Mark

Twain

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

Tom Sawyers Abenteuer

Übersetzt von Lore Krüger, Lizenz der Aufbau Verlagsgruppe
Synchronisation und Ergänzungen © Doppeltext 2012

TITELBLATT

PREFACE

CHAPTER I — TOM PLAYS, FIGHTS, AND HIDES

CHAPTER II — A THE GLORIOUS WHITEWASHER

CHAPTER III — BUSY AT WAR AND LOVE

CHAPTER IV — SHOWING OFF IN SUNDAY SCHOOL

CHAPTER V — THE PINCH BUG AND HIS PREY

CHAPTER VI — TOM MEETS BECKY

CHAPTER VII — TICK-RUNNING AND HEARTBREAK

CHAPTER VIII — A PIRATE BOLD TO BE

CHAPTER IX — TRAGEDY IN THE GRAVE YARD

CHAPTER X — DIRE PROPHECY OF THE HOWLING DOG

CHAPTER XI — CONSCIENCE RACKS TORN

CHAPTER XII — THE CAT AND THE PAINKILLER

CHAPTER XIII — THE PIRATE CREW SET SAIL

CHAPTER XIV — HAPPY CAMP OF THE FREEBOOTERS

CHAPTER XV — TOM’S STEALTHY VISIT HOME

CHAPTER XVI — FIRST PIPES — “I’VE LOST MY KNIFE”

CHAPTER XVII — PIRATES AT THEIR OWN FUNERAL

CHAPTER XVIII — TOM REVEALS HIS DREAM SECRET

CHAPTER XIX — THE CRUELTY OF “I DIDN’T THINK”

CHAPTER XX — TOM TAKES BECKY’S PUNISHMENT

CHAPTER XXI — ELOQUENCE — AND THE MASTER’S GILDED DOME

CHAPTER XXII — HUCK FINN QUOTES SCRIPTURE

CHAPTER XXIII — THE SALVATION OF MUFF POTTER

CHAPTER XXIV — SPLENDID DAYS AND FEARSOME NIGHTS

CHAPTER XXV — SEEKING THE BURIED TREASURE

CHAPTER XXVI — REAL ROBBERS SEIZE THE BOX OF GOLD

CHAPTER XXVII — TREMBLING ON THE TRAIL

CHAPTER XXVIII — IN THE LAIR OF INJUN JOE

CHAPTER XXIX — HUCK SAVES THE WIDOW

CHAPTER XXX — TOM AND BECKY IN THE CAVE

CHAPTER XXXI — FOUND AND LOST AGAIN

CHAPTER XXXII — “TURN OUT! THEY’RE FOUND!”

CHAPTER XXXIII — THE FATE OF INJUN JOE

CHAPTER XXXIV — FLOODS OF GOLD

CHAPTER XXXV — RESPECTABLE HUCK JOINS THE GANG

CONCLUSION

IMPRESSUM

To My Wife
This Book
is Af­fec­tion­ately Ded­ic­ated.

PREFACE

Most of the ad­ven­tures re­cor­ded in this book really oc­curred;
one or two were ex­per­i­ences of my own, the rest those of boys who were school­mates of mine.
Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Saw­yer also, but not from an in­di­vidu­al
— he is a com­bin­a­tion of the char­ac­ter­ist­ics of three boys whom I knew,
and there­fore be­longs to the com­pos­ite or­der of ar­chi­tec­ture.
The odd su­per­sti­tions touched upon were all pre­val­ent among chil­dren and slaves in the West at the peri­od of this story —
that is to say, thirty or forty years ago.
Al­though my book is in­ten­ded mainly for the en­ter­tain­ment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and wo­men on that ac­count,
for part of my plan has been to try to pleas­antly re­mind adults of what they once were them­selves,
and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer en­ter­prises they some­times en­gaged in.
THE AU­THOR.
Hart­ford, 1876.

