MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1886-1900

VOLUME IV. 

By Mark Twain

ARRANGED WITH COMMENT BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE

XXVI. LETTERS, 1886-87. JANE CLEMENS'S ROMANCE. UNMAILED LETTERS, ETC. 

 When Clemens had been platforming with Cable and returned to Hartford for his Christmas vacation, the Warner and Clemens families had joined in preparing for him a surprise performance of The Prince and the Pauper. The Clemens household was always given to theatricals, and it was about this time that scenery and a stage were prepared--mainly by the sculptor Gerhardt--for these home performances, after which productions of The Prince and the Pauper were given with considerable regularity to audiences consisting of parents and invited friends. The subject is a fascinating one, but it has been dwelt upon elsewhere. --[In Mark Twain: A on***n, chaps. Cliii and clx. ]--We get a glimpse of one of these occasions as well as of Mark Twain's financial progress in the next brief

*****

To W. D. Howells; in Boston:

 Jan. 3, '86. 

MY DEAR HOWELLS, --The date set for the Prince and Pauper play is tendays hence--Jan. 13. I hope you and Pilla can take a train that arriveshere during the day; the one that leaves Boston toward the end of theafternoon would be a trifle late; the performance would have alreadybegun when you reached the house. 

I'm out of the woods. On the last day of the year I had paid out$182, 000 on the Grant book and it was totally free from debt. 

 Yrs ever

 MARK. 

 Mark Twain's mother was a woman of sturdy character and with a keen sense of humor and tender sympathies. Her husband, John Marshall Clemens, had been a man of high moral character, honored by all who knew him, respected and apparently loved by his wife. No one would ever have supposed that during all her years of marriage, and almost to her death, she carried a secret romance that would only be told at last in the weary disappointment of old age. It is a curious story, and it came to light in this curious way:

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, May 19, '86. 

MY DEAR HOWELLS, --. .. .. Here's a secret. A most curious and patheticromance, which has just come to light. Read these things, but don'tmention them. Last fall, my old mother--then 82--took a notion to attenda convention of old settlers of the Mississippi Valley in an Iowa town. My brother's wife was astonished; and represented to her the hardshipsand fatigues of such a trip, and said my mother might possibly not evensurvive them; and said there could be no possible interest for her insuch a meeting and such a crowd. But my mother insisted, and persisted;and finally gained her point. They started; and all the way my motherwas young again with excitement, interest, eagerness, anticipation. Theyreached the town and the hotel. My mother strode with the same eagernessin her eye and her step, to the counter, and said:

"Is Dr. Barrett of St. Louis, here?"

"No. He was here, but he returned to St. Louis this morning. "

"Will he come again?"

"No. "

My mother turned away, the fire all gone from her, and said, "Let us gohome. "

They went straight back to Keokuk. My mother sat silent and thinkingfor many days--a thing which had never happened before. Then one day shesaid:

"I will tell you a secret. When I was eighteen, a young medical studentnamed Barrett lived in Columbia (Ky. ) eighteen miles away; and he usedto ride over to see me. This continued for some time. I loved him withmy whole heart, and I knew that he felt the same toward me, though nowords had been spoken. He was too bashful to speak--he could not do it. Everybody supposed we were engaged--took it for granted we were--but wewere not. By and by there was to be a party in a neighboring town, andhe wrote my uncle telling him his feelings, and asking him to drive meover in his buggy and let him (Barrett) drive me back, so that he mighthave that opportunity to propose. My uncle should have done as he wasasked, without explaining anything to me; but instead, he read me theletter; and then, of course, I could not go--and did not. He (Barrett)left the country presently, and I, to stop the clacking tongues, and toshow him that I did not care, married, in a pet. In all these sixty-fouryears I have not seen him since. I saw in a paper that he was going toattend that Old Settlers' Convention. Only three hours before we reachedthat hotel, he had been standing there!"

Since then, her memory is wholly faded out and gone; and now she writesletters to the school-mates who had been dead forty years, and wonderswhy they neglect her and do not answer. 

Think of her carrying that pathetic burden in her old heart sixty-fouryears, and no human being ever suspecting it!

 Yrs ever, MARK. 

