Extracts From Adam's Diary, by Mark Twain

 

 

Extracts From Adam's Diary

 

Translated from the original MS.

 

by Mark Twain

 

 

[NOTE.--I translated a portion of this diary some years ago, and

a friend of mine printed a few copies in an incomplete form, but

the public never got them. Since then I have deciphered some more

of Adam's hieroglyphics, and think he has now become sufficiently

important as a public character to justify this publication.--M. T.]

 

 

Monday

 

This new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the way.

It is always hanging around and following me about. I don't like

this; I am not used to company. I wish it would stay with the

other animals. Cloudy to-day, wind in the east; think we shall

have rain. ... Where did I get that word? ... I remember now--

the new creature uses it.

 

Tuesday

 

Been examining the great waterfall. It is the finest thing on the

estate, I think. The new creature calls it Niagara Falls--why,

I am sure I do not know. Says it looks like Niagara Falls. That

is not a reason; it is mere waywardness and imbecility. I get no

chance to name anything myself. The new creature names everything

that comes along, before I can get in a protest. And always that

same pretext is offered--it looks like the thing. There is the

dodo, for instance. Says the moment one looks at it one sees at

a glance that it "looks like a dodo." It will have to keep that

name, no doubt. It wearies me to fret about it, and it does no

good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a dodo than I do.

 

Wednesday

 

Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it to

myself in peace. The new creature intruded. When I tried to put

it out it shed water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it

away with the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of

the other animals make when they are in distress. I wish it would

not talk; it is always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling

at the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so. I have never

heard the human voice before, and any new and strange sound

intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these dreaming

solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. And this new

sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my

ear, first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only

to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

 

Friday

 

The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do. I

had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty--

GARDEN-OF-EDEN. Privately, I continue to call it that, but not

any longer publicly. The new creature says it is all woods and

rocks and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.

Says it looks like a park, and does not look like anything but a

park. Consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named--

NIAGARA FALLS PARK. This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to

me. And already there is a sign up:

 

KEEP OFF

THE GRASS

 

My life is not as happy as it was.

 

Saturday

 

The new creature eats too much fruit. We are going to run short,

most likely. "We" again--that is its word; mine too, now, from

hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this morning. I do not go

out in the fog myself. The new creature does. It goes out in

all weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks.

It used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

 

Sunday

 

Pulled through. This day is getting to be more and more trying.

It was selected and set apart last November as a day of rest. I

already had six of them per week, before. This morning found the

new creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree.

 

Monday

 

The new creature says its name is Eve. That is all right, I have

no objections. Says it is to call it by when I want it to come.

I said it was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised me in

its respect; and indeed it is a large, good word, and will bear

repetition. It says it is not an It, it is a She. This is probably

doubtful; yet it is all one to me; what she is were nothing to me

if she would but go by herself and not talk.

 

Tuesday

 

She has littered the whole estate with execrable names and offensive

signs:

 

THIS WAY TO THE WHIRLPOOL.

 

THIS WAY TO GOAT ISLAND.

 

CAVE OF THE WINDS THIS WAY.

 

She says this park would make a tidy summer resort, if there was

any custom for it. Summer resort--another invention of hers--just

words, without any meaning. What is a summer resort? But it is

best not to ask her, she has such a rage for explaining.

 

Friday

 

She has taken to beseeching me to stop going over the Falls. What

harm does it do? Says it makes her shudder. I wonder why. I have

always done it--always liked the plunge, and the excitement, and

the coolness. I supposed it was what the Falls were for. They

have no other use that I can see, and they must have been made for

something. She says they were only made for scenery--like the

rhinoceros and the mastodon.

 

I went over the Falls in a barrel--not satisfactory to her. Went

over in a tub--still not satisfactory. Swam the Whirlpool and the

Rapids in a fig-leaf suit. It got much damaged. Hence, tedious

complaints about my extravagance. I am too much hampered here.

What I need is change of scene.

 

Saturday

 

I escaped last Tuesday night, and travelled two days, and built

me another shelter, in a secluded place, and obliterated my tracks

as well as I could, but she hunted me out by means of a beast which

she has tamed and calls a wolf, and came making that pitiful noise

again, and shedding that water out of the places she looks with.

I was obliged to return with her, but will presently emigrate again,

when occasion offers. She engages herself in many foolish things:

among others, trying to study out why the animals called lions and

tigers live on grass and flowers, when, as she says, the sort of

teeth they wear would indicate that they were intended to eat each

other. This is foolish, because to do that would be to kill each

other, and that would introduce what, as I understand it, is called

"death;" and death, as I have been told, has not yet entered the

Park. Which is a pity, on some accounts.