CHAPTER I — TOM PLAYS, FIGHTS, AND HIDES

Tom!”
No an­swer.
“Tom!”
No an­swer.
“What’s gone with that boy, I won­der? You TOM!”
No an­swer.
The old lady pulled her spec­tacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out un­der them.
She sel­dom or nev­er looked through them for so small a thing as a boy;
they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for “style,” not ser­vice
— she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well.
She looked per­plexed for a mo­ment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the fur­niture to hear:
“Well, I lay if I get hold of you I’ll —”
She did not fin­ish, for by this time she was bend­ing down and punch­ing un­der the bed with the broom,
and so she needed breath to punc­tu­ate the punches with. She re­sur­rec­ted noth­ing but the cat.
“I nev­er did see the beat of that boy!”
She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the to­mato vines and “jimpson” weeds that con­sti­tuted the garden.
No Tom. So she lif­ted up her voice at an angle cal­cu­lated for dis­tance and shouted:
“Y-o-u-u Tom!”
There was a slight noise be­hind her and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his round­about and ar­rest his flight.
“There! I might a thought of that closet. What you been do­ing in there?”
“Noth­ing.”
“Noth­ing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What is that truck?”
I don’t know, aunt.”
“Well, I know. It’s jam — that’s what it is. Forty times I’ve said if you didn’t let that jam alone I’d skin you. Hand me that switch.”
The switch hovered in the air — the per­il was des­per­ate —
“My! Look be­hind you, aunt!”
The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger.
The lad fled on the in­stant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and dis­ap­peared over it.
His aunt Polly stood sur­prised a mo­ment, and then broke into a gentle laugh.
“Hang the boy, can’t I nev­er learn any­thing? Ain’t he played me tricks enough like that for me to be look­ing out for him by this time?
But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can’t learn an old dog new tricks, as the say­ing is.
But my good­ness, he nev­er plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what’s com­ing?
He ’pears to know just how long he can tor­ment me be­fore I get my dander up, and he knows
if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it’s all down again and I can’t hit him a lick.
I ain’t do­ing my duty by that boy, and that’s the Lord’s truth, good­ness knows.
Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I’m a-lay­ing up sin and suf­fer­ing for us both, I know.
He’s full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he’s my own dead sis­ter’s boy, poor thing, and I ain’t got the heart to lash him, some­how.
Every time I let him off, my con­science does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks.
Well-a-well, man that is born of wo­man is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scrip­ture says, and I reck­on it’s so.
He’ll play hookey this even­ing [South­west­ern for “af­ter­noon”], and I’ll just be ob­lee­ged to make him work, to-mor­row, to pun­ish him.
It’s mighty hard to make him work Sat­urdays, when all the boys is hav­ing hol­i­day, but he hates work more than he hates any­thing else,
and I’ve got to do some of my duty by him, or I’ll be the ru­in­a­tion of the child.”
Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time.
He got back home barely in sea­son to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day’s wood and split the kind­lings be­fore sup­per
— at least he was there in time to tell his ad­ven­tures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work.
Tom’s young­er broth­er (or rather half-broth­er) Sid was already through with his part of the work (pick­ing up chips),
for he was a quiet boy, and had no ad­ven­tur­ous, trouble­some ways.
While Tom was eat­ing his sup­per, and steal­ing sug­ar as op­por­tun­ity offered, Aunt Polly asked him ques­tions that were full of guile, and very deep
— for she wanted to trap him into dam­aging re­veal­ments.
Like many oth­er simple-hearted souls, it was her pet van­ity to be­lieve she was en­dowed with a tal­ent for dark and mys­ter­i­ous dip­lomacy,
and she loved to con­tem­plate her most trans­par­ent devices as mar­vels of low cun­ning. Said she:
“Tom, it was mid­dling warm in school, warn’t it?”
“Yes’m.”
“Power­ful warm, warn’t it?”
“Yes’m.”
“Didn’t you want to go in a-swim­ming, Tom?”
A bit of a scare shot through Tom — a touch of un­com­fort­able sus­pi­cion.
He searched Aunt Polly’s face, but it told him noth­ing. So he said:
