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diff --git a/3197-h/3197-h.htm b/3197-h/3197-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d3190a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/3197-h/3197-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5262 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Mark Twain's Letters 1901-1906, by Mark Twain + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 5, +1901-1906, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 5, 1901-1906 + +Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) + +Release Date: August 21, 2006 [EBook #3197] +Last Updated: February 24, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWAIN LETTERS, VOL. 5 *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1901-1906 + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + VOLUME V. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Mark Twain + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + ARRANGED WITH COMMENT <br /> BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>XL.</b><br /> LETTERS OF 1901, CHIEFLY + TO TWICHELL. MARK TWAIN AS A REFORMER. SUMMER AT SARANAC. + ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT McKINLEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>XLI.</b><br /> LETTERS OF 1902. + RIVERDALE. YORK HARBOR. ILLNESS OF MRS. CLEMENS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>XLII.</b><br /> LETTERS OF 1903. TO + VARIOUS PERSONS. HARD DAYS AT RIVERDALE. LAST SUMMER AT ELMIRA. THE + RETURN TO ITALY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>XLIII.</b><br /> LETTERS OF 1904. TO + VARIOUS PERSONS. LIFE IN VILLA QUARTO. DEATH OF MRS. CLEMENS. THE + RETURN TO AMERICA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> <b>XLIV.</b><br /> LETTERS OF 1905. TO + TWICHELL, MR. DUNEKA AND OTHERS. POLITICS AND HUMANITY. A SUMMER AT + DUBLIN. MARK TWAIN AT 70. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> <b>XLV.</b><br /> LETTERS, 1906, TO VARIOUS + PERSONS. THE FAREWELL LECTURE. A SECOND SUMMER IN DUBLIN. BILLIARDS + AND COPYRIGHT. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + XL. LETTERS OF 1901, CHIEFLY TO TWICHELL. MARK TWAIN AS A REFORMER. SUMMER + AT SARANAC. ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT McKINLEY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An editorial in the Louisville Courier-Journal, early in 1901, said: + “A remarkable transformation, or rather a development, has taken + place in Mark Twain. The genial humorist of the earlier day is now + a reformer of the vigorous kind, a sort of knight errant who does + not hesitate to break a lance with either Church or State if he + thinks them interposing on that broad highway over which he believes + not a part but the whole of mankind has the privilege of passing in + the onward march of the ages.” + + Mark Twain had begun “breaking the lance” very soon after his return + from Europe. He did not believe that he could reform the world, but + at least he need not withhold his protest against those things which + stirred his wrath. He began by causing the arrest of a cabman who + had not only overcharged but insulted him; he continued by writing + openly against the American policy in the Philippines, the + missionary propaganda which had resulted in the Chinese uprising and + massacre, and against Tammany politics. Not all of his efforts were + in the line of reform; he had become a sort of general spokesman + which the public flocked to hear, whatever the subject. On the + occasion of a Lincoln Birthday service at Carnegie Hall he was + chosen to preside, and he was obliged to attend more dinners than + were good for his health. His letters of this period were mainly + written to his old friend Twichell, in Hartford. Howells, who lived + in New York, he saw with considerable frequency. + + In the letter which follows the medicine which Twichell was to take + was Plasmon, an English proprietary remedy in which Mark Twain had + invested—a panacea for all human ills which osteopathy could not + reach. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. Joseph Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 14 W. 10TH ST. Jan. 23, '01. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—Certainly. I used to take it in my coffee, but it settled + to the bottom in the form of mud, and I had to eat it with a spoon; so I + dropped the custom and took my 2 teaspoonfuls in cold milk after + breakfast. If we were out of milk I shoveled the dry powder into my mouth + and washed it down with water. The only essential is to get it down, the + method is not important. + </p> + <p> + No, blame it, I can't go to the Alumni dinner, Joe. It takes two days, and + I can't spare the time. Moreover I preside at the Lincoln birthday + celebration in Carnegie Hall Feb. 11, and I must not make two speeches so + close together. Think of it—two old rebels functioning there—I + as President, and Watterson as Orator of the Day! Things have changed + somewhat in these 40 years, thank God. + </p> + <p> + Look here—when you come down you must be our guest—we've got a + roomy room for you, and Livy will make trouble if you go elsewhere. Come + straight to 14 West 10th. + </p> + <p> + Jan. 24. Livy says Amen to that; also, can you give us a day or two's + notice, so the room will be sure to be vacant? + </p> + <p> + I'm going to stick close to my desk for a month, now, hoping to write a + small book. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ys Ever + MARK +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The letter which follows is a fair sample of Mark Twain's private + violence on a subject which, in public print, he could only treat + effectively by preserving his good humor. When he found it + necessary to boil over, as he did, now and then, for relief, he + always found a willing audience in Twichell. The mention of his + “Private Philosophy” refers to 'What Is Man?', privately published + in 1906; reissued by his publishers in 1916. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 14 W. 10th Jan. 29, '01. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—I'm not expecting anything but kicks for scoffing, and am + expecting a diminution of my bread and butter by it, but if Livy will let + me I will have my say. This nation is like all the others that have been + spewed upon the earth—ready to shout for any cause that will tickle + its vanity or fill its pocket. What a hell of a heaven it will be, when + they get all these hypocrites assembled there! + </p> + <p> + I can't understand it! You are a public guide and teacher, Joe, and are + under a heavy responsibility to men, young and old; if you teach your + people—as you teach me—to hide their opinions when they + believe the flag is being abused and dishonored, lest the utterance do + them and a publisher a damage, how do you answer for it to your + conscience? You are sorry for me; in the fair way of give and take, I am + willing to be a little sorry for you. + </p> + <p> + However, I seem to be going counter to my own Private Philosophy—which + Livy won't allow me to publish—because it would destroy me. But I + hope to see it in print before I die. I planned it 15 years ago, and wrote + it in '98. I've often tried to read it to Livy, but she won't have it; it + makes her melancholy. The truth always has that effect on people. Would + have, anyway, if they ever got hold of a rag of it—Which they don't. + </p> + <p> + You are supposing that I am supposing that I am moved by a Large + Patriotism, and that I am distressed because our President has blundered + up to his neck in the Philippine mess; and that I am grieved because this + great big ignorant nation, which doesn't know even the A B C facts of the + Philippine episode, is in disgrace before the sarcastic world—drop + that idea! I care nothing for the rest—I am only distressed and + troubled because I am befouled by these things. That is all. When I search + myself away down deep, I find this out. Whatever a man feels or thinks or + does, there is never any but one reason for it—and that is a selfish + one. + </p> + <p> + At great inconvenience, and expense of precious time I went to the chief + synagogue the other night and talked in the interest of a charity school + of poor Jew girls. I know—to the finest, shades—the selfish + ends that moved me; but no one else suspects. I could give you the details + if I had time. You would perceive how true they are. + </p> + <p> + I've written another article; you better hurry down and help Livy squelch + it. + </p> + <p> + She's out pottering around somewhere, poor housekeeping slave; and Clara + is in the hands of the osteopath, getting the bronchitis pulled and hauled + out of her. It was a bad attack, and a little disquieting. It came day + before yesterday, and she hasn't sat up till this afternoon. She is + getting along satisfactorily, now. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lots of love to you all. + MARK +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mark Twain's religion had to do chiefly with humanity in its present + incarnation, and concerned itself very little with any possible + measure of reward or punishment in some supposed court of the + hereafter. Nevertheless, psychic investigation always interested + him, and he was good-naturedly willing to explore, even hoping, + perhaps, to be convinced that individuality continues beyond death. + The letter which follows indicates his customary attitude in + relation to spiritualistic research. The experiments here + mentioned, however, were not satisfactory. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Charles McQuiston: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DOBBS FERRY, N. Y. + March 26, 1901. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. McQUISTON,—I have never had an experience which moved me + to believe the living can communicate with the dead, but my wife and I + have experimented in the matter when opportunity offered and shall + continue to do so. + </p> + <p> + I enclose a letter which came this morning—the second from the same + source. Mrs. K——is a Missourian, and lately she discovered, by + accident, that she was a remarkable hypnotiser. Her best subject is a + Missouri girl, Miss White, who is to come here soon and sustain strictly + scientific tests before professors at Columbia University. Mrs. Clemens + and I intend to be present. And we shall ask the pair to come to our house + to do whatever things they can do. Meantime, if you thought well of it, + you might write her and arrange a meeting, telling her it is by my + suggestion and that I gave you her address. + </p> + <p> + Someone has told me that Mrs. Piper is discredited. I cannot be sure, but + I think it was Mr. Myers, President of the London Psychical Research + Society—we heard of his death yesterday. He was a spiritualist. I am + afraid he was a very easily convinced man. We visited two mediums whom he + and Andrew Lang considered quite wonderful, but they were quite + transparent frauds. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clemens corrects me: One of those women was a fraud, the other not a + fraud, but only an innocent, well-meaning, driveling vacancy. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Mark Twain's Bermuda chapters entitled Idle Notes of an Idle + Excursion he tells of an old sea captain, one Hurricane Jones, who + explained biblical miracles in a practical, even if somewhat + startling, fashion. In his story of the prophets of Baal, for + instance, the old captain declared that the burning water was + nothing more nor less than petroleum. Upon reading the “notes,” + Professor Phelps of Yale wrote that the same method of explaining + miracles had been offered by Sir Thomas Browne. + + Perhaps it may be added that Captain Hurricane Jones also appears in + Roughing It, as Captain Ned Blakely. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Professor William Lyon Phelps; + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + YALE UNIVERSITY, + NEW YORK, April 24, 1901. +</pre> + <p> + MY DEAR SIR,—I was not aware that old Sir Thomas had anticipated + that story, and I am much obliged to you for furnishing me the paragraph. + It is curious that the same idea should leave entered two heads so unlike + as the head of that wise old philosopher and that of Captain Ned Wakeman, + a splendidly uncultured old sailor, but in his own opinion a thinker by + divine right. He was an old friend of mine of many years' standing; I made + two or three voyages with him, and found him a darling in many ways. The + petroleum story was not told to me; he told it to Joe Twichell, who ran + across him by accident on a sea voyage where I think the two were the only + passengers. A delicious pair, and admirably mated, they took to each other + at once and became as thick as thieves. Joe was passing under a fictitious + name, and old Wakeman didn't suspect that he was a parson; so he gave his + profanity full swing, and he was a master of that great art. You probably + know Twichell, and will know that that is a kind of refreshment which he + is very capable of enjoying. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For the summer Clemens and his family found a comfortable lodge in + the Adirondacks—a log cabin called “The Lair”—on Saranac Lake. + Soon after his arrival there he received an invitation to attend the + celebration of Missouri's eightieth anniversary. He sent the + following letter: +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Edward L. Dimmitt, in St. Louis: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AMONG THE ADIRONDACK LAKES, July 19, 1901. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. DIMMITT,—By an error in the plans, things go wrong end + first in this world, and much precious time is lost and matters of urgent + importance are fatally retarded. Invitations which a brisk young fellow + should get, and which would transport him with joy, are delayed and + impeded and obstructed until they are fifty years overdue when they reach + him. + </p> + <p> + It has happened again in this case. + </p> + <p> + When I was a boy in Missouri I was always on the lookout for invitations + but they always miscarried and went wandering through the aisles of time; + and now they are arriving when I am old and rheumatic and can't travel and + must lose my chance. + </p> + <p> + I have lost a world of delight through this matter of delaying + invitations. Fifty years ago I would have gone eagerly across the world to + help celebrate anything that might turn up. IT would have made no + difference to me what it was, so that I was there and allowed a chance to + make a noise. + </p> + <p> + The whole scheme of things is turned wrong end to. Life should begin with + age and its privileges and accumulations, and end with youth and its + capacity to splendidly enjoy such advantages. As things are now, when in + youth a dollar would bring a hundred pleasures, you can't have it. When + you are old, you get it and there is nothing worth buying with it then. + </p> + <p> + It's an epitome of life. The first half of it consists of the capacity to + enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the + capacity. + </p> + <p> + I am admonished in many ways that time is pushing me inexorably along. I + am approaching the threshold of age; in 1977 I shall be 142. This is no + time to be flitting about the earth. I must cease from the activities + proper to youth and begin to take on the dignities and gravities and + inertia proper to that season of honorable senility which is on its way + and imminent as indicated above. + </p> + <p> + Yours is a great and memorable occasion, and as a son of Missouri I should + hold it a high privilege to be there and share your just pride in the + state's achievements; but I must deny myself the indulgence, while + thanking you earnestly for the prized honor you have done me in asking me + to be present. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the foregoing Mark Twain touches upon one of his favorite + fancies: that life should begin with old age and approach strong + manhood, golden youth, to end at last with pampered and beloved + babyhood. Possibly he contemplated writing a story with this idea + as the theme, but He seems never to have done so. + + The reader who has followed these letters may remember Yung Wing, + who had charge of the Chinese educational mission in Hartford, and + how Mark Twain, with Twichell, called on General Grant in behalf of + the mission. Yung Wing, now returned to China, had conceived the + idea of making an appeal to the Government of the United States for + relief of his starving countrymen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AMPERSAND, N. Y., July 28, '01. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—As you say, it is impracticable—in my case, + certainly. For me to assist in an appeal to that Congress of land-thieves + and liars would be to bring derision upon it; and for me to assist in an + appeal for cash to pass through the hands of those missionaries out there, + of any denomination, Catholic or Protestant, wouldn't do at all. They + wouldn't handle money which I had soiled, and I wouldn't trust them with + it, anyway. They would devote it to the relief of suffering—I know + that—but the sufferers selected would be converts. The + missionary-utterances exhibit no humane feeling toward the others, but in + place of it a spirit of hate and hostility. And it is natural; the Bible + forbids their presence there, their trade is unlawful, why shouldn't their + characters be of necessity in harmony with—but never mind, let it + go, it irritates me. + </p> + <p> + Later.... I have been reading Yung Wing's letter again. It may be that he + is over-wrought by his sympathies, but it may not be so. There may be + other reasons why the missionaries are silent about the Shensi-2-year + famine and cannibalism. It may be that there are so few Protestant + converts there that the missionaries are able to take care of them. That + they are not likely to largely concern themselves about Catholic converts + and the others, is quite natural, I think. + </p> + <p> + That crude way of appealing to this Government for help in a cause which + has no money in it, and no politics, rises before me again in all its + admirable innocence! Doesn't Yung Wing know us yet? However, he has been + absent since '96 or '97. We have gone to hell since then. Kossuth couldn't + raise 30 cents in Congress, now, if he were back with his moving + Magyar-Tale. + </p> + <p> + I am on the front porch (lower one—main deck) of our little bijou of + a dwelling-house. The lake-edge (Lower Saranac) is so nearly under me that + I can't see the shore, but only the water, small-pored with rain-splashes—for + there is a heavy down-pour. It is charmingly like sitting snuggled up on a + ship's deck with the stretching sea all around—but very much more + satisfactory, for at sea a rain-storm is depressing, while here of course + the effect engendered is just a deep sense of comfort and contentment. The + heavy forest shuts us solidly in on three sides there are no neighbors. + There are beautiful little tan-colored impudent squirrels about. They take + tea, 5 p. m., (not invited) at the table in the woods where Jean does my + typewriting, and one of them has been brave enough to sit upon Jean's knee + with his tail curved over his back and munch his food. They come to + dinner, 7 p. m., on the front porch (not invited). They all have the one + name—Blennerhasset, from Burr's friend—and none of them + answers to it except when hungry. + </p> + <p> + We have been here since June 21st. For a little while we had some warm + days—according to the family's estimate; I was hardly discommoded + myself. Otherwise the weather has been of the sort you are familiar with + in these regions: cool days and cool nights. We have heard of the hot wave + every Wednesday, per the weekly paper—we allow no dailies to + intrude. Last week through visitors also—the only ones we have had—Dr. + Root and John Howells. + </p> + <p> + We have the daily lake-swim; and all the tribe, servants included (but not + I) do a good deal of boating; sometimes with the guide, sometimes without + him—Jean and Clara are competent with the oars. If we live another + year, I hope we shall spend its summer in this house. + </p> + <p> + We have taken the Appleton country seat, overlooking the Hudson, at + Riverdale, 25 minutes from the Grand Central Station, for a year, + beginning Oct. 1, with option for another year. We are obliged to be close + to New York for a year or two. + </p> + <p> + Aug. 3rd. I go yachting a fortnight up north in a 20-knot boat 225 feet + long, with the owner, (Mr. Rogers), Tom Reid, Dr. Rice, Col. A. G. Paine + and one or two others. Judge Howland would go, but can't get away from + engagements; Professor Sloane would go, but is in the grip of an illness. + Come—will you go? If you can manage it, drop a post-card to me c/o + H.H. Rogers, 26 Broadway. I shall be in New York a couple of days before + we sail—July 31 or Aug. 1, perhaps the latter,—and I think I + shall stop at the Hotel Grosvenor, cor. 10th St and 5th ave. + </p> + <p> + We all send you and the Harmonies lots and gobs of love. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AMPERSAND, N. Y., Aug. 28. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—Just a word, to scoff at you, with your extravagant + suggestion that I read the biography of Phillips Brooks—the very + dullest book that has been printed for a century. Joe, ten pages of Mrs. + Cheney's masterly biography of her fathers—no, five pages of it—contain + more meat, more sense, more literature, more brilliancy, than that whole + basketful of drowsy rubbish put together. Why, in that dead atmosphere + even Brooks himself is dull—he wearied me; oh how he wearied me! + </p> + <p> + We had a noble good time in the Yacht, and caught a Chinese missionary and + drowned him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Love from us all to you all. + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The assassination of President McKinley occurred September 6, 1901. + Such an event would naturally stir Mark Twain to comment on human + nature in general. His letter to Twichell is as individual as it is + sound in philosophy. At what period of his own life, or under what + circumstances, he made the long journey with tragic intent there is + no means of knowing now. There is no other mention of it elsewhere + in the records that survive him. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AMPERSAND, Tuesday, (Sept. 10, 1901) +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—It is another off day, but tomorrow I shall resume work to + a certainty, and bid a long farewell to letter-scribbling. + </p> + <p> + The news of the President looks decidedly hopeful, and we are all glad, + and the household faces are much improved, as to cheerfulness. Oh, the + talk in the newspapers! Evidently the Human Race is the same old Human + Race. And how unjust, and unreflectingly discriminating, the talkers are. + Under the unsettling effects of powerful emotion the talkers are saying + wild things, crazy things—they are out of themselves, and do not + know it; they are temporarily insane, yet with one voice they declare the + assassin sane—a man who has been entertaining fiery and reason—debauching + maggots in his head for weeks and months. Why, no one is sane, straight + along, year in and year out, and we all know it. Our insanities are of + varying sorts, and express themselves in varying forms—fortunately + harmless forms as a rule—but in whatever form they occur an immense + upheaval of feeling can at any time topple us distinctly over the + sanity-line for a little while; and then if our form happens to be of the + murderous kind we must look out—and so must the spectator. + </p> + <p> + This ass with the unpronounceable name was probably more insane than usual + this week or two back, and may get back upon his bearings by and by, but + he was over the sanity-border when he shot the President. It is possible + that it has taken him the whole interval since the murder of the King of + Italy to get insane enough to attempt the President's life. Without a + doubt some thousands of men have been meditating the same act in the same + interval, but new and strong interests have intervened and diverted their + over-excited minds long enough to give them a chance to settle, and + tranquilize, and get back upon a healthy level again. Every extraordinary + occurrence unsettles the heads of hundreds of thousands of men for a few + moments or hours or days. If there had been ten kings around when Humbert + fell they would have been in great peril for a day or more—and from + men in whose presence they would have been quite safe after the excess of + their excitement had had an interval in which to cool down. I bought a + revolver once and travelled twelve hundred miles to kill a man. He was + away. He was gone a day. With nothing else to do, I had to stop and think—and + did. Within an hour—within half of it—I was ashamed of myself—and + felt unspeakably ridiculous. I do not know what to call it if I was not + insane. During a whole week my head was in a turmoil night and day fierce + enough and exhausting enough to upset a stronger reason than mine. + </p> + <p> + All over the world, every day, there are some millions of men in that + condition temporarily. And in that time there is always a moment—perhaps + only a single one when they would do murder if their man was at hand. If + the opportunity comes a shade too late, the chances are that it has come + permanently too late. Opportunity seldom comes exactly at the supreme + moment. This saves a million lives a day in the world—for sure. + </p> + <p> + No Ruler is ever slain but the tremendous details of it are ravenously + devoured by a hundred thousand men whose minds dwell, unaware, near the + temporary-insanity frontier—and over they go, now! There is a day—two + days—three—during which no Ruler would be safe from perhaps + the half of them; and there is a single moment wherein he would not be + safe from any of them, no doubt. + </p> + <p> + It may take this present shooting-case six months to breed another + ruler-tragedy, but it will breed it. There is at least one mind somewhere + which will brood, and wear, and decay itself to the killing-point and + produce that tragedy. + </p> + <p> + Every negro burned at the stake unsettles the excitable brain of another + one—I mean the inflaming details of his crime, and the lurid + theatricality of his exit do it—and the duplicate crime follows; and + that begets a repetition, and that one another one and so on. Every + lynching-account unsettles the brains of another set of excitable white + men, and lights another pyre—115 lynchings last year, 102 inside of + 8 months this year; in ten years this will be habit, on these terms. + </p> + <p> + Yes, the wild talk you see in the papers! And from men who are sane when + not upset by overwhelming excitement. A U. S. Senator-Cullom—wants + this Buffalo criminal lynched! It would breed other lynchings—of men + who are not dreaming of committing murders, now, and will commit none if + Cullom will keep quiet and not provide the exciting cause. + </p> + <p> + And a District Attorney wants a law which shall punish with death attempts + upon a President's life—this, mind you, as a deterrent. It would + have no effect—or the opposite one. The lunatic's mind-space is all + occupied—as mine was—with the matter in hand; there is no room + in it for reflections upon what may happen to him. That comes after the + crime. + </p> + <p> + It is the noise the attempt would make in the world that would breed the + subsequent attempts, by unsettling the rickety minds of men who envy the + criminal his vast notoriety—his obscure name tongued by stupendous + Kings and Emperors—his picture printed everywhere, the trivialest + details of his movements, what he eats, what he drinks; how he sleeps, + what he says, cabled abroad over the whole globe at cost of fifty thousand + dollars a day—and he only a lowly shoemaker yesterday!—like + the assassin of the President of France—in debt three francs to his + landlady, and insulted by her—and to-day she is proud to be able to + say she knew him “as familiarly as you know your own brother,” and glad to + stand till she drops and pour out columns and pages of her grandeur and + her happiness upon the eager interviewer. + </p> + <p> + Nothing will check the lynchings and ruler-murder but absolute silence—the + absence of pow-pow about them. How are you going to manage that? By + gagging every witness and jamming him into a dungeon for life; by + abolishing all newspapers; by exterminating all newspaper men; and by + extinguishing God's most elegant invention, the Human Race. It is quite + simple, quite easy, and I hope you will take a day off and attend to it, + Joe. I blow a kiss to you, and am + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lovingly Yours, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the Adirondack summer ended Clemens settled for the winter in + the beautiful Appleton home at Riverdale-on-the-Hudson. It was a + place of wide-spreading grass and shade-a house of ample room. They + were established in it in time for Mark Twain to take an active + interest in the New York elections and assist a ticket for good + government to defeat Tammany Hall. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLI. LETTERS OF 1902. RIVERDALE. YORK HARBOR. ILLNESS OF MRS. CLEMENS + </h2> + <p> + The year 1902 was an eventful one for Mark Twain. In April he received a + degree of LL.D. from the University of Missouri and returned to his native + State to accept it. This was his last journey to the Mississippi River. + During the summer Mrs. Clemens's health broke down and illnesses of one + sort or another visited other members of the family. Amid so much stress + and anxiety Clemens had little time or inclination for work. He wrote not + many letters and mainly somber ones. Once, by way of diversion, he worked + out the idea of a curious club—which he formed—its members to + be young girls—girls for the most part whom he had never seen. They + were elected without their consent from among those who wrote to him + without his consent, and it is not likely that any one so chosen declined + membership. One selection from his letters to the French member, Miss + Helene Picard, of St.-Die, France, will explain the club and present a + side of Mask Twain somewhat different from that found in most of his + correspondence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Miss Picard, in St.-Die, France: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON, February 22, 1902. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MISS HELENE,—If you will let me call you so, considering that + my head is white and that I have grownup daughters. Your beautiful letter + has given me such deep pleasure! I will make bold to claim you for a + friend and lock you up with the rest of my riches; for I am a miser who + counts his spoil every day and hoards it secretly and adds to it when he + can, and is grateful to see it grow. + </p> + <p> + Some of that gold comes, like yourself, in a sealed package, and I can't + see it and may never have the happiness; but I know its value without + that, and by what sum it increases my wealth. + </p> + <p> + I have a Club, a private Club, which is all my own. I appoint the Members + myself, and they can't help themselves, because I don't allow them to vote + on their own appointment and I don't allow them to resign! They are all + friends whom I have never seen (save one), but who have written friendly + letters to me. + </p> + <p> + By the laws of my Club there can be only one Member in each country, and + there can be no male Member but myself. Some day I may admit males, but I + don't know—they are capricious and inharmonious, and their ways + provoke me a good deal. It is a matter which the Club shall decide. + </p> + <p> + I have made four appointments in the past three or four months: You as + Member for France, a young Highland girl as Member for Scotland, a + Mohammedan girl as Member for Bengal, and a dear and bright young niece of + mine as Member for the United States—for I do not represent a + country myself, but am merely Member at Large for the Human Race. + </p> + <p> + You must not try to resign, for the laws of the Club do not allow that. + You must console yourself by remembering that you are in the best of + company; that nobody knows of your membership except myself—that no + Member knows another's name, but only her country; that no taxes are + levied and no meetings held (but how dearly I should like to attend one!). + </p> + <p> + One of my Members is a Princess of a royal house, another is the daughter + of a village book-seller on the continent of Europe. For the only + qualification for Membership is intellect and the spirit of good will; + other distinctions, hereditary or acquired, do not count. + </p> + <p> + May I send you the Constitution and Laws of the Club? I shall be so + pleased if I may. It is a document which one of my daughters typewrites + for me when I need one for a new Member, and she would give her eyebrows + to know what it is all about, but I strangle her curiosity by saying: + “There are much cheaper typewriters than you are, my dear, and if you try + to pry into the sacred mysteries of this Club one of your prosperities + will perish sure.” + </p> + <p> + My favorite? It is “Joan of Arc.” My next is “Huckleberry Finn,” but the + family's next is “The Prince and the Pauper.” (Yes, you are right—I + am a moralist in disguise; it gets me into heaps of trouble when I go + thrashing around in political questions.) + </p> + <p> + I wish you every good fortune and happiness and I thank you so much for + your letter. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Early in the year Clemens paid a visit to Twichell in Hartford, and + after one of their regular arguments on theology and the moral + accountability of the human race, arguments that had been going on + between them for more than thirty years—Twichell lent his visitor + Freedom of the Will, by Jonathan Edwards, to read on the way home. + The next letter was the result. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON. + Feb. '02. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—“After compliments.”—[Meaning “What a good time you + gave me; what a happiness it was to be under your roof again; etc., etc.” + See opening sentence of all translations of letters passing between Lord + Roberts and Indian princes and rulers.]—From Bridgeport to New York; + thence to home; and continuously until near midnight I wallowed and reeked + with Jonathan in his insane debauch; rose immediately refreshed and fine + at 10 this morning, but with a strange and haunting sense of having been + on a three days' tear with a drunken lunatic. It is years since I have + known these sensations. All through the book is the glaze of a resplendent + intellect gone mad—a marvelous spectacle. No, not all through the + book—the drunk does not come on till the last third, where what I + take to be Calvinism and its God begins to show up and shine red and + hideous in the glow from the fires of hell, their only right and proper + adornment. By God I was ashamed to be in such company. + </p> + <p> + Jonathan seems to hold (as against the Arminian position) that the Man (or + his Soul or his Will) never creates an impulse itself, but is moved to + action by an impulse back of it. That's sound! + </p> + <p> + Also, that of two or more things offered it, it infallibly chooses the one + which for the moment is most pleasing to ITSELF. Perfectly correct! An + immense admission for a man not otherwise sane. + </p> + <p> + Up to that point he could have written chapters III and IV of my + suppressed “Gospel.” But there we seem to separate. He seems to concede + the indisputable and unshakable dominion of Motive and Necessity (call + them what he may, these are exterior forces and not under the man's + authority, guidance or even suggestion)—then he suddenly flies the + logic track and (to all seeming) makes the man and not these exterior + forces responsible to God for the man's thoughts, words and acts. It is + frank insanity. + </p> + <p> + I think that when he concedes the autocratic dominion of Motive and + Necessity he grants, a third position of mine—that a man's mind is a + mere machine—an automatic machine—which is handled entirely + from the outside, the man himself furnishing it absolutely nothing: not an + ounce of its fuel, and not so much as a bare suggestion to that exterior + engineer as to what the machine shall do, nor how it shall do it nor when. + </p> + <p> + After that concession, it was time for him to get alarmed and shirk—for + he was pointing straight for the only rational and possible next-station + on that piece of road the irresponsibility of man to God. + </p> + <p> + And so he shirked. Shirked, and arrived at this handsome result: + </p> + <p> + Man is commanded to do so-and-so. It has been ordained from the beginning + of time that some men shan't and others can't. + </p> + <p> + These are to be blamed: let them be damned. + </p> + <p> + I enjoy the Colonel very much, and shall enjoy the rest of him with an + obscene delight. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Joe, the whole tribe shout love to you and yours! + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have not heard of Joe Goodman since the trying days of '90 and + '91, when he was seeking to promote the fortunes of the type-setting + machine. Goodman, meantime, who had in turn been miner, printer, + publisher, and farmer; had been devoting his energies and genius to + something entirely new: he had been translating the prehistoric + Mayan inscriptions of Yucatan, and with such success that his work + was elaborately published by an association of British scientists. + In due time a copy of this publication came to Clemens, who was full + of admiration of the great achievement. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To J. T. Goodman, in California: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON, + June 13, '02. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—I am lost in reverence and admiration! It is now + twenty-four hours that I have been trying to cool down and contemplate + with quiet blood this extraordinary spectacle of energy, industry, + perseverance, pluck, analytical genius, penetration, this irruption of + thunders and fiery splendors from a fair and flowery mountain that nobody + had supposed was a sleeping volcano, but I seem to be as excited as ever. + Yesterday I read as much as half of the book, not understanding a word but + enchanted nevertheless—partly by the wonder of it all, the study, + the erudition, the incredible labor, the modesty, the dignity, the + majestic exclusiveness of the field and its lofty remoteness from things + and contacts sordid and mean and earthy, and partly by the grace and + beauty and limpidity of the book's unsurpassable English. Science, always + great and worshipful, goes often in hodden grey, but you have clothed her + in garments meet for her high degree. + </p> + <p> + You think you get “poor pay” for your twenty years? No, oh no. You have + lived in a paradise of the intellect whose lightest joys were beyond the + reach of the longest purse in Christendom, you have had daily and nightly + emancipation from the world's slaveries and gross interests, you have + received a bigger wage than any man in the land, you have dreamed a + splendid dream and had it come true, and to-day you could not afford to + trade fortunes with anybody—not even with another scientist, for he + must divide his spoil with his guild, whereas essentially the world you + have discovered is your own and must remain so. + </p> + <p> + It is all just magnificent, Joe! And no one is prouder or gladder than + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours always + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At York Harbor, Maine, where they had taken a cottage for the + summer—a pretty place, with Howells not far distant, at Kittery + Point—Mrs. Clemens's health gave way. This was at a period when + telegraphic communication was far from reliable. The old-time + Western Union had fallen from grace; its “system” no longer + justified the best significance of that word. The new day of + reorganization was coming, and it was time for it. Mark Twain's + letter concerning the service at York Harbor would hardly be + warranted today, but those who remember conditions of that earlier + time will agree that it was justified then, and will appreciate its + satire. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To the President of The Western Union, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “THE PINES” + YORK HARBOR, MAINE. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR SIR,—I desire to make a complaint, and I bring it to you, the + head of the company, because by experience I know better than to carry it + to a subordinate. + </p> + <p> + I have been here a month and a half, and by testimony of friends, + reinforced by personal experience I now feel qualified to claim as an + established fact that the telegraphic service here is the worst in the + world except that Boston. + </p> + <p> + These services are actually slower than was the New York and Hartford + service in the days when I last complained to you—which was fifteen + or eighteen years ago, when telegraphic time and train time between the + mentioned points was exactly the same, to-wit, three hours and a half. Six + days ago—it was that raw day which provoked so much comment—my + daughter was on her way up from New York, and at noon she telegraphed me + from New Haven asking that I meet her with a cloak at Portsmouth. Her + telegram reached me four hours and a quarter later—just 15 minutes + too late for me to catch my train and meet her. + </p> + <p> + I judge that the telegram traveled about 200 miles. It is the best + telegraphic work I have seen since I have been here, and I am mentioning + it in this place not as a complaint but as a compliment. I think a + compliment ought always to precede a complaint, where one is possible, + because it softens resentment and insures for the complaint a courteous + and gentle reception. + </p> + <p> + Still, there is a detail or two connected with this matter which ought + perhaps to be mentioned. And now, having smoothed the way with the + compliment, I will venture them. The head corpse in the York Harbor office + sent me that telegram altho (1) he knew it would reach me too late to be + of any value; (2) also, that he was going to send it to me by his boy; (3) + that the boy would not take the trolley and come the 2 miles in 12 + minutes, but would walk; (4) that he would be two hours and a quarter on + the road; (5) and that he would collect 25 cents for transportation, for a + telegram which the he knew to be worthless before he started it. From + these data I infer that the Western Union owes me 75 cents; that is to + say, the amount paid for combined wire and land transportation—a + recoup provided for in the printed paragraph which heads the + telegraph-blank. + </p> + <p> + By these humane and Christian stages we now arrive at the complaint + proper. We have had a grave case of illness in the family, and a relative + was coming some six hundred miles to help in the sick-room during the + convalescing period. It was an anxious time, of course, and I wrote and + asked to be notified as to the hour of the expected arrival of this + relative in Boston or in York Harbor. Being afraid of the telegraph—which + I think ought not to be used in times of hurry and emergency—I asked + that the desired message be brought to me by some swift method of + transportation. By the milkman, if he was coming this way. But there are + always people who think they know more than you do, especially young + people; so of course the young fellow in charge of this lady used the + telegraph. And at Boston, of all places! Except York Harbor. + </p> + <p> + The result was as usual; let me employ a statelier and exacter term, and + say, historical. + </p> + <p> + The dispatch was handed to the h. c. of the Boston office at 9 this + morning. It said, “Shall bring A. S. to you eleven forty-five this + morning.” The distance traveled by the dispatch is forty or fifty miles, I + suppose, as the train-time is five minutes short of two hours, and the + trains are so slow that they can't give a W. U. telegram two hours and + twenty minutes start and overtake it. + </p> + <p> + As I have said, the dispatch was handed in at Boston at 9. The expected + visitors left Boston at 9.40, and reached my house at 12 noon, beating the + telegram 2 solid hours, and 5 minutes over. + </p> + <p> + The boy brought the telegram. It was bald-headed with age, but still + legible. The boy was prostrate with travel and exposure, but still alive, + and I went out to condole with him and get his last wishes and send for + the ambulance. He was waiting to collect transportation before turning his + passing spirit to less serious affairs. I found him strangely intelligent, + considering his condition and where he is getting his training. I asked + him at what hour the telegram was handed to the h. c. in Boston. He + answered brightly, that he didn't know. + </p> + <p> + I examined the blank, and sure enough the wary Boston h. c. had + thoughtfully concealed that statistic. I asked him at what hour it had + started from Boston. He answered up as brightly as ever, and said he + didn't know. + </p> + <p> + I examined the blank, and sure enough the Boston h. c. had left that + statistic out in the cold, too. In fact it turned out to be an official + concealment—no blank was provided for its exposure. And none + required by the law, I suppose. “It is a good one-sided idea,” I remarked; + “They can take your money and ship your telegram next year if they want to—you've + no redress. The law ought to extend the privilege to all of us.” + </p> + <p> + The boy looked upon me coldly. + </p> + <p> + I asked him when the telegram reached York Harbor. He pointed to some + figures following the signature at the bottom of the blank—“12.14.” + I said it was now 1.45 and asked— + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that it reached your morgue an hour and a half ago?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded assent. + </p> + <p> + “It was at that time half an hour too late to be of any use to me, if I + wanted to go and meet my people—which was the case—for by the + wording of the message you can see that they were to arrive at the station + at 11.45. Why did, your h. c. send me this useless message? Can't he read? + Is he dead?” + </p> + <p> + “It's the rules.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that does not account for it. Would he have sent it if it had been + three years old, I in the meantime deceased, and he aware of it?” + </p> + <p> + The boy didn't know. + </p> + <p> + “Because, you know, a rule which required him to forward to the cemetery + to-day a dispatch due three years ago, would be as good a rule as one + which should require him to forward a telegram to me to-day which he knew + had lost all its value an hour or two before he started it. The + construction of such a rule would discredit an idiot; in fact an idiot—I + mean a common ordinary Christian idiot, you understand—would be + ashamed of it, and for the sake of his reputation wouldn't make it. What + do you think?” + </p> + <p> + He replied with much natural brilliancy that he wasn't paid for thinking. + </p> + <p> + This gave me a better opinion of the commercial intelligence pervading his + morgue than I had had before; it also softened my feelings toward him, and + also my tone, which had hitherto been tinged with bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “Let bygones be bygones,” I said, gently, “we are all erring creatures, + and mainly idiots, but God made us so and it is dangerous to criticise.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One day there arrived from Europe a caller with a letter of + introduction from Elizabeth, Queen of Rumania, better known as + Carmen Sylva. The visitor was Madam Hartwig, formerly an American + girl, returning now, because of reduced fortunes, to find profitable + employment in her own land. Her husband, a man of high principle, + had declined to take part in an “affair of honor,” as recognized by + the Continental code; hence his ruin. Elizabeth of Rumania was one + of the most loved and respected of European queens and an author of + distinction. Mark Twain had known her in Vienna. Her letter to him + and his own letter to the public (perhaps a second one, for its date + is two years later) follow herewith. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Carmen Sylva to Mark Twain: + + BUCAREST, May 9, 1902. +</pre> + <p> + HONORED MASTER,—If I venture to address you on behalf of a poor + lady, who is stranded in Bucarest I hope not to be too disagreeable. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hartwig left America at the age of fourteen in order to learn to sing + which she has done thoroughly. Her husband had quite a brilliant situation + here till he refused to partake 'dans une afaire onereuse', so it seems. + They haven't a penny and each of them must try to find a living. She is + very nice and pleasant and her school is so good that she most certainly + can give excellent singing lessons. + </p> + <p> + I beg your pardon for being a bore to one I so deeply love and admire, to + whom I owe days and days of forgetfulness of self and troubles and the + intensest of all joys: Hero-worship! People don't always realize what a + happiness that is! God bless you for every beautiful thought you poured + into my tired heart and for every smile on a weary way! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CARMEN SYLVA. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Mark Twain to the Public: + + Nov. 16, '04. +</pre> + <p> + TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN,—I desire to recommend Madame Hartwig to my + friends and the public as a teacher of singing and as a concert-vocalist. + She has lived for fifteen years at the court of Roumania, and she brought + with her to America an autograph letter in which her Majesty the Queen of + Roumania cordially certified her to me as being an accomplished and gifted + singer and teacher of singing, and expressed a warm hope that her + professional venture among us would meet with success; through absence in + Europe I have had no opportunity to test the validity of the Queen's + judgment in the matter, but that judgment is the utterance of an entirely + competent authority—the best that occupies a throne, and as good as + any that sits elsewhere, as the musical world well knows—and + therefore back it without hesitation, and endorse it with confidence. + </p> + <p> + I will explain that the reason her Majesty tried to do her friend a + friendly office through me instead of through someone else was, not that I + was particularly the right or best person for the office, but because I + was not a stranger. It is true that I am a stranger to some of the + monarchs—mainly through their neglect of their opportunities—but + such is not the case in the present instance. The latter fact is a high + compliment to me, and perhaps I ought to conceal it. Some people would. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK TWAIN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mrs. Clemens's improvement was scarcely perceptible. It was not + until October that they were able to remove her to Riverdale, and + then only in a specially arranged invalid-car. At the end of the + long journey she was carried to her room and did not leave it again + for many months. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE, N. Y., Oct. 31, '02. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—It is ten days since Susy [Twichell] wrote that you were + laid up with a sprained shoulder, since which time we have had no news + about it. I hope that no news is good news, according to the proverb; + still, authoritative confirmation of it will be gladly received in this + family, if some of you will furnish it. Moreover, I should like to know + how and where it happened. In the pulpit, as like as not, otherwise you + would not be taking so much pains to conceal it. This is not a malicious + suggestion, and not a personally-invented one: you told me yourself, once, + that you threw artificial power and impressiveness into places in your + sermons where needed, by “banging the bible”—(your own words.) You + have reached a time of life when it is not wise to take these risks. You + would better jump around. We all have to change our methods as the + infirmities of age creep upon us. Jumping around will be impressive now, + whereas before you were gray it would have excited remark. + </p> + <p> + Poor Livy drags along drearily. It must be hard times for that turbulent + spirit. It will be a long time before she is on her feet again. It is a + most pathetic case. I wish I could transfer it to myself. Between ripping + and raging and smoking and reading, I could get a good deal of a holiday + out of it. + </p> + <p> + Clara runs the house smoothly and capably. She is discharging a trial-cook + today and hiring another. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A power of love to you all! + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Such was the state of Mrs. Clemens's health that visitors + were excluded from the sick room, and even Clemens himself + was allowed to see her no more than a few moments at a time. + These brief, precious visits were the chief interests of his + long days. Occasionally he was allowed to send her a few + lines, reporting his occupations, and these she was + sometimes permitted to answer. Only one of his notes has + been preserved, written after a day, now rare, of literary + effort. Its signature, the letter Y, stands for “Youth,” + always her name for him. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Clemens: + </p> + <p> + DEAR HEART,—I've done another full day's work, and finished before + 4. I have been reading and dozing since and would have had a real sleep a + few minutes ago but for an incursion to bring me a couple of unimportant + letters. I've stuck to the bed all day and am getting back my lost ground. + Next time I will be strictly careful and make my visit very short—just + a kiss and a rush. Thank you for your dear, dear note; you who are my own + and only sweetheart. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sleep well! + Y. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLII. LETTERS OF 1903. TO VARIOUS PERSONS. HARD DAYS AT RIVERDALE. LAST + SUMMER AT ELMIRA. THE RETURN TO ITALY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The reader may perhaps recall that H. H. Rogers, some five + or six years earlier, had taken charge of the fortunes of + Helen Keller, making it possible for her to complete her + education. Helen had now written her first book—a + wonderful book—'The Story of My Life', and it had been + successfully published. For a later generation it may be + proper to explain that the Miss Sullivan, later Mrs. Macy, + mentioned in the letter which follows, was the noble woman + who had devoted her life to the enlightenment of this blind, + dumb girl—had made it possible for her to speak and + understand, and, indeed, to see with the eyes of luminous + imagination. + + The case of plagiarism mentioned in this letter is not now + remembered, and does not matter, but it furnished a text for + Mark Twain, whose remarks on the subject in general are + eminently worth while. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Helen Keller, in Wrentham, Mass.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE-ON-THE-HUDSON, + ST. PATRICK'S DAY, '03. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HELEN,—I must steal half a moment from my work to say how glad + I am to have your book, and how highly I value it, both for its own sake + and as a remembrances of an affectionate friendship which has subsisted + between us for nine years without a break, and without a single act of + violence that I can call to mind. I suppose there is nothing like it in + heaven; and not likely to be, until we get there and show off. I often + think of it with longing, and how they'll say, “There they come—sit + down in front!” I am practicing with a tin halo. You do the same. I was at + Henry Rogers's last night, and of course we talked of you. He is not at + all well; you will not like to hear that; but like you and me, he is just + as lovely as ever. + </p> + <p> + I am charmed with your book-enchanted. You are a wonderful creature, the + most wonderful in the world—you and your other half together—Miss + Sullivan, I mean, for it took the pair of you to make a complete and + perfect whole. How she stands out in her letters! her brilliancy, + penetration, originality, wisdom, character, and the fine literary + competencies of her pen—they are all there. + </p> + <p> + Oh, dear me, how unspeakably funny and owlishly idiotic and grotesque was + that “plagiarism” farce! As if there was much of anything in any human + utterance, oral or written, except plagiarism! The kernel, the soul—let + us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable + material of all human utterances—is plagiarism. For substantially + all ideas are second-hand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a + million outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and + satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas + there is not a rag of originality about them anywhere except the little + discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his + temperament, and which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing. When a + great orator makes a great speech you are listening to ten centuries and + ten thousand men—but we call it his speech, and really some + exceedingly small portion of it is his. But not enough to signify. It is + merely a Waterloo. It is Wellington's battle, in some degree, and we call + it his; but there are others that contributed. It takes a thousand men to + invent a telegraph, or a steam engine, or a phonograph, or a photograph, + or a telephone or any other important thing—and the last man gets + the credit and we forget the others. He added his little mite—that + is all he did. These object lessons should teach us that ninety-nine parts + of all things that proceed from the intellect are plagiarisms, pure and + simple; and the lesson ought to make us modest. But nothing can do that. + </p> + <p> + Then why don't we unwittingly reproduce the phrasing of a story, as well + as the story itself? It can hardly happen—to the extent of fifty + words except in the case of a child: its memory-tablet is not lumbered + with impressions, and the actual language can have graving-room there, and + preserve the language a year or two, but a grown person's memory-tablet is + a palimpsest, with hardly a bare space upon which to engrave a phrase. It + must be a very rare thing that a whole page gets so sharply printed upon a + man's mind, by a single reading, that it will stay long enough to turn up + some time or other and be mistaken by him for his own. No doubt we are + constantly littering our literature with disconnected sentences borrowed + from books at some unremembered time and now imagined to be our own, but + that is about the most we can do. In 1866 I read Dr. Holmes's poems, in + the Sandwich Islands. A year and a half later I stole his dictation, + without knowing it, and used it to dedicate my “Innocents Abroad” with. + Then years afterwards I was talking with Dr. Holmes about it. He was not + an ignorant ass—no, not he: he was not a collection of decayed human + turnips, like your “Plagiarism Court;” and so when I said, “I know now + where I stole it, but whom did you steal it from,” he said, “I don't + remember; I only know I stole it from somebody, because I have never + originated anything altogether myself, nor met anybody who had.” + </p> + <p> + To think of those solemn donkeys breaking a little child's heart with + their ignorant rubbish about plagiarism! I couldn't sleep for blaspheming + about it last night. Why, their whole lives, their whole histories, all + their learning, all their thoughts, all their opinions were one solid ruck + of plagiarism, and they didn't know it and never suspected it. A gang of + dull and hoary pirates piously setting themselves the task of disciplining + and purifying a kitten that they think they've caught filching a chop! Oh, + dam— + </p> + <p> + But you finish it, dear, I am running short of vocabulary today. Ever + lovingly your friend, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK. +</pre> + <p> + (Edited and modified by Clara Clemens, deputy to her mother, who for more + than 7 months has been ill in bed and unable to exercise her official + function.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The burden of the Clemens household had fallen almost entirely upon + Clara Clemens. In addition to supervising its customary affairs, + she also shouldered the responsibility of an unusual combination of + misfortunes, for besides the critical condition of her mother, her + sister, Jean Clemens, was down with pneumonia, no word of which must + come to Mrs. Clemens. Certainly it was a difficult position. In + some account of it, which he set down later, Clemens wrote: “It was + fortunate for us all that Clara's reputation for truthfulness was so + well established in her mother's mind. It was our daily protection + from disaster. The mother never doubted Clara's word. Clara could + tell her large improbabilities without exciting any suspicion, + whereas if I tried to market even a small and simple one the case + would have been different. I was never able to get a reputation + like Clara's.” + + The accumulation of physical ailments in the Clemens home had + somewhat modified Mark Twain's notion of medical practice. He was + no longer radical; he had become eclectic. It is a good deal of a + concession that he makes to Twichell, after those earlier letters + from Sweden, in which osteopathy had been heralded as the anodyne + for all human ills. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—Livy does really make a little progress these past 3 or 4 + days, progress which is visible to even the untrained eye. The physicians + are doing good work with her, but my notion is, that no art of healing is + the best for all ills. I should distribute the ailments around: surgery + cases to the surgeons; lupus to the actinic-ray specialist; nervous + prostration to the Christian Scientist; most ills to the allopath and the + homeopath; (in my own particular case) rheumatism, gout and bronchial + attacks to the osteopathist. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rogers was to sail southward this morning—and here is this + weather! I am sorry. I think it's a question if he gets away tomorrow. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ys Ever + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was through J. Y. M. MacAlister, to whom the next letter is + written, that Mark Twain had become associated with the Plasmon + Company, which explains the reference to “shares.” He had seen much + of MacAlister during the winter at Tedworth Square, and had grown + fond of him. It is a characteristic letter, and one of interesting + fact. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To J. Y. M. MacAlister, in London: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE, NEW YORK. + April, 7, '03. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MACALISTER,—Yours arrived last night, and God knows I was glad + to get it, for I was afraid I had blundered into an offence in some way + and forfeited your friendship—a kind of blunder I have made so many + times in my life that I am always standing in a waiting and morbid dread + of its occurrence. + </p> + <p> + Three days ago I was in condition—during one horribly long night—to + sympathetically roast with you in your “hell of troubles.” During that + night I was back again where I was in the black days when I was buried + under a mountain of debt. I called the daughters to me in private council + and paralysed them with the announcement, “Our outgo has increased in the + past 8 months until our expenses are now 125 per cent. greater than our + income.” + </p> + <p> + It was a mistake. When I came down in the morning a gray and aged wreck, + and went over the figures again, I found that in some unaccountable way + (unaccountable to a business man but not to me) I had multiplied the + totals by 2. By God I dropped 75 years on the floor where I stood. + </p> + <p> + Do you know it affected me as one is affected when he wakes out of a + hideous dream and finds that it was only a dream. It was a great comfort + and satisfaction to me to call the daughters to a private meeting of the + Board again and say, “You need not worry any more; our outgo is only a + third more than our income; in a few months your mother will be out of her + bed and on her feet again—then we shall drop back to normal and be + all right.” + </p> + <p> + Certainly there is a blistering and awful reality about a well-arranged + unreality. It is quite within the possibilities that two or three nights + like that night of mine could drive a man to suicide. He would refuse to + examine the figures; they would revolt him so, and he could go to his + death unaware that there was nothing serious about them. I cannot get that + night out of my head, it was so vivid, so real, so ghastly. In any other + year of these 33 the relief would have been simple: go where you can cut + your cloth to fit your income. You can't do that when your wife can't be + moved, even from one room to the next. + </p> + <p> + Clam spells the trained nurse afternoons; I am allowed to see Mrs. Clemens + 20 minutes twice a day and write her two letters a day provided I put no + news in them. No other person ever sees her except the physician and now + and then a nerve-specialist from New York. She saw there was something the + matter that morning, but she got no facts out of me. But that is nothing—she + hasn't had anything but lies for 8 months. A fact would give her a + relapse. + </p> + <p> + The doctor and a specialist met in conspiracy five days ago, and in their + belief she will by and by come out of this as good as new, substantially. + They ordered her to Italy for next winter—which seems to indicate + that by autumn she will be able to undertake the voyage. So Clara is + writing a Florence friend to take a look round among the villas for us in + the regions near that city. It seems early to do this, but Joan Bergheim + thought it would be wise. + </p> + <p> + He and his wife lunched with us here yesterday. They have been abroad in + Havana 4 months, and they sailed for England this morning. + </p> + <p> + I am enclosing an order for half of my (your) Founders shares. You are not + to refuse them this time, though you have done it twice before. They are + yours, not mine, and for your family's sake if not your own you cannot in + these cloudy days renounce this property which is so clearly yours and + theirs. You have been generous long enough; be just, now to yourself. Mr. + Rogers is off yachting for 5 or 6 weeks—I'll get them when he + returns. The head of the house joins me in warmest greetings and + remembrances to you and Mrs. MacAlister. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ever yours, + Mark. +</pre> + <p> + May 8. Great Scott! I never mailed this letter! I addressed it, put + “Registered” on it—then left it lying unsealed on the arm of my + chair, and rushed up to my bed quaking with a chill. I've never been out + of the bed since—oh, bronchitis, rheumatism, two sets of teeth + aching, land, I've had a dandy time for 4 weeks. And to-day—great + guns, one of the very worst!... + </p> + <p> + I'm devilish sorry, and I do apologise—for although I am not as slow + as you are about answering letters, as a rule, I see where I'm standing + this time. + </p> + <p> + Two weeks ago Jean was taken down again—this time with measles, and + I haven't been able to go to her and she hasn't been able to come to me. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Clemens is making nice progress, and can stand alone a moment or + two at a time. + </p> + <p> + Now I'll post this. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The two letters that follow, though written only a few days apart, + were separated in their arrival by a period of seven years. The + second letter was, in some way, mislaid and not mailed; and it was + not until after the writer of it was dead that it was found and + forwarded. + + Mark Twain could never get up much enthusiasm for the writings of + Scott. His praise of Quentin Durward is about the only approval he + ever accorded to the works of the great romanticist. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Brander Matthews, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NEW YORK CITY, May 4, '03. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR BRANDER,—I haven't been out of my bed for four weeks, but—well, + I have been reading, a good deal, and it occurs to me to ask you to sit + down, some time or other when you have 8 or 9 months to spare, and jot me + down a certain few literary particulars for my help and elevation. Your + time need not be thrown away, for at your further leisure you can make + Colombian lectures out of the results and do your students a good turn. + </p> + <p> + 1. Are there in Sir Walter's novels passages done in good English—English + which is neither slovenly or involved? + </p> + <p> + 2. Are there passages whose English is not poor and thin and commonplace, + but is of a quality above that? + </p> + <p> + 3. Are there passages which burn with real fire—not punk, fox-fire, + make believe? + </p> + <p> + 4. Has he heroes and heroines who are not cads and cadesses? + </p> + <p> + 5. Has he personages whose acts and talk correspond with their characters + as described by him? + </p> + <p> + 6. Has he heroes and heroines whom the reader admires, admires, and knows + why? + </p> + <p> + 7. Has he funny characters that are funny, and humorous passages that are + humorous? + </p> + <p> + 8. Does he ever chain the reader's interest, and make him reluctant to lay + the book down? + </p> + <p> + 9. Are there pages where he ceases from posing, ceases from admiring the + placid flood and flow of his own dilutions, ceases from being artificial, + and is for a time, long or short, recognizably sincere and in earnest? + </p> + <p> + 10. Did he know how to write English, and didn't do it because he didn't + want to? + </p> + <p> + 11. Did he use the right word only when he couldn't think of another one, + or did he run so much to wrong because he didn't know the right one when + he saw it? + </p> + <p> + 13. Can you read him? and keep your respect for him? Of course a person + could in his day—an era of sentimentality and sloppy romantics—but + land! can a body do it today? + </p> + <p> + Brander, I lie here dying, slowly dying, under the blight of Sir Walter. I + have read the first volume of Rob Roy, and as far as chapter XIX of Guy + Mannering, and I can no longer hold my head up nor take my nourishment. + Lord, it's all so juvenile! so artificial, so shoddy; and such wax figures + and skeletons and spectres. Interest? Why, it is impossible to feel an + interest in these bloodless shams, these milk-and-water humbugs. And oh, + the poverty of the invention! Not poverty in inventing situations, but + poverty in furnishing reasons for them. Sir Walter usually gives himself + away when he arranges for a situation—elaborates, and elaborates, + and elaborates, till if you live to get to it you don't believe in it when + it happens. + </p> + <p> + I can't find the rest of Rob Roy, I can't stand any more Mannering—I + do not know just what to do, but I will reflect, and not quit this great + study rashly. He was great, in his day, and to his proper audience; and so + was God in Jewish times, for that matter, but why should either of them + rank high now? And do they?—honest, now, do they? Dam'd if I believe + it. + </p> + <p> + My, I wish I could see you and Leigh Hunt! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely Yours + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Brander Matthews, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RIVERDALE, May 8, '03 (Mailed June, 1910). +</pre> + <p> + DEAR BRANDER,—I'm still in bed, but the days have lost their dulness + since I broke into Sir Walter and lost my temper. I finished Guy Mannering—that + curious, curious book, with its mob of squalid shadows jabbering around a + single flesh-and-blood being—Dinmont; a book crazily put together + out of the very refuse of the romance-artist's stage properties—finished + it and took up Quentin Durward, and finished that. + </p> + <p> + It was like leaving the dead to mingle with the living: it was like + withdrawing from the infant class in the College of journalism to sit + under the lectures in English literature in Columbia University. + </p> + <p> + I wonder who wrote Quentin Durward? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yrs ever + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In 1903, preparations were going on for a great world's fair, to be + held in St. Louis, and among other features proposed was a World's + Literary Convention, with a week to be set apart in honor of Mark + Twain, and a special Mark Twain Day in it, on which the National + Association would hold grand services in honor of the distinguished + Missourian. A letter asking his consent to the plan brought the + following reply. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To T. F. Gatts, of Missouri: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NEW YORK, May 30, 1903. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. GATTS,—It is indeed a high compliment which you offer me in + naming an association after me and in proposing the setting apart of a + Mark Twain day at the great St. Louis fair, but such compliments are not + proper for the living; they are proper and safe for the dead only. I value + the impulse which moves you to tender me these honors. I value it as + highly as any one can, and am grateful for it, but I should stand in a + sort of terror of the honors themselves. So long as we remain alive we are + not safe from doing things which, however righteously and honorably + intended, can wreck our repute and extinguish our friendships. + </p> + <p> + I hope that no society will be named for me while I am still alive, for I + might at some time or other do something which would cause its members to + regret having done me that honor. After I shall have joined the dead I + shall follow the customs of those people and be guilty of no conduct that + can wound any friend; but until that time shall come I shall be a doubtful + quantity like the rest of our race. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The National Mark Twain Association did not surrender easily. Mr. + Gatts wrote a second letter full of urgent appeal. If Mark Twain + was tempted, we get no hint of it in his answer. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To T. F. Gatts, of Missouri: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NEW YORK, June 8, 1903. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. GATTS,—While I am deeply touched by the desire of my + friends of Hannibal to confer these great honors upon me, I must still + forbear to accept them. Spontaneous and unpremeditated honors, like those + which came to me at Hannibal, Columbia, St. Louis and at the village + stations all down the line, are beyond all price and are a treasure for + life in the memory, for they are a free gift out of the heart and they + come without solicitations; but I am a Missourian and so I shrink from + distinctions which have to be arranged beforehand and with my privity, for + I then became a party to my own exalting. I am humanly fond of honors that + happen but chary of those that come by canvass and intention. With sincere + thanks to you and your associates for this high compliment which you have + been minded to offer me, I am, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have seen in the letter to MacAlister that Mark Twain's wife had + been ordered to Italy and plans were in progress for an + establishment there. By the end of June Mrs. Clemens was able to + leave Riverdale, and she made the journey to Quarry Farm, Elmira, + where they would remain until October, the month planned for their + sailing. The house in Hartford had been sold; and a house which, + prior to Mrs. Clemens's breakdown they had bought near Tarrytown + (expecting to settle permanently on the Hudson) had been let. They + were going to Europe for another indefinite period. + + At Quarry Farm Mrs. Clemens continued to improve, and Clemens, once + more able to work, occupied the study which Mrs. Crane had built for + him thirty years before, and where Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn and the + Wandering Prince had been called into being. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford, Conn.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + QUARRY FARM, ELMIRA, N. Y., + July 21, '03. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—That love-letter delighted Livy beyond any like utterance + received by her these thirty years and more. I was going to answer it for + her right away, and said so; but she reserved the privilege to herself. I + judge she is accumulating Hot Stuff—as George Ade would say.... + </p> + <p> + Livy is coming along: eats well, sleeps some, is mostly very gay, not very + often depressed; spends all day on the porch, sleeps there a part of the + night, makes excursions in carriage and in wheel-chair; and, in the matter + of superintending everything and everybody, has resumed business at the + old stand. + </p> + <p> + Did you ever go house-hunting 3,000 miles away? It costs three months of + writing and telegraphing to pull off a success. We finished 3 or 4 days + ago, and took the Villa Papiniano (dam the name, I have to look at it a + minutes after writing it, and then am always in doubt) for a year by + cable. Three miles outside of Florence, under Fiesole—a darling + location, and apparently a choice house, near Fiske. + </p> + <p> + There's 7 in our gang. All women but me. It means trunks and things. But + thanks be! To-day (this is private) comes a most handsome voluntary + document with seals and escutcheons on it from the Italian Ambassador (who + is a stranger to me) commanding the Customs people to keep their hands off + the Clemens's things. Now wasn't it lovely of him? And wasn't it lovely of + me to let Livy take a pencil and edit my answer and knock a good third of + it out? + </p> + <p> + And that's a nice ship—the Irene! new—swift—13,000 tons—rooms + up in the sky, open to sun and air—and all that. I was desperately + troubled for Livy—about the down-cellar cells in the ancient + “Latin.” + </p> + <p> + The cubs are in Riverdale, yet; they come to us the first week in August. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With lots and lots of love to you all, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The arrangement for the Villa Papiniano was not completed, after + all, and through a good friend, George Gregory Smith, a resident of + Florence, the Villa Quarto, an ancient home of royalty, on the hills + west of Florence, was engaged. Smith wrote that it was a very + beautiful place with a south-eastern exposure, looking out toward + Valombrosa and the Chianti Hills. It had extensive grounds and + stables, and the annual rental for it all was two thousand dollars a + year. It seemed an ideal place, in prospect, and there was great + hope that Mrs. Clemens would find her health once more in the + Italian climate which she loved. + + Perhaps at this point, when Mark Twain is once more leaving America, + we may offer two letters from strangers to him—letters of + appreciation—such as he was constantly receiving from those among + the thousands to whom he had given happiness. The first is from + Samuel Merwin, one day to become a popular novelist, then in the + hour of his beginnings. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mark Twain, from Samuel Merwin: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PLAINFIELD, N. J. + August 4, 1903. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. CLEMENS,—For a good many years I have been struggling with + the temptation to write you and thank you for the work you have done; and + to-day I seem to be yielding. + </p> + <p> + During the past two years I have been reading through a group of writers + who seem to me to represent about the best we have—Sir Thomas + Malory, Spenser, Shakespeare, Boswell, Carlyle, Le Sage. In thinking over + one and then another, and then all of them together, it was plain to see + why they were great men and writers: each brought to his time some new + blood, new ideas,—turned a new current into the stream. I suppose + there have always been the careful, painstaking writers, the men who are + always taken so seriously by their fellow craftsmen. It seems to be the + unconventional man who is so rare—I mean the honestly unconventional + man, who has to express himself in his own big way because the + conventional way isn't big enough, because ne needs room and freedom. + </p> + <p> + We have a group of the more or less conventional men now—men of + dignity and literary position. But in spite of their influence and of all + the work they have done, there isn't one of them to whom one can give + one's self up without reservation, not one whose ideas seem based on the + deep foundation of all true philosophy,—except Mark Twain. + </p> + <p> + I hope this letter is not an impertinence. I have just been turning about, + with my head full of Spenser and Shakespeare and “Gil Blas,” looking for + something in our own present day literature to which I could surrender + myself as to those five gripping old writings. And nothing could I find + until I took up “Life on the Mississippi,” and “Huckleberry Finn,” and, + just now, the “Connecticut Yankee.” It isn't the first time I have read + any of these three, and it's because I know it won't be the last, because + these books are the only ones written in my lifetime that claim my + unreserved interest and admiration and, above all, my feelings, that I've + felt I had to write this letter. + </p> + <p> + I like to think that “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn” will be looked + upon, fifty or a hundred years from now, as the picture of buoyant, + dramatic, human American life. I feel, deep in my own heart, pretty sure + that they will be. They won't be looked on then as the work of a + “humorist” any more than we think of Shakespeare as a humorist now. I + don't mean by this to set up a comparison between Mark Twain and + Shakespeare: I don't feel competent to do it; and I'm not at all sure that + it could be done until Mark Twain's work shall have its fair share of + historical perspective. But Shakespeare was a humorist and so, thank + Heaven! is Mark Twain. And Shakespeare plunged deep into the deep, sad + things of life; and so, in a different way (but in a way that has more + than once brought tears to my eyes) has Mark Twain. But after all, it + isn't because of any resemblance for anything that was ever before written + that Mark Twain's books strike in so deep: it's rather because they've + brought something really new into our literature—new, yet old as + Adam and Eve and the Apple. And this achievement, the achievement of + putting something into literature that was not there before, is, I should + think, the most that any writer can ever hope to do. It is the one mark of + distinction between the “lonesome” little group of big men and the vast + herd of medium and small ones. Anyhow, this much I am sure of—to the + young man who hopes, however feebly, to accomplish a little something, + someday, as a writer, the one inspiring example of our time is Mark Twain. + Very truly yours, SAMUEL MERWIN. + </p> + <p> + Mark Twain once said he could live a month on a good compliment, and from + his reply, we may believe this one to belong in, that class. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Samuel Merwin, in Plainfield, N. J.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aug. 16, '03. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. MERWIN,—What you have said has given me deep pleasure—indeed + I think no words could be said that could give me more. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The next “compliment” is from one who remains unknown, for she + failed to sign her name in full. But it is a lovely letter, and + loses nothing by the fact that the writer of it was willing to + remain in obscurity. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mark Twain, from Margaret M——: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PORTLAND, OREGON + Aug. 18, 1903. +</pre> + <p> + MY DEAR, DEAR MARK TWAIN,—May a little girl write and tell you how + dearly she loves and admires your writings? Well, I do and I want to tell + you your ownself. Don't think me too impertinent for indeed I don't mean + to be that! I have read everything of yours that I could get and parts + that touch me I have read over and over again. They seem such dear friends + to me, so like real live human beings talking and laughing, working and + suffering too! One cannot but feel that it is your own life and experience + that you have painted. So do not wonder that you seem a dear friend to me + who has never even seen you. I often think of you as such in my own + thoughts. I wonder if you will laugh when I tell you I have made a hero of + you? For when people seem very sordid and mean and stupid (and it seems as + if everybody was) then the thought will come like a little crumb of + comfort “well, Mark Twain isn't anyway.” And it does really brighten me + up. + </p> + <p> + You see I have gotten an idea that you are a great, bright spirit of + kindness and tenderness. One who can twist everybody's-even your + own-faults and absurdities into hearty laughs. Even the person mocked must + laugh! Oh, Dear! How often you have made me laugh! And yet as often you + have struck something infinite away down deep in my heart so that I want + to cry while half laughing! + </p> + <p> + So this all means that I want to thank you and to tell you. “God always + love Mark Twain!” is often my wish. I dearly love to read books, and I + never tire of reading yours; they always have a charm for me. Good-bye, I + am afraid I have not expressed what I feel. But at least I have tried. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours. + MARGARET M.—— +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clemens and family left Elmira October the 5th for New York City. + They remained at the Hotel Grosvenor until their sailing date, + October 24th. A few days earlier, Mr. Frank Doubleday sent a volume + of Kipling's poems and de Blowitz's Memoirs for entertainment on the + ship. Mark Twain's acknowledgment follows. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To F. N. Doubleday, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE GROSVENOR, + October 12, '03. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR DOUBLEDAY,—The books came—ever so many thanks. I have + been reading “The Bell Buoy” and “The Old Men” over and over again—my + custom with Kipling's work-and saving up the rest for other leisurely and + luxurious meals. A bell-buoy is a deeply impressive fellow-being. In these + many recent trips up and down the Sound in the Kanawha—[Mr. Rogers's + yacht.]—he has talked to me nightly, sometimes in his pathetic and + melancholy way, sometimes with his strenuous and urgent note, and I got + his meaning—now I have his words! No one but Kipling could do this + strong and vivid thing. Some day I hope to hear the poem chanted or sung—with + the bell-buoy breaking in, out of the distance. + </p> + <p> + “The Old Men,” delicious, isn't it? And so comically true. I haven't + arrived there yet, but I suppose I am on the way.... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours ever, + MARK. +</pre> + <p> + P. S. Your letter has arrived. It makes me proud and glad—what + Kipling says. I hope Fate will fetch him to Florence while we are there. I + would rather see him than any other man. + </p> + <p> + We've let the Tarrytown house for a year. Man, you would never have + believed a person could let a house in these times. That one's for sale, + the Hartford one is sold. When we buy again may we—may I—be + damned.... + </p> + <p> + I've dipped into Blowitz and find him quaintly and curiously interesting. + I think he tells the straight truth, too. I knew him a little, 23 years + ago. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The appreciative word which Kipling had sent Doubleday was: “I love + to think of the great and God-like Clemens. He is the biggest man + you have on your side of the water by a damn sight, and don't you + forget it. Cervantes was a relation of his.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLIII. LETTERS OF 1904. TO VARIOUS PERSONS. LIFE IN VILLA QUARTO. DEATH OF + MRS. CLEMENS. THE RETURN TO AMERICA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mrs. Clemens stood the voyage to Italy very well and, in due + time, the family were installed in the Villa Reale di + Quarto, the picturesque old Palace of Cosimo, a spacious, + luxurious place, even if not entirely cheerful or always + comfortable during the changeable Tuscan winter. + Congratulated in a letter from MacAlister in being in the + midst of Florentine sunshine, he answered: “Florentine + sunshine? Bless you, there isn't any. We have heavy fogs + every morning, and rain all day. This house is not merely + large, it is vast—therefore I think it must always lack the + home feeling.” + + Neither was their landlady, the American wife of an Italian + count, all that could be desired. From a letter to + Twichell, however, we learn that Mark Twain's work was + progressing well. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, + FLORENCE, Jan. 7, '04. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—... I have had a handsome success, in one way, here. I + left New York under a sort of half promise to furnish to the Harper + magazines 30,000 words this year. Magazining is difficult work because + every third page represents 2 pages that you have put in the fire; + (because you are nearly sure to start wrong twice) and so when you have + finished an article and are willing to let it go to print it represents + only 10 cents a word instead of 30. + </p> + <p> + But this time I had the curious (and unprecedented) luck to start right in + each case. I turned out 37,000 words in 25 working days; and the reason I + think I started right every time is, that not only have I approved and + accepted the several articles, but the court of last resort (Livy) has + done the same. + </p> + <p> + On many of the between-days I did some work, but only of an idle and not + necessarily necessary sort, since it will not see print until I am dead. I + shall continue this (an hour per day) but the rest of the year I expect to + put in on a couple of long books (half-completed ones.) No more + magazine-work hanging over my head. + </p> + <p> + This secluded and silent solitude this clean, soft air and this enchanting + view of Florence, the great valley and the snow-mountains that frame it + are the right conditions for work. They are a persistent inspiration. + To-day is very lovely; when the afternoon arrives there will be a new + picture every hour till dark, and each of them divine—or progressing + from divine to diviner and divinest. On this (second) floor Clara's room + commands the finest; she keeps a window ten feet high wide open all the + time and frames it in. I go in from time to time, every day and trade sass + for a look. The central detail is a distant and stately snow-hump that + rises above and behind blackforested hills, and its sloping vast + buttresses, velvety and sun-polished with purple shadows between, make the + sort of picture we knew that time we walked in Switzerland in the days of + our youth. + </p> + <p> + I wish I could show your letter to Livy—but she must wait a week or + so for it. I think I told you she had a prostrating week of tonsillitis a + month ago; she has remained very feeble ever since, and confined to the + bed of course, but we allow ourselves to believe she will regain the lost + ground in another month. Her physician is Professor Grocco—she could + not have a better. And she has a very good trained nurse. + </p> + <p> + Love to all of you from all of us. And to all of our dear Hartford + friends. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK +</pre> + <p> + P. S. 3 days later. + </p> + <p> + Livy is as remarkable as ever. The day I wrote you—that night, I + mean—she had a bitter attack of gout or rheumatism occupying the + whole left arm from shoulder to fingers, accompanied by fever. The pains + racked her 50 or 60 hours; they have departed, now—and already she + is planning a trip to Egypt next fall, and a winter's sojourn there! This + is life in her yet. + </p> + <p> + You will be surprised that I was willing to do so much magazine-writing—a + thing I have always been chary about—but I had good reasons. Our + expenses have been so prodigious for a year and a half, and are still so + prodigious, that Livy was worrying altogether too much about them, and + doing a very dangerous amount of lying awake on their account. It was + necessary to stop that, and it is now stopped. + </p> + <p> + Yes, she is remarkable, Joe. Her rheumatic attack set me to cursing and + swearing, without limit as to time or energy, but it merely concentrated + her patience and her unconquerable fortitude. It is the difference between + us. I can't count the different kinds of ailments which have assaulted her + in this fiendish year and a half—and I forgive none of them—but + here she comes up again as bright and fresh and enterprising as ever, and + goes to planning about Egypt, with a hope and a confidence which are to me + amazing. + </p> + <p> + Clara is calling for me—we have to go into town and pay calls. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Florence, that winter, Clemens began dictating to his secretary + some autobiographical chapters. This was the work which was “not to + see print until I am dead.” He found it a pleasant, lazy occupation + and wrote his delight in it to Howells in a letter which seems not + to have survived. In his reply, Howells wrote: “You do stir me + mightily with the hope of dictating and I will try it when I get the + chance. But there is the tempermental difference. You are dramatic + and unconscious; you count the thing more than yourself; I am cursed + with consciousness to the core, and can't say myself out; I am + always saying myself in, and setting myself above all that I say, as + of more worth. Lately I have felt as if I were rotting with + egotism. I don't admire myself; I am sick of myself; but I can't + think of anything else. Here I am at it now, when I ought to be + rejoicing with you at the blessing you have found.... I'd like, + immensely, to read your autobiography. You always rather bewildered + me by your veracity, and I fancy you may tell the truth about + yourself. But all of it? The black truth which we all know of + ourselves in our hearts, or only the whity-brown truth of the + pericardium, or the nice, whitened truth of the shirtfront? Even + you won't tell the black heart's—truth. The man who could do it + would be famed to the last day the sun shone upon.” + + We gather from Mark Twain's answer that he was not deceiving himself + in the matter of his confessions. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE, + March 14, '04. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—Yes, I set up the safeguards, in the first day's + dictating; taking this position: that an autobiography is the truest of + all books; for while it inevitably consists mainly of extinctions of the + truth, shirkings of the truth, partial revealments of the truth, with + hardly an instance of plain straight truth, the remorseless truth is + there, between the lines, where the author is raking dust upon it, the + result being that the reader knows the author in spite of his wily + diligences. + </p> + <p> + The summer in England! you can't ask better luck than that. Then you will + run over to Florence; we shall all be hungry to see you-all. We are + hunting for another villa, (this one is plenty large enough but has no + room in it) but even if we find it I am afraid it will be months before we + can move Mrs. Clemens. Of course it will. But it comforts us to let on + that we think otherwise, and these pretensions help to keep hope alive in + her. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good-bye, with love, Amen. + Yours ever + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + News came of the death of Henry M. Stanley, one of Mark Twain's + oldest friends. Clemens once said that he had met Stanley in St. + Louis where he (Clemens) had delivered a lecture which Stanley had + reported. In the following letter he fixes the date of their + meeting as early in 1867, which would be immediately after Mark + Twain's return from California, and just prior to the Quaker City + excursion—a fact which is interesting only because it places the + two men together when each was at the very beginning of a great + career. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Lady Stanley, in England: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FIRENZE, May 11, '04. