Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 4

  Hank sets out to change the people of the time he finds himself in but winds up being transformed by them. He puts on the disguise of the mighty wizard to cover his nakedness and save his life, but once inside that impersonation he finds he cannot escape it. It’s interesting to note the two times that he tries to tell the Arthurians what he really thinks. The first occurs after he lays aside his identity as Sir Boss to travel with the King among the common people. When he hears an orator boasting to his audience about the glorious British liberties just yards away from a slave gang, Hank decides to get in front of that audience and speak out against slavery, “cost what it might” (p. 366). Before he can begin talking, though, he is taken captive and sold as a slave himself. The second instance occurs at the end, when he proclaims the Republic in the face of the Church’s Interdict. This time the result of his truthfulness is that his entire audience, the same people who made him great as Sir Boss, turns against him; as Hank puts it, “All England is marching against us!” (p. 448). In the ensuing battle, the book’s climactic “entertainment,” both Hank and his audience are destroyed.

  As a dramatization of the conflict between Sir Boss and Hank Morgan, between public image and private self, between entertainer and reformer, between flattering an audience’s prejudices and telling it the truth, Connecticut Yankee holds its mirror up to the anxieties of Clemens’s career as Mark Twain. By the time he wrote the novel he had been Mark Twain for two decades. By then, being Mark Twain had given Clemens all that he had originally wanted: success, money, and the attention and love of grateful audiences around the world. The novel itself suggests, however, that he had also come to feel as trapped inside his public image as that uncomfortable figure in the suit of armor in the “dream” from which the story grew. As we would expect, given his choice of “Twain” as the name for his alter ego, the man who wrote the novel was fascinated by both twins and dual personalities. Not long after finishing Hank’s story, for example, he began a novel called “Those Extraordinary Twins,” about Luigi and Angelo Capello, conjoined twins with radically different temperaments forced to share a single body. One of Twain’s favorite books was Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published in 1886. According to Twain’s Boswell, Albert Bigelow Paine, the biographer who was with him as he lay dying in 1910, Twain’s very last conversation concerned “one of his old subjects, Dual Personality ... Jekyll and Hyde phases in literature and fact.” Even at the end the questions raised by Hank’s public success apparently remained unanswered. In a journal entry made eight years after finishing Connecticut Yankee, Twain tries to explain his sense of being inhabited by a “double” who “takes possession of our partnership body and goes off on mysterious trips.” He says here that he doesn’t know the name of that other self, but we could call him Mark Twain. After all, the first person whom Twain took on an incredible journey was Clemens himself. Just as Sir Boss takes Hank to a starring role at Camelot, so Twain lifted Clemens from obscurity into the shining kingdom of superstardom. Mark Twain was America’s first great celebrity. The tale of Hank’s performance as Sir Boss is Twain’s way of acknowledging what a long, strange trip that was.

  Stephen Railton, who also wrote the introduction and notes for the Barnes & Noble Classics edition of The Last of the Mohicans, teaches American literature at the University of Virginia. His most recent book is Mark Twain: A Short Introduction.

  A NOTE ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS

  During his career Twain’s works were published “by subscription only,” which means they were sold not in bookstores but by an army of agents who went door to door across the nation like the knights Hank sends over King Arthur’s England to peddle soap. Twain was the only major American author who used this system. He liked it as a means to increase sales and profits, but its peculiar demands had a significant impact on the products of his imagination. Because the territories agents canvassed included so many people who lived in remote areas, for example, travel books, like the five Twain wrote, were a major staple of any subscription publisher’s list. Because subscription books were considerably more expensive than trade books, they had to be long (five to six hundred pages was typical), and their relatively less sophisticated buyers also expected lots of pictures. “About 300 Illustrations by Dan Beard” is what the promotional announcements for Connecticut Yankee promised potential subscribers; the novel in fact contained 221, almost all of which are included in this Barnes & Noble edition.

  Because Twain himself owned the company that published Connecticut Yankee, he had complete control over its production. He chose Beard to be the illustrator and was determined to get from him “the very best an artist can do.” As he told Fred Hall, the man who ran his company for him, “This time I want pictures,” instead of the cheaper drawings that were another convention of subscription books, including Huckleberry Finn, the first book brought out by Twain’s company. He also instructed Hall to give the artist free rein: “Tell Beard to obey his own inspirations ... I want his genius to be wholly unfettered.” Knowing how important pictures were to a book’s sales, Twain insisted on giving final approval to Beard’s work himself, but while he made sure none of the pictures attacking religion were included in the prospectus that subscription agents showed customers, he enthusiastically okayed everything that Beard submitted. Just after the novel was published, he wrote Beard: “To my mind the illustrations are better than the book—which is a good deal for me to say, I reckon.”

