The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 2

M >> Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) >> The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 2


Our game was neatly played, and successfully.--None expected us, of
course. You should have seen the guards at the ducal palace stare when
I said, "Announce his grace the Archbishop of Dublin and the Rt. Hon.
the Earl of Hartford." Arrived within, we were all eyes to see the Duke
of Cambridge and his Duchess, wondering if we might remember their faces,
and they ours. In a moment, they came tottering in; he, bent and
withered and bald; she blooming with wholesome old age. He peered
through his glasses a moment, then screeched in a reedy voice: "Come to
my arms! Away with titles--I'll know ye by no names but Twain and
Twichell! Then fell he on our necks and jammed his trumpet in his ear,
the which we filled with shoutings to this effect: God bless you, old
Howells what is left of you!"

We talked late that night--none of your silent idiot "communings" for us
--of the olden time. We rolled a stream of ancient anecdotes over our
tongues and drank till the lord Archbishop grew so mellow in the mellow
past that Dublin ceased to be Dublin to him and resumed its sweeter
forgotten name of New York. In truth he almost got back into his ancient
religion, too, good Jesuit, as he has always been since O'Mulligan the
First established that faith in the Empire.

And we canvassed everybody. Bailey Aldrich, Marquis of Ponkapog, came
in, got nobly drunk, and told us all about how poor Osgood lost his
earldom and was hanged for conspiring against the second Emperor--but
he didn't mention how near he himself came to being hanged, too, for
engaging in the same enterprise. He was as chaffy as he was sixty years
ago, too, and swore the Archbishop and I never walked to Boston--but
there was never a day that Ponkapog wouldn't lie, so be it by the grace
of God he got the opportunity.

The Lord High Admiral came in, a hale gentleman close upon seventy and
bronzed by the suns and storms of many climes and scarred with the wounds
got in many battles, and I told him how I had seen him sit in a high
chair and eat fruit and cakes and answer to the name of Johnny. His
granddaughter (the eldest) is but lately warned to the youngest of the
Grand Dukes, and so who knows but a day may come when the blood of the
Howells's may reign in the land? I must not forget to say, while I think
of it, that your new false teeth are done, my dear, and your wig. Keep
your head well bundled with a shawl till the latter comes, and so cheat
your persecuting neuralgias and rheumatisms. Would you believe it?--the
Duchess of Cambridge is deafer than you--deafer than her husband. They
call her to breakfast with a salvo of artillery; and usually when it
thunders she looks up expectantly and says "come in....."

The monument to the author of "Gloverson and His Silent partners" is
finished. It is the stateliest and the costliest ever erected to the
memory of any man. This noble classic has now been translated into all
the languages of the earth and is adored by all nations and known to all
creatures. Yet I have conversed as familiarly with the author of it as I
do with my own great-grandchildren.

I wish you could see old Cambridge and Ponkapog. I love them as dearly
as ever, but privately, my dear, they are not much improvement on idiots.
It is melancholy to hear them jabber over the same pointless anecdotes
three and four times of an evening, forgetting that they had jabbered
them over three or four times the evening before. Ponkapog still writes
poetry, but the old-time fire has mostly gone out of it. Perhaps his
best effort of late years is this:

"O soul, soul, soul of mine:
Soul, soul, soul of thine!
Thy soul, my soul, two souls entwine,
And sing thy lauds in crystal wine!"

This he goes about repeating to everybody, daily and nightly, insomuch
that he is become a sore affliction to all that know him.

But I must desist. There are drafts here, everywhere and my gout is
something frightful. My left foot hath resemblance to a snuff-bladder.
God be with you.
HARTFORD.

These to Lady Hartford, in the earldom of Hartford, in the upper portion
of the city of Dublin.


One may imagine the joy of Howells and the others in this ludicrous
extravaganza, which could have been written by no one but Mark
Twain. It will hardly take rank as prophecy, though certainly true
forecast in it is not wholly lacking.

Clemens was now pretty well satisfied with his piloting story, but
he began to have doubts as to its title, "Old Times on the
Mississippi." It seemed to commit him to too large an undertaking.


