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<title>
Eve's Diary, By Mark Twain
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<h2>
EVE'S DIARY, By Mark Twain
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Project Gutenberg's Eve's Diary, Complete, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Eve's Diary, Complete
Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
Release Date: June 14, 2004 [EBook #8525]
[Last updated: October 18, 2012]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVE'S DIARY, COMPLETE ***
Produced by David Widger and Cindy Rosenthal
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<p>
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<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h1>
EVE'S DIARY
</h1>
<p>
<br /><br />
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<h2>
By Mark Twain
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<p>
<br /><br />
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<h3>
Illustrated by Lester Ralph
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<br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br />
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<h1>
Eve's Diary
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<h3>
Translated from the Original
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<p>
SATURDAY.—I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday.
That is as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a
day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I should
remember it. It could be, of course, that it did happen, and that I was
not noticing. Very well; I will be very watchful now, and if any
day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it. It will be best to
start right and not let the record get confused, for some instinct tells
me that these details are going to be important to the historian some day.
For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it would
be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment than I do, and
so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I AM—an
experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
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Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I think
the rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I think the
rest of it has its share in the matter. Is my position assured, or do I
have to watch it and take care of it? The latter, perhaps. Some instinct
tells me that eternal vigilance is the price of supremacy. [That is a good
phrase, I think, for one so young.]
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<p>
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of
finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition, and
some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that the
aspects were quite distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art should
not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world is indeed a most
noble and beautiful work. And certainly marvelously near to being perfect,
notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There are too many stars in
some places and not enough in others, but that can be remedied presently,
no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid down and fell out of the
scheme—a very great loss; it breaks my heart to think of it. There
isn't another thing among the ornaments and decorations that is comparable
to it for beauty and finish. It should have been fastened better. If we
can only get it back again—
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But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides, whoever
gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself. I believe I
can be honest in all other matters, but I already begin to realize that
the core and center of my nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for
the beautiful, and that it would not be safe to trust me with a moon that
belonged to another person and that person didn't know I had it. I could
give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I should be afraid
some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should
find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything about it. For I do
love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I wish we had five or six;
I would never go to bed; I should never get tired lying on the moss-bank
and looking up at them.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="011.jpg (93K)" src="images/011.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I
suppose I never can. You would be surprised to find how far off they are,
for they do not look it. When they first showed, last night, I tried to
knock some down with a pole, but it didn't reach, which astonished me;
then I tried clods till I was all tired out, but I never got one. It was
because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even when I aimed at the
one I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one, though I did make some
close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right into the
midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing
them, and if I could have held out a little longer maybe I could have got
one.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="013.jpg (83K)" src="images/013.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age, and
after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the extreme
rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground and I could
get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway, because I could
gather them tenderly then, and not break them. But it was farther than I
thought, and at last I had to give it up; I was so tired I couldn't drag
my feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt me very much.
</p>
<p>
I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found
some tigers and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable,
and their breath was sweet and pleasant, because they live on
strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I knew them in a minute
by the stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would make a lovely
gown.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="015.jpg (86K)" src="images/015.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager to get
hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it, sometimes when
it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but six inches away but
seemed a foot—alas, with thorns between! I learned a lesson; also I
made an axiom, all out of my own head—my very first one; THE
SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN. I think it is a very good one for
one so young.
</p>
<p>
I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a
distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able to
make [it] out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man, but it looked
like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is. I realize that I feel
more curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If it is a
reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and
looks like a reptile. It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it
stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a
reptile, though it may be architecture.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="017.jpg (76K)" src="images/017.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it turned
around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by and by I found it
was only trying to get away, so after that I was not timid any more, but
tracked it along, several hours, about twenty yards behind, which made it
nervous and unhappy. At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a
tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="019.jpg (79K)" src="images/019.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Today the same thing over. I've got it up the tree again.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<p>
SUNDAY.—It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is a
subterfuge: Sunday isn't the day of rest; Saturday is appointed for that.
It looks to me like a creature that is more interested in resting than in
anything else. It would tire me to rest so much. It tires me just to sit
around and watch the tree. I do wonder what it is for; I never see it do
anything.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="021.jpg (81K)" src="images/021.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy! I think it is very
honest of them. It slid down and fell off again, but I was not distressed;
there is no need to worry when one has that kind of neighbors; they will
fetch it back. I wish I could do something to show my appreciation. I
would like to send them some stars, for we have more than we can use. I
mean I, not we, for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such
things.