  Daniel Carter Beard has more than one claim to our attention. There is a mountain in Alaska named after him for his work with the Boy Scouts of America, which he founded about two decades after he drew these illustrations. At the time Twain hired him, Beard was a disciple of the economic reformer Henry George, who argued in the book Progress and Poverty for a single tax on land as a way to subvert class privilege and guarantee equality of opportunity. Beard’s socialist principles, then, are very different from Hank’s faith in private property and laissez-faire capitalism and at the same time much more radical than any political stance Twain took publicly, raising the question of just whose ideas the illustrations illustrate—the author‘s, the narrator’s, or the artist’s? At a Society of Illustrators banquet in 1905, Twain summed up Beard’s contribution to the novel this way: “Beard got everything that I put into that book and a little more besides.” Twain didn’t explain what “more” he was thinking of. Many of Beard’s drawings, such as the headpiece to chapter 36 featuring a medieval slave driver who looks exactly like the American robber baron Jay Gould, emphasize similarities between medieval and contemporary social injustices, and so cast doubts on the crucial notion of progress. Since Hank has nothing but praise for modern America, Beard’s images often seem meant to provide the basis for an ironic reading of the narrative. They certainly point the satire at the United States Hank comes from as well as toward the Old World he travels to. Nothing Twain himself ever said about the novel suggests any of it was meant ironically, but on the other hand he had nothing but praise for Beard’s illustrations. They are richly detailed, provocative, delightful, and so compelling that they sometimes push the words to the margins of the page, but finally it’s up to you to decide how faithful Beard’s pictures are to Twain’s text.

  —Stephen Railton

  “I saw he meant business. ”

  A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR’S COURT.

  NEW YORK:

  CHARLES L. WEBSTER & COMPANY.

  1889.

  Copyrighted, 1889,

  BY S. L. CLEMENS.

  (All rights reserved.)

  PRESS OF

  JENKINS & MCCOWAN,

  124-228 Centre St.

  PREFACE.

  The ungentle laws and customs touched upon in this tale are historical, and the episodes which are used to illustrate them are also historical. It is not pretended that these laws and customs existed in England in the sixth century; no, it is only pretended that inasmuch as they existed in the English and other civilizations
of far later times, it is safe to consider that it is no libel upon the sixth century to suppose them to have been in practice in that day also. One is quite justified in inferring that wherever one of these laws or customs was lacking in that remote time, its place was competently filled by a worse one.

  The question as to whether there is such a thing as divine right of kingsa is not settled in this book. It was found too difficult. That the executive head of a nation should be a person of lofty character and extraordinary ability, was manifest and indisputable; that none but the Deity could select that head unerringly, was also manifest and indisputable; that the Deity ought to make that selection, then, was likewise manifest and indisputable; consequently, that He does make it, as claimed, was an unavoidable deduction. I mean, until the author of this book encountered the Pompadour, and Lady Castle-maine b and some other executive heads of that kind; these were found so difficult to work into the scheme, that it was judged better to take the other tack in this book, (which must be issued this fall,) and then go into training and settle the question in another book. It is of course a thing which ought to be settled, and I am not going to have anything particular to do next winter anyway.

  HARTFORD, July 21, 1889.

  A Word of Explanation.

  IT was in Warwick Castlec that I came across the curious stranger whom I am going to talk about. He attracted me by three things: his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor, and the restfulness of his company—for he did all the talking. We fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things which interested me. As he talked along, softly, pleasantly, flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country; and so he gradually wove such a spell about me that I seemed to move among the spectres and shadows and dust and mold of a gray antiquity, holding speech with a relic of it! Exactly as I would speak of my nearest personal friends or enemies, or my most familiar neighbors, he spoke of Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Galahad, and all the other great names of the Table Round—and how old, old, unspeakably old and faded and dry and musty and ancient he came to look as he went on! Presently he turned to me and said, just as one might speak of the weather, or any other common matter—

  “You know about transmigration of souls;d do you know about transposition of epochs—and bodies?”

  I said I had not heard of it. He was so little interested—just as when people speak of the weather—that he did not notice whether I made him any answer or not. There was half a moment of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the salaried cicerone:e

  “Ancient hauberk, date of the sixth century, time of King Arthur and the Round Table; said to have belonged to the knight Sir Sagramore le Desirous; observe the round hole through the chain mail in the left breast; can’t be accounted for; supposed to have been done with a bullet since invention of firearms—perhaps maliciously by Cromwell’s soldiers.”f

  My acquaintance smiled—not a modern smile, but one that must have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago—and muttered apparently to himself:

  “Wit ye well, I saw it done.” Then, after a pause, added: “I did it myself.”

  By the time I had recovered from the electric surprise of this remark, he was gone.

