


Produced by David Widger





ALONZO FITZ

AND OTHER STORIES


by Mark Twain


Contents:

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON

ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING

ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE

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 soon 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 raise
anybody down-stairs--that is plain."

He sat down at a rosewood desk, leaned his chin on the left-hand edge of
