Mark Twain, A Biography, Vol. 2, Part 2

A >> Albert Bigelow Paine >> Mark Twain, A Biography, Vol. 2, Part 2


Provided we could get something better in the place of it. But that
is not possible perhaps. Poor as it is, it is better than real
savagery, therefore we must stand by it, extend it, & (in public)
praise it. And so we must not utter any hurtful word about England
in these days, nor fail to hope that she will win in this war, for
her defeat & fall would be an irremediable disaster for the mangy
human race. Naturally, then, I am for England; but she is
profoundly in the wrong, Joe, & no (instructed) Englishman doubts
it. At least that is my belief.

Writing to Howells somewhat later, he calls the conflict in South Africa,
a "sordid and criminal war," and says that every day he is writing (in
his head) bitter magazine articles against it.

But I have to stop with that. Even if wrong--& she is wrong England
must be upheld. He is an enemy of the human race who shall speak
against her now. Why was the human race created? Or at least why
wasn't something creditable created in place of it? . . . I talk
the war with both sides--always waiting until the other man
introduces the topic. Then I say, "My head is with the Briton, but
my heart & such rags of morals as I have are with the Boer--now we
will talk, unembarrassed and without prejudice." And so we discuss
& have no trouble.

I notice that God is on both sides in this war; thus history repeats
itself. But I am the only person who has noticed this; everybody
here thinks He is playing the game for this side, & for this side
only.

Clemens wrote one article for anonymous publication in the Times. But
when the manuscript was ready to mail in an envelope stamped and
addressed to Moberly Bell--he reconsidered and withheld it. It still
lies in the envelope with the accompanying letter, which says:

Don't give me away, whether you print it or not. But I think you ought
to print it and get up a squabble, for the weather is just suitable.




CCIX

PLASMON, AND A NEW MAGAZINE

Clemens was not wholly wedded to osteopathy. The financial interest
which he had taken in the new milk albumen, "a food for invalids," tended
to divide his faith and make him uncertain as to which was to be the
chief panacea for all ills--osteopathy or plasmon.

MacAlister, who was deeply interested in the plasmon fortunes, was
anxious to get the product adopted by the army. He believed, if he could
get an interview with the Medical Director-General, he could convince him
of its merits. Discussing the matter with Clemens, the latter said:

"MacAlister, you are going at it from the wrong end. You can't go direct
to that man, a perfect stranger, and convince him of anything. Who is
his nearest friend?"

MacAlister knew a man on terms of social intimacy with the official.

Clemens said, "That is the man to speak to the Director-General."

"But I don't know him, either," said MacAlister.

"Very good. Do you know any one who does know him?"

"Yes, I know his most intimate friend."

"Then he is the man for you to approach. Convince him that plasmon is
what the army needs, that the military hospitals are suffering for it.
Let him understand that what you want is to get this to the
Director-General, and in due time it will get to him in the proper way.
You'll see."

This proved to be a true prophecy. It was only a little while until the
British army had experimented with plasmon and adopted it. MacAlister
reported the success of the scheme to Clemens, and out of it grew the
story entitled, "Two Little Tales," published in November of the
following year (1901) in the Century Magazine. Perhaps the reader will
remember that in the "Two Little Tales" the Emperor is very ill and the
lowest of all his subjects knows a certain remedy, but he cannot seek the
Emperor direct, so he wisely approaches him through a series of
progressive stages--finally reaching and curing his stricken Majesty.

Clemens had the courage of his investments. He adopted plasmon as his
own daily food, and induced various members of the family to take it in
its more palatable forms, one of these being a preparation of chocolate.
He kept the reading-table by his bed well stocked with a variety of the
products and invited various callers to try a complimentary sample lot.
It was really an excellent and harmless diet, and both the company and
its patients would seem to have prospered--perhaps are prospering still.

