Alonzo Fitz and Other Stories by Mark Twain

Alonzo Fitz and Other Stories by Mark Twain

Alonzo Fitz and Other Stories

by Mark Twain

CONTENTS OF THIS VOLUME:

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON

ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING

ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE

THE GRATEFUL POODLE

THE BENEVOLENT AUTHOR

THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND

PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH

THE GREAT REVOLUTION IN PITCAIRN

THE CANVASSER’S TALE

AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER

PARIS NOTES

LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY

SPEECH ON THE BABIES

SPEECH ON THE WEATHER

CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE

ROGERS

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON

It was well along in the forenoon of a bitter winter’s day. The town of

Eastport, in the state of Maine, lay buried under a deep snow that was

newly fallen. The customary bustle in the streets was wanting. One

could look long distances down them and see nothing but a dead-white

emptiness, with silence to match. Of course I do not mean that you could

see the silence–no, you could only hear it. The sidewalks were merely

long, deep ditches, with steep snow walls on either side. Here and there

you might hear the faint, far scrape of a wooden shovel, and if you were

quick enough you might catch a glimpse of a distant black figure stooping

and disappearing in one of those ditches, and reappearing the next moment

with a motion which you would know meant the heaving out of a shovelful

of snow. But you needed to be quick, for that black figure would not

linger, but would soar drop that shovel and scud for the house, thrashing

itself with its arms to warm them. Yes, it was too venomously cold for

snow-shovelers or anybody else to stay out long.

Presently the sky darkened; then the wind rose and began to blow in

fitful, vigorous gusts, which sent clouds of powdery snow aloft, and

straight ahead, and everywhere. Under the impulse of one of these gusts,

great white drifts banked themselves like graves across the streets; a

moment later another gust shifted them around the other way, driving a

fine spray of snow from their sharp crests, as the gale drives the spume

flakes from wave-crests at sea; a third gust swept that place as clean as

your hand, if it saw fit. This was fooling, this was play; but each and

all of the gusts dumped some snow into the sidewalk ditches, for that was

business.

Alonzo Fitz Clarence was sitting in his snug and elegant little parlor,

in a lovely blue silk dressing-gown, with cuffs and facings of crimson

satin, elaborately quilted. The remains of his breakfast were before

him, and the dainty and costly little table service added a harmonious

charm to the grace, beauty, and richness of the fixed appointments of the

room. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth.

A furious gust of wind shook the windows, and a great wave of snow washed

against them with a drenching sound, so to speak. The handsome young

bachelor murmured:

“That means, no going out to-day. Well, I am content. But what to do

for company? Mother is well enough, Aunt Susan is well enough; but

these, like the poor, I have with me always. On so grim a day as this,

one needs a new interest, a fresh element, to whet the dull edge of

captivity. That was very neatly said, but it doesn’t mean anything.

One doesn’t want the edge of captivity sharpened up, you know, but just

the reverse.”

He glanced at his pretty French mantel-clock.

“That clock’s wrong again. That clock hardly ever knows what time it is;

and when it does know, it lies about it–which amounts to the same thing.

Alfred!”

There was no answer.

“Alfred! . . . Good servant, but as uncertain as the clock.”

Alonzo touched an electric bell button in the wall. He waited a moment,

then touched it again; waited a few moments more, and said:

“Battery out of order, no doubt. But now that I have started, I will

find out what time it is.” He stepped to a speaking-tube in the wall,

blew its whistle, and called, “Mother!” and repeated it twice.

“Well, that’s no use. Mother’s battery is out of order, too. Can’t

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