 We do not get the idea from this letter that those two long ago sweethearts quarreled, but Mark Twain once spoke of their having done so, and there may have been a disagreement, assuming that there was a subsequent meeting. It does not matter, now. In speaking of it, Mark Twain once said: "It is as pathetic a romance as any that has crossed the field of my personal experience in a long lifetime. "-- [When Mark Twain: A Biography was written this letter had not come to light, and the matter was stated there in accordance with Mark Twain's latest memory of it. ]

 Howells wrote: "After all, how poor and hackneyed all the inventions are compared with the simple and stately facts. Who could have imagined such a heart-break as that? Yet it went along with the fulfillment of everyday duty and made no more noise than a grave under foot. I doubt if fiction will ever get the knack of such things. "

 Jane Clemens now lived with her son Orion and his wife, in Keokuk, where she was more contented than elsewhere. In these later days her memory had become erratic, her realization of events about her uncertain, but there were times when she was quite her former self, remembering clearly and talking with her old-time gaiety of spirit. Mark Twain frequently sent her playful letters to amuse her, letters full of such boyish gaiety as had amused her long years before. The one that follows is a fair example. It was written after a visit which Clemens and his family had paid to Keokuk. 

*****

To Jane Clemens, in Keokuk:

 ELMIRA, Aug. 7, '86. 

DEAR MA, --I heard that Molly and Orion and Pamela had been sick, but Isee by your letter that they are much better now, or nearly well. Whenwe visited you a month ago, it seemed to us that your Keokuk weatherwas pretty hot; Jean and Clara sat up in bed at Mrs. McElroy's and criedabout it, and so did I; but I judge by your letter that it has cooleddown, now, so that a person is comparatively comfortable, with his skinoff. Well it did need cooling; I remember that I burnt a hole in myshirt, there, with some ice cream that fell on it; and Miss Jenkins toldme they never used a stove, but cooked their meals on a marble-toppedtable in the drawing-room, just with the natural heat. If anybody elsehad told me, I would not have believed it. I was told by the Bishop ofKeokuk that he did not allow crying at funerals, because it scalded thefurniture. If Miss Jenkins had told me that, I would have believed it. This reminds me that you speak of Dr. Jenkins and his family as if theywere strangers to me. Indeed they are not. Don't you suppose I remembergratefully how tender the doctor was with Jean when she hurt her arm, and how quickly he got the pain out of the hurt, whereas I supposed itwas going to last at least an hour? No, I don't forget some things aseasily as I do others. 

Yes, it was pretty hot weather. Now here, when a person is going to die, he is always in a sweat about where he is going to; but in Keokuk ofcourse they don't care, because they are fixed for everything. It hasset me reflecting, it has taught me a lesson. By and by, when my healthfails, I am going to put all my affairs in order, and bid good-bye to myfriends here, and kill all the people I don't like, and go out to Keokukand prepare for death. 

They are all well in this family, and we all send love. 

 Affly Your Son SAM. 

 The ways of city officials and corporations are often past understanding, and Mark Twain sometimes found it necessary to write picturesque letters of protest. The following to a Hartford lighting company is a fair example of these documents. 

*****

To a gas and electric-lighting company, in Hartford:

GENTLEMEN, --There are but two places in our whole street where lightscould be of any value, by any accident, and you have measured andappointed your intervals so ingeniously as to leave each of those placesin the centre of a couple of hundred yards of solid darkness. When Inoticed that you were setting one of your lights in such a way that Icould almost see how to get into my gate at night, I suspected that itwas a piece of carelessness on the part of the workmen, and would becorrected as soon as you should go around inspecting and find it out. My judgment was right; it is always right, when you axe concerned. Forfifteen years, in spite of my prayers and tears, you persistently kepta gas lamp exactly half way between my gates, so that I couldn't findeither of them after dark; and then furnished such execrable gas that Ihad to hang a danger signal on the lamp post to keep teams from runninginto it, nights. Now I suppose your present idea is, to leave us alittle more in the dark. 

Don't mind us--out our way; we possess but one vote apiece, and norights which you are in any way bound to respect. Please take yourelectric light and go to--but never mind, it is not for me to suggest;you will probably find the way; and any way you can reasonably count ondivine assistance if you lose your bearings. 

