The Letters Of Mark Twain, Complete

M >> Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) >> The Letters Of Mark Twain, Complete


Have paid up $4000 indebtedness. You are the last on my list. Shall
begin to pay you in a few days and then I shall be a free man again.
Yours,
MARK.


With his debts paid, Clemens was anxious to be getting home. Two
weeks following the above he wrote Redpath that he would accept no
more engagements at any price, outside of New England, and added,
"The fewer engagements I have from this time forth the better I
shall be pleased." By the end of February he was back in Hartford,
refusing an engagement in Boston, and announcing to Redpath, "If I
had another engagement I'd rot before I'd fill it." From which we
gather that he was not entirely happy in the lecture field.

As a matter of fact, Mark Twain loathed the continuous travel and
nightly drudgery of platform life. He was fond of entertaining, and
there were moments of triumph that repaid him for a good deal, but
the tyranny of a schedule and timetables was a constant
exasperation.

Meantime, Roughing It had appeared and was selling abundantly. Mark
Twain, free of debt, and in pleasant circumstances, felt that the
outlook was bright. It became even more so when, in March, the
second child, a little girl, Susy, was born, with no attending
misfortunes. But, then, in the early summer little Langdon died.
It was seldom, during all of Mark Twain's life, that he enjoyed more
than a brief period of unmixed happiness.

It was in June of that year that Clemens wrote his first letter to
William Dean Howells the first of several hundred that would follow
in the years to come, and has in it something that is characteristic
of nearly all the Clemens-Howells letters--a kind of tender
playfulness that answered to something in Howells's make-up, his
sense of humor, his wide knowledge of a humanity which he pictured
so amusingly to the world.


To William Dean Howells, in Boston:

HARTFORD, June 15, 1872.
FRIEND HOWELLS,--Could you tell me how I could get a copy of your
portrait as published in Hearth and Home? I hear so much talk about it
as being among the finest works of art which have yet appeared in that
journal, that I feel a strong desire to see it. Is it suitable for
framing? I have written the publishers of H & H time and again, but they
say that the demand for the portrait immediately exhausted the edition
and now a copy cannot be had, even for the European demand, which has now
begun. Bret Harte has been here, and says his family would not be
without that portrait for any consideration. He says his children get up
in the night and yell for it. I would give anything for a copy of that
portrait to put up in my parlor. I have Oliver Wendell Holmes and Bret
Harte's, as published in Every Saturday, and of all the swarms that come
every day to gaze upon them none go away that are not softened and
humbled and made more resigned to the will of God. If I had yours to put
up alongside of them, I believe the combination would bring more souls to
earnest reflection and ultimate conviction of their lost condition, than
any other kind of warning would. Where in the nation can I get that
portrait? Here are heaps of people that want it,--that need it. There
is my uncle. He wants a copy. He is lying at the point of death. He
has been lying at the point of death for two years. He wants a copy--and
I want him to have a copy. And I want you to send a copy to the man that
shot my dog. I want to see if he is dead to every human instinct.

Now you send me that portrait. I am sending you mine, in this letter;
and am glad to do it, for it has been greatly admired. People who are
judges of art, find in the execution a grandeur which has not been
equalled in this country, and an expression which has not been approached
in any.
Yrs truly,
S. L. CLEMENS.

P. S. 62,000 copies of "Roughing It" sold and delivered in 4 months.


The Clemens family did not spend the summer at Quarry Farm that
year. The sea air was prescribed for Mrs. Clemens and the baby, and
they went to Saybrook, Connecticut, to Fenwick Hall. Clemens wrote
very little, though he seems to have planned Tom Sawyer, and perhaps
made its earliest beginning, which was in dramatic form.

His mind, however, was otherwise active. He was always more or less
given to inventions, and in his next letter we find a description of
one which he brought to comparative perfection.

He had also conceived the idea of another book of travel, and this
was his purpose of a projected trip to England.


To Orion Clemens, in Hartford:

FENWICK HALL, SAYBROOK, CONN.
Aug. 11, 1872.
MY DEAR BRO.--I shall sail for England in the Scotia, Aug. 21.