“No’m — well, not very much.”
The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom’s shirt, and said:
“But you ain’t too warm now, though.”
And it flattered her to re­flect that she had dis­covered that the shirt was dry without any­body know­ing that that was what she had in her mind.
But in spite of her, Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he fore­stalled what might be the next move:
“Some of us pumped on our heads — mine’s damp yet. See?”
Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had over­looked that bit of cir­cum­stan­tial evid­ence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new in­spir­a­tion:
“Tom, you didn’t have to undo your shirt col­lar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Un­but­ton your jack­et!”
The trouble van­ished out of Tom’s face. He opened his jack­et. His shirt col­lar was se­curely sewed.
“Both­er! Well, go ’long with you. I’d made sure you’d played hookey and been a-swim­ming. But I for­give ye, Tom.
I reck­on you’re a kind of a singed cat, as the say­ing is — bet­ter’n you look. This time.”
She was half sorry her saga­city had mis­car­ried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled into obed­i­ent con­duct for once.
But Sid­ney said:
“Well, now, if I didn’t think you sewed his col­lar with white thread, but it’s black.”
“Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!”
But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:
“Siddy, I’ll lick you for that.”
In a safe place Tom ex­amined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jack­et, and had thread bound about them
— one needle car­ried white thread and the oth­er black. He said:
“She’d nev­er no­ticed if it hadn’t been for Sid. Con­found it! some­times she sews it with white, and some­times she sews it with black.
I wish to geem­iny she’d stick to one or t’oth­er — I can’t keep the run of ’em.
But I bet you I’ll lam Sid for that. I’ll learn him!”
He was not the Mod­el Boy of the vil­lage. He knew the mod­el boy very well though — and loathed him.
With­in two minutes, or even less, he had for­got­ten all his troubles.
Not be­cause his troubles were one whit less heavy and bit­ter to him than a man’s are to a man,
but be­cause a new and power­ful in­terest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time
— just as men’s mis­for­tunes are for­got­ten in the ex­cite­ment of new en­ter­prises.
This new in­terest was a val­ued nov­elty in whist­ling,
which he had just ac­quired from a negro, and he was suf­fer­ing to prac­tise it un­dis­turbed.
It con­sisted in a pe­cu­li­ar bird-like turn, a sort of li­quid warble,
pro­duced by touch­ing the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short in­ter­vals in the midst of the mu­sic
— the read­er prob­ably re­mem­bers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy.
Di­li­gence and at­ten­tion soon gave him the knack of it,
and he strode down the street with his mouth full of har­mony and his soul full of grat­it­ude.
He felt much as an as­tro­nomer feels who has dis­covered a new plan­et
— no doubt, as far as strong, deep, un­al­loyed pleas­ure is con­cerned, the ad­vant­age was with the boy, not the as­tro­nomer.
The sum­mer even­ings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle.
A stranger was be­fore him — a boy a shade lar­ger than him­self.
A new-comer of any age or either sex was an im­press­ive curi­os­ity in the poor little shabby vil­lage of St. Peters­burg.
This boy was well dressed, too — well dressed on a week-day. This was simply astound­ing.
His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth round­about was new and natty, and so were his pan­ta­loons.
He had shoes on — and it was only Fri­day. He even wore a neck­tie, a bright bit of rib­bon.
He had a citi­fied air about him that ate into Tom’s vi­tals.
The more Tom stared at the splen­did mar­vel, the high­er he turned up his nose at his finery
and the shab­bi­er and shab­bi­er his own out­fit seemed to him to grow.
Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the oth­er moved — but only side­wise, in a circle;
they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time.
Fi­nally Tom said:
“I can lick you!”
“I’d like to see you try it.”
“Well, I can do it.”
“No you can’t, either.”
“Yes I can.”
“No you can’t.”
“I can.”
“You can’t.”
“Can!”
“Can’t!”
An un­com­fort­able pause. Then Tom said:
“What’s your name?”
“’Tisn’t any of your busi­ness, maybe.”
“Well I ’low I’ll make it my busi­ness.”
“Well why don’t you?”
“If you say much, I will.”
“Much — much — much. There now.”