 S. L. CLEMENS. 

 [Etext Editor's Note: Twain wrote another note to Hartford Gas and Electric, which he may not have mailed and which Paine does not include in these volumes:

 "Gentleman:--Someday you are going to move me almost to the point of irritation with your God-damned chuckle headed fashion of turning off your God-damned gas without giving notice to your God-damned parishioners--and you did it again last night--" D. W. ]

 Frequently Clemens did not send letters of this sort after they were written. Sometimes he realized the uselessness of such protest, sometimes the mere writing of them had furnished the necessary relief, and he put, the letter away, or into the wastebasket, and wrote something more temperate, or nothing at all. A few such letters here follow. 

 Clemens was all the time receiving application from people who wished him to recommend one article or another; books, plays, tobacco, and what not. They were generally persistent people, unable to accept a polite or kindly denial. Once he set down some remarks on this particular phase of correspondence. He wrote:

I

No doubt Mr. Edison has been offered a large interest in many and manyan electrical project, for the use of his name to float it withal. And no doubt all men who have achieved for their names, in any line ofactivity whatever, a sure market value, have been familiar with thissort of solicitation. Reputation is a hall-mark: it can remove doubtfrom pure silver, and it can also make the plated article pass for pure. 

And so, people without a hall-mark of their own are always trying to getthe loan of somebody else's. 

As a rule, that kind of a person sees only one side of the case. He seesthat his invention or his painting or his book is--apparently--a triflebetter than you yourself can do, therefore why shouldn't you be willingto put your hall-mark on it? You will be giving the purchaser his fullmoney's worth; so who is hurt, and where is the harm? Besides, are younot helping a struggling fellow-craftsman, and is it not your duty to dothat?

That side is plenty clear enough to him, but he can't and won't see theother side, to-wit: that you are a rascal if you put your hall-mark upona thing which you did not produce yourself, howsoever good it may be. How simple that is; and yet there are not two applicants in a hundredwho can, be made to see it. 

When one receives an application of this sort, his first emotion isan indignant sense of insult; his first deed is the penning of a sharpanswer. He blames nobody but that other person. That person is a verybase being; he must be; he would degrade himself for money, otherwise itwould not occur to him that you would do such a thing. But all thesame, that application has done its work, and taken you down in your ownestimation. You recognize that everybody hasn't as high an opinionof you as you have of yourself; and in spite of you there ensues aninterval during which you are not, in your own estimation as fine a birdas you were before. 

However, being old and experienced, you do not mail your sharp letter, but leave it lying a day. That saves you. For by that time you havebegun to reflect that you are a person who deals in exaggerations--andexaggerations are lies. You meant yours to be playful, and thought youmade them unmistakably so. But you couldn't make them playfulnesses to aman who has no sense of the playful and can see nothing but the seriousside of things. You rattle on quite playfully, and with measurelessextravagance, about how you wept at the tomb of Adam; and all in goodtime you find to your astonishment that no end of people took you atyour word and believed you. And presently they find out that you werenot in earnest. They have been deceived; therefore, (as they argue--andthere is a sort of argument in it, ) you are a deceiver. If you willdeceive in one way, why shouldn't you in another? So they apply for theuse of your trade-mark. You are amazed and affronted. You retort thatyou are not that kind of person. Then they are amazed and affronted; andwonder "since when?"

By this time you have got your bearings. You realize that perhaps thereis a little blame on both sides. You are in the right frame, now. Soyou write a letter void of offense, declining. You mail this one; youpigeon-hole the other. 

That is, being old and experienced, you do, but early in your career, you don't: you mail the first one. 

II

An enthusiast who had a new system of musical notation, wrote to me andsuggested that a magazine article from me, contrasting the absurditiesof the old system with the simplicities of his new one, would be sure tomake a "rousing hit. " He shouted and shouted over the marvels wrought byhis system, and quoted the handsome compliments which had been paid itby famous musical people; but he forgot to tell me what his notation waslike, or what its simplicities consisted in. So I could not have writtenthe article if I had wanted to--which I didn't; because I hate strangerswith axes to grind. I wrote him a courteous note explaining how busy Iwas--I always explain how busy I am--and casually drooped this remark:

"I judge the X-X notation to be a rational mode of representing music, in place of the prevailing fashion, which was the invention of anidiot. "

Next mail he asked permission to print that meaningless remark. Ianswered, no--courteously, but still, no; explaining that I could notafford to be placed in the attitude of trying to influence people with amere worthless guess. What a scorcher I got, next mail! Such irony! suchsarcasm, such caustic praise of my superhonorable loyalty to the public!And withal, such compassion for my stupidity, too, in not being able tounderstand my own language. I cannot remember the words of this letterbroadside, but there was about a page used up in turning this idea roundand round and exposing it in different lights. 

