A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court
by Mark Twain
Chapter 41 - The Interdict
HOWEVER, my attention was suddenly snatched
from such matters; our child began to lose ground again, and we had to
go to sitting up with her, her case became so serious. We couldn't bear
to allow anybody to help in this service, so we two stood
watch-and-watch, day in and day out. Ah, Sandy, what a right heart she
had, how simple, and genuine, and good she was! She was a flawless wife
and mother; and yet I had married her for no other particular reasons,
except that by the customs of chivalry she was my property until some
knight should win her from me in the field. She had hunted Britain over
for me; had found me at the hanging-bout outside of London, and had
straightway resumed her old place at my side in the placidest way and as of right. I was a New
Englander, and in my opinion this sort of partnership would compromise her, sooner or
later. She couldn't see how, but I cut argument short and we had a wedding.
didn't know I was drawing a prize, yet that was what I did draw. Within the twelvemonth I
became her worshiper; and ours was the dearest and perfectest comradeship that ever was.
People talk about beautiful friendships between two persons of the same sex. What is the
best of that sort, as compared with the friendship of man and wife, where the best
impulses and highest ideals of both are the same? There is no place for comparison between
the two friendships; the one is earthly, the other divine.
In my dreams, along at first, I still wandered thirteen centuries away, and my
unsatisfied spirit went calling and harking all up and down the unreplying vacancies of a
vanished world. Many a time Sandy heard that imploring cry come from my lips in my sleep.
With a grand magnanimity she saddled that cry of mine upon our child, conceiving it to be
the name of some lost darling of mine. It touched me to tears, and it also nearly knocked
me off my feet, too, when she smiled up in my face for an earned reward, and played her
quaint and pretty surprise upon me:
"The name of one who was dear to thee is here preserved, here made holy, and the
music of it will abide alway in our ears. Now thou'lt kiss me, as knowing the name I have
given the child."
But I didn't know it, all the same. I hadn't an idea in the world; but it would have
been cruel to confess it and spoil her pretty game; so I never let on, but said:
"Yes, I know, sweetheart -- how dear and good it is of you, too! But I want to
hear these lips of yours, which are also mine, utter it first -- then its music will be
Pleased to the marrow, she murmured:
I didn't laugh -- I am always thankful for that -- but the strain ruptured every
cartilage in me, and for weeks afterward I could hear my bones clack when I walked. She
never found out her mistake. The first time she heard that form of salute used at the
telephone she was surprised, and not pleased; but I told her I had given order for it:
that henceforth and forever the telephone must always be invoked with that reverent
formality, in perpetual honor and remembrance of my lost friend and her small namesake.
This was not true. But it answered.
Well, during two weeks and a half we watched by the crib, and in our deep solicitude we
were unconscious of any world outside of that sick-room. Then our reward came: the center
of the universe turned the corner and began to mend. Grateful? It isn't the term. There
ISN'T any term for it. You know that yourself, if you've watched your child through the
Valley of the Shadow and seen it come back to life and sweep night out of the earth with
one all-illuminating smile that you could cover with your hand.
Why, we were back in this world in one instant! Then we looked the same startled
thought into each other's eyes at the same moment; more than two weeks gone, and that ship
not back yet!
In another minute I appeared in the presence of my train. They had been steeped in
troubled bodings all this time -- their faces showed it. I called an escort and we
galloped five miles to a hilltop overlooking the sea. Where was my great commerce that so
lately had made these glistening expanses populous and beautiful with its white-winged
flocks? Vanished, every one! Not a sail, from verge to verge, not a smoke-bank -- just a
dead and empty solitude, in place of all that brisk and breezy life.
I went swiftly back, saying not a word to anybody. I told Sandy this ghastly news. We
could imagine no explanation that would begin to explain. Had there been an invasion? an
earthquake? a pestilence? Had the nation been swept out of existence? But guessing was
profitless. I must go -- at once. I borrowed the king's navy -- a "ship" no
bigger than a steam launch -- and was soon ready.
The parting -- ah, yes, that was hard. As I was devouring the child with last kisses,
it brisked up and jabbered out its vocabulary! -- the first time in more than two weeks,
and it made fools of us for joy. The darling mispronunciations of childhood! -- dear me,
there's no music that can touch it; and how one grieves when it wastes away and dissolves
into correctness, knowing it will never visit his bereaved ear again. Well, how good it
was to be able to carry that gracious memory away with me!
I approached England the next morning, with the wide highway of salt water all to
myself. There were ships in the harbor, at Dover, but they were naked as to sails, and
there was no sign of life about them. It was Sunday; yet at Canterbury the streets were
empty; strangest of all, there was not even a priest in sight, and no stroke of a bell
fell upon my ear. The mournfulness of death was everywhere. I couldn't understand it. At
last, in the further edge of that town I saw a small funeral procession -- just a family
and a few friends following a coffin -- no priest; a funeral without bell, book, or
candle; there was a church there close at hand, but they passed it by weeping, and did not
enter it; I glanced up at the belfry, and there hung the bell, shrouded in black, and its
tongue tied back. Now I knew! Now I understood the stupendous calamity that had overtaken
England. Invasion? Invasion is a triviality to it. It was the INTERDICT!
I asked no questions; I didn't need to ask any. The Church had struck; the thing for me
to do was to get into a disguise, and go warily. One of my servants gave me a suit of
clothes, and when we were safe beyond the town I put them on, and from that time I
traveled alone; I could not risk the embarrassment of company.
A miserable journey. A desolate silence everywhere. Even in London itself. Traffic had
ceased; men did not talk or laugh, or go in groups, or even in couples; they moved
aimlessly about, each man by himself, with his head down, and woe and terror at his heart.
The Tower showed recent war-scars. Verily, much had been happening.
Of course, I meant to take the train for Camelot. Train! Why, the station was as vacant
as a cavern. I moved on. The journey to Camelot was a repetition of what I had already
seen. The Monday and the Tuesday differed in no way from the Sunday. I arrived far in the
night. From being the best electric-lighted town in the kingdom and the most like a
recumbent sun of anything you ever saw, it was become simply a blot -- a blot upon
darkness -- that is to say, it was darker and solider than the rest of the darkness, and
so you could see it a little better; it made me feel as if maybe it was symbolical -- a
sort of sign that the Church was going to KEEP the upper hand now, and snuff out all my
beautiful civilization just like that. I found no life stirring in the somber streets. I
groped my way with a heavy heart. The vast castle loomed black upon the hilltop, not a
spark visible about it. The drawbridge was down, the great gate stood wide, I entered
without challenge, my own heels making the only sound I heard -- and it was sepulchral
enough, in those huge vacant courts.
The Celtic Hammer June 22, 1996