Eve's Diary Part 2 Read online

  Produced by David Widger and Cindy Rosenthal

  EVE'S DIARY

  By Mark Twain

  Illustrated by Lester Ralph

  Translated from the Original

  Part 2.

  SUNDAY.--It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were heavydays; I do not think of them when I can help it.

  I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throwstraight. I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him. Theyare forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to harmthrough pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?

  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 hisname, I would care. I think it would be pleasanter in my ears than anyother sound.

  He talks very little. Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and issensitive about it and wishes to conceal it. It is such a pity that heshould feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart that thevalues lie. I wish I could make him understand that a loving good heartis riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty.

  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 acertain quality of perception. Without a doubt that seed can be made togrow, if cultivated.

  Where did he get that word? I do not think I have ever used it.

  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-bankwith my feet in the water. It is where I go when I hunger forcompanionship, some one to look at, some one to talk to. It is notenough--that lovely white body painted there in the pool--but it issomething, and something is better than utter loneliness. It talks whenI talk; it is sad when I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; itsays, "Do not be downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be yourfriend." It IS a good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.

  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 Ihad, and now she is gone!" In my despair I said, "Break, my heart; Icannot bear my life any more!" and hid my face in my hands, and therewas no solace for me. And when I took them away, after a little, thereshe was again, white and shining and beautiful, and I sprang into herarms!

  That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was notlike this, which was ecstasy. I never doubted her afterward. Sometimesshe stayed away--maybe an hour, maybe almost the whole day, but I waitedand 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 wouldnot come if it was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if therewas a moon she would come. I am not afraid of the dark, but she isyounger than I am; she was born after I was. Many and many are thevisits I have paid her; she is my comfort and my refuge when my life ishard--and it is mainly that.

  TUESDAY.--All the morning I was at work improving the estate; and Ipurposely kept away from him in the hope that he would get lonely andcome. But he did not.

  At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting allabout with the bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers,those beautiful creatures that catch the smile of God out of the sky andpreserve it! I gathered them, and made them into wreaths and garlandsand 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.

  But no matter. Nothing would have come of it, for he does not care forflowers. He called them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, andthinks it is superior to feel like that. He does not care for me, hedoes not care for flowers, he does not care for the painted sky ateventide--is there anything he does care for, except building shacks tocoop himself up in from the good clean rain, and thumping the melons,and sampling the grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to seehow those properties are coming along?

  I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it withanother one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had, and soon I gotan 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 WASso frightened! But I looked back, and it was not coming; so I leanedagainst a rock and rested and panted, and let my limbs go on tremblinguntil 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, Iparted the branches of a rose-bush and peeped through--wishing the manwas 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. Iput my finger in, to feel it, and said OUCH! and took it out again. Itwas a cruel pain. I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing first onone foot and then the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery;then I was full of interest, and began to examine.

  I was curious to know what the pink dust was. Suddenly the name of itoccurred to me, though I had never heard of it before. It was FIRE! Iwas as certain of it as a person could be of anything in the world. Sowithout hesitation I named it that--fire.

  I had created something that didn't exist before; I had added a newthing to the world's uncountable properties; I realized this, and wasproud of my achievement, and was going to run and find him and tell himabout it, thinking to raise myself in his esteem--but I reflected, anddid not do it. No--he would not care for it. He would ask what it wasgood for, and what could I answer? for if it was not GOOD for something,but only beautiful, merely beautiful--

  So I sighed, and did not go. For it wasn't good for anything; it couldnot build a shack, it could not improve melons, it could not hurry afruit crop; it was useless, it was a foolishness and a vanity; he woulddespise it and say cutting words. But to me it was not despicable; Isaid, "Oh, you fire, I love you, you dainty pink creature, for you areBEAUTIFUL--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 wasso nearly like the first one that I was afraid it was only a plagiarism:"THE BURNT EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE."

  I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptiedit into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home andkeep it always and play with it; but the wind struck it and it sprayedup and spat out at me fiercely, and I dropped it and ran. When I lookedback the blue spirit was towering up and stretching and rolling awaylike a cloud, and instantly I thought of the name of it--SMOKE!--though,upon my word, I had never heard of smoke before.

  Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and Inamed them in an instant--FLAMES--and I was right, too, though thesewere the very first flames that had ever been in the world. Theyclimbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in and out of the vast andincreasing volume of tumbling smoke, and I had to clap my hands andlaugh and dance in my rapture, it was so new and strange and sowonderful and so beautiful!

  He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for manyminutes. Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he shouldask 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 mustask; that was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him. After a pausehe asked:

  "How did it come?"

  Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.

  "I made it."

  The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge ofthe burned place and stood looking down, and said:

  "What
are these?"

  "Fire-coals."

  He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it downagain. Then he went away. NOTHING interests him.

  But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate andpretty--I knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew theembers, too. I found my apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for Iam very young and my appetite is active. But I was disappointed; theywere 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 beuseful, I think.

  FRIDAY.--I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, butonly for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying toimprove the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard. But he wasnot pleased, and turned away and left me. He was also displeased onanother account: I tried once more to persuade him to stop going overthe Falls. That was because the fire had revealed to me a new passion--quite new, and distinctly different from love, grief, and those otherswhich I had already discovered--FEAR. And it is horrible!--I wish I hadnever discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my happiness,it makes me shiver and tremble and shudder. But I could not persuadehim, for he has not discovered fear yet, and so he could not understandme.