 Unmailed Answer:

DEAR SIR, --What is the trouble with you? If it is your viscera, youcannot have them taken out and reorganized a moment too soon. I mean, if they are inside. But if you are composed of them, that is anothermatter. Is it your brain? But it could not be your brain. Possibly it isyour skull: you want to look out for that. Some people, when they get anidea, it pries the structure apart. Your system of notation has got inthere, and couldn't find room, without a doubt that is what the troubleis. Your skull was not made to put ideas in, it was made to throwpotatoes at. 

 Yours Truly. 

 Mailed Answer:

DEAR SIR, --Come, come--take a walk; you disturb the children. 

 Yours Truly. 

There was a day, now happily nearly over, when certain newspapers made apractice of inviting men distinguished in any walk of life to give theirtime and effort without charge to express themselves on some subject ofthe day, or perhaps they were asked to send their favorite passages inprose or verse, with the reasons why. Such symposiums were "features"that cost the newspapers only the writing of a number of letters, stationery, and postage. To one such invitation Mark Twain wrote tworeplies. They follow herewith:

 Unmailed Answer:

DEAR SIR, --I have received your proposition--which you have imitatedfrom a pauper London periodical which had previously imitated the ideaof this sort of mendicancy from seventh-rate American journalism, whereit originated as a variation of the inexpensive "interview. "

Why do you buy Associated Press dispatches? To make your paper themore salable, you answer. But why don't you try to beg them? Why doyou discriminate? I can sell my stuff; why should I give it to you? Whydon't you ask me for a shirt? What is the difference between asking mefor the worth of a shirt and asking me for the shirt itself? Perhaps youdidn't know you were begging. I would not use that argument--it makesthe user a fool. The passage of poetry--or prose, if you will--whichhas taken deepest root in my thought, and which I oftenest return to anddwell upon with keenest no matter what, is this: That the proper placefor journalists who solicit literary charity is on the street cornerwith their hats in their hands. 

 Mailed Answer:

DEAR SIR, --Your favor of recent date is received, but I am obliged bypress of work to decline. 

 The manager of a traveling theatrical company wrote that he had taken the liberty of dramatizing Tom Sawyer, and would like also the use of the author's name--the idea being to convey to the public that it was a Mark Twain play. In return for this slight favor the manager sent an invitation for Mark Twain to come and see the play --to be present on the opening night, as it were, at his (the manager's) expense. He added that if the play should be a go in the cities there might be some "arrangement" of profits. Apparently these inducements did not appeal to Mark Twain. The long unmailed reply is the more interesting, but probably the briefer one that follows it was quite as effective. 

 Unmailed Answer:

 HARTFORD, Sept. 8, '87. 

DEAR SIR, --And so it has got around to you, at last; and you also have"taken the liberty. " You are No. 1365. When 1364 sweeter and betterpeople, including the author, have "tried" to dramatize Tom Sawyer anddid not arrive, what sort of show do you suppose you stand? That is abook, dear sir, which cannot be dramatized. One might as well try todramatize any other hymn. Tom Sawyer is simply a hymn, put into proseform to give it a worldly air. 

Why the pale doubt that flitteth dim and nebulous athwart the forecastleof your third sentence? Have no fears. Your piece will be a Go. It willgo out the back door on the first night. They've all done it--the1364. So will 1365. Not one of us ever thought of the simple deviceof half-soling himself with a stove-lid. Ah, what suffering a littlehindsight would have saved us. Treasure this hint. 