</p>
<p>
It has low tastes, and is not kind. When I went there yesterday evening in
the gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch the little speckled
fishes that play in the pool, and I had to clod it to make it go up the
tree again and let them alone. I wonder if THAT is what it is for? Hasn't
it any heart? Hasn't it any compassion for those little creature? Can it
be that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work? It has
the look of it. One of the clods took it back of the ear, and it used
language. It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I had ever heard
speech, except my own. I did not understand the words, but they seemed
expressive.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="023.jpg (77K)" src="images/023.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I love to
talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am very interesting,
but if I had another to talk to I could be twice as interesting, and would
never stop, if desired.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="025.jpg (70K)" src="images/025.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
If this reptile is a man, it isn't an IT, is it? That wouldn't be
grammatical, would it? I think it would be HE. I think so. In that case
one would parse it thus: nominative, HE; dative, HIM; possessive, HIS'N.
Well, I will consider it a man and call it he until it turns out to be
something else. This will be handier than having so many uncertainties.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<p>
NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.—All the week I tagged around after him and tried
to get acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy, but I
didn't mind it. He seemed pleased to have me around, and I used the
sociable "we" a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him to be
included.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="027.jpg (96K)" src="images/027.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br />
</p>
<p>
WEDNESDAY.—We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting
better and better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more, which
is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him. That pleases
me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can, so as to increase
his regard.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="029.jpg (75K)" src="images/029.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
During the last day or two I have taken all the work of naming things off
his hands, and this has been a great relief to him, for he has no gift in
that line, and is evidently very grateful. He can't think of a rational
name to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his defect.
Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time to expose
himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have saved him many
embarrassments. I have no defect like this. The minute I set eyes on an
animal I know what it is. I don't have to reflect a moment; the right name
comes out instantly, just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is,
for I am sure it wasn't in me half a minute before. I seem to know just by
the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal it is.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="031.jpg (62K)" src="images/031.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat—I saw it in his
eye. But I saved him. And I was careful not to do it in a way that could
hurt his pride. I just spoke up in a quite natural way of pleasing
surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of conveying information, and said,
"Well, I do declare, if there isn't the dodo!" I explained—without
seeming to be explaining—how I know it for a dodo, and although I
thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he
didn't, it was quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable,
and I thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept. How
little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it!
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="033.jpg (76K)" src="images/033.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br />
</p>
<p>
THURSDAY.—my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to
wish I would not talk to him. I could not believe it, and thought there
was some mistake, for I loved to be with him, and loved to hear him talk,
and so how could it be that he could feel unkind toward me when I had not
done anything? But at last it seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely
in the place where I first saw him the morning that we were made and I did
not know what he was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a
mournful place, and every little thing spoke of him, and my heart was very
sore. I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had not
experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could not make it
out.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="035.jpg (90K)" src="images/035.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went to the new
shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done that was wrong and
how I could mend it and get back his kindness again; but he put me out in
the rain, and it was my first sorrow.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="037.jpg (82K)" src="images/037.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br />
</p>
<p>
SUNDAY.—It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were
heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="039.jpg (83K)" src="images/039.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throw
straight. I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him. They are
forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to harm through
pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<p>
MONDAY.—This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest
him. But he did not care for it. It is strange. If he should tell me his
name, I would care. I think it would be pleasanter in my ears than any
other sound.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="041.jpg (81K)" src="images/041.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
He talks very little. Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and is
sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it. It is such a pity that he
should feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart that the
values lie. I wish I could make him understand that a loving good heart is
riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty.
</p>
<p>
Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary. This
morning he used a surprisingly good word. He evidently recognized,
himself, that it was a good one, for he worked in in twice afterward,
casually. It was good casual art, still it showed that he possesses a
certain quality of perception. Without a doubt that seed can be made to
grow, if cultivated.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="043.jpg (90K)" src="images/043.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Where did he get that word? I do not think I have ever used it.
