

face, and was fully satisfied.

"Nineteen her last birthday," he said, as he put the picture back; "and that was the day we

were married. When you see her--ah, just wait till you see her!"

"This is Wednesday. She'll be back Saturday, in the evening-- about nine o'clock, likely."

I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.

"I'm sorry, because I'll be gone then," I said, regretfully.

"Gone? No--why should you go? Don't go. She'll be disappointed."

She would be disappointed--that beautiful creature! If she had said the words herself they

could hardly have blessed me more. I was feeling a deep, strong longing to see her--a

longing so supplicating, so insistent, that it made me afraid. I said to myself: "I will go

I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so deep in my thinkings and strugglings.

He left me, but I didn't know. Presently he was back, with the picture case in his hand, and

he held it open before me and said:

"There, now, tell her to her face you could have stayed to see her, and you wouldn't."

That second glimpse broke down my good resolution. I would stay and take the risk. That

night we smoked the tranquil pipe, and talked till late about various things, but mainly

about her; and certainly I had had no such pleasant and restful time for many a day. The

Thursday followed and slipped comfortably away. Toward twilight a big miner from three

miles away came--one of the grizzled, stranded pioneers--and gave us warm salutation,

"I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam, and when is she coming home. Any

Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would skip some of the private phrases, if

we were willing; then he went on and read the bulk of it--a loving, sedate, and altogether

charming and gracious piece of handiwork, with a postscript full of affectionate regards and

messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley, and other close friends and neighbors.

that when I read a letter from her. I will write and tell her."

me want to cry. I thought she'd be here herself, and now you've got only a letter."

"Well, now, what put that in your head? I thought everybody knew she wasn't coming till

Saturday."

"Saturday! Why, come to think, I did know it. I wonder what's the matter with me lately?

Certainly I knew it. Ain't we all getting ready for her? Well, I must be going now. But I'll be

on hand when she comes, old man!"

Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped over from his cabin a mile or so away,

and said the boys wanted to have a little gaiety and a good time Saturday night, if Henry

it for him broke the old fellow all up; but he said he was such an old wreck that that would

happen to him if she only just mentioned his name. "Lord, we miss her so!" he said.

Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch pretty often. Henry noticed it, and

said, with a startled look:

"You don't think she ought to be here soon, do you?"

I felt caught, and a little embarrassed; but I laughed, and said it was a habit of mine when I

was in a state of expenctancy. But he didn't seem quite satisfied; and from that time on he

began to show uneasiness. Four times he walked me up the road to a point whence we could

see a long distance; and there he would stand, shading his eyes with his hand, and looking.

"I'm getting worried, I'm getting right down worried. I know she's not due till about nine

don't think anything has happened, do you?"

spoke pretty brutally to him. It seemed to shrivel him up and cow him; and he looked so

wounded and so humble after that, that I detested myself for having done the cruel and

unnecessary thing. And so I was glad when Charley, another veteran, arrived toward the

edge of the evening, and nestled up to Henry to hear the letter read, and talked over the

preparations for the welcome. Charley fetched out one hearty speech after another, and did

well, didn't it? And said she'd be here by nine o'clock, didn't it? Did you ever know her to

decorating-- not much time left."

Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set about adoring the house with

flowers. Toward nine the three miners said that as they had brought their instruments they

might as well tune up, for the boys and girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for a

good, old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet-- these were the

instruments. The trio took their places side by side, and began to play some rattling dance-

music, and beat time with their big boots.

It was getting very close to nine. Henry was standing in the door with his eyes directed up

the road, his body swaying to the torture of his mental distress. He had been made to drink

"Drop that! Take the other."

Which I did. Henry was served last. He had hardly swallowed his drink when the clock

began to strike. He listened till it finished, his face growing pale and paler; then he said:

"Boys, I'm sick with fear. Help me--I want to lie down!"

They helped him to the sofa. He began to nestle and drowse, but presently spoke like one

talking in his sleep, and said: "Did I hear horses' feet? Have they come?"

One of the veterans answered, close to his ear: "It was Jimmy Parish come to say the party

leave; but I said: "Please don't go, gentlemen. She won't know me; I am a stranger."

They glanced at each other. Then Joe said:

"She? Poor thing, she's been dead nineteen years!"

back, on a Saturday evening, the Indians captured her within five miles of this place, and

"And he lost his mind in consequence?"

"Never has been sane an hour since. But he only gets bad when that time of year comes

round. Then we begin to drop in here, three days before she's due, to encourage him up, and

ask if he's heard from her, and Saturday we all come and fix up the house with flowers, and

get everything ready for a dance. We've done it every year for nineteen years. The first

Saturday there was twenty-seven of us, without counting the girls; there's only three of us

now, and the girls are gone. We drug him to sleep, or he would go wild; then he's all right

for another year--thinks she's with him till the last three or four days come round; then he

begins to look for her, and gets out his poor old letter, and we come and ask him to read it

to us. Lord, she was a darling!"