How kind of you to invite me to the funeral. Go to; I have attended athousand of them. I have seen Tom Sawyer's remains in all the differentkinds of dramatic shrouds there are. You cannot start anything fresh. Are you serious when you propose to pay my expence--if that is theSusquehannian way of spelling it? And can you be aware that I charge ahundred dollars a mile when I travel for pleasure? Do you realize thatit is 432 miles to Susquehanna? Would it be handy for you to send methe $43, 200 first, so I could be counting it as I come along; becauserailroading is pretty dreary to a sensitive nature when there's nothingsordid to buck at for Zeitvertreib. 

Now as I understand it, dear and magnanimous 1365, you are going torecreate Tom Sawyer dramatically, and then do me the compliment to putme in the bills as father of this shady offspring. Sir, do you know thatthis kind of a compliment has destroyed people before now? Listen. 

Twenty-four years ago, I was strangely handsome. The remains of it arestill visible through the rifts of time. I was so handsome that humanactivities ceased as if spellbound when I came in view, and eveninanimate things stopped to look--like locomotives, and districtmessenger boys and so-on. In San Francisco, in the rainy season I wasoften mistaken for fair weather. Upon one occasion I was traveling inthe Sonora region, and stopped for an hour's nooning, to rest myhorse and myself. All the town came out to look. The tribes of Indiansgathered to look. A Piute squaw named her baby for me, --a voluntarycompliment which pleased me greatly. Other attentions were paid me. Last of all arrived the president and faculty of Sonora Universityand offered me the post of Professor of Moral Culture and the DogmaticHumanities; which I accepted gratefully, and entered at once upon myduties. But my name had pleased the Indians, and in the deadly kindnessof their hearts they went on naming their babies after me. I tried tostop it, but the Indians could not understand why I should object to somanifest a compliment. The thing grew and grew and spread and spreadand became exceedingly embarrassing. The University stood it a couple ofyears; but then for the sake of the college they felt obliged to calla halt, although I had the sympathy of the whole faculty. The presidenthimself said to me, "I am as sorry as I can be for you, and would stillhold out if there were any hope ahead; but you see how it is: there area hundred and thirty-two of them already, and fourteen precincts tohear from. The circumstance has brought your name into most wide andunfortunate renown. It causes much comment--I believe that that isnot an over-statement. Some of this comment is palliative, but some ofit--by patrons at a distance, who only know the statistics withoutthe explanation, --is offensive, and in some cases even violent. Ninestudents have been called home. The trustees of the college have beengrowing more and more uneasy all these last months--steadily along withthe implacable increase in your census--and I will not conceal from youthat more than once they have touched upon the expediency of a change inthe Professorship of Moral Culture. The coarsely sarcastic editorialin yesterday's Alta, headed Give the Moral Acrobat a Rest--has broughtthings to a crisis, and I am charged with the unpleasant duty ofreceiving your resignation. "

I know you only mean me a kindness, dear 1365, but it is a most deadlymistake. Please do not name your Injun for me. Truly Yours. 

 Mailed Answer:

 NEW YORK, Sept. 8. 1887. 

DEAR SIR, --Necessarily I cannot assent to so strange a proposition. AndI think it but fair to warn you that if you put the piece on the stage, you must take the legal consequences. 

 Yours respectfully, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Before the days of international copyright no American author's books were pirated more freely by Canadian publishers than those of Mark Twain. It was always a sore point with him that these books, cheaply printed, found their way into the United States, and were sold in competition with his better editions. The law on the subject seemed to be rather hazy, and its various interpretations exasperating. In the next unmailed letter Mark Twain relieves himself to a misguided official. The letter is worth reading today, if for no other reason, to show the absurdity of copyright conditions which prevailed at that time. 

 Unmailed Letter to H. C. Christiancy, on book Piracy:

 HARTFORD, Dec. 18, '87. 

H. C. CHRISTIANCY, ESQ. 

DEAR SIR, --As I understand it, the position of the U. S. Government isthis: If a person be captured on the border with counterfeit bondsin his hands--bonds of the N. Y. Central Railway, for instance--theprocedure in his case shall be as follows:

1. If the N. Y. C. Have not previously filed in the several policeoffices along the border, proof of ownership of the originals of thebonds, the government officials must collect a duty on the counterfeits, and then let them go ahead and circulate in this country. 