</p>
<p>
No, he took no interest in my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but
I suppose I did not succeed. I went away and sat on the moss-bank with my
feet in the water. It is where I go when I hunger for companionship, some
one to look at, some one to talk to. It is not enough—that lovely
white body painted there in the pool—but it is something, and
something is better than utter loneliness. It talks when I talk; it is sad
when I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; it says, "Do not be
downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be your friend." It IS a
good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="045.jpg (89K)" src="images/045.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never forget that—never,
never. My heart was lead in my body! I said, "She was all I had, and now
she is gone!" In my despair I said, "Break, my heart; I cannot bear my
life any more!" and hid my face in my hands, and there was no solace for
me. And when I took them away, after a little, there she was again, white
and shining and beautiful, and I sprang into her arms!
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="047.jpg (77K)" src="images/047.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was not
like this, which was ecstasy. I never doubted her afterward. Sometimes she
stayed away—maybe an hour, maybe almost the whole day, but I waited
and did not doubt; I said, "She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but
she will come." And it was so: she always did. At night she would not come
if it was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if there was a moon
she would come. I am not afraid of the dark, but she is younger than I am;
she was born after I was. Many and many are the visits I have paid her;
she is my comfort and my refuge when my life is hard—and it is
mainly that.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<p>
TUESDAY.—All the morning I was at work improving the estate; and I
purposely kept away from him in the hope that he would get lonely and
come. But he did not.
</p>
<p>
At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting all about
with the bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers, those
beautiful creatures that catch the smile of God out of the sky and
preserve it! I gathered them, and made them into wreaths and garlands and
clothed myself in them while I ate my luncheon—apples, of course;
then I sat in the shade and wished and waited. But he did not come.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="049.jpg (92K)" src="images/049.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But no matter. Nothing would have come of it, for he does not care for
flowers. He called them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and
thinks it is superior to feel like that. He does not care for me, he does
not care for flowers, he does not care for the painted sky at eventide—is
there anything he does care for, except building shacks to coop himself up
in from the good clean rain, and thumping the melons, and sampling the
grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to see how those properties
are coming along?
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="051.jpg (86K)" src="images/051.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it with
another one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had, and soon I got an
awful fright. A thin, transparent bluish film rose out of the hole, and I
dropped everything and ran! I thought it was a spirit, and I WAS so
frightened! But I looked back, and it was not coming; so I leaned against
a rock and rested and panted, and let my limbs go on trembling until they
got steady again; then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and ready to
fly if there was occasion; and when I was come near, I parted the branches
of a rose-bush and peeped through—wishing the man was about, I was
looking so cunning and pretty—but the sprite was gone. I went there,
and there was a pinch of delicate pink dust in the hole. I put my finger
in, to feel it, and said OUCH! and took it out again. It was a cruel pain.
I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing first on one foot and then
the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery; then I was full of
interest, and began to examine.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="053.jpg (75K)" src="images/053.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I was curious to know what the pink dust was. Suddenly the name of it
occurred to me, though I had never heard of it before. It was FIRE! I was
as certain of it as a person could be of anything in the world. So without
hesitation I named it that—fire.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="055.jpg (77K)" src="images/055.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I had created something that didn't exist before; I had added a new thing
to the world's uncountable properties; I realized this, and was proud of
my achievement, and was going to run and find him and tell him about it,
thinking to raise myself in his esteem—but I reflected, and did not
do it. No—he would not care for it. He would ask what it was good
for, and what could I answer? for if it was not GOOD for something, but
only beautiful, merely beautiful—
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="057.jpg (72K)" src="images/057.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
So I sighed, and did not go. For it wasn't good for anything; it could not
build a shack, it could not improve melons, it could not hurry a fruit
crop; it was useless, it was a foolishness and a vanity; he would despise
it and say cutting words. But to me it was not despicable; I said, "Oh,
you fire, I love you, you dainty pink creature, for you are BEAUTIFUL—and
that is enough!" and was going to gather it to my breast. But refrained.
Then I made another maxim out of my head, though it was so nearly like the
first one that I was afraid it was only a plagiarism: "THE BURNT
EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE."
</p>
<p>
I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptied it
into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home and keep it
always and play with it; but the wind struck it and it sprayed up and spat
out at me fiercely, and I dropped it and ran. When I looked back the blue
spirit was towering up and stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and
instantly I thought of the name of it—SMOKE!—though, upon my
word, I had never heard of smoke before.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="059.jpg (82K)" src="images/059.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and I
named them in an instant—FLAMES—and I was right, too, though
these were the very first flames that had ever been in the world. They
climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in and out of the vast and
increasing volume of tumbling smoke, and I had to clap my hands and laugh
and dance in my rapture, it was so new and strange and so wonderful and so
beautiful!