There was another business opportunity came along just at this time. S.
S. McClure was in England with a proposition for starting a new magazine
whose complexion was to be peculiarly American, with Mark Twain as its
editor. The magazine was to be called 'The Universal', and by the
proposition Clemens was to receive a tenth interest in it for his first
year's work, and an added twentieth interest for each of the two
succeeding years, with a guarantee that his shares should not earn him
less than five thousand dollars the first year, with a proportionate
increase as his holdings grew.

The scheme appealed to Clemens, it being understood in the beginning that
he was to give very little time to the work, with the privilege of doing
it at his home, wherever that might happen to be. He wrote of the matter
to Mr. Rogers, explaining in detail, and Rogers replied, approving the
plan. Mr. Rogers said he knew that he [Rogers] would have to do most of
the work in editing the magazine, and further added:

One thing I shall insist upon, however, if I have anything to do
with the matter, and it is this: that when you have made up your
mind on the subject you will stick to it. I have not found in your
composition that element of stubbornness which is a constant source
of embarrassment to me in all friendly and social ways, but which,
when applied to certain lines of business, brings in the dollar and
fifty-cent pieces. If you accept the position, of course that means
that you have to come to this country. If you do, the yachting will
be a success.

There was considerable correspondence with McClure over the new
periodical. In one letter Clemens set forth his general views of the
matter quite clearly:

Let us not deceive any one, nor allow any one to deceive himself, if
it can be prevented. This is not to be comic magazine. It is to be
simply a good, clean, wholesome collection of well-written &
enticing literary products, like the other magazines of its class;
not setting itself to please but one of man's moods, but all of
them. It will not play but one kind of music, but all kinds. I
should not be able to edit a comic periodical satisfactorily, for
lack of interest in the work. I value humor highly, & am
constitutionally fond of it, but I should not like it as a steady
diet. For its own best interests, humor should take its outings in
grave company; its cheerful dress gets heightened color from the
proximity of sober hues. For me to edit a comic magazine would be
an incongruity & out of character, for of the twenty-three books
which I have written eighteen do not deal in humor as their chiefs
feature, but are half & half admixtures of fun & seriousness. I
think I have seldom deliberately set out to be humorous, but have
nearly always allowed the humor to drop in or stay out, according to
its fancy. Although I have many times been asked to write something
humorous for an editor or a publisher I have had wisdom enough to
decline; a person could hardly be humorous with the other man
watching him like that. I have never tried to write a humorous
lecture; I have only tried to write serious ones--it is the only way
not to succeed.

I shall write for this magazine every time the spirit moves me; but
I look for my largest entertainment in editing. I have been edited
by all kinds of people for more than thirty-eight years; there has
always been somebody in authority over my manuscript & privileged to
improve it; this has fatigued me a good deal, & I have often longed
to move up from the dock to the bench & rest myself and fatigue
others. My opportunity is come, but I hope I shall not abuse it
overmuch. I mean to do my best to make a good magazine; I mean to
do my whole duty, & not shirk any part of it. There are plenty of
distinguished artists, novelists, poets, story-tellers,
philosophers, scientists, explorers, fighters, hunters, followers of
the sea, & seekers of adventure; & with these to do the hard & the
valuable part of the work with the pen & the pencil it will be
comfort & joy to me to walk the quarter-deck & superintend.

Meanwhile McClure's enthusiasm had had time to adjust itself to certain
existing facts. Something more than a month later he wrote from America
at considerable length, setting forth the various editorial duties and
laying stress upon the feature of intimate physical contact with the
magazine. He went into the matter of the printing schedule, the various
kinds of paper used, the advertising pages, illustrations--into all the
detail, indeed, which a practical managing editor must compass in his
daily rounds. It was pretty evident that Clemens would not be able to go
sailing about on Mr. Rogers's yacht or live at will in London or New York
or Vienna or Elmira, but that he would be more or less harnessed to a
revolving chair at an editorial desk, the thing which of all fates he
would be most likely to dread The scheme appears to have died there--the
correspondence to have closed.