2. But if there is proof already on file, then the N. Y. C. May pay theduty and take the counterfeits. 

But in no case will the United States consent to go without its share ofthe swag. It is delicious. The biggest and proudest government on earthturned sneak-thief; collecting pennies on stolen property, and pocketingthem with a greasy and libidinous leer; going into partnership withforeign thieves to rob its own children; and when the child escapes theforeigner, descending to the abysmal baseness of hanging on androbbing the infant all alone by itself! Dear sir, this is not any morerespectable than for a father to collect toll on the forced prostitutionof his own daughter; in fact it is the same thing. Upon these terms, what is a U. S. Custom house but a "fence?" That is all it is: alegalized trader in stolen goods. 

And this nasty law, this filthy law, this unspeakable law calls itselfa "regulation for the protection of owners of copyright!" Can sarcasm gofurther than that? In what way does it protect them? Inspiration itselfcould not furnish a rational answer to that question. Whom doesit protect, then? Nobody, as far as I can see, but the foreignthief--sometimes--and his fellow-footpad the U. S. Government, all thetime. What could the Central Company do with the counterfeit bonds afterit had bought them of the star spangled banner Master-thief? Sellthem at a dollar apiece and fetch down the market for the genuinehundred-dollar bond? What could I do with that 20-cent copy of "RoughingIt" which the United States has collared on the border and is waitingto release to me for cash in case I am willing to come down to itsmoral level and help rob myself? Sell it at ten or fifteen cents--dutyadded--and destroy the market for the original $3, 50 book? Who ever didinvent that law? I would like to know the name of that immortal jackass. 

Dear sir, I appreciate your courtesy in stretching your authority in thedesire to do me a kindness, and I sincerely thank you for it. But I haveno use for that book; and if I were even starving for it I would not payduty on in either to get it or suppress it. No doubt there are ways inwhich I might consent to go into partnership with thieves and fences, but this is not one of them. This one revolts the remains of myself-respect; turns my stomach. I think I could companion with ahighwayman who carried a shot-gun and took many risks; yes, I thinkI should like that if I were younger; but to go in with a big richgovernment that robs paupers, and the widows and orphans of paupers andtakes no risk--why the thought just gags me. 

Oh, no, I shall never pay any duties on pirated books of mine. I am muchtoo respectable for that--yet awhile. But here--one thing that grovelsme is this: as far as I can discover--while freely granting that the U. S. Copyright laws are far and away the most idiotic that exist anywhereon the face of the earth--they don't authorize the government to admitpirated books into this country, toll or no toll. And so I think thatthat regulation is the invention of one of those people--as a rule, early stricken of God, intellectually--the departmental interpretersof the laws, in Washington. They can always be depended on to take anyreasonably good law and interpret the common sense all out of it. They can be depended on, every time, to defeat a good law, and make itinoperative--yes, and utterly grotesque, too, mere matter for laughterand derision. Take some of the decisions of the Post-office Department, for instance--though I do not mean to suggest that that asylum is anyworse than the others for the breeding and nourishing of incrediblelunatics--I merely instance it because it happens to be the first tocome into my mind. Take that case of a few years ago where the P. M. General suddenly issued an edict requiring you to add the name of theState after Boston, New York, Chicago, &c, in your superscriptions, on pain of having your letter stopped and forwarded to the dead-letteroffice; yes, and I believe he required the county, too. He made onelittle concession in favor of New York: you could say "New York City, "and stop there; but if you left off the "city, " you must add "N. Y. " toyour "New York. " Why, it threw the business of the whole country intochaos and brought commerce almost to a stand-still. Now think of that!When that man goes to--to--well, wherever he is going to--we shan't wantthe microscopic details of his address. I guess we can find him. 

Well, as I was saying, I believe that this whole paltry and ridiculousswindle is a pure creation of one of those cabbages that used to be atthe head of one of those Retreats down there--Departments, you know--andthat you will find it so, if you will look into it. And moreover--butland, I reckon we are both tired by this time. 

 Truly Yours, MARK TWAIN. 

XXVII. MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS OF 1887. LITERARY ARTICLES. PEACEFUL DAYSAT THE FARM. FAVORITE READING. APOLOGY TO MRS. CLEVELAND, ETC. 

