It is often the case that the man who can't tell a lie
thinks he is the best judge of one.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
OCTOBER 12, THE DISCOVERY. It was wonderful to find America,
but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.
--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
The town sat up all night to discuss the amazing events of
the day and swap guesses as to when Tom's trial would begin.
Troop after troop of citizens came to serenade Wilson,
and require a speech, and shout themselves hoarse over every
sentence that fell from his lips--for all his sentences were golden,
now, all were marvelous. His long fight against hard luck and
prejudice was ended; he was a made man for good.
And as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts marched away,
some remorseful member of it was quite sure to raise his
voice and say:
"And this is the man the likes of us have called a
pudd'nhead for more than twenty years. He has resigned from that
"Yes, but it isn't vacant--we're elected."
The twins were heroes of romance, now, and with
rehabilitated reputations. But they were weary of Western
adventure, and straightway retired to Europe.
Roxy's heart was broken. The young fellow upon whom she had
inflicted twenty-three years of slavery continued the false
heir's pension of thirty-five dollars a month to her, but her
hurts were too deep for money to heal; the spirit in her eye was
quenched, her martial bearing departed with it, and the voice of
her laughter ceased in the land. In her church and its affairs
she found her only solace.
The real heir suddenly found himself rich and free, but in a
most embarrassing situation. He could neither read nor write,
and his speech was the basest dialect of the Negro quarter.
His gait, his attitudes, his gestures, his bearing, his laugh--
all were vulgar and uncouth; his manners were the manners of a slave.
Money and fine clothes could not mend these defects or cover them up;
they only made them more glaring and the more pathetic.
The poor fellow could not endure the terrors of the white man's parlor,
and felt at home and at peace nowhere but in the kitchen.
The family pew was a misery to him, yet he could nevermore enter
into the solacing refuge of the "nigger gallery"--that was closed
to him for good and all. But we cannot follow his curious fate further--
that would be a long story.
The false heir made a full confession and was sentenced to
imprisonment for life. But now a complication came up.
The Percy Driscoll estate was in such a crippled shape when its
owner died that it could pay only sixty percent of its great
indebtedness, and was settled at that rate. But the creditors
came forward now, and complained that inasmuch as through an
error for which THEY were in no way to blame the false heir was
not inventoried at the time with the rest of the property, great
wrong and loss had thereby been inflicted upon them.
They rightly claimed that "Tom" was lawfully their property and had
been so for eight years; that they had already lost sufficiently
in being deprived of his services during that long period, and
ought not to be required to add anything to that loss; that if he
had been delivered up to them in the first place, they would have
sold him and he could not have murdered Judge Driscoll; therefore
it was not that he had really committed the murder, the guilt lay
with the erroneous inventory. Everybody saw that there was
reason in this. Everybody granted that if "Tom" were white and
free it would be unquestionably right to punish him--it would be
no loss to anybody; but to shut up a valuable slave for life--
that was quite another matter.
As soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom at once,
and the creditors sold him down the river.
Author's Note to THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS
A man who is not born with the novel-writing gift has a
troublesome time of it when he tries to build a novel.
I know this from experience. He has no clear idea of his story;
in fact he has no story. He merely has some people in his mind,
and an incident or two, also a locality, and he trusts he can plunge
those people into those incidents with interesting results.
So he goes to work. To write a novel? No--that is a thought which
comes later; in the beginning he is only proposing to tell a
little tale, a very little tale, a six-page tale. But as it is a
tale which he is not acquainted with, and can only find out what
it is by listening as it goes along telling itself, it is more
than apt to go on and on and on till it spreads itself into a book.
I know about this, because it has happened to me so many times.
And I have noticed another thing: that as the short tale
grows into the long tale, the original intention (or motif)
is apt to get abolished and find itself superseded by a quite
different one. It was so in the case of a magazine sketch which
I once started to write--a funny and fantastic sketch about a
prince an a pauper; it presently assumed a grave cast of its own accord,
and in that new shape spread itself out into a book.
Much the same thing happened with PUDD'NHEAD WILSON. I had a
sufficiently hard time with that tale, because it changed itself
from a farce to a tragedy while I was going along with it--a most
embarrassing circumstance. But what was a great deal worse was,
that it was not one story, but two stories tangled together; and
they obstructed and interrupted each other at every turn and
created no end of confusion and annoyance. I could not offer the
book for publication, for I was afraid it would unseat the
reader's reason, I did not know what was the matter with it,
for I had not noticed, as yet, that it was two stories in one.
It took me months to make that discovery. I carried the manuscript
back and forth across the Atlantic two or three times, and read
it and studied over it on shipboard; and at last I saw where the
difficulty lay. I had no further trouble. I pulled one of the
stories out by the roots, and left the other--a kind of literary
Would the reader care to know something about the story
which I pulled out? He has been told many a time how the born-
and-trained novelist works; won't he let me round and complete
his knowledge by telling him how the jackleg does it?