 

Sunday

 

Pulled through.

 

Monday

 

I believe I see what the week is for: it is to give time to rest

up from the weariness of Sunday. It seems a good idea. ... She

has been climbing that tree again. Clodded her out of it. She

said nobody was looking. Seems to consider that a sufficient

justification for chancing any dangerous thing. Told her that.

The word justification moved her admiration--and envy too, I

thought. It is a good word.

 

Thursday

 

She told me she was made out of a rib taken from my body. This

is at least doubtful, if not more than that. I have not missed

any rib. ... She is in much trouble about the buzzard; says

grass does not agree with it; is afraid she can't raise it; thinks

it was intended to live on decayed flesh. The buzzard must get

along the best it can with what is provided. We cannot overturn

the whole scheme to accommodate the buzzard.

 

Saturday

 

She fell in the pond yesterday, when she was looking at herself

in it, which she is always doing. She nearly strangled, and said

it was most uncomfortable. This made her sorry for the creatures

which live in there, which she calls fish, for she continues to

fasten names on to things that don't need them and don't come when

they are called by them, which is a matter of no consequence to

her, as she is such a numskull anyway; so she got a lot of them

out and brought them in last night and put them in my bed to keep

warm, but I have noticed them now and then all day, and I don't

see that they are any happier there than they were before, only

quieter. When night comes I shall throw them out-doors. I will

not sleep with them again, for I find them clammy and unpleasant

to lie among when a person hasn't anything on.

 

Sunday

 

Pulled through.

 

Tuesday

 

She has taken up with a snake now. The other animals are glad,

for she was always experimenting with them and bothering them;

and I am glad, because the snake talks, and this enables me to

get a rest.

 

Friday

 

She says the snake advises her to try the fruit of that tree, and

says the result will be a great and fine and noble education. I

told her there would be another result, too--it would introduce

death into the world. That was a mistake--it had been better to

keep the remark to myself; it only gave her an idea--she could

save the sick buzzard, and furnish fresh meat to the despondent

lions and tigers. I advised her to keep away from the tree. She

said she wouldn't. I foresee trouble. Will emigrate.

 

Wednesday

 

I have had a variegated time. I escaped that night, and rode a

horse all night as fast as he could go, hoping to get clear out of

the Park and hide in some other country before the trouble should

begin; but it was not to be. About an hour after sunup, as I was

riding through a flowery plain where thousands of animals were

grazing, slumbering, or playing with each other, according to their

wont, all of a sudden they broke into a tempest of frightful noises,

and in one moment the plain was in a frantic commotion and every

beast was destroying its neighbor. I knew what it meant--Eve had

eaten that fruit, and death was come into the world. ... The

tigers ate my horse, paying no attention when I ordered them to

desist, and they would even have eaten me if I had stayed--which

I didn't, but went away in much haste. ... I found this place,

outside the Park, and was fairly comfortable for a few days, but

she has found me out. Found me out, and has named the place

Tonawanda--says it looks like that. In fact, I was not sorry she

came, for there are but meagre pickings here, and she brought some

of those apples. I was obliged to eat them, I was so hungry. It

was against my principles, but I find that principles have no real

force except when one is well fed. ... She came curtained in

boughs and bunches of leaves, and when I asked her what she meant

by such nonsense, and snatched them away and threw them down, she

tittered and blushed. I had never seen a person titter and blush

before, and to me it seemed unbecoming and idiotic. She said I

would soon know how it was myself. This was correct. Hungry as

I was, I laid down the apple half eaten--certainly the best one I

ever saw, considering the lateness of the season--and arrayed

myself in the discarded boughs and branches, and then spoke to her

with some severity and ordered her to go and get some more and not

make such a spectacle of herself. She did it, and after this we

crept down to where the wild-beast battle had been, and collected

some skins, and I made her patch together a couple of suits proper

for public occasions. They are uncomfortable, it is true, but

stylish, and that is the main point about clothes. ... I find

she is a good deal of a companion. I see I should be lonesome and

depressed without her, now that I have lost my property. Another

thing, she says it is ordered that we work for our living hereafter.

She will be useful. I will superintend.

 

Ten Days Later

 

She accuses me of being the cause of our disaster! She says, with

apparent sincerity and truth, that the Serpent assured her that

the forbidden fruit was not apples, it was chestnuts. I said I

was innocent, then, for I had not eaten any chestnuts. She said

the Serpent informed her that "chestnut" was a figurative term

meaning an aged and mouldy joke. I turned pale at that, for I

have made many jokes to pass the weary time, and some of them could

have been of that sort, though I had honestly supposed that they

were new when I made them. She asked me if I had made one just

at the time of the catastrophe. I was obliged to admit that I had

made one to myself, though not aloud. It was this. I was thinking

about the Falls, and I said to myself, "How wonderful it is to see

that vast body of water tumble down there!" Then in an instant a

bright thought flashed into my head, and I let it fly, saying, "It

would be a deal more wonderful to see it tumble up there!"--and I

was just about to kill myself with laughing at it when all nature

broke loose in war and death, and I had to flee for my life.