We have seen in the preceding chapter how unknown aspirants in one fieldor another were always seeking to benefit by Mark Twain's reputation. Once he remarked, "The symbol of the human race ought to be an ax; everyhuman being has one concealed about him somewhere. " He declared whena stranger called on him, or wrote to him, in nine cases out of ten hecould distinguish the gleam of the ax almost immediately. The followingletter is closely related to those of the foregoing chapter, only thatthis one was mailed--not once, but many times, in some form adapted tothe specific applicant. It does not matter to whom it was originallywritten, the name would not be recognized. 

*****

To Mrs. T. Concerning unearned credentials, etc. 

 HARTFORD, 1887. 

MY DEAR MADAM, --It is an idea which many people have had, but it is ofno value. I have seen it tried out many and many a time. I have seena lady lecturer urged and urged upon the public in a lavishlycomplimentary document signed by Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes and someothers of supreme celebrity, but--there was nothing in her and shefailed. If there had been any great merit in her she never would haveneeded those men's help and (at her rather mature age, ) would never haveconsented to ask for it. 

There is an unwritten law about human successes, and your sister mustbow to that law, she must submit to its requirements. In brief this lawis:

 1. No occupation without an apprenticeship. 

 2. No pay to the apprentice. 

This law stands right in the way of the subaltern who wants to be aGeneral before he has smelt powder; and it stands (and should stand) ineverybody's way who applies for pay or position before he has servedhis apprenticeship and proved himself. Your sister's course is perfectlyplain. Let her enclose this letter to Maj. J. B. Pond, and offer tolecture a year for $10 a week and her expenses, the contract tobe annullable by him at any time, after a month's notice, but notannullable by her at all. The second year, he to have her services, ifhe wants them, at a trifle under the best price offered her by anybodyelse. 

She can learn her trade in those two years, and then be entitled toremuneration--but she can not learn it in any less time than that, unless she is a human miracle. 

Try it, and do not be afraid. It is the fair and right thing. If shewins, she will win squarely and righteously, and never have to blush. 

 Truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Howells wrote, in February, offering to get a publisher to take the Library of Humor off Mark Twain's hands. Howells had been paid twenty-six hundred dollars for the work on it, and his conscience hurt him when he reflected that the book might never be used. In this letter he also refers to one of the disastrous inventions in which Clemens had invested--a method of casting brass dies for stamping book-covers and wall-paper. Howells's purpose was to introduce something of the matter into his next story. Mark Twain's reply gives us a light on this particular invention. 

 HARTFORD, Feb. 15, '87. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I was in New York five days ago, and Webster mentionedthe Library, and proposed to publish it a year or a year and half hence. I have written him your proposition to-day. (The Library is part of theproperty of the C. L. W. & Co. Firm. )

I don't remember what that technical phrase was, but I think you willfind it in any Cyclopedia under the head of "Brass. " The thing I bestremember is, that the self-styled "inventor" had a very ingenious wayof keeping me from seeing him apply his invention: the first appointmentwas spoiled by his burning down the man's shop in which it was to bedone, the night before; the second was spoiled by his burning down hisown shop the night before. He unquestionably did both of these things. He really had no invention; the whole project was a blackmailingswindle, and cost me several thousand dollars. 

The slip you sent me from the May "Study" has delighted Mrs. Clemens andme to the marrow. To think that thing might be possible to many; but tobe brave enough to say it is possible to you only, I certainlybelieve. The longer I live the clearer I perceive how unmatchable, howunapproachable, a compliment one pays when he says of a man "he has thecourage (to utter) his convictions. " Haven't you had reviewers talk Alpsto you, and then print potato hills?

I haven't as good an opinion of my work as you hold of it, but I'vealways done what I could to secure and enlarge my good opinion of it. I've always said to myself, "Everybody reads it and that's something--itsurely isn't pernicious, or the most acceptable people would get prettytired of it. " And when a critic said by implication that it wasn'thigh and fine, through the remark "High and fine literature is wine" Iretorted (confidentially, to myself, ) "yes, high and fine literature iswine, and mine is only water; but everybody likes water. "

You didn't tell me to return that proof-slip, so I have pasted it intomy private scrap-book. None will see it there. With a thousand thanks. 

 Ys Ever MARK. 