But what I wish to put on record now, is my new invention--hence this
note, which you will preserve. It is this--a self-pasting scrap-book
--good enough idea if some juggling tailor does not come along and
ante-date me a couple of months, as in the case of the elastic veststrap.

The nuisance of keeping a scrap-book is: 1. One never has paste
or gum tragacanth handy; 2. Mucilage won't stick, or stay, 4 weeks;
3. Mucilage sucks out the ink and makes the scraps unreadable;
4. To daub and paste 3 or 4 pages of scraps is tedious, slow, nasty and
tiresome. My idea is this: Make a scrap-book with leaves veneered or
coated with gum-stickum of some kind; wet the page with sponge, brush,
rag or tongue, and dab on your scraps like postage stamps.

Lay on the gum in columns of stripes.

Each stripe of gum the length of say 20 ems, small pica, and as broad as
your finger; a blank about as broad as your finger between each 2
stripes--so in wetting the paper you need not wet any more of the gum
than your scrap or scraps will cover--then you may shut up the book and
the leaves won't stick together.

Preserve, also, the envelope of this letter--postmark ought to be good
evidence of the date of this great humanizing and civilizing invention.

I'll put it into Dan Slote's hands and tell him he must send you all over
America, to urge its use upon stationers and booksellers--so don't buy
into a newspaper. The name of this thing is "Mark Twain's Self-Pasting
Scrapbook."

All well here. Shall be up a P. M. Tuesday. Send the carriage.
Yr Bro.
S. L. CLEMENS.


The Dan Slote of this letter is, of course, his old Quaker City
shipmate, who was engaged in the blank-book business, the firm being
Slote & Woodman, located at 119 and 121 William Street, New York.




XII.

LETTERS 1872-73. MARK TWAIN IN ENGLAND. LONDON HONORS. ACQUAINTANCE
WITH DR. JOHN BROWN. A LECTURE TRIUMPH. "THE GILDED AGE".

Clemens did, in fact, sail for England on the given date, and was
lavishly received there. All literary London joined in giving him a
good time. He had not as yet been received seriously by the older
American men of letters, but England made no question as to his
title to first rank. Already, too, they classified him as of the
human type of Lincoln, and reveled in him without stint. Howells
writes: "In England, rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced in him.
Lord Mayors, Lord Chief justices, and magnates of many kinds were
his hosts."

He was treated so well and enjoyed it all so much that he could not
write a book--the kind of book he had planned. One could not poke
fun at a country or a people that had welcomed him with open arms.
He made plenty of notes, at first, but presently gave up the book
idea and devoted himself altogether to having a good time.

He had one grievance--a publisher by the name of Hotten, a sort of
literary harpy, of which there were a great number in those days of
defective copyright, not merely content with pilfering his early
work, had reprinted, under the name of Mark Twain, the work of a
mixed assortment of other humorists, an offensive volume bearing the
title, Screamers and Eye-openers, by Mark Twain.

They besieged him to lecture in London, and promised him overflowing
houses. Artemus Ward, during his last days, had earned London by
storm with his platform humor, and they promised Mark Twain even
greater success. For some reason, however, he did not welcome the
idea; perhaps there was too much gaiety. To Mrs. Clemens he wrote:


To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford:

LONDON, Sep. 15, 1872.
Livy, darling, everybody says lecture-lecture-lecture--but I have not the
least idea of doing it--certainly not at present. Mr. Dolby, who took
Dickens to America, is coming to talk business to me tomorrow, though I
have sent him word once before, that I can't be hired to talk here,
because I have no time to spare.

There is too much sociability--I do not get along fast enough with work.
Tomorrow I lunch with Mr. Toole and a Member of Parliament--Toole is the
most able Comedian of the day. And then I am done for a while. On
Tuesday I mean to hang a card to my keybox, inscribed--"Gone out of the
City for a week"--and then I shall go to work and work hard. One can't
be caught in a hive of 4,000,000 people, like this.