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR LADY STANLEY,—I have lost a dear and honored friend—how + fast they fall about me now, in my age! The world has lost a tried and + proved hero. And you—what have you lost? It is beyond estimate—we + who know you, and what he was to you, know that. How far he stretches + across my life! I knew him when his work was all before him five years + before the great day that he wrote his name far-away up on the blue of the + sky for the world to see and applaud and remember; I have known him as + friend and intimate ever since. It is 37 years. I have known no other + friend and intimate so long, except John Hay—a friendship which + dates from the same year and the same half of it, the first half of 1867. + I grieve with you and with your family, dear Lady Stanley, it is all I can + do; but that I do out of my heart. It would be we, instead of I, if Mrs. + Clemens knew, but in all these 20 months that she has lain a prisoner in + her bed we have hidden from her all things that could sadden her. Many a + friend is gone whom she still asks about and still thinks is living. + </p> + <p> + In deepest sympathy I beg the privilege of signing myself + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your friend, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, May 11, '04 +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—Yours has this moment arrived—just as I was + finishing a note to poor Lady Stanley. I believe the last country-house + visit we paid in England was to Stanley's. Lord, how my friends and + acquaintances fall about me now, in my gray-headed days! Vereschagin, + Mommsen, Dvorak, Lenbach, Jokai—all so recently, and now Stanley. I + had known Stanley 37 years. Goodness, who is it I haven't known! As a rule + the necrologies find me personally interested—when they treat of old + stagers. Generally when a man dies who is worth cabling, it happens that I + have run across him somewhere, some time or other. + </p> + <p> + Oh, say! Down by the Laurentian Library there's a marble image that has + been sitting on its pedestal some 450 Years, if my dates are right—Cosimo + I. I've seen the back of it many a time, but not the front; but yesterday + I twisted my head around after we had driven by, and the profane + exclamation burst from my mouth before I could think: “there's Chauncey + Depew!” + </p> + <p> + I mean to get a photo of it—and use it if it confirms yesterday's + conviction. That's a very nice word from the Catholic Magazine and I am + glad you sent it. I mean to show it to my priest—we are very fond of + him. He is a stealing man, and is also learnedly scientific. He invented + the thing which records the seismatic disturbances, for the peoples of the + earth. And he's an astronomer and has an observatory of his own. + </p> + <p> + Ah, many's the cry I have, over reflecting that maybe we could have had + Young Harmony for Livy, and didn't have wit enough to think of it. + </p> + <p> + Speaking of Livy reminds me that your inquiry arrives at a good time + (unberufen) It has been weeks (I don't know how many!) since we could have + said a hopeful word, but this morning Katy came the minute the day-nurse + came on watch and said words of a strange and long-forgotten sound: “Mr. + Clemens, Mrs. Clemens is really and truly better!—anybody can see + it; she sees it herself; and last night at 9 o'clock she said it.” + </p> + <p> + There—it is heart-warming, it is splendid, it is sublime; let us + enjoy it, let us make the most of it today—and bet not a farthing on + tomorrow. The tomorrows have nothing for us. Too many times they have + breathed the word of promise to our ear and broken it to our hope. We take + no tomorrow's word any more. + </p> + <p> + You've done a wonder, Joe: you've written a letter that can be sent in to + Livy—that doesn't often happen, when either a friend or a stranger + writes. You did whirl in a P. S. that wouldn't do, but you wrote it on a + margin of a page in such a way that I was able to clip off the margin + clear across both pages, and now Livy won't perceive that the sheet isn't + the same size it used to was. It was about Aldrich's son, and I came near + forgetting to remove it. It should have been written on a loose strip and + enclosed. That son died on the 5th of March and Aldrich wrote me on the + night before that his minutes were numbered. On the 18th Livy asked after + that patient, and I was prepared, and able to give her a grateful surprise + by telling her “the Aldriches are no longer uneasy about him.” + </p> + <p> + I do wish I could have been present and heard Charley Clark. When he can't + light up a dark place nobody can. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With lots of love to you all. + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mrs. Clemens had her bad days and her good days-days when there + seemed no ray of light, and others that seemed almost to promise + recovery. The foregoing letter to Twichell, and the one which + follows, to Richard Watson Gilder, reflect the hope and fear that + daily and hourly alternated at Villa Quarto +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Richard Watson Gilder, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE, + May 12, '04. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR GILDER,—A friend of ours (the Baroness de Nolda) was here this + afternoon and wanted a note of introduction to the Century, for she has + something to sell to you in case you'll want to make her an offer after + seeing a sample of the goods. I said “With pleasure: get the goods ready, + send the same to me, I will have Jean type-write them, then I will mail + them to the Century and tonight I will write the note to Mr. Gilder and + start it along. Also write me a letter embodying what you have been saying + to me about the goods and your proposed plan of arranging and explaining + them, and I will forward that to Gilder too.” + </p> + <p> + As to the Baroness. She is a German; 30 years old; was married at 17; is + very pretty-indeed I might say very pretty; has a lot of sons (5) running + up from seven to 12 years old. Her husband is a Russian. They live half + the time in Russia and the other half in Florence, and supply population + alternately to the one country and then to the other. Of course it is a + family that speaks languages. This occurs at their table—I know it + by experience: It is Babel come again. The other day, when no guests were + present to keep order, the tribes were all talking at once, and 6 + languages were being traded in; at last the littlest boy lost his temper + and screamed out at the top of his voice, with angry sobs: “Mais, + vraiment, io non capisco gar nichts.” + </p> + <p> + The Baroness is a little afraid of her English, therefore she will write + her remarks in French—I said there's a plenty of translators in New + York. Examine her samples and drop her a line. + </p> + <p> + For two entire days, now, we have not been anxious about Mrs. Clemens + (unberufen). After 20 months of bed-ridden solitude and bodily misery she + all of a sudden ceases to be a pallid shrunken shadow, and looks bright + and young and pretty. She remains what she always was, the most wonderful + creature of fortitude, patience, endurance and recuperative power that + ever was. But ah, dear, it won't last; this fiendish malady will play new + treacheries upon her, and I shall go back to my prayers again—unutterable + from any pulpit! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With love to you and yours, + S. L. C. +</pre> + <p> + May 13 10 A.M. I have just paid one of my pair of permitted 2 minutes + visits per day to the sick room. And found what I have learned to expect—retrogression, + and that pathetic something in the eye which betrays the secret of a + waning hope. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The year of the World's Fair had come, and an invitation from Gov. + Francis, of Missouri, came to Mark Twain in Florence, personally + inviting him to attend the great celebration and carry off first + prize. We may believe that Clemens felt little in the spirit of + humor, but to such an invitation he must send a cheerful, even if + disappointing, answer. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Gov. Francis, of Missouri: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FIRENZE, + May 26, 1904. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR GOVERNOR FRANCIS,—It has been a dear wish of mine to exhibit + myself at the Great Fair and get a prize, but circumstances beyond my + control have interfered, and I must remain in Florence. Although I have + never taken prizes anywhere else I used to take them at school in Missouri + half a century ago, and I ought to be able to repeat, now, if I could have + a chance. I used to get the medal for good spelling, every week, and I + could have had the medal for good conduct if there hadn't been so much + corruption in Missouri in those days; still, I got it several times by + trading medals and giving boot. I am willing to give boot now, if—however, + those days are forever gone by in Missouri, and perhaps it is better so. + Nothing ever stops the way it was in this changeable world. Although I + cannot be at the Fair, I am going to be represented there anyway, by a + portrait, by Professor Gelli. You will find it excellent. Good judges here + say it is better than the original. They say it has all the merits of the + original and keeps still, besides. It sounds like flattery, but it is just + true. + </p> + <p> + I suppose you will get a prize, because you have created the most + prodigious and in all ways most wonderful Fair the planet has ever seen. + Very well, you have indeed earned it: and with it the gratitude of the + State and the nation. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + MARK TWAIN + + It was only a few days after the foregoing was written that death + entered Villa Quarto—unexpectedly at last—for with the first June + days Mrs. Clemens had seemed really to improve. It was on Sunday, + June 5th, that the end came. Clemens, with his daughter Jean, had + returned from a long drive, during which they had visited a Villa + with the thought of purchase. On their return they were told that + their patient had been better that afternoon than for three months. + Yet it was only a few hours later that she left them, so suddenly + and quietly that even those near her did not at first realize that + she was gone. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in New York. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE, + June 6, '94. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—Last night at 9.20 I entered Mrs. Clemens's room to + say the usual goodnight—and she was dead—tho' no one knew it. + She had been cheerfully talking, a moment before. She was sitting up in + bed—she had not lain down for months—and Katie and the nurse + were supporting her. They supposed she had fainted, and they were holding + the oxygen pipe to her mouth, expecting to revive her. I bent over her and + looked in her face, and I think I spoke—I was surprised and troubled + that she did not notice me. Then we understood, and our hearts broke. How + poor we are today! + </p> + <p> + But how thankful I am that her persecutions are ended. I would not call + her back if I could. + </p> + <p> + Today, treasured in her worn old Testament, I found a dear and gentle + letter from you, dated Far Rockaway, Sept. 13, 1896, about our poor Susy's + death. I am tired and old; I wish I were with Livy. + </p> + <p> + I send my love-and hers-to you all. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In a letter to Twichell he wrote: “How sweet she was in death; how + young, how beautiful, how like her dear, girlish self cf thirty + years ago; not a gray hair showing.” + + The family was now without plans for the future until they + remembered the summer home of R. W. Gilder, at Tyringham, + Massachusetts, and the possibility of finding lodgment for + themselves in that secluded corner of New England. Clemens wrote + without delay, as follows: +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To R. W. Gilder, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE, + June 7, '04. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR GILDER FAMILY,—I have been worrying and worrying to know what + to do: at last I went to the girls with an idea: to ask the Gilders to get + us shelter near their summer home. It was the first time they have not + shaken their heads. So to-morrow I will cable to you and shall hope to be + in time. + </p> + <p> + An hour ago the best heart that ever beat for me and mine went silent out + of this house, and I am as one who wanders and has lost his way. She who + is gone was our head, she was our hands. We are now trying to make plans—we: + we who have never made a plan before, nor ever needed to. If she could + speak to us she would make it all simple and easy with a word, and our + perplexities would vanish away. If she had known she was near to death she + would have told us where to go and what to do: but she was not suspecting, + neither were we. (She had been chatting cheerfully a moment before, and in + an instant she was gone from us and we did not know it. We were not + alarmed, we did not know anything had happened. It was a blessed death—she + passed away without knowing it.) She was all our riches and she is gone: + she was our breath, she was our life and now we are nothing. + </p> + <p> + We send you our love—and with it the love of you that was in her + heart when she died. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Howells wrote his words of sympathy, adding: “The character which + now remains a memory was one of the most perfect ever formed on the + earth,” and again, after having received Clemens's letter: “I cannot + speak of your wife's having kept that letter of mine where she did. + You know how it must humiliate a man in his unworthiness to have + anything of his so consecrated. She hallowed what she touched, far + beyond priests.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, '04. + June 12, 6 p. m. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—We have to sit and hold our hands and wait—in + the silence and solitude of this prodigious house; wait until June 25, + then we go to Naples and sail in the Prince Oscar the 26th. There is a + ship 12 days earlier (but we came in that one.) I see Clara twice a day—morning + and evening—greeting—nothing more is allowed. She keeps her + bed, and says nothing. She has not cried yet. I wish she could cry. It + would break Livy's heart to see Clara. We excuse ourselves from all the + friends that call—though of course only intimates come. Intimates—but + they are not the old old friends, the friends of the old, old times when + we laughed. + </p> + <p> + Shall we ever laugh again? If I could only see a dog that I knew in the + old times! and could put my arms around his neck and tell him all, + everything, and ease my heart. + </p> + <p> + Think—in 3 hours it will be a week!—and soon a month; and by + and by a year. How fast our dead fly from us. + </p> + <p> + She loved you so, and was always as pleased as a child with any notice you + took of her. + </p> + <p> + Soon your wife will be with you, oh fortunate man! And John, whom mine was + so fond of. The sight of him was such a delight to her. Lord, the old + friends, how dear they are. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. R. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VILLA DI QUARTO, FLORENCE, + June 18, '04. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—It is 13 days. I am bewildered and must remain so for a + time longer. It was so sudden, so unexpected. Imagine a man worth a + hundred millions who finds himself suddenly penniless and fifty million in + debt in his old age. + </p> + <p> + I was richer than any other person in the world, and now I am that pauper + without peer. Some day I will tell you about it, not now. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A tide of condolence flowed in from all parts of the world. It was + impossible to answer all. Only a few who had been their closest + friends received a written line, but the little printed + acknowledgment which was returned was no mere formality. It was a + heartfelt, personal word. + + They arrived in America in July, and were accompanied by Twichell to + Elmira, and on the 14th Mrs. Clemens was laid to rest by the side of + Susy and little Langdon. R. W. Gilder had arranged for them to + occupy, for the summer, a cottage on his place at Tyringham, in the + Berkshire Hills. By November they were at the Grosvenor, in New + York, preparing to establish themselves in a house which they had + taken on the corner of Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue—Number 21. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To F. N. Doubleday, in New York: + </p> + <p> + DEAR DOUBLEDAY,—I did not know you were going to England: I would + have freighted you with such messages of homage and affection to Kipling. + And I would have pressed his hand, through you, for his sympathy with me + in my crushing loss, as expressed by him in his letter to Gilder. You know + my feeling for Kipling and that it antedates that expression. + </p> + <p> + I was glad that the boys came here to invite me to the house-warming and I + think they understood why a man in the shadow of a calamity like mine + could not go. + </p> + <p> + It has taken three months to repair and renovate our house—corner of + 9th and 5th Avenue, but I shall be in it in io or 15 days hence. Much of + the furniture went into it today (from Hartford). We have not seen it for + 13 years. Katy Leary, our old housekeeper, who has been in our service + more than 24 years, cried when she told me about it to-day. She said “I + had forgotten it was so beautiful, and it brought Mrs. Clemens right back + to me—in that old time when she was so young and lovely.” + </p> + <p> + Jean and my secretary and the servants whom we brought from Italy because + Mrs. Clemens liked them so well, are still keeping house in the Berkshire + hills—and waiting. Clara (nervously wrecked by her mother's death) + is in the hands of a specialist in 69th St., and I shall not be allowed to + have any communication with her—even telephone—for a year. I + am in this comfortable little hotel, and still in bed—for I dasn't + budge till I'm safe from my pet devil, bronchitis. + </p> + <p> + Isn't it pathetic? One hour and ten minutes before Mrs. Clemens died I was + saying to her “To-day, after five months search, I've found the villa that + will content you: to-morrow you will examine the plans and give it your + consent and I will buy it.” Her eyes danced with pleasure, for she longed + for a home of her own. And there, on that morrow, she lay white and cold. + And unresponsive to my reverent caresses—a new thing to me and a new + thing to her; that had not happened before in five and thirty years. + </p> + <p> + I am coming to see you and Mrs. Doubleday by and bye. She loved and + honored Mrs. Doubleday and her work. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Always yours, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was a presidential year and the air was thick with politics. + Mark Twain was no longer actively interested in the political + situation; he was only disheartened by the hollowness and pretense + of office-seeking, and the methods of office-seekers in general. + Grieved that Twichell should still pin his faith to any party when + all parties were so obviously venal and time-serving, he wrote in + outspoken and rather somber protest. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE GROSVENOR, Nov. 4, '04. +</pre> + <p> + Oh, dear! get out of that sewer—party politics—dear Joe. At + least with your mouth. We hail only two men who could make speeches for + their parties and preserve their honor and their dignity. One of them is + dead. Possibly there were four. I am sorry for John Hay; sorry and + ashamed. And yet I know he couldn't help it. He wears the collar, and he + had to pay the penalty. Certainly he had no more desire to stand up before + a mob of confiding human incapables and debauch them than you had. + Certainly he took no more real pleasure in distorting history, concealing + facts, propagating immoralities, and appealing to the sordid side of human + nature than did you; but he was his party's property, and he had to climb + away down and do it. + </p> + <p> + It is interesting, wonderfully interesting—the miracles which + party-politics can do with a man's mental and moral make-up. Look at + McKinley, Roosevelt, and yourself: in private life spotless in character; + honorable, honest, just, humane, generous; scorning trickeries, + treacheries, suppressions of the truth, mistranslations of the meanings of + facts, the filching of credit earned by another, the condoning of crime, + the glorifying of base acts: in public political life the reverse of all + this. + </p> + <p> + McKinley was a silverite—you concealed it. Roosevelt was a silverite—you + concealed it. Parker was a silverite—you publish it. Along with a + shudder and a warning: “He was unsafe then. Is he any safer now?” + </p> + <p> + Joe, even I could be guilty of such a thing as that—if I were in + party-politics; I really believe it. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cleveland gave the country the gold standard; by implication you + credit the matter to the Republican party. + </p> + <p> + By implication you prove the whole annual pension-scoop, concealing the + fact that the bulk of the money goes to people who in no way deserve it. + You imply that all the batteners upon this bribery-fund are Republicans. + An indiscreet confession, since about half of them must have been + Democrats before they were bought. + </p> + <p> + You as good as praise Order 78. It is true you do not shout, and you do + not linger, you only whisper and skip—still, what little you do in + the matter is complimentary to the crime. + </p> + <p> + It means, if it means anything, that our outlying properties will all be + given up by the Democrats, and our flag hauled down. All of them? Not only + the properties stolen by Mr. McKinley and Mr. Roosevelt, but the + properties honestly acquired? Joe, did you believe that hardy statement + when you made it? Yet you made it, and there it stands in permanent print. + Now what moral law would suffer if we should give up the stolen ones? But— + </p> + <p> + “You know our standard-bearer. He will maintain all that we have gained”—by + whatever process. Land, I believe you! + </p> + <p> + By George, Joe, you are as handy at the game as if you had been in + training for it all your life. Your campaign Address is built from the + ground up upon the oldest and best models. There isn't a paragraph in it + whose facts or morals will wash—not even a sentence, I believe. + </p> + <p> + But you will soon be out of this. You didn't want to do it—that is + sufficiently apparent, thanks be!—but you couldn't well get out of + it. In a few days you will be out of it, and then you can fumigate + yourself and take up your legitimate work again and resume your clean and + wholesome private character once more and be happy—and useful. + </p> + <p> + I know I ought to hand you some guff, now, as propitiation and apology for + these reproaches, but on the whole I believe I won't. + </p> + <p> + I have inquired, and find that Mitsikuri does not arrive here until + to-morrow night. I shall watch out, and telephone again, for I greatly + want to see him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Always Yours, + MARK. +</pre> + <p> + P. S.—Nov, 4. I wish I could learn to remember that it is unjust and + dishonorable to put blame upon the human race for any of its acts. For it + did not make itself, it did not make its nature, it is merely a machine, + it is moved wholly by outside influences, it has no hand in creating the + outside influences nor in choosing which of them it will welcome or + reject, its performance is wholly automatic, it has no more mastership nor + authority over its mind than it has over its stomach, which receives + material from the outside and does as it pleases with it, indifferent to + it's proprietor's suggestions, even, let alone his commands; wherefore, + whatever the machine does—so called crimes and infamies included—is + the personal act of its Maker, and He, solely, is responsible. I wish I + could learn to pity the human race instead of censuring it and laughing at + it; and I could, if the outside influences of old habit were not so strong + upon my machine. It vexes me to catch myself praising the clean private + citizen Roosevelt, and blaming the soiled President Roosevelt, when I know + that neither praise nor blame is due to him for any thought or word or + deed of his, he being merely a helpless and irresponsible coffee-mill + ground by the hand of God. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Through a misunderstanding, Clemens, something more than a year + earlier, had severed his connection with the Players' Club, of which + he had been one of the charter members. Now, upon his return to New + York, a number of his friends joined in an invitation to him to + return. It was not exactly a letter they sent, but a bit of an old + Scotch song— + + “To Mark Twain + from + The Clansmen. + Will ye no come back again, + Will ye no come back again? + Better lo'ed ye canna be. + Will ye no come back again?” + + Those who signed it were David Monroe, of the North American Review; + Robert Reid, the painter, and about thirty others of the Round Table + Group, so called because its members were accustomed to lunching at + a large round table in a bay window of the Player dining-room. Mark + Twain's reply was prompt and heartfelt. He wrote: +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Robt. Reid and the Others: + </p> + <p> + WELL-BELOVED,—Surely those lovely verses went to Prince Charley's + heart, if he had one, and certainly they have gone to mine. I shall be + glad and proud to come back again after such a moving and beautiful + compliment as this from comrades whom I have loved so long. I hope you can + poll the necessary vote; I know you will try, at any rate. It will be many + months before I can foregather with you, for this black border is not + perfunctory, not a convention; it symbolizes the loss of one whose memory + is the only thing I worship. + </p> + <p> + It is not necessary for me to thank you—and words could not deliver + what I feel, anyway. I will put the contents of your envelope in the small + casket where I keep the things which have become sacred to me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> + <p> + A year later, Mark Twain did “come back again,” as an honorary life + member, and was given a dinner of welcome by those who had signed the + lines urging his return. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLIV. LETTERS OF 1905. TO TWICHELL, MR. DUNEKA AND OTHERS. POLITICS AND + HUMANITY. A SUMMER AT DUBLIN. MARK TWAIN AT 70. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In 1884 Mark Twain had abandoned the Republican Party to vote for + Cleveland. He believed the party had become corrupt, and to his + last day it was hard for him to see anything good in Republican + policies or performance. He was a personal friend of Theodore + Roosevelt's but, as we have seen in a former letter, Roosevelt the + politician rarely found favor in his eyes. With or without + justification, most of the President's political acts invited his + caustic sarcasm and unsparing condemnation. Another letter to + Twichell of this time affords a fair example. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Feb. 16, '05. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—I knew I had in me somewhere a definite feeling about the + President if I could only find the words to define it with. Here they are, + to a hair—from Leonard Jerome: “For twenty years I have loved + Roosevelt the man and hated Roosevelt the statesman and politician.” + </p> + <p> + It's mighty good. Every time, in 25 years, that I have met Roosevelt the + man, a wave of welcome has streaked through me with the hand-grip; but + whenever (as a rule) I meet Roosevelt the statesman and politician, I find + him destitute of morals and not respectworthy. It is plain that where his + political self and his party self are concerned he has nothing resembling + a conscience; that under those inspirations he is naively indifferent to + the restraints of duty and even unaware of them; ready to kick the + Constitution into the back yard whenever it gets in the way; and whenever + he smells a vote, not only willing but eager to buy it, give extravagant + rates for it and pay the bill not out of his own pocket or the party's, + but out of the nation's, by cold pillage. As per Order 78 and the + appropriation of the Indian trust funds. + </p> + <p> + But Roosevelt is excusable—I recognize it and (ought to) concede it. + We are all insane, each in his own way, and with insanity goes + irresponsibility. Theodore the man is sane; in fairness we ought to keep + in mind that Theodore, as statesman and politician, is insane and + irresponsible. + </p> + <p> + Do not throw these enlightenments aside, but study them, let them raise + you to higher planes and make you better. You taught me in my callow days, + let me pay back the debt now in my old age out of a thesaurus with wisdom + smelted from the golden ores of experience. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ever yours for sweetness and light + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The next letter to Twichell takes up politics and humanity in + general, in a manner complimentary to neither. Mark Twain was never + really a pessimist, but he had pessimistic intervals, such as come + to most of us in life's later years, and at such times he let + himself go without stint concerning “the damned human race,” as he + called it, usually with a manifest sense of indignation that he + should be a member of it. In much of his later writing + —A Mysterious Stranger for example—he said his say with but small + restraint, and certainly in his purely intellectual moments he was + likely to be a pessimist of the most extreme type, capably damning + the race and the inventor of it. Yet, at heart, no man loved his + kind more genuinely, or with deeper compassion, than Mark Twain, + perhaps for its very weaknesses. It was only that he had intervals + —frequent intervals, and rather long ones—when he did not admire + it, and was still more doubtful as to the ways of providence. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + March 14, '05. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR JOE,—I have a Puddn'head maxim: + </p> + <p> + “When a man is a pessimist before 48 he knows too much; if he is an + optimist after it, he knows too little.” + </p> + <p> + It is with contentment, therefore, that I reflect that I am better and + wiser than you. Joe, you seem to be dealing in “bulks,” now; the “bulk” of + the farmers and U. S. Senators are “honest.” As regards purchase and sale + with money? Who doubts it? Is that the only measure of honesty? Aren't + there a dozen kinds of honesty which can't be measured by the + money-standard? Treason is treason—and there's more than one form of + it; the money-form is but one of them. When a person is disloyal to any + confessed duty, he is plainly and simply dishonest, and knows it; knows + it, and is privately troubled about it and not proud of himself. Judged by + this standard—and who will challenge the validity of it?—there + isn't an honest man in Connecticut, nor in the Senate, nor anywhere else. + I do not even except myself, this time. + </p> + <p> + Am I finding fault with you and the rest of the populace? No—I + assure you I am not. For I know the human race's limitations, and this + makes it my duty—my pleasant duty—to be fair to it. Each + person in it is honest in one or several ways, but no member of it is + honest in all the ways required by—by what? By his own standard. + Outside of that, as I look at it, there is no obligation upon him. + </p> + <p> + Am I honest? I give you my word of honor (private) I am not. For seven + years I have suppressed a book which my conscience tells me I ought to + publish. I hold it a duty to publish it. There are other difficult duties + which I am equal to, but I am not equal to that one. Yes, even I am + dishonest. Not in many ways, but in some. Forty-one, I think it is. We are + certainly all honest in one or several ways—every man in the world—though + I have reason to think I am the only one whose black-list runs so light. + Sometimes I feel lonely enough in this lofty solitude. + </p> + <p> + Yes, oh, yes, I am not overlooking the “steady progress from age to age of + the coming of the kingdom of God and righteousness.” “From age to age”—yes, + it describes that giddy gait. I (and the rocks) will not live to see it + arrive, but that is all right—it will arrive, it surely will. But + you ought not to be always ironically apologizing for the Deity. If that + thing is going to arrive, it is inferable that He wants it to arrive; and + so it is not quite kind of you, and it hurts me, to see you flinging + sarcasms at the gait of it. And yet it would not be fair in me not to + admit that the sarcasms are deserved. When the Deity wants a thing, and + after working at it for “ages and ages” can't show even a shade of + progress toward its accomplishment, we—well, we don't laugh, but it + is only because we dasn't. The source of “righteousness”—is in the + heart? Yes. And engineered and directed by the brain? Yes. Well, history + and tradition testify that the heart is just about what it was in the + beginning; it has undergone no shade of change. Its good and evil impulses + and their consequences are the same today that they were in Old Bible + times, in Egyptian times, in Greek times, in Middle Age times, in + Twentieth Century times. There has been no change. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, the brain has undergone no change. It is what it always was. + There are a few good brains and a multitude of poor ones. It was so in Old + Bible times and in all other times—Greek, Roman, Middle Ages and + Twentieth Century. Among the savages—all the savages—the + average brain is as competent as the average brain here or elsewhere. I + will prove it to you, some time, if you like. And there are great brains + among them, too. I will prove that also, if you like. + </p> + <p> + Well, the 19th century made progress—the first progress after “ages + and ages”—colossal progress. In what? Materialities. Prodigious + acquisitions were made in things which add to the comfort of many and make + life harder for as many more. But the addition to righteousness? Is that + discoverable? I think not. The materialities were not invented in the + interest of righteousness; that there is more righteousness in the world + because of them than there, was before, is hardly demonstrable, I think. + In Europe and America, there is a vast change (due to them) in ideals—do + you admire it? All Europe and all America, are feverishly scrambling for + money. Money is the supreme ideal—all others take tenth place with + the great bulk of the nations named. Money-lust has always existed, but + not in the history of the world was it ever a craze, a madness, until your + time and mine. This lust has rotted these nations; it has made them hard, + sordid, ungentle, dishonest, oppressive. + </p> + <p> + Did England rise against the infamy of the Boer war? No—rose in + favor of it. Did America rise against the infamy of the Phillipine war? No—rose + in favor of it. Did Russia rise against the infamy of the present war? No—sat + still and said nothing. Has the Kingdom of God advanced in Russia since + the beginning of time? + </p> + <p> + Or in Europe and America, considering the vast backward step of the + money-lust? Or anywhere else? If there has been any progress toward + righteousness since the early days of Creation—which, in my + ineradicable honesty, I am obliged to doubt—I think we must confine + it to ten per cent of the populations of Christendom, (but leaving, + Russia, Spain and South America entirely out.) This gives us 320,000,000 + to draw the ten per cent from. That is to say, 32,000,000 have advanced + toward righteousness and the Kingdom of God since the “ages and ages” have + been flying along, the Deity sitting up there admiring. Well, you see it + leaves 1,200,000,000 out of the race. They stand just where they have + always stood; there has been no change. + </p> + <p> + N. B. No charge for these informations. Do come down soon, Joe. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With love, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + St. Clair McKelway, of The Brooklyn Eagle, narrowly escaped injuries + in a railway accident, and received the following. Clemens and + McKelway were old friends. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To St. Clair McKelway, in Brooklyn: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVE. Sunday Morning. + April 30, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR McKELWAY, Your innumerable friends are grateful, most grateful. + </p> + <p> + As I understand the telegrams, the engineer of your train had never seen a + locomotive before. Very well, then, I am once more glad that there is an + Ever-watchful Providence to foresee possible results and send Ogdens and + McIntyres along to save our friends. + </p> + <p> + The Government's Official report, showing that our railways killed twelve + hundred persons last year and injured sixty thousand convinces me that + under present conditions one Providence is not enough to properly and + efficiently take care of our railroad business. But it is + characteristically American—always trying to get along short-handed + and save wages. + </p> + <p> + I am helping your family congratulate themselves, and am your friend as + always. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clemens did not spend any more summers at Quarry Farm. All its + associations were beautiful and tender, but they could only sadden + him. The life there had been as of another world, sunlit, idyllic, + now forever vanished. For the summer of 1905 he leased the Copley + Green house at Dublin, New Hampshire, where there was a Boston + colony of writing and artistic folk, including many of his long-time + friends. Among them was Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, who + wrote a hearty letter of welcome when he heard the news. Clemens + replied in kind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, in Boston: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVE. Sunday, March 26, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR COL. HIGGINSON,—I early learned that you would be my neighbor + in the Summer and I rejoiced, recognizing in you and your family a large + asset. I hope for frequent intercourse between the two households. I shall + have my youngest daughter with me. The other one will go from the + rest-cure in this city to the rest-cure in Norfolk Conn and we shall not + see her before autumn. We have not seen her since the middle of October. + </p> + <p> + Jean (the youngest daughter) went to Dublin and saw the house and came + back charmed with it. I know the Thayers of old—manifestly there is + no lack of attractions up there. Mrs. Thayer and I were shipmates in a + wild excursion perilously near 40 years ago. + </p> + <p> + You say you “send with this” the story. Then it should be here but it + isn't, when I send a thing with another thing, the other thing goes but + the thing doesn't, I find it later—still on the premises. Will you + look it up now and send it? + </p> + <p> + Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over the fields, + with the fragrance still upon his spirit. I am tired of waiting for that + man to get old. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mark Twain was in his seventieth year, old neither in mind nor body, + but willing to take life more quietly, to refrain from travel and + gay events. A sort of pioneers' reunion was to be held on the + Pacific Coast, and a letter from Robert Fulton, of Reno, Nevada, + invited Clemens to attend. He did not go, but he sent a letter that + we may believe was the next best thing to those who heard it read. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Robert Fulton, in Reno, Nevada: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IN THE MOUNTAINS, + May 24, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. FULTON,—I remember, as if it were yesterday, that when I + disembarked from the overland stage in front of the Ormsby in Carson City + in August, 1861, I was not expecting to be asked to come again. I was + tired, discouraged, white with alkali dust, and did not know anybody; and + if you had said then, “Cheer up, desolate stranger, don't be down-hearted—pass + on, and come again in 1905,” you cannot think how grateful I would have + been and how gladly I would have closed the contract. Although I was not + expecting to be invited, I was watching out for it, and was hurt and + disappointed when you started to ask me and changed it to, “How soon are + you going away?” + </p> + <p> + But you have made it all right, now, the wound is closed. And so I thank + you sincerely for the invitation; and with you, all Reno, and if I were a + few years younger I would accept it, and promptly. I would go. I would let + somebody else do the oration, but, as for me, I would talk—just + talk. I would renew my youth; and talk—and talk—and talk—and + have the time of my life! I would march the unforgotten and unforgettable + antiques by, and name their names, and give them reverent Hailand-farewell + as they passed: Goodman, McCarthy, Gillis, Curry, Baldwin, Winters, + Howard, Nye, Stewart; Neely Johnson, Hal Clayton, North, Root,—and + my brother, upon whom be peace!—and then the desperadoes, who made + life a joy and the “Slaughter-house” a precious possession: Sam Brown, + Farmer Pete, Bill Mayfield, Six-fingered Jake, Jack Williams and the rest + of the crimson discipleship—and so on and so on. Believe me, I would + start a resurrection it would do you more good to look at than the next + one will, if you go on the way you are doing now. + </p> + <p> + Those were the days! those old ones. They will come no more. Youth will + come no more. They were so full to the brim with the wine of life; there + have been no others like them. It chokes me up to think of them. Would you + like me to come out there and cry? It would not beseem my white head. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye. I drink to you all. Have a good time—and take an old man's + blessing. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK TWAIN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A few days later he was writing to H. H. Bancroft, of San Francisco, + who had invited him for a visit in event of his coming to the Coast. + Henry James had just been there for a week and it was hoped that + Howells would soon follow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To H. H. Bancroft, in San Francisco: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + UP IN NEW HAMPSHIRE, + May 27, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. BANCROFT,—I thank you sincerely for the tempting + hospitalities which you offer me, but I have to deny myself, for my + wandering days are over, and it is my desire and purpose to sit by the + fire the rest of my remnant of life and indulge myself with the pleasure + and repose of work—work uninterrupted and unmarred by duties or + excursions. + </p> + <p> + A man who like me, is going to strike 70 on the 30th of next November has + no business to be flitting around the way Howells does—that + shameless old fictitious butter fly. (But if he comes, don't tell him I + said it, for it would hurt him and I wouldn't brush a flake of powder from + his wing for anything. I only say it in envy of his indestructible youth, + anyway. Howells will be 88 in October.) With thanks again, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clemens found that the air of the New Hampshire hills agreed with + him and stimulated him to work. He began an entirely new version of + The Mysterious Stranger, of which he already had a bulky and nearly + finished manuscript, written in Vienna. He wrote several hundred + pages of an extravaganza entitled, Three Thousand Years Among the + Microbes, and then, having got his superabundant vitality reduced + (it was likely to expend itself in these weird mental exploits), + he settled down one day and wrote that really tender and beautiful + idyl, Eve's Diary, which he had begun, or at least planned, the + previous summer at Tyringham. In a letter to Mr. Frederick A. + Duneka, general manager of Harper & Brothers, he tells something of + the manner of the story; also his revised opinion of Adam's Diary, + written in '93, and originally published as a souvenir of Niagara + Falls. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Frederick A. Duneka, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DUBLIN, July 16, '05. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. DUNEKA,—I wrote Eve's Diary, she using Adam's Diary as her + (unwitting and unconscious) text, of course, since to use any other text + would have been an imbecility—then I took Adam's Diary and read it. + It turned my stomach. It was not literature; yet it had been literature + once—before I sold it to be degraded to an advertisement of the + Buffalo Fair. I was going to write and ask you to melt the plates and put + it out of print. + </p> + <p> + But this morning I examined it without temper, and saw that if I abolished + the advertisement it would be literature again. + </p> + <p> + So I have done it. I have struck out 700 words and inserted 5 MS pages of + new matter (650 words), and now Adam's Diary is dam good—sixty times + as good as it ever was before. + </p> + <p> + I believe it is as good as Eve's Diary now—no, it's not quite that + good, I guess, but it is good enough to go in the same cover with Eve's. + I'm sure of that. + </p> + <p> + I hate to have the old Adam go out any more—don't put it on the + presses again, let's put the new one in place of it; and next Xmas, let us + bind Adam and Eve in one cover. They score points against each other—so, + if not bound together, some of the points would not be perceived..... + </p> + <p> + P. S. Please send another Adam's Diary, so that I can make 2 revised + copies. Eve's Diary is Eve's love-Story, but we will not name it that. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yrs ever, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The peace-making at Portsmouth between Japan and Russia was not + satisfactory to Mark Twain, who had fondly hoped there would be no + peace until, as he said, “Russian liberty was safe. One more battle + would have abolished the waiting chains of millions upon millions of + unborn Russians and I wish it could have been fought.” He set down + an expression of his feelings for the Associated Press, and it + invited many letters. Charles Francis Adams wrote, “It attracted my + attention because it so exactly expresses the views I have myself + all along entertained.” + + Clemens was invited by Colonel George Harvey to dine with the + Russian emissaries, Baron Rosen and Sergius Witte. He declined, but + his telegram so pleased Witte that he asked permission to publish + it, and announced that he would show it to the Czar. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Telegram. To Col. George Harvey, in New York: +</pre> + <p> + TO COLONEL HARVEY,—I am still a cripple, otherwise I should be more + than glad of this opportunity to meet the illustrious magicians who came + here equipped with nothing but a pen, and with it have divided the honors + of the war with the sword. It is fair to presume that in thirty centuries + history will not get done admiring these men who attempted what the world + regarded as impossible and achieved it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Witte would not have cared to show the Czar the telegram in its + original form, which follows. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Telegram (unsent). To Col. George Harvey, in New York: +</pre> + <p> + TO COLONEL HARVEY,—I am still a cripple, otherwise I should be more + than glad of this opportunity to meet those illustrious magicians who with + the pen have annulled, obliterated, and abolished every high achievement + of the Japanese sword and turned the tragedy of a tremendous war into a + gay and blithesome comedy. If I may, let me in all respect and honor + salute them as my fellow-humorists, I taking third place, as becomes one + who was not born to modesty, but by diligence and hard work is acquiring + it. MARK. