The Cannibalism in the Cars – Mark Twain (1868)

“Cannibalism in the Cars” is a short story by Mark Twain, first published in 1868, that blends macabre humor with biting political satire. The story follows a train passenger who meets a polite, well-spoken stranger recounting how he and a group of fellow travelers, trapped on a snowbound train, descended into cannibalism through a series of disturbingly formal deliberations. Framed as a genteel recollection told with bureaucratic detachment, Twain’s tale satirizes the absurd civility of political processes, even when applied to the most grotesque human instincts.

Plot Summary

On a cold December evening, a train rolled eastward from St. Louis through the snow-streaked prairies, pressing on into gathering darkness. Among the passengers sat a young man, cloaked and quiet, contemplating the muffled rhythm of iron wheels and the soft flickers of lantern light. Across from him, an elderly gentleman with a kind face and clear eyes began speaking, unprompted, in a tone as calm as a courtroom’s hush. What followed was a tale told with such elegance and composure that its horrors seemed, for a time, smoothed over by civility.

The old gentleman spoke of a journey taken some years prior, from St. Louis to New York, under circumstances not unlike the current one – heavy snow, brittle wind, and the moan of engines struggling against frozen tracks. It had been a Congressional train, he said, filled with government men, minor dignitaries, and politicians on their way home for the holidays. Spirits were high at first, as brandy passed and cigar smoke curled lazily above laughter and anecdote. But by the third day, the snow had deepened to a tomb. The train became stuck in the drifts near the desolate village of Duck Creek. There were no means of communication, no nearby help. The supplies dwindled to a whisper.

In that suspended world of silence and frost, the atmosphere changed. At first, there had been jokes about hunger, good-natured complaints, and tight belts. But as the fourth day wore on, the jokes dissolved into silence. The firewood ran low. The porter was sent out to gather branches but did not return. Cold crept into the bones and began to settle there.

Then came the suggestion – quiet at first, no more than a murmur. The man who spoke it was a Congressman from the South, known for his refinement and gravity. He proposed that the passengers convene and address their desperate condition as men of honor and deliberation. A meeting was held in the rear car, presided over with parliamentary order. Motions were made. Minutes were recorded. It was resolved, unanimously, that human sacrifice would be the means of survival.

But they would not descend into chaos. No – the process would be governed by civility, by debate, by a vote. Committees were formed. Names were nominated, objected to, seconded, and considered with due respect. One man protested that he was a married father of six. Another claimed nervous temperament. But finally, after long and respectful discussion, a man was selected. He was dispatched swiftly and with dignity. The meat was portioned. No one spoke much that night.

On the next day, they elected a new Speaker of the Assembly, as the previous one had expired from grief. A resolution was passed thanking the late gentleman for his service, and a plaque of ice was carved to commemorate him. A new victim was proposed – a slender man from Ohio, opposed on the grounds of his recent kidney complaint. Debate resumed. It was not emotional. These were men who had built nations, drafted laws, and survived campaigns. They approached each candidate with dispassionate logic.

Day after day, this grim Congress sat in motionless train cars, hollow-eyed and red-nosed, conducting their dreadful business with a meticulous courtesy that belied the savagery beneath. Objections were made. Counterpoints raised. Sometimes the discussion became heated, but never uncivil. The votes continued.

At one point, a delegate from Pennsylvania suggested drafting a bill that would exclude Presbyterians from consideration, citing theological grounds. Another proposed an amendment to prioritize consumption based on age and weight-to-utility ratio. These motions were discussed earnestly, considered at length, then either passed or tabled, just as if the Capitol dome itself hovered over the desolate prairie.

The sessions were exhausting, but effective. The assembly moved forward with the calm assurance of an ancient machine. The rate of consumption allowed them to last through the storms. Snow fell, and drifted, and melted. Days blurred. Fewer voices echoed in the dining car.