I have got such a perfectly delightful razor. I have a notion to buy
some for Charley, Theodore and Slee--for I know they have no such razors
there. I have got a neat little watch-chain for Annie--$20.

I love you my darling. My love to all of you.
SAML.


That Mark Twain should feel and privately report something of his
triumphs we need not wonder at. Certainly he was never one to give
himself airs, but to have the world's great literary center paying
court to him, who only ten years before had been penniless and
unknown, and who once had been a barefoot Tom Sawyer in Hannibal,
was quite startling. It is gratifying to find evidence of human
weakness in the following heart-to-heart letter to his publisher,
especially in view of the relating circumstances.


To Elisha Bliss, in Hartford:

LONDON, Sept. 28, 1872.
FRIEND BLISS,--I have been received in a sort of tremendous way, tonight,
by the brains of London, assembled at the annual dinner of the Sheriffs
of London--mine being (between you and me) a name which was received with
a flattering outburst of spontaneous applause when the long list of
guests was called.

I might have perished on the spot but for the friendly support and
assistance of my excellent friend Sir John Bennett--and I want you to
paste the enclosed in a couple of the handsomest copies of the
"Innocents" and "Roughing It," and send them to him. His address is

"Sir John Bennett,
Cheapside,
London."

Yrs Truly
S. L. CLEMENS.


The "relating circumstances" were these: At the abovementioned
dinner there had been a roll-call of the distinguished guests
present, and each name had been duly applauded. Clemens, conversing
in a whisper with his neighbor, Sir John Bennett, did not give very
close attention to the names, applauding mechanically with the
others.

Finally, a name was read that brought out a vehement hand-clapping.
Mark Twain, not to be outdone in cordiality, joined vigorously, and
kept his hands going even after the others finished. Then,
remarking the general laughter, he whispered to Sir John: "Whose
name was that we were just applauding?"

"Mark Twain's."

We may believe that the "friendly support" of Sir John Bennett was
welcome for the moment. But the incident could do him no harm; the
diners regarded it as one of his jokes, and enjoyed him all the more
for it.

He was ready to go home by November, but by no means had he had
enough of England. He really had some thought of returning there
permanently. In a letter to Mrs. Crane, at Quarry Farm, he wrote:

"If you and Theodore will come over in the Spring with Livy and me,
and spend the summer you will see a country that is so beautiful
that you will be obliged to believe in Fairyland..... and Theodore
can browse with me among dusty old dens that look now as they looked
five hundred years ago; and puzzle over books in the British Museum
that were made before Christ was born; and in the customs of their
public dinners, and the ceremonies of every official act, and the
dresses of a thousand dignitaries, trace the speech and manners of
all the centuries that have dragged their lagging decades over
England since the Heptarchy fell asunder. I would a good deal
rather live here if I could get the rest of you over."

In a letter home, to his mother and sister, we get a further picture
of his enjoyment.


To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett:

LONDON, Nov. 6, 1872.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I have been so everlasting busy that I
couldn't write--and moreover I have been so unceasingly lazy that I
couldn't have written anyhow. I came here to take notes for a book, but
I haven't done much but attend dinners and make speeches. But have had a
jolly good time and I do hate to go away from these English folks; they
make a stranger feel entirely at home--and they laugh so easily that it
is a comfort to make after-dinner speeches here. I have made hundreds of
friends; and last night in the crush of the opening of the New Guild-hall
Library and Museum, I was surprised to meet a familiar face every few
steps. Nearly 4,000 people, of both sexes, came and went during the
evening, so I had a good opportunity to make a great many new
acquaintances.

Livy is willing to come here with me next April and stay several months
--so I am going home next Tuesday. I would sail on Saturday, but that is
the day of the Lord Mayor's annual grand state dinner, when they say 900
of the great men of the city sit down to table, a great many of them in
their fine official and court paraphernalia, so I must not miss it.
However, I may yet change my mind and sail Saturday. I am looking at a
fine Magic lantern which will cost a deal of money, and if I buy it Sammy
may come and learn to make the gas and work the machinery, and paint
pictures for it on glass. I mean to give exhibitions for charitable
purposes in Hartford, and charge a dollar a head.
In a hurry,
Ys affly
SAM.