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nor still another unsent form, perhaps more characteristic than + either of the foregoing. + + Telegram (unsent). To Col. George Harvey, in New York: +</pre> + <p> + DEAR COLONEL,—No, this is a love-feast; when you call a lodge of + sorrow send for me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Crane, Quarry Farm: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DUBLIN, Sept. 24, '05. +</pre> + <p> + Susy dear, I have had a lovely dream. Livy, dressed in black, was sitting + up in my bed (here) at my right and looking as young and sweet as she used + to do when she was in health. She said: “what is the name of your sweet + sister?” I said, “Pamela.” “Oh, yes, that is it, I thought it was—” + (naming a name which has escaped me) “Won't you write it down for me?” I + reached eagerly for a pen and pad—laid my hands upon both—then + said to myself, “It is only a dream,” and turned back sorrowfully and + there she was, still. The conviction flamed through me that our lamented + disaster was a dream, and this a reality. I said, “How blessed it is, how + blessed it is, it was all a dream, only a dream!” She only smiled and did + not ask what dream I meant, which surprised me. She leaned her head + against mine and I kept saying, “I was perfectly sure it was a dream, I + never would have believed it wasn't.” + </p> + <p> + I think she said several things, but if so they are gone from my memory. I + woke and did not know I had been dreaming. She was gone. I wondered how + she could go without my knowing it, but I did not spend any thought upon + that, I was too busy thinking of how vivid and real was the dream that we + had lost her and how unspeakably blessed it was to find that it was not + true and that she was still ours and with us. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One day that summer Mark Twain received a letter from the actress, + Minnie Maddern Fiske, asking him to write something that would aid + her in her crusade against bull-fighting. The idea appealed to him; + he replied at once. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Fiske: + </p> + <p> + DEAR MRS. FISKE,—I shall certainly write the story. But I may not + get it to suit me, in which case it will go in the fire. Later I will try + again—and yet again—and again. I am used to this. It has taken + me twelve years to write a short story—the shortest one I ever + wrote, I think.—[Probably “The Death Disk.”]—So do not be + discouraged; I will stick to this one in the same way. Sincerely yours, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He did not delay in his beginning, and a few weeks later was sending + word to his publisher about it. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Frederick A. Duneka, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oct. 2, '05. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. DUNEKA,—I have just finished a short story which I “greatly + admire,” and so will you—“A Horse's Tale”—about 15,000 words, + at a rough guess. It has good fun in it, and several characters, and is + lively. I shall finish revising it in a few days or more, then Jean will + type it. + </p> + <p> + Don't you think you can get it into the Jan. and Feb. numbers and issue it + as a dollar booklet just after the middle of Jan. when you issue the Feb. + number? + </p> + <p> + It ought to be ably illustrated. + </p> + <p> + Why not sell simultaneous rights, for this once, to the Ladies' Home + Journal or Collier's, or both, and recoup yourself?—for I would like + to get it to classes that can't afford Harper's. Although it doesn't + preach, there's a sermon concealed in it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yr sincerely, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Five days later he added some rather interesting facts concerning + the new story. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To F. A. Duneka, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oct. 7, 1906. ['05] +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. DUNEKA,—... I've made a poor guess as to number of words. I + think there must be 20,000. My usual page of MS. contains about 130 words; + but when I am deeply interested in my work and dead to everything else, my + hand-writing shrinks and shrinks until there's a great deal more than 130 + on a page—oh, yes, a deal more. Well, I discover, this morning, that + this tale is written in that small hand. + </p> + <p> + This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my daughter, Susy, + whom we lost. It was not intentional—it was a good while before I + found it out. + </p> + <p> + So I am sending you her picture to use—and to reproduce with + photographic exactness the unsurpassable expression and all. May you find + an artist who has lost an idol! + </p> + <p> + Take as good care of the picture as you can and restore it to me when I + come. + </p> + <p> + I hope you will illustrate this tale considerably. Not humorous pictures. + No. When they are good (or bad) one's humor gets no chance to play + surprises on the reader. A humorous subject illustrated seriously is all + right, but a humorous artist is no fit person for such work. You see, the + humorous writer pretends to absolute seriousness (when he knows his trade) + then for an artist—to step in and give his calculated gravity all + away with a funny picture—oh, my land! It gives me the dry gripes + just to think of it. It would be just about up to the average comic + artist's intellectual level to make a funny picture of the horse kicking + the lungs out of a trader. Hang it, the remark is funny—because the + horse is not aware of it but the fact is not humorous, it is tragic and it + is no subject for a humorous picture. + </p> + <p> + Could I be allowed to sit in judgment upon the pictures before they are + accepted—at least those in which Cathy may figure? + </p> + <p> + This is not essential. It is but a suggestion, and it is hereby withdrawn, + if it would be troublesome or cause delay. + </p> + <p> + I hope you will reproduce the cat-pile, full page. And save the photo for + me in as good condition as possible. When Susy and Clara were little tots + those cats had their profoundest worship, and there is no duplicate of + this picture. These cats all had thundering names, or inappropriate ones—furnished + by the children with my help. One was named Buffalo Bill. + </p> + <p> + Are you interested in coincidences? + </p> + <p> + After discovering, about the middle of the book, that Cathy was Susy + Clemens, I put her picture with my MS., to be reproduced. After the book + was finished it was discovered that Susy had a dim model of Soldier Boy in + her arms; I had forgotten all about that toy. + </p> + <p> + Then I examined the cat-picture and laid it with the MS. for introduction; + but it was not until yesterday that I remembered that one of the cats was + named Buffalo Bill. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The reference in this letter to shrinkage of his hand-writing with + the increasing intensity of his interest, and the consequent + addition of the number of words to the page, recalls another fact, + noted by Mr. Duneka, viz.: that because of his terse Anglo-Saxon + diction, Mark Twain could put more words on a magazine page than any + other writer. It is hardly necessary to add that he got more force + into what he put on the page for the same reason. + + There was always a run of reporters at Mark Twain's New York home. + His opinion was sought for on every matter of public interest, and + whatever happened to him in particular was considered good for at + least half a column of copy, with his name as a catch-line at the + top. When it was learned that he was to spend the summer in New + Hampshire, the reporters had all wanted to find out about it. Now + that the summer was ending, they began to want to know how he had + liked it, what work he had done and what were his plans for another + year. As they frequently applied to his publishers for these + details it was finally suggested to him that he write a letter + furnishing the required information. His reply, handed to Mr. + Duneka, who was visiting him at the moment, is full of interest. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mem. for Mr. Duneka: + + DUBLIN, Oct. 9, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + ... As to the other matters, here are the details. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I have tried a number of summer homes, here and in Europe together. + </p> + <p> + Each of these homes had charms of its own; charms and delights of its own, + and some of them—even in Europe had comforts. Several of them had + conveniences, too. They all had a “view.” + </p> + <p> + It is my conviction that there should always be some water in a view—a + lake or a river, but not the ocean, if you are down on its level. I think + that when you are down on its level it seldom inflames you with an ecstasy + which you could not get out of a sand-flat. It is like being on board + ship, over again; indeed it is worse than that, for there's three months + of it. On board ship one tires of the aspects in a couple of days, and + quits looking. The same vast circle of heaving humps is spread around you + all the time, with you in the centre of it and never gaining an inch on + the horizon, so far as you can see; for variety, a flight of flying-fish, + mornings; a flock of porpoises throwing summersaults afternoons; a remote + whale spouting, Sundays; occasional phosphorescent effects, nights; every + other day a streak of black smoke trailing along under the horizon; on the + one single red letter day, the illustrious iceberg. I have seen that + iceberg thirty-four times in thirty-seven voyages; it is always the same + shape, it is always the same size, it always throws up the same old flash + when the sun strikes it; you may set it on any New York door-step of a + June morning and light it up with a mirror-flash; and I will engage to + recognize it. It is artificial, and it is provided and anchored out by the + steamer companies. I used to like the sea, but I was young then, and could + easily get excited over any kind of monotony, and keep it up till the + monotonies ran out, if it was a fortnight. + </p> + <p> + Last January, when we were beginning to inquire about a home for this + summer, I remembered that Abbott Thayer had said, three years before, that + the New Hampshire highlands was a good place. He was right—it was a + good place. Any place that is good for an artist in paint is good for an + artist in morals and ink. Brush is here, too; so is Col. T. W. Higginson; + so is Raphael Pumpelly; so is Mr. Secretary Hitchcock; so is Henderson; so + is Learned; so is Summer; so is Franklin MacVeigh; so is Joseph L. Smith; + so is Henry Copley Greene, when I am not occupying his house, which I am + doing this season. Paint, literature, science, statesmanship, history, + professorship, law, morals,—these are all represented here, yet + crime is substantially unknown. + </p> + <p> + The summer homes of these refugees are sprinkled, a mile apart, among the + forest-clad hills, with access to each other by firm smooth country roads + which are so embowered in dense foliage that it is always twilight in + there, and comfortable. The forests are spider-webbed with these good + roads, they go everywhere; but for the help of the guide-boards, the + stranger would not arrive anywhere. + </p> + <p> + The village—Dublin—is bunched together in its own place, but a + good telephone service makes its markets handy to all those outliars. I + have spelt it that way to be witty. The village executes orders on, the + Boston plan—promptness and courtesy. + </p> + <p> + The summer homes are high-perched, as a rule, and have contenting + outlooks. The house we occupy has one. Monadnock, a soaring double hump, + rises into the sky at its left elbow—that is to say, it is close at + hand. From the base of the long slant of the mountain the valley spreads + away to the circling frame of the hills, and beyond the frame the billowy + sweep of remote great ranges rises to view and flows, fold upon fold, wave + upon wave, soft and blue and unwordly, to the horizon fifty miles away. In + these October days Monadnock and the valley and its framing hills make an + inspiring picture to look at, for they are sumptuously splashed and + mottled and be-torched from sky-line to sky-line with the richest dyes the + autumn can furnish; and when they lie flaming in the full drench of the + mid-afternoon sun, the sight affects the spectator physically, it stirs + his blood like military music. + </p> + <p> + These summer homes are commodious, well built, and well furnished—facts + which sufficiently indicate that the owners built them to live in + themselves. They have furnaces and wood fireplaces, and the rest of the + comforts and conveniences of a city home, and can be comfortably occupied + all the year round. + </p> + <p> + We cannot have this house next season, but I have secured Mrs. Upton's + house which is over in the law and science quarter, two or three miles + from here, and about the same distance from the art, literary, and + scholastic groups. The science and law quarter has needed improving, this + good while. + </p> + <p> + The nearest railway-station is distant something like an hour's drive; it + is three hours from there to Boston, over a branch line. You can go to New + York in six hours per branch lines if you change cars every time you think + of it, but it is better to go to Boston and stop over and take the trunk + line next day, then you do not get lost. + </p> + <p> + It is claimed that the atmosphere of the New Hampshire highlands is + exceptionally bracing and stimulating, and a fine aid to hard and + continuous work. It is a just claim, I think. I came in May, and wrought + 35 successive days without a break. It is possible that I could not have + done it elsewhere. I do not know; I have not had any disposition to try + it, before. I think I got the disposition out of the atmosphere, this + time. I feel quite sure, in fact, that that is where it came from. + </p> + <p> + I am ashamed to confess what an intolerable pile of manuscript I ground + out in the 35 days, therefore I will keep the number of words to myself. I + wrote the first half of a long tale—“The Adventures of a Microbe” + and put it away for a finish next summer, and started another long tale—“The + Mysterious Stranger;” I wrote the first half of it and put it with the + other for a finish next summer. I stopped, then. I was not tired, but I + had no books on hand that needed finishing this year except one that was + seven years old. After a little I took that one up and finished it. Not + for publication, but to have it ready for revision next summer. + </p> + <p> + Since I stopped work I have had a two months' holiday. The summer has been + my working time for 35 years; to have a holiday in it (in America) is new + for me. I have not broken it, except to write “Eve's Diary” and “A Horse's + Tale”—short things occupying the mill 12 days. + </p> + <p> + This year our summer is 6 months long and ends with November and the + flight home to New York, but next year we hope and expect to stretch it + another month and end it the first of December. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [No signature.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The fact that he was a persistent smoker was widely known, and many + friends and admirers of Mark Twain sent him cigars, most of which he + could not use, because they were too good. He did not care for + Havana cigars, but smoked the fragrant, inexpensive domestic tobacco + with plenty of “pep” in it, as we say today. Now and then he had an + opportunity to head off some liberal friend, who wrote asking + permission to contribute to his cigar collection, as instance the + following. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. L. M. Powers, in Haverhill, Mass.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nov. 9, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. POWERS,—I should accept your hospitable offer at once but + for the fact I couldn't do it and remain honest. That is to say if I + allowed you to send me what you believe to be good cigars it would + distinctly mean that I meant to smoke them, whereas I should do nothing of + the kind. I know a good cigar better than you do, for I have had 60 years + experience. + </p> + <p> + No, that is not what I mean; I mean I know a bad cigar better than anybody + else; I judge by the price only; if it costs above 5 cents I know it to be + either foreign or half-foreign, and unsmokeable. By me I have many boxes + of Havana cigars, of all prices from 20 cts apiece up to 1.66 apiece; I + bought none of them, they were all presents, they are an accumulation of + several years. I have never smoked one of them and never shall, I work + them off on the visitor. You shall have a chance when you come. + </p> + <p> + Pessimists are born not made; optimists are born not made; but no man is + born either pessimist wholly or optimist wholly, perhaps; he is + pessimistic along certain lines and optimistic along certain others. That + is my case. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In spite of all the fine photographs that were made of him, there + recurred constantly among those sent him to be autographed a print + of one which, years before, Sarony had made and placed on public + sale. It was a good photograph, mechanically and even artistically, + but it did not please Mark Twain. Whenever he saw it he recalled + Sarony with bitterness and severity. Once he received an inquiry + concerning it, and thus feelingly expressed himself. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mr. Row (no address): + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, + November 14, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. ROW,—That alleged portrait has a private history. Sarony + was as much of an enthusiast about wild animals as he was about + photography; and when Du Chaillu brought the first Gorilla to this country + in 1819 he came to me in a fever of excitement and asked me if my father + was of record and authentic. I said he was; then Sarony, without any + abatement of his excitement asked if my grandfather also was of record and + authentic. I said he was. Then Sarony, with still rising excitement and + with joy added to it, said he had found my great grandfather in the person + of the gorilla, and had recognized him at once by his resemblance to me. I + was deeply hurt but did not reveal this, because I knew Saxony meant no + offense for the gorilla had not done him any harm, and he was not a man + who would say an unkind thing about a gorilla wantonly. I went with him to + inspect the ancestor, and examined him from several points of view, + without being able to detect anything more than a passing resemblance. + “Wait,” said Sarony with confidence, “let me show you.” He borrowed my + overcoat—and put it on the gorilla. The result was surprising. I saw + that the gorilla while not looking distinctly like me was exactly what my + great grand father would have looked like if I had had one. Sarong + photographed the creature in that overcoat, and spread the picture about + the world. It has remained spread about the world ever since. It turns up + every week in some newspaper somewhere or other. It is not my favorite, + but to my exasperation it is everybody else's. Do you think you could get + it suppressed for me? I will pay the limit. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The year 1905 closed triumphantly for Mark Twain. The great + “Seventieth Birthday” dinner planned by Colonel George Harvey is + remembered to-day as the most notable festival occasion in New York + literary history. Other dinners and ovations followed. At seventy + he had returned to the world, more beloved, more honored than ever + before. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLV. LETTERS, 1906, TO VARIOUS PERSONS. THE FAREWELL LECTURE. A SECOND + SUMMER IN DUBLIN. BILLIARDS AND COPYRIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK TWAIN at “Pier Seventy,” as he called it, paused to look + backward and to record some memoirs of his long, eventful past. The + Autobiography dictations begun in Florence were resumed, and daily + he traveled back, recalling long-ago scenes and all-but-forgotten + places. He was not without reminders. Now and again there came + some message that brought back the old days—the Tom Sawyer and Huck + Finn days—or the romance of the river that he never recalled other + than with tenderness and a tone of regret that it was gone. An + invitation to the golden wedding of two ancient friends moved and + saddened him, and his answer to it conveys about all the story of + life. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mr. and Mrs. Gordon: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVENUE, + Jan. 24, '06. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR GORDONS,—I have just received your golden-wedding “At Home” and + am trying to adjust my focus to it and realize how much it means. It is + inconceivable! With a simple sweep it carries me back over a stretch of + time measurable only in astronomical terms and geological periods. It + brings before me Mrs. Gordon, young, round-limbed, handsome; and with her + the Youngbloods and their two babies, and Laura Wright, that unspoiled + little maid, that fresh flower of the woods and the prairies. Forty-eight + years ago! + </p> + <p> + Life was a fairy-tale, then, it is a tragedy now. When I was 43 and John + Hay 41 he said life was a tragedy after 40, and I disputed it. Three years + ago he asked me to testify again: I counted my graves, and there was + nothing for me to say. + </p> + <p> + I am old; I recognize it but I don't realize it. I wonder if a person ever + really ceases to feel young—I mean, for a whole day at a time. My + love to you both, and to all of us that are left. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though he used very little liquor of any kind, it was Mark Twain's + custom to keep a bottle of Scotch whiskey with his collection of + pipes and cigars and tobacco on a little table by his bed-side. + During restless nights he found a small quantity of it conducive to + sleep. Andrew Carnegie, learning of this custom, made it his + business to supply Scotch of his own special importation. The first + case came, direct from Scotland. When it arrived Clemens sent this + characteristic acknowledgment. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Andrew Carnegie, in Scotland: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVE. Feb. 10, '06. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR ST. ANDREW,—The whisky arrived in due course from over the + water; last week one bottle of it was extracted from the wood and inserted + into me, on the instalment plan, with this result: that I believe it to be + the best, smoothest whisky now on the planet. Thanks, oh, thanks: I have + discarded Peruna. + </p> + <p> + Hoping that you three are well and happy and will be coming back before + the winter sets in. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am, + Sincerely yours, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It must have been a small bottle to be consumed by him in a week, or + perhaps he had able assistance. The next brief line refers to the + manuscript of his article, “Saint Joan of Arc,” presented to the + museum at Rouen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Edward E. Clarke: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVE., Feb., 1906. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR SIR,—I have found the original manuscript and with great + pleasure I transmit it herewith, also a printed copy. + </p> + <p> + It is a matter of great pride to me to have any word of mine concerning + the world's supremest heroine honored by a place in that Museum. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The series of letters which follows was prepared by Mark Twain and + General Fred Grant, mainly with a view of advertising the lecture + that Clemens had agreed to deliver for the benefit of the Robert + Fulton Monument Association. It was, in fact, to be Mark Twain's + “farewell lecture,” and the association had really proposed to pay + him a thousand dollars for it. The exchange of these letters, + however, was never made outside of Mark Twain's bed-room. Propped + against the pillows, pen in hand, with General Grant beside him, + they arranged the series with the idea of publication. Later the + plan was discarded, so that this pleasant foolery appears here for + the first, time. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL + + (Correspondence) + + Telegram + + Army Headquarters (date) +MARK TWAIN, New York,—Would you consider a proposal to talk at Carnegie Hall for the benefit of the Robert Fulton Monument Association, of which you +are a Vice President, for a fee of a thousand dollars? + + F. D. GRANT, + President, + Fulton Monument Association. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Telegraphic Answer: +</pre> + <p> + MAJOR-GENERAL F. D. GRANT, Army Headquarters,—I shall be glad to do + it, but I must stipulate that you keep the thousand dollars and add it to + the Monument fund as my contribution. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + Letters: + </p> + <p> + DEAR MR. CLEMENS,—You have the thanks of the Association, and the + terms shall be as you say. But why give all of it? Why not reserve a + portion—why should you do this work wholly without compensation? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Truly yours + FRED. D. GRANT. +</pre> + <p> + MAJOR GENERAL GRANT, Army Headquarters. + </p> + <p> + DEAR GENERAL,—Because I stopped talking for pay a good many years + ago, and I could not resume the habit now without a great deal of personal + discomfort. I love to hear myself talk, because I get so much instruction + and moral upheaval out of it, but I lose the bulk of this joy when I + charge for it. Let the terms stand. + </p> + <p> + General, if I have your approval, I wish to use this good occasion to + retire permanently from the platform. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Truly yours + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. CLEMENS,—Certainly. But as an old friend, permit me to say, + Don't do that. Why should you?—you are not old yet. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours truly, + FRED D. GRANT. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR GENERAL,—I mean the pay-platform; I shan't retire from the + gratis-platform until after I am dead and courtesy requires me to keep + still and not disturb the others. + </p> + <p> + What shall I talk about? My idea is this: to instruct the audience about + Robert Fulton, and.... Tell me—was that his real name, or was it his + nom de plume? However, never mind, it is not important—I can skip + it, and the house will think I knew all about it, but forgot. Could you + find out for me if he was one of the Signers of the Declaration, and which + one? But if it is any trouble, let it alone, I can skip it. Was he out + with Paul Jones? Will you ask Horace Porter? And ask him if he brought + both of them home. These will be very interesting facts, if they can be + established. But never mind, don't trouble Porter, I can establish them + anyway. The way I look at it, they are historical gems—gems of the + very first water. + </p> + <p> + Well, that is my idea, as I have said: first, excite the audience with a + spoonful of information about Fulton, then quiet down with a barrel of + illustration drawn by memory from my books—and if you don't say + anything the house will think they never heard of it before, because + people don't really read your books, they only say they do, to keep you + from feeling bad. Next, excite the house with another spoonful of + Fultonian fact, then tranquilize them again with another barrel of + illustration. And so on and so on, all through the evening; and if you are + discreet and don't tell them the illustrations don't illustrate anything, + they won't notice it and I will send them home as well-informed about + Robert Fulton as I am myself. Don't be afraid; I know all about audiences, + they believe everything you say, except when you are telling the truth. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + P.S. Mark all the advertisements “Private and Confidential,” otherwise the + people will not read them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + M. T. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. CLEMENS,—How long shall you talk? I ask in order that we + may be able to say when carriages may be called. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very Truly yours, + HUGH GORDON MILLER, + Secretary. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. MILLER,—I cannot say for sure. It is my custom to keep on + talking till I get the audience cowed. Sometimes it takes an hour and + fifteen minutes, sometimes I can do it in an hour. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + Mem. My charge is 2 boxes free. Not the choicest—sell the choicest, + and give me any 6-seat boxes you please. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> + <p> + I want Fred Grant (in uniform) on the stage; also the rest of the + officials of the Association; also other distinguished people—all + the attractions we can get. Also, a seat for Mr. Albert Bigelow Paine, who + may be useful to me if he is near me and on the front. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The seat chosen for the writer of these notes was to be at the front + of the stage in order that the lecturer might lean over now and then + and pretend to be asking information concerning Fulton. I was not + entirely happy in the thought of this showy honor, and breathed more + freely when this plan was abandoned and the part assigned to General + Grant. + + The lecture was given in Carnegie Hall, which had been gayly + decorated for the occasion. The house was more than filled, and a + great sum of money was realized for the fund. + + It was that spring that Gorky and Tchaikowski, the Russian + revolutionists, came to America hoping to arouse interest in their + cause. The idea of the overthrow of the Russian dynasty was + pleasant to Mark Twain. Few things would have given him greater + comfort than to have known that a little more than ten years would + see the downfall of Russian imperialism. The letter which follows + was a reply to an invitation from Tchaikowski, urging him to speak + at one of the meetings. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. TCHAIKOWSKI,—I thank you for the honor of the invitation, + but I am not able to accept it, because on Thursday evening I shall be + presiding at a meeting whose object is to find remunerative work for + certain classes of our blind who would gladly support themselves if they + had the opportunity. + </p> + <p> + My sympathies are with the Russian revolution, of course. It goes without + saying. I hope it will succeed, and now that I have talked with you I take + heart to believe it will. Government by falsified promises; by lies, by + treacheries, and by the butcher-knife for the aggrandizement of a single + family of drones and its idle and vicious kin has been borne quite long + enough in Russia, I should think, and it is to be hoped that the roused + nation, now rising in its strength, will presently put an end to it and + set up the republic in its place. Some of us, even of the white headed, + may live to see the blessed day when Czars and Grand Dukes will be as + scarce there as I trust they are in heaven. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Most sincerely yours, + MARK TWAIN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There came another summer at Dublin, New Hampshire, this time in the + fine Upton residence on the other slope of Monadnock, a place of + equally beautiful surroundings, and an even more extended view. + Clemens was at this time working steadily on his so-called + Autobiography, which was not that, in fact, but a series of + remarkable chapters, reminiscent, reflective, commentative, written + without any particular sequence as to time or subject-matter. He + dictated these chapters to a stenographer, usually in the open air, + sitting in a comfortable rocker or pacing up and down the long + veranda that faced a vast expanse of wooded slope and lake and + distant blue mountains. It became one of the happiest occupations + of his later years. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in Maine: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DUBLIN, Sunday, June 17, '06. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—..... The dictating goes lazily and pleasantly on. + With intervals. I find that I have been at it, off and on, nearly two + hours a day for 155 days, since Jan. 9. To be exact I've dictated 75 hours + in 80 days and loafed 75 days. I've added 60,000 words in the month that + I've been here; which indicates that I've dictated during 20 days of that + time—40 hours, at an average of 1,500 words an hour. It's a plenty, + and I am satisfied. + </p> + <p> + There's a good deal of “fat” I've dictated, (from Jan. 9) 210,000 words, + and the “fat” adds about 50,000 more. + </p> + <p> + The “fat” is old pigeon-holed things, of the years gone by, which I or + editors didn't das't to print. For instance, I am dumping in the little + old book which I read to you in Hartford about 30 years ago and which you + said “publish—and ask Dean Stanley to furnish an introduction; he'll + do it.” (“Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven.”) It reads quite to suit + me, without altering a word, now that it isn't to see print until I am + dead. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow I mean to dictate a chapter which will get my heirs and assigns + burnt alive if they venture to print it this side of 2006 A.D.—which + I judge they won't. There'll be lots of such chapters if I live 3 or 4 + years longer. The edition of A.D. 2006 will make a stir when it comes out. + I shall be hovering around taking notice, along with other dead pals. You + are invited. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK. + + His tendency to estimate the measure of the work he was doing, and + had completed, must have clung to him from his old printer days. + + The chapter which was to get his heirs and assigns burned alive was + on the orthodox God, and there was more than one such chapter. In + the next letter he refers to two exquisite poems by Howells, and the + writer of these notes recalls his wonderful reading of them aloud. + 'In Our Town' was a collection of short stories then recently issued + by William Allen White. Howells had recommended them. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in Maine: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVE., Tuesday Eve. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—It is lovely of you to say those beautiful things—I + don't know how to thank you enough. But I love you, that I know. + </p> + <p> + I read “After the Wedding” aloud and we felt all the pain of it and the + truth. It was very moving and very beautiful—would have been + over-comingly moving, at times, but for the haltings and pauses compelled + by the difficulties of MS—these were a protection, in that they + furnished me time to brace up my voice, and get a new start. Jean wanted + to keep the MS for another reading-aloud, and for “keeps,” too, I + suspected, but I said it would be safest to write you about it. + </p> + <p> + I like “In Our Town,” particularly that Colonel, of the Lookout Mountain + Oration, and very particularly pages 212-16. I wrote and told White so. + </p> + <p> + After “After the Wedding” I read “The Mother” aloud and sounded its human + deeps with your deep-sea lead. I had not read it before, since it was + first published. + </p> + <p> + I have been dictating some fearful things, for 4 successive mornings—for + no eye but yours to see until I have been dead a century—if then. + But I got them out of my system, where they had been festering for years—and + that was the main thing. I feel better, now. + </p> + <p> + I came down today on business—from house to house in 12 1/2 hours, + and expected to arrive dead, but am neither tired nor sleepy. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours as always + MARK. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To William Allen White, in Emporia, Kans.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DUBLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, + June 24, 1906. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. WHITE,—Howells told me that “In Our Town” was a charming + book, and indeed it is. All of it is delightful when read one's self, + parts of it can score finely when subjected to the most exacting of tests—the + reading aloud. Pages 197 and 216 are of that grade. I have tried them a + couple of times on the family, and pages 212 and 216 are qualified to + fetch any house of any country, caste or color, endowed with those riches + which are denied to no nation on the planet—humor and feeling. + </p> + <p> + Talk again—the country is listening. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Witter Bynner, the poet, was one of the editors of McClure's + Magazine at this time, but was trying to muster the courage to give + up routine work for verse-making and the possibility of poverty. + Clemens was fond of Bynner and believed in his work. He did not + advise him, however, to break away entirely from a salaried + position—at least not immediately; but one day Bynner did so, and + reported the step he had taken, with some doubt as to the answer he + would receive. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Witter Bynner, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DUBLIN, Oct. 5, 1906. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR POET,—You have certainly done right for several good reasons; + at least, of them, I can name two: + </p> + <p> + 1. With your reputation you can have your freedom and yet earn your + living. 2. if you fall short of succeeding to your wish, your reputation + will provide you another job. And so in high approval I suppress the + scolding and give you the saintly and fatherly pat instead. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK TWAIN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On another occasion, when Bynner had written a poem to Clara + Clemens, her father pretended great indignation that the first poem + written by Bynner to any one in his household should not be to him, + and threatened revenge. At dinner shortly after he produced from + his pocket a slip of paper on which he had set down what he said was + “his only poem.” He read the lines that follow: + + “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, + The saddest are these: It might have been. + Ah, say not so! as life grows longer, leaner, thinner, + We recognize, O God, it might have Bynner!” + + He returned to New York in October and soon after was presented by + Mrs. H. H. Rogers with a handsome billiard-table. + + He had a passion for the game, but had played comparatively little + since the old Hartford days of fifteen years before, when a group of + his friends used to assemble on Friday nights in the room at the top + of the house for long, strenuous games and much hilarity. Now the + old fever all came back; the fascinations of the game superseded + even his interest in the daily dictations. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. H. H. Rogers, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVENUE, Monday, Nov., 1906. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. ROGERS,—The billiard table is better than the doctors. It + is driving out the heartburn in a most promising way. I have a billiardist + on the premises, and I walk not less than ten miles every day with the cue + in my hand. And the walking is not the whole of the exercise, nor the most + health-giving part of it, I think. Through the multitude of the positions + and attitudes it brings into play every muscle in the body and exercises + them all. + </p> + <p> + The games begin right after luncheon, daily, and continue until midnight, + with 2 hours' intermission for dinner and music. And so it is 9 hours' + exercise per day, and 10 or 12 on Sunday. Yesterday and last night it was + 12—and I slept until 8 this morning without waking. The billiard + table, as a Sabbath breaker can beat any coal-breaker in Pennsylvania, and + give it 30 in, the game. If Mr. Rogers will take to daily billiards he can + do without doctors and the massageur, I think. + </p> + <p> + We are really going to build a house on my farm, an hour and a half from + New York. It is decided. It is to be built by contract, and is to come + within $25,000. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With love and many thanks. + S. L. C. +</pre> + <p> + P.S. Clara is in the sanitarium—till January 28 when her western + concert tour will begin. She is getting to be a mighty competent singer. + You must know Clara better; she is one of the very finest and completest + and most satisfactory characters I have ever met. Others knew it before, + but I have always been busy with other matters. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The “billiardist on the premises” was the writer of these notes, + who, earlier in the year, had become his biographer, and, in the + course of time, his daily companion and friend. The farm mentioned + was one which he had bought at Redding, Connecticut, where, later, + he built the house known as “Stormfield.” + + Henry Mills Alden, for nearly forty years editor of Harper's + Magazine, arrived at his seventieth birthday on November 11th that + year, and Harper & Brothers had arranged to give him a great dinner + in the offices of Franklin Square, where, for half a century, he had + been an active force. Mark Twain, threatened with a cold, and + knowing the dinner would be strenuous, did not feel able to attend, + so wrote a letter which, if found suitable, could be read at the + gathering. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mr. Henry Alden: + </p> + <p> + ALDEN,—dear and ancient friend—it is a solemn moment. You have + now reached the age of discretion. You have been a long time arriving. + Many years ago you docked me on an article because the subject was too + old; later, you docked me on an article because the subject was too new; + later still, you docked me on an article because the subject was betwixt + and between. Once, when I wrote a Letter to Queen Victoria, you did not + put it in the respectable part of the Magazine, but interred it in that + potter's field, the Editor's Drawer. As a result, she never answered it. + How often we recall, with regret, that Napoleon once shot at a magazine + editor and missed him and killed a publisher. But we remember, with + charity, that his intentions were good. + </p> + <p> + You will reform, now, Alden. You will cease from these economies, and you + will be discharged. But in your retirement you will carry with you the + admiration and earnest good wishes of the oppressed and toiling scribes. + This will be better than bread. Let this console you when the bread fails. + </p> + <p> + You will carry with you another thing, too—the affection of the + scribes; for they all love you in spite of your crimes. For you bear a + kind heart in your breast, and the sweet and winning spirit that charms + away all hostilities and animosities, and makes of your enemy your friend + and keeps him so. You have reigned over us thirty-six years, and, please + God, you shall reign another thirty-six—“and peace to Mahmoud on his + golden throne!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Always yours + MARK +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A copyright bill was coming up in Washington and a delegation of + authors went down to work for it. Clemens was not the head of the + delegation, but he was the most prominent member of it, as well as + the most useful. He invited the writer to accompany him, and + elsewhere I have told in detail the story of that excursion,—[See + Mark Twain; A Biography, chap. ccli,]—which need be but briefly + touched upon here. + + His work was mainly done aside from that of the delegation. They + had him scheduled for a speech, however, which he made without notes + and with scarcely any preparation. Meantime he had applied to + Speaker Cannon for permission to allow him on the floor of the + House, where he could buttonhole the Congressmen. He was not + eligible to the floor without having received the thanks of + Congress, hence the following letter: +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Hon. Joseph Cannon, House of Representatives: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dec. 7, 1906. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR UNCLE JOSEPH,—Please get me the thanks of the Congress—not + next week but right away. It is very necessary. Do accomplish this for + your affectionate old friend right away; by persuasion, if you can, by + violence if you must, for it is imperatively necessary that I get on the + floor for two or three hours and talk to the members, man by man, in + behalf of the support, encouragement and protection of one of the nation's + most valuable assets and industries—its literature. I have arguments + with me, also a barrel, with liquid in it. + </p> + <p> + Give me a chance. Get me the thanks of Congress. Don't wait for others; + there isn't time. I have stayed away and let Congress alone for + seventy-one years and I am entitled to thanks. Congress knows it perfectly + well and I have long felt hurt that this quite proper and earned + expression of gratitude has been merely felt by the House and never + publicly uttered. Send me an order on the Sergeant-at-Arms quick. When + shall I come? With love and a benediction. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK TWAIN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This was mainly a joke. Mark Twain did not expect any “thanks,” but + he did hope for access to the floor, which once, in an earlier day, + had been accorded him. We drove to the Capitol and he delivered his + letter to “Uncle Joe” by hand. “Uncle Joe” could not give him the + privilege of the floor; the rules had become more stringent. He + declared they would hang him if he did such a thing. He added that + he had a private room down-stairs, where Mark Twain might establish + headquarters, and that he would assign his colored servant, Neal, of + long acquaintanceship with many of the members, to pass the word + that Mark Twain was receiving. + + The result was a great success. All that afternoon members of + Congress poured into the Speaker's room and, in an atmosphere blue + with tobacco smoke, Mark Twain talked the gospel of copyright to his + heart's content. + + The bill did not come up for passage that session, but Mark Twain + lived to see his afternoon's lobbying bring a return. In 1909, + Champ Clark, and those others who had gathered around him that + afternoon, passed a measure that added fourteen years to the + copyright term. + + The next letter refers to a proposed lobby of quite a different + sort. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Helen Keller, in Wrentham, Mass.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVENUE, + Dec. 23, '06. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HELEN KELLER,—... You say, “As a reformer, you know that ideas + must be driven home again and again.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, I know it; and by old experience I know that speeches and documents + and public meetings are a pretty poor and lame way of accomplishing it. + Last year I proposed a sane way—one which I had practiced with + success for a quarter of a century—but I wasn't expecting it to get + any attention, and it didn't. + </p> + <p> + Give me a battalion of 200 winsome young girls and matrons, and let me + tell them what to do and how to do it, and I will be responsible for + shining results. If I could mass them on the stage in front of the + audience and instruct them there, I could make a public meeting take hold + of itself and do something really valuable for once. Not that the real + instruction would be done there, for it wouldn't; it would be previously + done privately, and merely repeated there. + </p> + <p> + But it isn't going to happen—the good old way will be stuck to: + there'll be a public meeting: with music, and prayer, and a wearying + report, and a verbal description of the marvels the blind can do, and 17 + speeches—then the call upon all present who are still alive, to + contribute. This hoary program was invented in the idiot asylum, and will + never be changed. Its function is to breed hostility to good causes. + </p> + <p> + Some day somebody will recruit my 200—my dear beguilesome Knights of + the Golden Fleece—and you will see them make good their ominous + name. + </p> + <p> + Mind, we must meet! not in the grim and ghastly air of the platform, + mayhap, but by the friendly fire—here at 21. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Affectionately your friend, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They did meet somewhat later that winter in the friendly parlors of + No. 21, and friends gathered in to meet the marvelous blind girl and + to pay tribute to Miss Sullivan (Mrs. Macy) for her almost + incredible achievement. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 5, +1901-1906, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWAIN LETTERS, VOL. 5 *** + +***** This file should be named 3197-h.htm or 3197-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/3197/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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