Originally the story was called THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS.
I meant to make it very short. I had seen a picture of a
youthful Italian "freak"--or "freaks"--which was--or which were--
on exhibition in our cities--a combination consisting of two
heads and four arms joined to a single body and a single pair of legs--
and I thought I would write an extravagantly fantastic
little story with this freak of nature for hero--or heroes--
a silly young miss for heroine, and two old ladies and two boys for
the minor parts. I lavishly elaborated these people and their
doings, of course. But the take kept spreading along and
spreading along, and other people got to intruding themselves and
taking up more and more room with their talk and their affairs.
Among them came a stranger named Pudd'nhead Wilson, and woman
named Roxana; and presently the doings of these two pushed up
into prominence a young fellow named Tom Driscoll, whose proper
place was away in the obscure background. Before the book was
half finished those three were taking things almost entirely into
their own hands and working the whole tale as a private venture
of their own--a tale which they had nothing at all to do with, by rights.
When the book was finished and I came to look around to see
what had become of the team I had originally started out with--
Aunt Patsy Cooper, Aunt Betsy Hale, and two boys, and Rowena the
lightweight heroine--they were nowhere to be seen; they had
disappeared from the story some time or other. I hunted about
and found them--found them stranded, idle, forgotten, and
permanently useless. It was very awkward. It was awkward all
around, but more particularly in the case of Rowena, because
there was a love match on, between her and one of the twins that
constituted the freak, and I had worked it up to a blistering
heat and thrown in a quite dramatic love quarrel, wherein Rowena
scathingly denounced her betrothed for getting drunk, and scoffed
at his explanation of how it had happened, and wouldn't listen to it,
and had driven him from her in the usual "forever" way;
and now here she sat crying and brokenhearted; for she had found that
he had spoken only the truth; that is was not he, but the other
of the freak that had drunk the liquor that made him drunk;
that her half was a prohibitionist and had never drunk a drop in his
life, and altogether tight as a brick three days in the week, was
wholly innocent of blame; and indeed, when sober, was constantly
doing all he could to reform his brother, the other half, who
never got any satisfaction out of drinking, anyway, because
liquor never affected him. Yes, here she was, stranded with that
deep injustice of hers torturing her poor torn heart.
I didn't know what to do with her. I was as sorry for her
as anybody could be, but the campaign was over, the book was finished,
she was sidetracked, and there was no possible way of
crowding her in, anywhere. I could not leave her there,
of course; it would not do. After spreading her out so, and making
such a to-do over her affairs, it would be absolutely necessary
to account to the reader for her. I thought and thought and
studied and studied; but I arrived at nothing. I finally saw
plainly that there was really no way but one--I must simply give
her the grand bounce. It grieved me to do it, for after
associating with her so much I had come to kind of like her after
a fashion, notwithstanding things and was so nauseatingly sentimental.
Still it had to be done. So at the top of Chapter
XVII I put a "Calendar" remark concerning July the Fourth,
and began the chapter with this statistic:
"Rowena went out in the backyard after supper to see the
fireworks and fell down the well and got drowned."
It seemed abrupt, but I thought maybe the reader wouldn't notice it,
because I changed the subject right away to something else.
Anyway it loosened up Rowena from where she was stuck and
got her out of the way, and that was the main thing. It seemed a
prompt good way of weeding out people that had got stalled, and a
plenty good enough way for those others; so I hunted up the two
boys and said, "They went out back one night to stone the cat and
fell down the well and got drowned." Next I searched around and
found old Aunt Patsy and Aunt Betsy Hale where they were around,
and said, "They went out back one night to visit the sick and
fell down the well and got drowned." I was going to drown some others,
but I gave up the idea, partly because I believed that if
I kept that up it would arose attention, and perhaps sympathy
with those people, and partly because it was not a large well and
would not hold any more anyway.
Still the story was unsatisfactory. Here was a set of new
characters who were become inordinately prominent and who
persisted in remaining so to the end; and back yonder was an
older set who made a large noise and a great to-do for a little
while and then suddenly played out utterly and fell down the well.
There was a radical defect somewhere, and I must search it
out and cure it.
The defect turned out to be the one already spoken of--
two stories in one, a farce and a tragedy. So I pulled out the farce
and left the tragedy. This left the original team in, but only
as mere names, not as characters. Their prominence was wholly gone;
they were not even worth drowning; so I removed that detail.
Also I took the twins apart and made two separate men of them.
They had no occasion to have foreign names now, but it was
too much trouble to remove them all through, so I left them
christened as they were and made no explanation.