He sailed November 12th on the Batavia, arriving in New York two
weeks later. There had been a presidential election in his absence.
General Grant had defeated Horace Greeley, a result, in some measure
at least, attributed to the amusing and powerful pictures of the
cartoonist, Thomas Nast. Mark Twain admired Greeley's talents, but
he regarded him as poorly qualified for the nation's chief
executive. He wrote:


To Th. Nast, in Morristown, N. J.:

HARTFORD, Nov. 1872.
Nast, you more than any other man have won a prodigious victory for
Grant--I mean, rather, for civilization and progress. Those pictures
were simply marvelous, and if any man in the land has a right to hold his
head up and be honestly proud of his share in this year's vast events
that man is unquestionably yourself. We all do sincerely honor you, and
are proud of you.
MARK TWAIN.


Perhaps Mark Twain was too busy at this time to write letters. His
success in England had made him more than ever popular in America,
and he could by no means keep up with the demands on him. In
January he contributed to the New York Tribune some letters on the
Sandwich Islands, but as these were more properly articles they do
not seem to belong here.

He refused to go on the lecture circuit, though he permitted Redpath
to book him for any occasional appearance, and it is due to one of
these special engagements that we have the only letter preserved
from this time. It is to Howells, and written with that
exaggeration with which he was likely to embellish his difficulties.
We are not called upon to believe that there were really any such
demonstrations as those ascribed to Warner and himself.


To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

FARMINGTON AVE, Hartford Feb. 27.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I am in a sweat and Warner is in another. I told
Redpath some time ago I would lecture in Boston any two days he might
choose provided they were consecutive days--

I never dreamed of his choosing days during Lent since that was his
special horror--but all at once he telegraphs me, and hollers at me in
all manner of ways that I am booked for Boston March 5 of all days in the
year--and to make matters just as mixed and uncertain as possible, I
can't find out to save my life whether he means to lecture me on the 6th
or not.

Warner's been in here swearing like a lunatic, and saying he had written
you to come on the 4th,--and I said, "You leather-head, if I talk in
Boston both afternoon and evening March 5, I'll have to go to Boston the
4th,"--and then he just kicked up his heels and went off cursing after a
fashion I never heard of before.

Now let's just leave this thing to Providence for 24 hours--you bet it
will come out all right.
Yours ever
MARK.


He was writing a book with Warner at this time--The Gilded Age
--the two authors having been challenged by their wives one night at
dinner to write a better book than the current novels they had been
discussing with some severity. Clemens already had a story in his
mind, and Warner agreed to collaborate in the writing. It was begun
without delay. Clemens wrote the first three hundred and
ninety-nine pages, and read there aloud to Warner, who took up the
story at this point and continued it through twelve chapters, after
which they worked alternately, and with great enjoyment. They also
worked rapidly, and in April the story was completed. For a
collaboration by two men so different in temperament and literary
method it was a remarkable performance.

Another thing Mark Twain did that winter was to buy some land on
Farmington Avenue and begin the building of a home. He had by no
means given up returning to England, and made his plans to sail with
Mrs. Clemens and Susy in May. Miss Clara Spaulding, of Elmira
--[Later Mrs. John B. Stanchfield, of New York.]--a girlhood friend
of Mrs. Clemens--was to accompany them.

The Daily Graphic heard of the proposed journey, and wrote, asking
for a farewell word. His characteristic reply is the only letter of
any kind that has survived from that spring.


To the Editor of "The Daily Graphic," in New York City:

HARTFORD, Apl. 17, 1873.
ED. GRAPHIC,--Your note is received. If the following two lines which I
have cut from it are your natural handwriting, then I understand you to
ask me "for a farewell letter in the name of the American people." Bless
you, the joy of the American people is just a little premature; I haven't
gone yet. And what is more, I am not going to stay, when I do go.

