 | Mark Twain's sketches |  |
11. THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT.
“Now, that corpse,” said the undertaker,
patting the folded hands of deceased approvingly,
“was a brick—every way you
took him he was a brick. He was so real
accommodating, and so modest-like and
simple in his last moments. Friends
wanted metallic burial case—nothing else
would do. I couldn't get it. There warn't
going to be time—anybody could see that.
Corpse said never mind, shake him up
some kind of a box he could stretch out in
comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the
general style of it. Said he went more on
room than style, any way, in a last final
container. Friends wanted a silver door-plate
on the coffin, signifying who he was
and wher' he was from. Now you know a
fellow couldn't roust out such a gaily thing
as that in a little country town like this.
What did corpse say? Corpse said whitewash
his old canoe and dob his address
and general destination onto it with a
blacking brush and a stencil plate, 'long
with a verse from some likely hymn or
other, and p'int him for the tomb, and
mark him C. O. D., and just let him flicker.
He warn't distressed any more than you
be—on the contrary just as ca'm and collected
as a hearse-horse; said he judged
that wher' he was going to a body would
find it considerable better to attract attention
by a picturesque moral character than
a natty burial case with a swell door-plate
on it. Splendid man he was. I'd druther
do for a corpse like that 'n any I've tackled
in seven year. There's some satisfaction
in buryin' a man like that. You feel that
what you're doing is appreciated. Lord
bless you, so's he got planted before he
sp'iled, he was perfectly satisfied; said his
relations meant well, perfectly well, but
all them preparations was bound to delay
the thing more or less, and he didn't wish
to be kept layin' around. You never see
such a clear head as what he had—and so
ca'm and so cool. Just a hunk of brains
—that is what he was. Perfectly awful.
It was a ripping distance from one end of
that man's head to t'other. Often and
over again he's had brain fever a-raging in
one place, and the rest of the pile didn't
know anything about it—didn't affect it
Arizona affects the Atlantic States. Well,
the relations they wanted a lurid funeral,
but corpse said he was down on flummery
—didn't want any procession—fill the
hearse full of mourners, and get out a
stern line and tow him behind. He was
the most down on style of any remains I
ever struck. A beautiful simple-minded
creature—it was what he was, you can
depend on that. He was just set on having
things the way he wanted them, and
he took a solid comfort in laying his little
plans. He had me measure him and take
a whole raft of directions; then he had
the minister stand up behind a long box
with a table-cloth over it, to represent the
coffin, and read his funeral sermon, saying
`Angcore, angcore'
at the good places,
and making him scratch out every bit of
brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and
then he made them trot out the choir so's
he could help them pick out the tunes for
the occasion, and he got them to sing `Pop
Goes the Weasel,' because he'd always
liked that tune when he was downhearted,
and solemn music made him sad; and
when they sung that with tears in their eyes
(because they all loved him), and his relations
grieving around, he just laid there as
happy as a bug, and trying to beat time
and showing all over how much he enjoyed
it; and presently he got worked up and
excited, and tried to join in, for mind you,
he was pretty proud of his abilities in the
singing line; but the first time he opened
his mouth and was just going to spread
himself, his breath took a walk. I never
see a man snuffed out so sudden. Ah, it
was a great loss—it was a powerful loss
to this poor little one-horse town. Well,
well, well, I ain't got time to be palavering
along here—got to nail on the lid and
mosey along with him; and if you'll just
give me a lift we'll skeet him into the
hearse and meander along. Relations
bound to have it so—don't pay no attention
to dying injunctions, minute a corpse's
gone; but, if I had my way, if I didn't
respect his last wishes and tow him behind
the hearse I'll be cuss'd. I consider that
whatever a corpse wants done for his comfort
is a little enough matter, and a man
ain't got no right to deceive him or take
advantage of him; and whatever a corpse
trusts me to do I'm agoing to do, you
know, even if it's to stuff him and paint
him yaller and keep him for a keepsake—
you hear me!”
He cracked his whip and went lumbering
away with his ancient ruin of a hearse, and
I continued my walk with a valuable lesson
learned—that a healthy and wholesome
cheerfulness is not necessarily impossible
to any occupation. The lesson is likely to
be lasting, for it will take many months to
obliterate the memory of the remarks and
circumstances that impressed them.
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