Chapters from My Autobiography | Page 2

he will look deep
down in his secret heart, will find--but never mind what he will find

there; I am not writing his Autobiography, but mine. Later, according
to tradition, one of the procession was Ambassador to Spain in the time
of James I, or of Charles I, and married there and sent down a strain of
Spanish blood to warm us up. Also, according to tradition, this one or
another--Geoffrey Clement, by name--helped to sentence Charles to
death.
I have not examined into these traditions myself, partly because I was
indolent, and partly because I was so busy polishing up this end of the
line and trying to make it showy; but the other Clemenses claim that
they have made the examination and that it stood the test. Therefore I
have always taken for granted that I did help Charles out of his troubles,
by ancestral proxy. My instincts have persuaded me, too. Whenever we
have a strong and persistent and ineradicable instinct, we may be sure
that it is not original with us, but inherited--inherited from away back,
and hardened and perfected by the petrifying influence of time. Now I
have been always and unchangingly bitter against Charles, and I am
quite certain that this feeling trickled down to me through the veins of
my forebears from the heart of that judge; for it is not my disposition to
be bitter against people on my own personal account I am not bitter
against Jeffreys. I ought to be, but I am not. It indicates that my
ancestors of James II's time were indifferent to him; I do not know why;
I never could make it out; but that is what it indicates. And I have
always felt friendly toward Satan. Of course that is ancestral; it must be
in the blood, for I could not have originated it.
... And so, by the testimony of instinct, backed by the assertions of
Clemenses who said they had examined the records, I have always been
obliged to believe that Geoffrey Clement the martyr-maker was an
ancestor of mine, and to regard him with favor, and in fact pride. This
has not had a good effect upon me, for it has made me vain, and that is
a fault. It has made me set myself above people who were less fortunate
in their ancestry than I, and has moved me to take them down a peg,
upon occasion, and say things to them which hurt them before
company.
A case of the kind happened in Berlin several years ago. William

Walter Phelps was our Minister at the Emperor's Court, then, and one
evening he had me to dinner to meet Count S., a cabinet minister. This
nobleman was of long and illustrious descent. Of course I wanted to let
out the fact that I had some ancestors, too; but I did not want to pull
them out of their graves by the ears, and I never could seem to get the
chance to work them in in a way that would look sufficiently casual. I
suppose Phelps was in the same difficulty. In fact he looked distraught,
now and then--just as a person looks who wants to uncover an ancestor
purely by accident, and cannot think of a way that will seem accidental
enough. But at last, after dinner, he made a try. He took us about his
drawing-room, showing us the pictures, and finally stopped before a
rude and ancient engraving. It was a picture of the court that tried
Charles I. There was a pyramid of judges in Puritan slouch hats, and
below them three bare-headed secretaries seated at a table. Mr. Phelps
put his finger upon one of the three, and said with exulting
indifference--
"An ancestor of mine."
I put my finger on a judge, and retorted with scathing languidness--
"Ancestor of mine. But it is a small matter. I have others."
It was not noble in me to do it. I have always regretted it since. But it
landed him. I wonder how he felt? However, it made no difference in
our friendship, which shows that he was fine and high, notwithstanding
the humbleness of his origin. And it was also creditable in me, too, that
I could overlook it. I made no change in my bearing toward him, but
always treated him as an equal.
But it was a hard night for me in one way. Mr. Phelps thought I was the
guest of honor, and so did Count S.; but I didn't, for there was nothing
in my invitation to indicate it. It was just a friendly offhand note, on a
card. By the time dinner was announced Phelps was himself in a state
of doubt. Something had to be done; and it was not a