Somewhat of the inducement in the McClure scheme had been the thought in
Clemens's mind that it would bring him back to America. In a letter to
Mr. Rogers (January 8, 1900) he said, "I am tired to death of this
everlasting exile." Mrs. Clemens often wrote that he was restlessly
impatient to return. They were, in fact, constantly discussing the
practicability of returning to their own country now and opening the
Hartford home. Clemens was ready to do that or to fall in with any plan
that would bring him across the water and settle him somewhere
permanently. He was tired of the wandering life they had been leading.
Besides the long trip of '95 and '96 they had moved two or three times a
year regularly since leaving Hartford, nine years before. It seemed to
him that they were always packing and unpacking.

"The poor man is willing to live anywhere if we will only let him 'stay
put," wrote Mrs. Clemens, but he did want to settle in his own land.
Mrs. Clemens, too, was weary with wandering, but the Hartford home no
longer held any attraction for her. There had been a time when her every
letter dwelt on their hope of returning to it. Now the thought filled
her with dread. To her sister she wrote:

Do you think we can live through the first going into the house in
Hartford? I feel if we had gotten through the first three months all
might be well, but consider the first night.

The thought of the responsibility of that great house--the taking up
again of the old life-disheartened her, too. She had added years and she
had not gained in health or strength.

When I was comparatively young I found the burden of that house very
great. I don't think I was ever fitted for housekeeping. I dislike
the practical part of it so much. I hate it when the servants don't
do well, and I hate the correcting them.

Yet no one ever had better discipline in her domestic affairs or
ever commanded more devoted service. Her strength of character and
the proportions of her achievement show large when we consider this
confession.

They planned to return in the spring, but postponed the date for sailing.
Jean was still under Kellgren's treatment, and, though a cure had been
promised her, progress was discouragingly slow. They began to look about
for summer quarters in or near London.




CCX

LONDON SOCIAL AFFAIRS

All this time Clemens had been tossing on the London social tide. There
was a call for him everywhere. No distinguished visitor of whatever
profession or rank but must meet Mark Twain. The King of Sweden was
among his royal conquests of that season.

He was more happy with men of his own kind. He was often with Moberly
Bell, editor of the Times; E. A. Abbey, the painter; Sir Henry Lucy, of
Punch (Toby, M.P.); James Bryce, and Herbert Gladstone; and there were a
number of brilliant Irishmen who were his special delight. Once with
Mrs. Clemens he dined with the author of his old favorite, 'European
Morals', William E. H. Lecky. Lady Gregory was there and Sir Dennis
Fitz-Patrick; who had been Governor-General at Lahore when they were in
India, and a number of other Irish ladies and gentlemen. It was a
memorable evening. To Twichell Clemens wrote:

Joe, do you know the Irish gentleman & the Irish lady, the Scotch
gentleman & the Scotch lady? These are darlings, every one. Night
before last it was all Irish--24. One would have to travel far to
match their ease & sociability & animation & sparkle & absence of
shyness & self-consciousness. It was American in these fine
qualities. This was at Mr. Lecky's. He is Irish, you know. Last
night it was Irish again, at Lady Gregory's. Lord Roberts is Irish,
& Sir William Butler, & Kitchener, I think, & a disproportion of the
other prominent generals are of Irish & Scotch breed keeping up the
traditions of Wellington & Sir Colin Campbell, of the Mutiny. You
will have noticed that in S. A., as in the Mutiny, it is usually the
Irish & Scotch that are placed in the forefront of the battle....
Sir William Butler said, "the Celt is the spearhead of the British
lance."

He mentions the news from the African war, which had been favorable to
England, and what a change had come over everything in consequence. The
dinner-parties had been lodges of sorrow and depressing. Now everybody
was smiling again. In a note-book entry of this time he wrote:

Relief of Mafeking (May 18, 1900). The news came at 9.17 P.M.
Before 10 all London was in the streets, gone mad with joy. By then
the news was all over the American continent.

