A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain (any book recommendations TXT) 📗

A PITIFUL INCIDENT

It’s a world of surprises.  The king brooded; this was natural. What would he brood about, should you say?  Why, about the prodigious nature of his fall, of course—from the loftiest place in the world to the lowest; from the most illustrious station in the world to the obscurest; from the grandest vocation among men to the basest. No, I take my oath that the thing that graveled him most, to start with, was not this, but the price he had fetched!  He couldn’t seem to get over that seven dollars.  Well, it stunned me so, when I first found it out, that I couldn’t believe it; it didn’t seem natural.  But as soon as my mental sight cleared and I got a right focus on it, I saw I was mistaken; it was natural.  For this reason:  a king is a mere artificiality, and so a king’s feelings, like the impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities; but as a man, he is a reality, and his feelings, as a man, are real, not phantoms.  It shames the average man to be valued below his own estimate of his worth, and the king certainly wasn’t anything more than an average man, if he was up that high.

Confound him, he wearied me with arguments to show that in anything like a fair market he would have fetched twenty-five dollars, sure—a thing which was plainly nonsense, and full or the baldest conceit; I wasn’t worth it myself.  But it was tender ground for me to argue on.  In fact, I had to simply shirk argument and do the diplomatic instead.  I had to throw conscience aside, and brazenly concede that he ought to have brought twenty-five dollars; whereas I was quite well aware that in all the ages, the world had never seen a king that was worth half the money, and during the next thirteen centuries wouldn’t see one that was worth the fourth of it.  Yes, he tired me.  If he began to talk about the crops; or about the recent weather; or about the condition of politics; or about dogs, or cats, or morals, or theology—no matter what—I sighed, for I knew what was coming; he was going to get out of it a palliation of that tiresome seven-dollar sale.  Wherever we halted where there was a crowd, he would give me a look which said plainly:  "if that thing could be tried over again now, with this kind of folk, you would see a different result.”  Well, when he was first sold, it secretly tickled me to see him go for seven dollars; but before he was done with his sweating and worrying I wished he had fetched a hundred.  The thing never got a chance to die, for every day, at one place or another, possible purchasers looked us over, and, as often as any other way, their comment on the king was something like this:

“Here’s a two-dollar-and-a-half chump with a thirty-dollar style. Pity but style was marketable.”

At last this sort of remark produced an evil result.  Our owner was a practical person and he perceived that this defect must be mended if he hoped to find a purchaser for the king.  So he went to work to take the style out of his sacred majesty.  I could have given the man some valuable advice, but I didn’t; you mustn’t volunteer advice to a slave-driver unless you want to damage the cause you are arguing for.  I had found it a sufficiently difficult job to reduce the king’s style to a peasant’s style, even when he was a willing and anxious pupil; now then, to undertake to reduce the king’s style to a slave’s style—and by force—go to! it was a stately contract.  Never mind the details—it will save me trouble to let you imagine them.  I will only remark that at the end of a week there was plenty of evidence that lash and club and fist had done their work well; the king’s body was a sight to see—and to weep over; but his spirit?—why, it wasn’t even phased.  Even that dull clod of a slave-driver was able to see that there can be such a thing as a slave who will remain a man till he dies; whose bones you can break, but whose manhood you can’t.  This man found that from his first effort down to his latest, he couldn’t ever come within reach of the king, but the king was ready to plunge for him, and did it.  So he gave up at last, and left the king in possession of his style unimpaired. The fact is, the king was a good deal more than a king, he was a man; and when a man is a man, you can’t knock it out of him.