To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

Dec. 3, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Let us change the heading to "Piloting on the Miss in
the Old Times"--or to "Steamboating on the M. in Old Times"--or to
"Personal Old Times on the Miss."--We could change it for Feb. if now
too late for Jan.--I suggest it because the present heading is too
pretentious, too broad and general. It seems to command me to deliver a
Second Book of Revelation to the world, and cover all the Old Times the
Mississippi (dang that word, it is worse than "type" or "Egypt ") ever
saw--whereas here I have finished Article No. III and am about to start
on No. 4. and yet I have spoken of nothing but of Piloting as a science
so far; and I doubt if I ever get beyond that portion of my subject.
And I don't care to. Any muggins can write about Old Times on the Miss.
of 500 different kinds, but I am the only man alive that can scribble
about the piloting of that day--and no man ever has tried to scribble
about it yet. Its newness pleases me all the time--and it is about the
only new subject I know of. If I were to write fifty articles they would
all be about pilots and piloting--therefore let's get the word Piloting
into the heading. There's a sort of freshness about that, too.
Ys ever,
MARK.


But Howells thought the title satisfactory, and indeed it was the
best that could have been selected for the series. He wrote every
few days of his delight in the papers, and cautioned the author not
to make an attempt to please any "supposed Atlantic audience,"
adding, "Yarn it off into my sympathetic ear." Clemens replied:


To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

H't'f'd. Dec. 8, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It isn't the Atlantic audience that distresses me; for
it is the only audience that I sit down before in perfect serenity (for
the simple reason that it doesn't require a "humorist" to paint himself
striped and stand on his head every fifteen minutes.) The trouble was,
that I was only bent on "working up an atmosphere" and that is to me a
most fidgety and irksome thing, sometimes. I avoid it, usually, but in
this case it was absolutely necessary, else every reader would be
applying the atmosphere of his own or sea experiences, and that shirt
wouldn't fit, you know.

I could have sent this Article II a week ago, or more, but I couldn't
bring myself to the drudgery of revising and correcting it. I have been
at that tedious work 3 hours, now, and by George but I am glad it is
over.

Say--I am as prompt as a clock, if I only know the day a thing is wanted
--otherwise I am a natural procrastinaturalist. Tell me what day and
date you want Nos. 3 and 4, and I will tackle and revise them and they'll
be there to the minute.

I could wind up with No. 4., but there are some things more which I am
powerfully moved to write. Which is natural enough, since I am a person
who would quit authorizing in a minute to go to piloting, if the madam
would stand it. I would rather sink a steamboat than eat, any time.

My wife was afraid to write you--so I said with simplicity, "I will give
you the language--and ideas." Through the infinite grace of God there
has not been such another insurrection in the family before as followed
this. However, the letter was written, and promptly, too--whereas,
heretofore she has remained afraid to do such things.

With kind regards to Mrs. Howells,
Yrs ever,
MARK.


The "Old Times" papers appeared each month in the Atlantic until
July, 1875, and take rank to-day with Mark Twain's best work. When
the first number appeared, John Hay wrote: "It is perfect; no more
nor less. I don't see how you do it." Which was reported to
Howells, who said: "What business has Hay, I should like to know,
praising a favorite of mine? It's interfering."

These were the days when the typewriter was new. Clemens and
Twichell, during their stay in Boston, had seen the marvel in
operation, and Clemens had been unable to resist owning one. It was
far from being the perfect machine of to-day; the letters were all
capitals, and one was never quite certain, even of those. Mark
Twain, however, began with enthusiasm and practised faithfully. On
the day of its arrival he wrote two letters that have survived, the
first to his brother, the other to Howells.


Typewritten letter to W. D. Howells, in Boston:

HARTFORD, Dec. 9, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I want to add a short paragraph to article No. 1, when
the proof comes. Merely a line or two, however.

I don't know whether I am going to make this typewriting machine go or
nto: that last word was intended for n-not; but I guess I shall make some
sort of a succss of it before I run it very long. I am so thick-fingered
that I miss the keys.