  All that evening I sat by my fire at the Warwick Arms, steeped in a dream of the olden time, while the rain beat upon the windows, and the wind roared about the eaves and corners. From time to time I dipped into old Sir Thomas Malory’s enchanting book,g and fed at its rich feast of prodigies and adventures, breathed-in the fragrance of its obsolete names, and dreamed again. Midnight being come at length, I read another tale,1 for a night-cap-this which here follows, to wit:

  How Sir Launcelot Slew Two Giants, and Made a Castle Free. h

  Anon withal came there upon him two great giants, well armed, all save the heads, with two horrible clubs in their hands. Sir Launcelot put his shield afore him, and put the stroke away of the one giant, and with his sword he clave his head asunder. When his fellow saw that, he ran away as he were wood,i for fear of the horrible strokes, and Sir Launcelot after him with all his might, and smote him on the shoulder, and clave him to the middle. Then Sir Launcelot went into the hall, and there came afore him three score ladies and damsels, and all kneeled unto him, and thanked God and him of their deliverance. For, sir, said they, the most part of us have been here this seven year their prisoners, and we have worked all manner of silk works for our meat, and we are all great gentlewoman born, and blessed be the time, knight, that ever thou wert born; for thou hast done the most worship that ever did knight in the world, that will we bear record, and we all pray you to tell us your name, that we may tell our friends who delivered us out of prison. Fair damsels, he said, my name is Sir Launcelot du Lake. And so he departed from them and betaught them unto God. And then he mounted upon his horse, and rode into many strange and wild countries, and through many waters and valleys, and evil was he lodged. And at the last by fortune him happened against a night to come to a fair courtelage, and therein he found an old gentlewoman that lodged him with a good will, and there he had good cheer for him and his horse. And when time was, his host brought him into a fair garret over the gate to his bed. There Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell on sleep. So, soon after there came one on horseback, and knocked at the gate in great haste. And when Sir Launcelot heard this he arose up, and looked out at the window, and saw by the moon-light three knights come riding after that one man, and all three lashed on him at once with swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended him. Truly, said Sir Launcelot, yonder one knight shall I help, for it were shame for me to see three knights on one, and if he be slain I am partner of his death. And therewith he took his harness and went out at a window by a sheet down to the four knights, and then Sir Launcelot said on high, Turn you knights unto me, and leave your fighting with that knight. And then they all three left Sir Kay, and turned unto Sir Launcelot, and there began great battle, for they alight all three, and strake many strokes at Sir Launcelot, and assailed him on every side. Then Sir Kay dressed him for to have holpen Sir Launcelot. Nay, sir, said he, I will none of your help, therefore as ye will have my help let me alone with them. Sir Kay for the pleasure of the knight suffered him for to do his will, and so stood aside. And then anon within six strokes Sir Launcelot had stricken them to the earth.

  And then they all three cried, Sir knight, we yield us unto you as man of might matchless. As to that, said Sir Launcelot, I will not take your yielding unto me, but so that ye yield you unto Sir Kay the seneschal, on that covenant I will save your lives and else not. Fair knight, said they, that were we loth to do; for as for Sir Kay we chased him hither, and had overcome him had ye not been; therefore, to yield us unto him it were no reason. Well, as to that, said Sir Launcelot, advise you well, for ye may choose whether ye will die or live, for an ye be yielden, it shall be unto Sir Kay. Fair knight, then they said, in saving our lives we will do as thou commandest us. Then shall ye, said Sir Launcelot, on Whitsunday next coming go unto the court of King Arthur, and there shall ye yield you unto Queen Guenever, and put you all three in her grace and mercy, and say that Sir Kay sent you thither to be her prisoners. On the morn Sir Launcelot arose early, and left Sir Kay sleeping: and Sir Launcelot took Sir Kay’s armour and his shield and armed him, and so he went to the stable and took his horse, and took his leave of his host, and so he departed. Then soon after arose Sir Kay and missed Sir Launcelot: and then he espied that he had his armour and his horse. Now by my faith I know well that he will grieve some of the court of King Arthur: for on him knights will be bold, and deem that it is I, and that will beguile them; and because of his armour and shield I am sure I shall ride in peace. And then soon after departed Sir Kay, and thanked his host.

  As I
laid the book down there was a knock at the door, and my stranger came in. I gave him a pipe and a chair, and made him welcome. I also comforted him with a hot Scotch whiskey; gave him another one; then still another—hoping always for his story. After a fourth persuader, he drifted into it himself, in a quite simple and natural way:

  The Stranger’s History.2

  I am an American. I was born and reared in Hartford, in the State of Connecticut—anyway, just over the river, in the country. So I am a Yankee of the Yankees—and practical; yes, and nearly barren of sentiment, I suppose—or poetry, in other words. My father was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse doctor, and I was both, along at first. Then I went over to the great arms factory3 and learned my real trade; learned all there was to it; learned to make everything; guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, all sorts of labor-saving machinery. Why, I could make anything a body wanted—anything in the world, it didn’t make any difference what; and if there wasn’t any quick new-fangled way to make a thing, I could invent one—and do it as easy as rolling off a log. I became head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under me.