Yes, it is true. I am only going to remain beyond the sea, six months,
that is all. I love stir and excitement; and so the moment the spring
birds begin to sing, and the lagging weariness of summer to threaten,
I grow restless, I get the fidgets; I want to pack off somewhere where
there's something going on. But you know how that is--you must have felt
that way. This very day I saw the signs in the air of the coming
dullness, and I said to myself, "How glad I am that I have already
chartered a steamship!" There was absolutely nothing in the morning
papers. You can see for yourself what the telegraphic headings were:

BY TELEGRAPH

A Father Killed by His Son

A Bloody Fight in Kentucky

A Court House Fired, and
Negroes Therein Shot
while Escaping

A Louisiana Massacre

An Eight-year-old murderer
Two to Three Hundred Men Roasted Alive!

A Town in a State of General Riot

A Lively Skirmish in Indiana
(and thirty other similar headings.)

The items under those headings all bear date yesterday, Apl. 16 (refer to
your own paper)--and I give you my word of honor that that string of
commonplace stuff was everything there was in the telegraphic columns
that a body could call news. Well, said I to myself this is getting
pretty dull; this is getting pretty dry; there don't appear to be
anything going on anywhere; has this progressive nation gone to sleep?
Have I got to stand another month of this torpidity before I can begin to
browse among the lively capitals of Europe?

But never mind-things may revive while I am away. During the last two
months my next-door neighbor, Chas. Dudley Warner, has dropped his
"Back-Log Studies," and he and I have written a bulky novel in
partnership. He has worked up the fiction and I have hurled in the facts.
I consider it one of the most astonishing novels that ever was written.
Night after night I sit up reading it over and over again and crying. It
will be published early in the Fall, with plenty of pictures. Do you
consider this an advertisement?--and if so, do you charge for such things
when a man is your friend?
Yours truly,
SAML. L. CLEMENS,
"MARK TWAIN,"


An amusing, even if annoying, incident happened about the time of
Mark Twain's departure. A man named Chew related to Twichell a most
entertaining occurrence. Twichell saw great possibilities in it,
and suggested that Mark Twain be allowed to make a story of it,
sharing the profits with Chew. Chew agreed, and promised to send
the facts, carefully set down. Twichell, in the mean time, told the
story to Clemens, who was delighted with it and strongly tempted to
write it at once, while he was in the spirit, without waiting on
Chew. Fortunately, he did not do so, for when Chew's material came
it was in the form of a clipping, the story having been already
printed in some newspaper. Chew's knowledge of literary ethics
would seem to have been slight. He thought himself entitled to
something under the agreement with Twichell. Mark Twain, by this
time in London, naturally had a different opinion.


To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

LONDON, June 9, '73.
DEAR OLD JOE,--I consider myself wholly at liberty to decline to pay Chew
anything, and at the same time strongly tempted to sue him into the
bargain for coming so near ruining me. If he hadn't happened to send me
that thing in print, I would have used the story (like an innocent fool)
and would straightway have been hounded to death as a plagiarist. It
would have absolutely destroyed me. I cannot conceive of a man being such
a hopeless ass (after serving as a legislative reporter, too) as to
imagine that I or any other literary man in his senses would consent to
chew over old stuff that had already been in print. If that man weren't
an infant in swaddling clothes, his only reply to our petition would have
been, "It has been in print." It makes me as mad as the very Old Harry
every time I think of Mr. Chew and the frightfully narrow escape I have
had at his hands. Confound Mr. Chew, with all my heart! I'm willing
that he should have ten dollars for his trouble of warming over his cold
victuals--cheerfully willing to that--but no more. If I had had him near
when his letter came, I would have got out my tomahawk and gone for him.
He didn't tell the story half as well as you did, anyhow.

I wish to goodness you were here this moment--nobody in our parlor but
Livy and me,--and a very good view of London to the fore. We have a
luxuriously ample suite of apartments in the Langham Hotel, 3rd floor,
our bedroom looking straight up Portland Place and our parlor having a
noble array of great windows looking out upon both streets (Portland
Place and the crook that joins it to Regent Street.)