You needn't a swer this; I am only practicing to get three; another
slip-up there; only practici?ng to get the hang of the thing. I notice
I miss fire & get in a good many unnecessary letters and punctuation marks.
I am simply using you for a target to bang at. Blame my cats but this
thing requires genius in order to work it just right.
Yours ever,
(M)ARK.



Knowing Mark Twain, Howells wrote: "When you get tired of the
machine send it to me." Clemens naturally did get tired of the
machine; it was ruining his morals, he said. He presently offered
it to Howells, who by this time hesitated, but eventually yielded
and accepted it. If he was blasted by its influence the fact has
not been recorded.

One of the famous Atlantic dinners came along in December. "Don't
you dare to refuse that invitation," wrote Howells, "to meet
Emerson, Aldrich, and all those boys at the Parker House, at six
o'clock, Tuesday, December 15th. Come!"

Clemens had no desire to refuse; he sent word that he would come,
and followed it with a characteristic line.


To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

HARTFORD, Sunday.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I want you to ask Mrs. Howells to let you stay all
night at the Parker House and tell lies and have an improving time, and
take breakfast with me in the morning. I will have a good room for you,
and a fire. Can't you tell her it always makes you sick to go home late
at night, or something like that? That sort of thing rouses Mrs.
Clemens's sympathies, easily; the only trouble is to keep them up.
Twichell and I talked till 2 or 3 in the morning, the night we supped at
your house and it restored his health, on account of his being drooping
for some time and made him much more robuster than what he was before.
Will Mrs. Howells let you?
Yrs ever,
S. L. C.

Aldrich had issued that year a volume of poems, and he presented
Clemens with a copy of it during this Boston visit. The letter of
appreciation which follows contains also reference to an amusing
incident; but we shall come to that presently.


To T. B. Aldrich, in Ponkapog, Mass.

FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD.
Dec. 18, 1874.
MY DEAR ALDRICH,--I read the "Cloth of Gold" through, coming down in the
cars, and it is just lightning poetry--a thing which it gravels me to say
because my own efforts in that line have remained so persistently
unrecognized, in consequence of the envy and jealousy of this generation.
"Baby Bell" always seemed perfection, before, but now that I have
children it has got even beyond that. About the hour that I was reading
it in the cars, Twichell was reading it at home and forthwith fell upon
me with a burst of enthusiasm about it when I saw him. This was
pleasant, because he has long been a lover of it.

"Thos. Bailey Aldrich responded" etc., "in one of the brightest speeches
of the evening."

That is what the Tribune correspondent says. And that is what everybody
that heard it said. Therefore, you keep still. Don't ever be so unwise
as to go on trying to unconvince those people.

I've been skating around the place all day with some girls, with Mrs.
Clemens in the window to do the applause. There would be a power of fun
in skating if you could do it with somebody else's muscles.--There are
about twenty boys booming by the house, now, and it is mighty good to
look at.

I'm keeping you in mind, you see, in the matter of photographs. I have
a couple to enclose in this letter and I want you to say you got them,
and then I shall know I have been a good truthful child.

I am going to send more as I ferret them out, about the place.--And I
won't forget that you are a "subscriber."

The wife and I unite in warm regards to you and Mrs. Aldrich.
Yrs ever,
S. L. CLEMENS.


A letter bearing the same date as the above went back to Howells, we
find, in reference to still another incident, which perhaps should
come first.

Mark Twain up to this time had worn the black "string" necktie of
the West--a decoration which disturbed Mrs. Clemens, and invited
remarks from his friends. He had persisted in it, however, up to
the date of the Atlantic dinner, when Howells and Aldrich decided
that something must be done about it.


To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

HARTFORD, Dec. 18, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I left No. 3, (Miss. chapter) in my eldest's reach, and
it may have gone to the postman and it likewise may have gone into the
fire. I confess to a dread that the latter is the case and that that
stack of MS will have to be written over again. If so, O for the return
of the lamented Herod!

You and Aldrich have made one woman deeply and sincerely grateful--Mrs.
Clemens. For months--I may even say years--she had shown unaccountable
animosity toward my neck-tie, even getting up in the night to take it
with the tongs and blackguard it--sometimes also going so far as to
threaten it.