Clemens had been talking copyright a good deal in London, and introducing
it into his speeches. Finally, one day he was summoned before a
committee of the House of Lords to explain his views. His old idea that
the product of a man's brain is his property in perpetuity and not for
any term of years had not changed, and they permitted him to dilate on
this (to them) curious doctrine. The committee consisted of Lords
Monkswell, Knutsford, Avebury, Farrar, and Thwing. When they asked for
his views he said:

"In my opinion the copyright laws of England and America need only the
removal of the forty-two-year limit and the return to perpetual copyright
to be perfect. I consider that at least one of the reasons advanced in
justification of limited copyright is fallacious--namely, the one which
makes a distinction between an author's property and real estate, and
pretends that the two are not created, produced, or acquired in the same
way, thus warranting a different treatment of the two by law."

Continuing, he dwelt on the ancient doctrine that there was no property
in an idea, showing how the far greater proportion of all property
consisted of nothing more than elaborated ideas--the steamship,
locomotive, telephone, the vast buildings in the world, how all of these
had been constructed upon a basic idea precisely as a book is
constructed, and were property only as a book is property, and therefore
rightly subject to the same laws. He was carefully and searchingly
examined by that shrewd committee. He kept them entertained and
interested and left them in good-nature, even if not entirely converted.
The papers printed his remarks, and London found them amusing.

A few days after the copyright session, Clemens, responding to the toast,
"Literature," at the Royal Literary Fund Banquet, made London laugh
again, and early in June he was at the Savoy Hotel welcoming Sir Henry
Irving back to England after one of his successful American tours.

On the Fourth of July (1900) Clemens dined with the Lord Chief-Justice,
and later attended an American banquet at the Hotel Cecil. He arrived
late, when a number of the guests were already going. They insisted,
however, that he make a speech, which he did, and considered the evening
ended. It was not quite over. A sequel to his "Luck" story, published
nine years before, suddenly developed.

To go back a little, the reader may recall that "Luck" was a story which
Twichell had told him as being supposedly true. The hero of it was a
military officer who had risen to the highest rank through what at least
seemed to be sheer luck, including a number of fortunate blunders.
Clemens thought the story improbable, but wrote it and laid it away for
several years, offering it at last in the general house-cleaning which
took place after the first collapse of the machine. It was published in
Harper's Magazine for August, 1891, and something less than a year later,
in Rome, an English gentleman--a new acquaintance--said to him:

"Mr. Clemens, shall you go to England?"

"Very likely."

"Shall you take your tomahawk with you?"

"Why--yes, if it shall seem best."

"Well, it will. Be advised. Take it with you."

"Why?"

"Because of that sketch of yours entitled 'Luck.' That sketch is current
in England, and you will surely need your tomahawk."

"What makes you think so?"

"I think so because the hero of the sketch will naturally want your
scalp, and will probably apply for it. Be advised. Take your tomahawk
along."

"Why, even with it I sha'n't stand any chance, because I sha'n't know him
when he applies, and he will have my scalp before I know what his errand
is."

"Come, do you mean to say that you don't know who the hero of that sketch
is?"

"Indeed I haven't any idea who the hero of the sketch is. Who is it?"

His informant hesitated a moment, then named a name of world-wide
military significance.

As Mask Twain finished his Fourth of July speech at the Cecil and started
to sit down a splendidly uniformed and decorated personage at his side
said:

"Mr. Clemens, I have been wanting to know you a long time," and he was
looking down into the face of the hero of "Luck."

"I was caught unprepared," he said in his notes of it. "I didn't sit
down--I fell down. I didn't have my tomahawk, and I didn't know what
would happen. But he was, composed, and pretty soon I got composed and
we had a good, friendly time. If he had ever heard of that sketch of
mine he did not manifest it in any way, and at twelve, midnight, I took
my scalp home intact."