Then, as the elderly gentleman explained with a tinge of reverence, came the end of their ordeal. The storm broke. A rescue party from Duck Creek arrived. The passengers – or what remained of them – were escorted to safety. There had been twelve at the start of the crisis. Three emerged. Each was nourished, solemn, and gaunt, bearing the weight of the choices behind them like frost on their shoulders.

The tale was told with no hysteria, no shame. The old gentleman described his companions – his former colleagues, committee members, and fellow diners – as men of dignity and patriotism. They had done what they must, he said, and done it with grace. He did not seek pity. He sought only recognition for the remarkable discipline with which desperate men had governed themselves.

The train continued east, its wheels humming low. The younger man, who had listened in stillness, felt the words circling in his head like birds in snow. He excused himself and left the car to breathe.

Later, an attendant entered and found the old gentleman dozing peacefully. The young man returned and whispered a question – did the attendant know who that man was?

The porter smiled faintly, wiping a glass. That one? Oh, he came aboard every now and again, told the same tale to anyone who’d listen. Said he used to be a Congressman. Poor soul – been that way since he escaped a wrecked train in the blizzard of ’44. No one else survived. Lost in the snow for days. Found babbling and frostbitten. Never spoke a word of it till a year later, then couldn’t stop.

The young man looked again at the slumbering form, pale and still against the velvet cushion. He had spoken with such clarity, such structure, such haunting calm. Whether his tale had been truth or madness, delusion or buried guilt, the train bore onward into the night, carrying silence in its wake.

Main Characters

• The Narrator – A naive and inquisitive young man who meets a curious stranger on a train. His role is largely observational, serving as a stand-in for the reader and providing the framing device for the tale that unfolds. His open-mindedness allows the bizarre story to surface unchallenged, preserving its surreal tone.

• The Stranger (Ex-Congressman) – A seemingly mild-mannered gentleman who recounts a horrific tale of being trapped in a snowbound train car and resorting to cannibalism with other passengers. He delivers his account with chilling detachment, structuring his recollections as though they were minutes from a formal congressional debate. His calm, bureaucratic tone amid the grotesque circumstances drives the satire home.

Theme

• Satire of Political Formalism – The core of the story is an exaggerated satire of political procedure. Twain mocks the overindulgence in formal debate and red tape, portraying a group of starving men discussing who to eat next with the decorum and verbosity of a legislative assembly.

• Cannibalism as Social Commentary – The literal consumption of fellow passengers stands in for the metaphorical ‘devouring’ often attributed to politics – where survival and self-interest override morality. Twain blurs lines between savagery and civility, asking whether structured discourse legitimizes barbaric outcomes.

• Macabre Absurdity – The tale thrives on the juxtaposition of horrific content and absurdly polite delivery. The stranger’s calm, detailed recounting of voting on who to eat next forces the reader to confront the absurd lengths to which humans can go in maintaining social order.

• The Unreliability of Narration and Madness – As the story closes with a twist implying the stranger may be insane and fabricating the tale, Twain underscores how perspective warps truth and how easily society masks horror behind decorum.

Writing Style and Tone

Mark Twain’s style in “Cannibalism in the Cars” is masterfully understated and drolly ironic. He employs a deadpan narrative voice that presents the outrageous with complete seriousness, heightening the humor through contrast. The prose mimics the pompous cadence of political speech, filled with parliamentary jargon and structured debate, even as the characters deliberate over who among them should be killed and eaten. Twain’s ability to maintain this solemn register while describing such a grisly scenario reflects his deep command of satire.

The tone oscillates between civilized propriety and grotesque horror, achieving an unsettling blend that is uniquely Twain’s. Rather than relying on overt jokes, the humor arises from the sheer absurdity of the situation and the characters’ earnestness in discussing it with civility. By presenting cannibalism through the lens of genteel congressional procedure, Twain crafts a cutting parody of American politics and human rationalization in the face of inhumanity.