When I said you and Aldrich had given me two new neck-ties, and that they
were in a paper in my overcoat pocket, she was in a fever of happiness
until she found I was going to frame them; then all the venom in her
nature gathered itself together,--insomuch that I, being near to a door,
went without, perceiving danger.

Now I wear one of the new neck-ties, nothing being sacred in Mrs.
Clemens's eyes that can be perverted to a gaud that shall make the person
of her husband more alluring than it was aforetime.

Jo Twichell was the delightedest old boy I ever saw, when he read the
words you had written in that book. He and I went to the Concert of the
Yale students last night and had a good time.

Mrs. Clemens dreads our going to New Orleans, but I tell her she'll have
to give her consent this time.

With kindest regards unto ye both.
Yrs ever,
S. L. CLEMENS.


The reference to New Orleans at the end of this letter grew
naturally out of the enthusiasm aroused by the Mississippi papers.
The more Clemens wrote about the river the more he wished to revisit
it and take Howells with him. Howells was willing enough to go and
they eventually arranged to take their wives on the excursion. This
seemed all very well and possible, so long as the time was set for
some date in the future still unfixed. But Howells was a busy
editor, and it was much more easy for him to promise good-naturedly
than to agree on a definite time of departure. He explained at
length why he could not make the journey, and added: "Forgive me
having led you on to fix a time; I never thought it would come to
that; I supposed you would die, or something. I am really more
sorry and ashamed than I can make it appear." So the beautiful plan
was put aside, though it was not entirely abandoned for a long time.

We now come to the incident mentioned in Mark Twain's letter to
Aldrich, of December the 18th. It had its beginning at the Atlantic
dinner, where Aldrich had abused Clemens for never sending him any
photographs of himself. It was suggested by one or the other that
his name be put down as a "regular subscriber" for all Mark Twain
photographs as they "came out." Clemens returned home and hunted up
fifty-two different specimens, put each into an envelope, and began
mailing them to him, one each morning. When a few of them had
arrived Aldrich wrote, protesting.

"The police," he said, "have a way of swooping down on that kind of
publication. The other day they gobbled up an entire edition of
'The Life in New York.'"

Whereupon Clemens bundled up the remaining collection--forty-five
envelopes of photographs and prints-and mailed them together.

Aldrich wrote, now, violently declaring the perpetrator of the
outrage to be known to the police; that a sprawling yellow figure
against a green background had been recognized as an admirable
likeness of Mark Twain, alias the jumping Frog, a well-known
Californian desperado, formerly the chief of Henry Plummer's band of
road agents in Montana. The letter was signed, "T. Bayleigh, Chief
of Police." On the back of the envelope "T. Bayleigh" had also
written that it was "no use for the person to send any more letters,
as the post-office at that point was to be blown up. Forty-eight
hogs-head of nitroglycerine had been syrupticiously introduced into
the cellar of the building, and more was expected. R.W.E. H.W.L.
O.W.H., and other conspirators in masks have been seen flitting
about the town for some days past. The greatest excitement combined
with the most intense quietness reigns at Ponkapog."




XV.

LETTERS FROM HARTFORD, 1875. MUCH CORRESPONDENCE WITH HOWELLS

Orion Clemens had kept his job with Bliss only a short time. His mental
make-up was such that it was difficult for him to hold any position long.
He meant to do well, but he was unfortunate in his efforts. His ideas
were seldom practical, his nature was yielding and fickle. He had
returned to Keokuk presently, and being convinced there was a fortune in
chickens, had prevailed upon his brother to purchase for him a little
farm not far from the town. But the chicken business was not lively and
Orion kept the mail hot with manuscripts and propositions of every sort,
which he wanted his brother to take under advisement.