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="061.jpg (79K)" src="images/061.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for many
minutes. Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he should ask
such a direct question. I had to answer it, of course, and I did. I said
it was fire. If it annoyed him that I should know and he must ask; that
was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him. After a pause he asked:
</p>
<p>
"How did it come?"
</p>
<p>
Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.
</p>
<p>
"I made it."
</p>
<p>
The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge of the
burned place and stood looking down, and said:
</p>
<p>
"What are these?"
</p>
<p>
"Fire-coals."
</p>
<p>
He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it down
again. Then he went away. NOTHING interests him.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="063.jpg (72K)" src="images/063.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and
pretty—I knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew the
embers, too. I found my apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for I am
very young and my appetite is active. But I was disappointed; they were
all burst open and spoiled. Spoiled apparently; but it was not so; they
were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful; some day it will be useful,
I think.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="065.jpg (82K)" src="images/065.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br />
</p>
<p>
FRIDAY.—I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, but
only for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to improve
the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard. But he was not
pleased, and turned away and left me. He was also displeased on another
account: I tried once more to persuade him to stop going over the Falls.
That was because the fire had revealed to me a new passion—quite
new, and distinctly different from love, grief, and those others which I
had already discovered—FEAR. And it is horrible!—I wish I had
never discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my happiness, it
makes me shiver and tremble and shudder. But I could not persuade him, for
he has not discovered fear yet, and so he could not understand me.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="067.jpg (94K)" src="images/067.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
<i> Extract from Adam's Diary</i>
</h2>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="069.jpg (65K)" src="images/069.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
<i> Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl and
make allowances. She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to
her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she can't speak for delight when
she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it and smell it and
talk to it, and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is color-mad:
brown rocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of
the dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands floating
in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through the shredded
cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the wastes of space—none
of them is of any practical value, so far as I can see, but because they
have color and majesty, that is enough for her, and she loses her mind
over them. If she could quiet down and keep still a couple minutes at a
time, it would be a reposeful spectacle. In that case I think I could
enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming to realize
that she is a quite remarkably comely creature—lithe, slender, trim,
rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once when she was standing
marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder, with her young head tilted
back and her hand shading her eyes, watching the flight of a bird in the
sky, I recognized that she was beautiful.</i>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="071.jpg (74K)" src="images/071.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br />
</p>
<p>
<i>MONDAY NOON.—If there is anything on the planet that she is not
interested in it is not in my list. There are animals that I am
indifferent to, but it is not so with her. She has no discrimination, she
takes to all of them, she thinks they are all treasures, every new one is
welcome.</i>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="073.jpg (69K)" src="images/073.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
<i>When the mighty brontosaurus came striding into camp, she regarded it
as an acquisition, I considered it a calamity; that is a good sample of
the lack of harmony that prevails in our views of things. She wanted to
domesticate it, I wanted to make it a present of the homestead and move
out. She believed it could be tamed by kind treatment and would be a good
pet; I said a pet twenty-one feet high and eighty-four feet long would be
no proper thing to have about the place, because, even with the best
intentions and without meaning any harm, it could sit down on the house
and mash it, for any one could see by the look of its eye that it was
absent-minded.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>Still, her heart was set upon having that monster, and she couldn't
give it up. She thought we could start a dairy with it, and wanted me to
help milk it; but I wouldn't; it was too risky. The sex wasn't right, and
we hadn't any ladder anyway. Then she wanted to ride it, and look at the
scenery. Thirty or forty feet of its tail was lying on the ground, like a
fallen tree, and she thought she could climb it, but she was mistaken;
when she got to the steep place it was too slick and down she came, and
would have hurt herself but for me.</i>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="075.jpg (72K)" src="images/075.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
<i>Was she satisfied now? No. Nothing ever satisfies her but
demonstration; untested theories are not in her line, and she won't have
them. It is the right spirit, I concede it; it attracts me; I feel the