CCXI

DOLLIS HILL AND HOME

It was early in July, 1900, that they removed to Dollis Hill House, a
beautiful old residence surrounded by trees on a peaceful hilltop, just
outside of London. It was literally within a stone's-throw of the city
limits, yet it was quite rural, for the city had not overgrown it then,
and it retained all its pastoral features--a pond with lily-pads, the
spreading oaks, the wide spaces of grassy lawn. Gladstone, an intimate
friend of the owner, had made it a favorite retreat at one period of his
life, and the place to-day is converted into a public garden called
Gladstone Park. The old English diplomat used to drive out and sit in
the shade of the trees and read and talk and translate Homer, and pace
the lawn as he planned diplomacy, and, in effect, govern the English
empire from that retired spot.

Clemens, in some memoranda made at the moment, doubts if Gladstone was
always at peace in his mind in this retirement.

"Was he always really tranquil within," he says, "or was he only
externally so--for effect? We cannot know; we only know that his rustic
bench under his favorite oak has no bark on its arms. Facts like this
speak louder than words."

The red-brick residential wave of London was still some distance away in
1900. Clemens says:

The rolling sea of green grass still stretches away on every hand,
splotches with shadows of spreading oaks in whose black coolness
flocks of sheep lie peacefully dreaming. Dreaming of what? That
they are in London, the metropolis of the world, Post-office
District, N. W.? Indeed no. They are not aware of it. I am aware
of it, but that is all. It is not possible to realize it. For
there is no suggestion of city here; it is country, pure & simple,
& as still & reposeful as is the bottom of the sea.

They all loved Dollis Hill. Mrs. Clemens wrote as if she would like to
remain forever in that secluded spot.

It is simply divinely beautiful & peaceful; . . . the great old
trees are beyond everything. I believe nowhere in the world do you
find such trees as in England . . . . Jean has a hammock swung
between two such great trees, & on the other side of a little pond,
which is full of white & yellow pond-lilies, there is tall grass &
trees & Clara & Jean go there in the afternoons, spread down a rug
on the grass in the shade & read & sleep.

They all spent most of their time outdoors at Dollis Hill under those
spreading trees.

Clemens to Twichell in midsummer wrote:

I am the only person who is ever in the house in the daytime, but I
am working & deep in the luxury of it. But there is one tremendous
defect. Livy is all so enchanted with the place & so in love with
it that she doesn't know how she is going to tear herself away from
it.

Much company came to them at Dollis Hill. Friends drove out from London,
and friends from America came often, among them--the Sages, Prof. Willard
Fiske, and Brander Matthews with his family. Such callers were served
with tea and refreshment on the lawn, and lingered, talking and talking,
while the sun got lower and the shadows lengthened, reluctant to leave
that idyllic spot.

"Dollis Hill comes nearer to being a paradise than any other home I ever
occupied," he wrote when the summer was about over.

But there was still a greater attraction than Dollis Hill. Toward the
end of summer they willingly left that paradise, for they had decided at
last to make that home-returning voyage which had invited them so long.
They were all eager enough to go--Clemens more eager than the rest,
though he felt a certain sadness, too, in leaving the tranquil spot which
in a brief summer they had so learned to love.

Writing to W. H. Helm, a London newspaper man who had spent pleasant
hours with him chatting in the shade, he said:

. . . The packing & fussing & arranging have begun, for the
removal to America &, by consequence, the peace of life is marred &
its contents & satisfactions are departing. There is not much
choice between a removal & a funeral; in fact, a removal is a
funeral, substantially, & I am tired of attending them.

They closed Dollis Hill, spent a few days at Brown's Hotel, and sailed
for America, on the Minnehaha, October 6, 1900, bidding, as Clemens
believed, and hoped, a permanent good-by to foreign travel. They reached
New York on the 15th, triumphantly welcomed after their long nine years
of wandering. How glad Mark Twain was to get home may be judged from his
remark to one of the many reporters who greeted him.

"If I ever get ashore I am going to break both of my legs so I
can't, get away again."