“Oh, you think you’re mighty smart, don’t you? I could lick you with one hand tied be­hind me, if I wanted to.”
“Well why don’t you do it? You say you can do it.”
“Well I will, if you fool with me.”
“Oh yes — I’ve seen whole fam­il­ies in the same fix.”
“Smarty! You think you’re some, now, don’t you? Oh, what a hat!”
“You can lump that hat if you don’t like it.
I dare you to knock it off — and any­body that’ll take a dare will suck eggs.”
“You’re a liar!”
“You’re an­oth­er.”
“You’re a fight­ing liar and dasn’t take it up.”
“Aw — take a walk!”
“Say — if you give me much more of your sass I’ll take and bounce a rock off’n your head.”
“Oh, of course you will.”
“Well I will.”
“Well why don’t you do it then? What do you keep say­ing you will for? Why don’t you do it? It’s be­cause you’re afraid.”
“I ain’t afraid.”
“You are.”
“I ain’t.”
“You are.”
An­oth­er pause, and more ey­ing and sid­ling around each oth­er. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:
“Get away from here!”
“Go away your­self!”
“I won’t.”
I won’t either.”
So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shov­ing with might and main, and glower­ing at each oth­er with hate. But neither could get an ad­vant­age.
After strug­gling till both were hot and flushed, each re­laxed his strain with watch­ful cau­tion, and Tom said:
“You’re a cow­ard and a pup. I’ll tell my big broth­er on you, and he can thrash you with his little fin­ger, and I’ll make him do it, too.”
“What do I care for your big broth­er? I’ve got a broth­er that’s big­ger than he is — and what’s more, he can throw him over that fence, too.” [Both broth­ers were ima­gin­ary.]
“That’s a lie.”
Your say­ing so don’t make it so.”
Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:
“I dare you to step over that, and I’ll lick you till you can’t stand up. Any­body that’ll take a dare will steal sheep.”
The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:
“Now you said you’d do it, now let’s see you do it.”
“Don’t you crowd me now; you bet­ter look out.”
“Well, you said you’d do it — why don’t you do it?”
“By jingo! for two cents I will do it.”
The new boy took two broad cop­pers out of his pock­et and held them out with de­ri­sion. Tom struck them to the ground.
In an in­stant both boys were rolling and tum­bling in the dirt, gripped to­geth­er like cats;
and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each oth­er’s hair and clothes,
punched and scratched each oth­er’s nose, and covered them­selves with dust and glory.
Presently the con­fu­sion took form, and through the fog of battle Tom ap­peared,
seated astride the new boy, and pound­ing him with his fists.
“Holler ’nuff!” said he.
The boy only struggled to free him­self. He was cry­ing — mainly from rage.
“Holler ’nuff!” — and the pound­ing went on.
At last the stranger got out a smothered “’Nuff!” and Tom let him up and said:
“Now that’ll learn you. Bet­ter look out who you’re fool­ing with next time.”
The new boy went off brush­ing the dust from his clothes, sob­bing, snuff­ling,
and oc­ca­sion­ally look­ing back and shak­ing his head and threat­en­ing what he would do to Tom the “next time he caught him out.”
To which Tom re­spon­ded with jeers, and star­ted off in high feath­er,
and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders
and then turned tail and ran like an ante­lope.
Tom chased the trait­or home, and thus found out where he lived.
He then held a po­s­i­tion at the gate for some time, dar­ing the en­emy to come out­side,
but the en­emy only made faces at him through the win­dow and de­clined.
At last the en­emy’s moth­er ap­peared, and called Tom a bad, vi­cious, vul­gar child, and ordered him away.
So he went away; but he said he “’lowed” to “lay” for that boy.
He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cau­tiously in at the win­dow, he un­covered an am­bus­cade, in the per­son of his aunt;
and when she saw the state his clothes were in her res­ol­u­tion to turn his Sat­urday hol­i­day into cap­tiv­ity at hard labor be­came adam­antine in its firm­ness.

Mark Twain
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer / Tom Sawyers Abenteuer
Zweisprachige Ausgabe
Übersetzt von Lore Krüger

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Die Übersetzung von Lore Krüger erschien erstmals 1962 als Band 4 der Ausgewählten Werke Mark Twains in zwölf Bänden, herausgegeben von Karl-Heinz Schönfelder, im Aufbau Verlag Berlin; Textgrundlage der vorliegende Ausgabe ist die Neuausgabe, die 2010 im Aufbau Taschenbuch erschien.
Übersetzung © Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin 1962, 2010

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