"There," she said, with triumph, "that is just it; the Serpent

mentioned that very jest, and called it the First Chestnut, and

said it was coeval with the creation." Alas, I am indeed to blame.

Would that I were not witty; oh, would that I had never had that

radiant thought!

 

Next Year

 

We have named it Cain. She caught it while I was up country

trapping on the North Shore of the Erie; caught it in the timber

a couple of miles from our dug-out--or it might have been four,

she isn't certain which. It resembles us in some ways, and may

be a relation. That is what she thinks, but this is an error,

in my judgment. The difference in size warrants the conclusion

that it is a different and new kind of animal--a fish, perhaps,

though when I put it in the water to see, it sank, and she plunged

in and snatched it out before there was opportunity for the

experiment to determine the matter. I still think it is a fish,

but she is indifferent about what it is, and will not let me have

it to try. I do not understand this. The coming of the creature

seems to have changed her whole nature and made her unreasonable

about experiments. She thinks more of it than she does of any of

the other animals, but is not able to explain why. Her mind is

disordered--everything shows it. Sometimes she carries the fish

in her arms half the night when it complains and wants to get to

the water. At such times the water comes out of the places in

her face that she looks out of, and she pats the fish on the back

and makes soft sounds with her mouth to soothe it, and betrays

sorrow and solicitude in a hundred ways. I have never seen her

do like this with any other fish, and it troubles me greatly. She

used to carry the young tigers around so, and play with them,

before we lost our property; but it was only play; she never took

on about them like this when their dinner disagreed with them.

 

Sunday

 

She doesn't work Sundays, but lies around all tired out, and likes

to have the fish wallow over her; and she makes fool noises to

amuse it, and pretends to chew its paws, and that makes it laugh.

I have not seen a fish before that could laugh. This makes me

doubt. ... I have come to like Sunday myself. Superintending

all the week tires a body so. There ought to be more Sundays.

In the old days they were tough, but now they come handy.

 

Wednesday

 

It isn't a fish. I cannot quite make out what it is. It makes

curious, devilish noises when not satisfied, and says "goo-goo"

when it is. It is not one of us, for it doesn't walk; it is not

a bird, for it doesn't fly; it is not a frog, for it doesn't hop;

it is not a snake, for it doesn't crawl; I feel sure it is not a

fish, though I cannot get a chance to find out whether it can swim

or not. It merely lies around, and mostly on its back, with its

feet up. I have not seen any other animal do that before. I said

I believed it was an enigma, but she only admired the word without

understanding it. In my judgment it is either an enigma or some

kind of a bug. If it dies, I will take it apart and see what its

arrangements are. I never had a thing perplex me so.

 

Three Months Later

 

The perplexity augments instead of diminishing. I sleep but little.

It has ceased from lying around, and goes about on its four legs

now. Yet it differs from the other four-legged animals in that

its front legs are unusually short, consequently this causes the

main part of its person to stick up uncomfortably high in the air,

and this is not attractive. It is built much as we are, but its

method of travelling shows that it is not of our breed. The short

front legs and long hind ones indicate that it is of the kangaroo

family, but it is a marked variation of the species, since the

true kangaroo hops, whereas this one never does. Still, it is a

curious and interesting variety, and has not been catalogued before.

As I discovered it, I have felt justified in securing the credit

of the discovery by attaching my name to it, and hence have called

it Kangaroorum Adamiensis. ... It must have been a young one

when it came, for it has grown exceedingly since. It must be five

times as big, now, as it was then, and when discontented is able

to make from twenty-two to thirty-eight times the noise it made

at first. Coercion does not modify this, but has the contrary

effect. For this reason I discontinued the system. She reconciles

it by persuasion, and by giving it things which she had previously

told it she wouldn't give it. As already observed, I was not at

home when it first came, and she told me she found it in the woods.

It seems odd that it should be the only one, yet it must be so,

for I have worn myself out these many weeks trying to find another

one to add to my collection, and for this one to play with; for

surely then it would be quieter, and we could tame it more easily.

But I find none, nor any vestige of any; and strangest of all, no

tracks. It has to live on the ground, it cannot help itself;

therefore, how does it get about without leaving a track? I have

set a dozen traps, but they do no good. I catch all small animals

except that one; animals that merely go into the trap out of

curiosity, I think, to see what the milk is there for. They never

drink it.