Certainly, to Mark Twain Orion Clemens was a trial. The letters of the
latter show that scarcely one of them but contains the outline of some
rainbow-chasing scheme, full of wild optimism, and the certainty that
somewhere just ahead lies the pot of gold. Only, now and then, there is
a letter of abject humiliation and complete surrender, when some golden
vision, some iridescent soap-bubble, had vanished at his touch. Such
depression did not last; by sunrise he was ready with a new dream, new
enthusiasm, and with a new letter inviting his "brother Sam's" interest
and investment. Yet, his fear of incurring his brother's displeasure was
pitiful, regardless of the fact that he constantly employed the very
means to insure that result. At one time Clemens made him sign a sworn
agreement that he would not suggest any plan or scheme of investment for
the period of twelve months. Orion must have kept this agreement. He
would have gone to the stake before he would have violated an oath, but
the stake would have probably been no greater punishment than his
sufferings that year.

On the whole, Samuel Clemens was surprisingly patient and considerate
with Orion, and there was never a time that he was not willing to help.
Yet there were bound to be moments of exasperation; and once, when his
mother, or sister, had written, suggesting that he encourage his
brother's efforts, he felt moved to write at considerable freedom.


To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:

HARTFORD, Sunday, 1875.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--I Saw Gov. Newell today and he said he was
still moving in the matter of Sammy's appointment--[As a West Point
cadet.]--and would stick to it till he got a result of a positive nature
one way or the other, but thus far he did not know whether to expect
success or defeat.

Ma, whenever you need money I hope you won't be backward about saying so
--you can always have it. We stint ourselves in some ways, but we have
no desire to stint you. And we don't intend to, either.

I can't "encourage" Orion. Nobody can do that, conscientiously, for the
reason that before one's letter has time to reach him he is off on some
new wild-goose chase. Would you encourage in literature a man who, the
older he grows the worse he writes? Would you encourage Orion in the
glaring insanity of studying law? If he were packed and crammed full of
law, it would be worthless lumber to him, for his is such a capricious
and ill-regulated mind that he would apply the principles of the law with
no more judgment than a child of ten years. I know what I am saying.
I laid one of the plainest and simplest of legal questions before Orion
once, and the helpless and hopeless mess he made of it was absolutely
astonishing. Nothing aggravates me so much as to have Orion mention law
or literature to me.

Well, I cannot encourage him to try the ministry, because he would change
his religion so fast that he would have to keep a traveling agent under
wages to go ahead of him to engage pulpits and board for him.

I cannot conscientiously encourage him to do anything but potter around
his little farm and put in his odd hours contriving new and impossible
projects at the rate of 365 a year--which is his customary average.
He says he did well in Hannibal! Now there is a man who ought to be
entirely satisfied with the grandeurs, emoluments and activities of a hen
farm--

If you ask me to pity Orion, I can do that. I can do it every day and
all day long. But one can't "encourage" quick-silver, because the
instant you put your finger on it it isn't there. No, I am saying too
much--he does stick to his literary and legal aspirations; and he
naturally would select the very two things which he is wholly and
preposterously unfitted for. If I ever become able, I mean to put Orion
on a regular pension without revealing the fact that it is a pension.
That is best for him. Let him consider it a periodical loan, and pay
interest out of the principal. Within a year's time he would be looking
upon himself as a benefactor of mine, in the way of furnishing me a good
permanent investment for money, and that would make him happy and
satisfied with himself. If he had money he would share with me in a
moment and I have no disposition to be stingy with him.
Affly
SAM.
Livy sends love.


The New Orleans plan was not wholly dead at this time. Howells
wrote near the end of January that the matter was still being
debated, now and then, but was far from being decided upon. He
hoped to go somewhere with Mrs. Howells for a brief time in March,
he said. Clemens, in haste, replied:


To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

HARTFORD, Jan. 26, 1875.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--When Mrs. Clemens read your letter she said: "Well,
then, wherever they go, in March, the direction will be southward and so
they must give us a visit on the way." I do not know what sort of
control you may be under, but when my wife speaks as positively as that,
I am not in the habit of talking back and getting into trouble. Situated
as I am, I would not be able to understand, now, how you could pass by
this town without feeling that you were running a wanton risk and doing a
daredevil thing. I consider it settled that you are to come in March,
and I would be sincerely sorry to learn that you and Mrs. Howells feel
differently about it.