influence of it; if I were with her more I think I should take it up
myself. Well, she had one theory remaining about this colossus: she
thought that if we could tame it and make him friendly we could stand in
the river and use him for a bridge. It turned out that he was already
plenty tame enough—at least as far as she was concerned—so she
tried her theory, but it failed: every time she got him properly placed in
the river and went ashore to cross over him, he came out and followed her
around like a pet mountain. Like the other animals. They all do that.</i>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="077.jpg (70K)" src="images/077.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday—and today: all without seeing
him. It is a long time to be alone; still, it is better to be alone than
unwelcome.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<p>
FRIDAY—I HAD to have company—I was made for it, I think—so
I made friends with the animals. They are just charming, and they have the
kindest disposition and the politest ways; they never look sour, they
never let you feel that you are intruding, they smile at you and wag their
tail, if they've got one, and they are always ready for a romp or an
excursion or anything you want to propose. I think they are perfect
gentlemen. All these days we have had such good times, and it hasn't been
lonesome for me, ever.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="079.jpg (85K)" src="images/079.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Lonesome! No, I should say not. Why, there's always a swarm of them around—sometimes
as much as four or five acres—you can't count them; and when you
stand on a rock in the midst and look out over the furry expanse it is so
mottled and splashed and gay with color and frisking sheen and sun-flash,
and so rippled with stripes, that you might think it was a lake, only you
know it isn't; and there's storms of sociable birds, and hurricanes of
whirring wings; and when the sun strikes all that feathery commotion, you
have a blazing up of all the colors you can think of, enough to put your
eyes out.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="081.jpg (80K)" src="images/081.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
We have made long excursions, and I have seen a great deal of the world;
almost all of it, I think; and so I am the first traveler, and the only
one. When we are on the march, it is an imposing sight—there's
nothing like it anywhere. For comfort I ride a tiger or a leopard, because
it is soft and has a round back that fits me, and because they are such
pretty animals; but for long distance or for scenery I ride the elephant.
He hoists me up with his trunk, but I can get off myself; when we are
ready to camp, he sits and I slide down the back way.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="083.jpg (89K)" src="images/083.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
The birds and animals are all friendly to each other, and there are no
disputes about anything. They all talk, and they all talk to me, but it
must be a foreign language, for I cannot make out a word they say; yet
they often understand me when I talk back, particularly the dog and the
elephant. It makes me ashamed. It shows that they are brighter than I am,
for I want to be the principal Experiment myself—and I intend to be,
too.
</p>
<p>
I have learned a number of things, and am educated, now, but I wasn't at
first. I was ignorant at first. At first it used to vex me because, with
all my watching, I was never smart enough to be around when the water was
running uphill; but now I do not mind it. I have experimented and
experimented until now I know it never does run uphill, except in the
dark. I know it does in the dark, because the pool never goes dry, which
it would, of course, if the water didn't come back in the night. It is
best to prove things by actual experiment; then you KNOW; whereas if you
depend on guessing and supposing and conjecturing, you never get educated.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="085.jpg (95K)" src="images/085.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Some things you CAN'T find out; but you will never know you can't by
guessing and supposing: no, you have to be patient and go on experimenting
until you find out that you can't find out. And it is delightful to have
it that way, it makes the world so interesting. If there wasn't anything
to find out, it would be dull. Even trying to find out and not finding out
is just as interesting as trying to find out and finding out, and I don't
know but more so. The secret of the water was a treasure until I GOT it;
then the excitement all went away, and I recognized a sense of loss.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="087.jpg (96K)" src="images/087.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
By experiment I know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and feathers, and
plenty of other things; therefore by all that cumulative evidence you know
that a rock will swim; but you have to put up with simply knowing it, for
there isn't any way to prove it—up to now. But I shall find a way—then
THAT excitement will go. Such things make me sad; because by and by when I
have found out everything there won't be any more excitements, and I do
love excitements so! The other night I couldn't sleep for thinking about
it.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="089.jpg (55K)" src="images/089.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
At first I couldn't make out what I was made for, but now I think it was
to search out the secrets of this wonderful world and be happy and thank
the Giver of it all for devising it. I think there are many things to
learn yet—I hope so; and by economizing and not hurrying too fast I
think they will last weeks and weeks. I hope so. When you cast up a
feather it sails away on the air and goes out of sight; then you throw up
a clod and it doesn't. It comes down, every time. I have tried it and
tried it, and it is always so. I wonder why it is? Of course it DOESN'T
come down, but why should it SEEM to? I suppose it is an optical illusion.