 

Three Months Later

 

The kangaroo still continues to grow, which is very strange and

perplexing. I never knew one to be so long getting its growth.

It has fur on its head now; not like kangaroo fur, but exactly

like our hair, except that it is much finer and softer, and instead

of being black is red. I am like to lose my mind over the capricious

and harassing developments of this unclassifiable zoological freak.

If I could catch another one--but that is hopeless; it is a new

variety, and the only sample; this is plain. But I caught a true

kangaroo and brought it in, thinking that this one, being lonesome,

would rather have that for company than have no kin at all, or any

animal it could feel a nearness to or get sympathy from in its

forlorn condition here among strangers who do not know its ways

or habits, or what to do to make it feel that it is among friends;

but it was a mistake--it went into such fits at the sight of the

kangaroo that I was convinced it had never seen one before. I

pity the poor noisy little animal, but there is nothing I can do

to make it happy. If I could tame it--but that is out of the

question; the more I try, the worse I seem to make it. It grieves

me to the heart to see it in its little storms of sorrow and

passion. I wanted to let it go, but she wouldn't hear of it. That

seemed cruel and not like her; and yet she may be right. It might

be lonelier than ever; for since I cannot find another one, how

could it?

 

Five Months Later

 

It is not a kangaroo. No, for it supports itself by holding to

her finger, and thus goes a few steps on its hind legs, and then

falls down. It is probably some kind of a bear; and yet it has

no tail--as yet--and no fur, except on its head. It still keeps

on growing--that is a curious circumstance, for bears get their

growth earlier than this. Bears are dangerous--since our

catastrophe--and I shall not be satisfied to have this one prowling

about the place much longer without a muzzle on. I have offered

to get her a kangaroo if she would let this one go, but it did no

good--she is determined to run us into all sorts of foolish risks,

I think. She was not like this before she lost her mind.

 

A Fortnight Later

 

I examined its mouth. There is no danger yet; it has only one

tooth. It has no tail yet. It makes more noise now than it ever

did before--and mainly at night. I have moved out. But I shall

go over, mornings, to breakfast, and to see if it has more teeth.

If it gets a mouthful of teeth, it will be time for it to go, tail

or no tail, for a bear does not need a tail in order to be

dangerous.

 

Four Months Later

 

I have been off hunting and fishing a month, up in the region that

she calls Buffalo; I don't know why, unless it is because there

are not any buffaloes there. Meantime the bear has learned to

paddle around all by itself on its hind legs, and says "poppa"

and "momma." It is certainly a new species. This resemblance to

words may be purely accidental, of course, and may have no purpose

or meaning; but even in that case it is still extraordinary, and

is a thing which no other bear can do. This imitation of speech,

taken together with general absence of fur and entire absence of

tail, sufficiently indicates that this is a new kind of bear. The

further study of it will be exceedingly interesting. Meantime I

will go off on a far expedition among the forests of the North and

make an exhaustive search. There must certainly be another one

somewhere, and this one will be less dangerous when it has company

of its own species. I will go straightway; but I will muzzle this

one first.

 

Three Months Later

 

It has been a weary, weary hunt, yet I have had no success. In

the mean time, without stirring from the home estate, she has

caught another one! I never saw such luck. I might have hunted

these woods a hundred years, I never should have run across that

thing.

 

Next Day

 

I have been comparing the new one with the old one, and it is

perfectly plain that they are the same breed. I was going to stuff

one of them for my collection, but she is prejudiced against it

for some reason or other; so I have relinquished the idea, though

I think it is a mistake. It would be an irreparable loss to science

if they should get away. The old one is tamer than it was, and

can laugh and talk like the parrot, having learned this, no doubt,

from being with the parrot so much, and having the imitative faculty

in a highly developed degree. I shall be astonished if it turns

out to be a new kind of parrot, and yet I ought not to be astonished,

for it has already been everything else it could think of, since

those first days when it was a fish. The new one is as ugly now

as the old one was at first; has the same sulphur-and-raw-meat

complexion and the same singular head without any fur on it. She

calls it Abel.

 

Ten Years Later

 

They are boys; we found it out long ago. It was their coming in

that small, immature shape that puzzled us; we were not used to it.

There are some girls now. Abel is a good boy, but if Cain had

stayed a bear it would have improved him. After all these years,

I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better

to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.

At first I thought she talked too much; but now I should be sorry

to have that voice fall silent and pass out of my life. Blessed

be the chestnut that brought us near together and taught me to

know the goodness of her heart and the sweetness of her spirit!