I mean, one of them is. I don't know which one. It may be the feather, it
may be the clod; I can't prove which it is, I can only demonstrate that
one or the other is a fake, and let a person take his choice.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="091.jpg (81K)" src="images/091.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last. I have seen some
of the best ones melt and run down the sky. Since one can melt, they can
all melt; since they can all melt, they can all melt the same night. That
sorrow will come—I know it. I mean to sit up every night and look at
them as long as I can keep awake; and I will impress those sparkling
fields on my memory, so that by and by when they are taken away I can by
my fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky and make them
sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="093.jpg (80K)" src="images/093.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
After the Fall
</h2>
<p>
When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful,
surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost, and I
shall not see it any more.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="095.jpg (92K)" src="images/095.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content. He loves me as
well as he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate nature,
and this, I think, is proper to my youth and sex. If I ask myself why I
love him, I find I do not know, and do not really much care to know; so I
suppose that this kind of love is not a product of reasoning and
statistics, like one's love for other reptiles and animals. I think that
this must be so. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not
love Adam on account of his singing—no, it is not that; the more he
sings the more I do not get reconciled to it. Yet I ask him to sing,
because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in. I am sure
I can learn, because at first I could not stand it, but now I can. It
sours the milk, but it doesn't matter; I can get used to that kind of
milk.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="097.jpg (74K)" src="images/097.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
It is not on account of his brightness that I love him—no, it is not
that. He is not to blame for his brightness, such as it is, for he did not
make it himself; he is as God make him, and that is sufficient. There was
a wise purpose in it, THAT I know. In time it will develop, though I think
it will not be sudden; and besides, there is no hurry; he is well enough
just as he is.
</p>
<p>
It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways and his delicacy
that I love him. No, he has lacks in this regard, but he is well enough
just so, and is improving.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="099.jpg (85K)" src="images/099.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
It is not on account of his industry that I love him—no, it is not
that. I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he conceals it from
me. It is my only pain. Otherwise he is frank and open with me, now. I am
sure he keeps nothing from me but this. It grieves me that he should have
a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils my sleep, thinking of it, but I
will put it out of my mind; it shall not trouble my happiness, which is
otherwise full to overflowing.
</p>
<p>
It is not on account of his education that I love him—no, it is not
that. He is self-educated, and does really know a multitude of things, but
they are not so.
</p>
<p>
It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him—no, it is not
that. He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex, I
think, and he did not make his sex. Of course I would not have told on
him, I would have perished first; but that is a peculiarity of sex, too,
and I do not take credit for it, for I did not make my sex.
</p>
<p>
Then why is it that I love him? MERELY BECAUSE HE IS MASCULINE, I think.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="101.jpg (93K)" src="images/101.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love him
without it. If he should beat me and abuse me, I should go on loving him.
I know it. It is a matter of sex, I think.
</p>
<p>
He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and
am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities. If he were
plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should love him; and I
would work for him, and slave over him, and pray for him, and watch by his
bedside until I died.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="103.jpg (82K)" src="images/103.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Yes, I think I love him merely because he is MINE and is MASCULINE. There
is no other reason, I suppose. And so I think it is as I first said: that
this kind of love is not a product of reasonings and statistics. It just
COMES—none knows whence—and cannot explain itself. And doesn't
need to.
</p>
<p>
It is what I think. But I am only a girl, the first that has examined this
matter, and it may turn out that in my ignorance and inexperience I have
not got it right.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="105.jpg (60K)" src="images/105.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
Forty Years Later
</h2>
<p>
It is my prayer, it is my longing, that we may pass from this life
together—a longing which shall never perish from the earth, but
shall have place in the heart of every wife that loves, until the end of
time; and it shall be called by my name.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="107.jpg (65K)" src="images/107.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it shall be I; for he
is strong, I am weak, I am not so necessary to him as he is to me—life
without him would not be life; how could I endure it? This prayer is also
immortal, and will not cease from being offered up while my race
continues. I am the first wife; and in the last wife I shall be repeated.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
At Eve's Grave
</h2>
<h4>
ADAM: Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden.
</h4>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="109.jpg (63K)" src="images/109.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
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