 Our next letter is an unmailed answer, but it does not belong with the others, having been withheld for reasons of quite a different sort. Jeanette Gilder, then of the Critic, was one of Mark Twain's valued friends. In the comment which he made, when it was shown to him twenty-two years later, he tells us why he thinks this letter was not sent. The name, "Rest-and-be-Thankful, " was the official title given to the summer place at Elmira, but it was more often known as "Quarry. "

*****

To Jeannette Gilder (not mailed):

 HARTFORD, May 14, '87. 

MY DEAR MISS GILDER, --We shall spend the summer at the same oldplace-the remote farm called "Rest-and-be-Thankful, " on top of the hillsthree miles from Elmira, N. Y. Your other question is harder to answer. It is my habit to keep four or five books in process of erection all thetime, and every summer add a few courses of bricks to two or three ofthem; but I cannot forecast which of the two or three it is going to be. It takes seven years to complete a book by this method, but still it isa good method: gives the public a rest. I have been accused of "rushinginto print" prematurely, moved thereto by greediness for money; but intruth I have never done that. Do you care for trifles of information?(Well, then, "Tom Sawyer" and "The Prince and the Pauper" were eachon the stocks two or three years, and "Old Times on the Mississippi"eight. ) One of my unfinished books has been on the stocks sixteen years;another seventeen. This latter book could have been finished in a day, at any time during the past five years. But as in the first of these twonarratives all the action takes place in Noah's ark, and as in the otherthe action takes place in heaven, there seemed to be no hurry, and so Ihave not hurried. Tales of stirring adventure in those localities donot need to be rushed to publication lest they get stale by waiting. Intwenty-one years, with all my time at my free disposal I have writtenand completed only eleven books, whereas with half the labor thata journalist does I could have written sixty in that time. I do notgreatly mind being accused of a proclivity for rushing into print, butat the same time I don't believe that the charge is really well founded. Suppose I did write eleven books, have you nothing to be grateful for?Go to---remember the forty-nine which I didn't write. 

 Truly Yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Notes (added twenty-two years later):

Stormfield, April 30, 1909. It seems the letter was not sent. I probablyfeared she might print it, and I couldn't find a way to say so withoutrunning a risk of hurting her. No one would hurt Jeannette Gilderpurposely, and no one would want to run the risk of doing itunintentionally. She is my neighbor, six miles away, now, and I must askher about this ancient letter. 

I note with pride and pleasure that I told no untruths in my unsentanswer. I still have the habit of keeping unfinished books lying aroundyears and years, waiting. I have four or five novels on hand at presentin a half-finished condition, and it is more than three years since Ihave looked at any of them. I have no intention of finishing them. Icould complete all of them in less than a year, if the impulse shouldcome powerfully upon me: Long, long ago money-necessity furnished thatimpulse once, ("Following the Equator"), but mere desire for money hasnever furnished it, so far as I remember. Not even money-necessity wasable to overcome me on a couple of occasions when perhaps I ought tohave allowed it to succeed. While I was a bankrupt and in debt twooffers were made me for weekly literary contributions to continue duringa year, and they would have made a debtless man of me, but I declinedthem, with my wife's full approval, for I had known of no instance wherea man had pumped himself out once a week and failed to run "emptyings"before the year was finished. 

As to that "Noah's Ark" book, I began it in Edinburgh in 1873;--[This isnot quite correct. The "Noah's Ark" book was begun in Buffalo in1870. ] I don't know where the manuscript is now. It was a Diary, whichprofessed to be the work of Shem, but wasn't. I began it again severalmonths ago, but only for recreation; I hadn't any intention of carryingit to a finish--or even to the end of the first chapter, in fact. 

As to the book whose action "takes place in Heaven. " That was asmall thing, ("Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven. ") It lay in mypigeon-holes 40 years, then I took it out and printed it in Harper'sMonthly last year. 

 S. L. C. 

In the next letter we get a pretty and peaceful picture of"Rest-and-be-Thankful. " These were Mark Twain's balmy days. Thefinancial drain of the type-machine was heavy but not yet exhausting, and the prospect of vast returns from it seemed to grow brightereach day. His publishing business, though less profitable, was stillprosperous, his family life was ideal. How gratefully, then, he couldenter into the peace of that "perfect day. "

*****

To Mrs. Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Ia. :

 ON THE HILL NEAR ELMIRA, July 10, '87. 

DEAR MOLLIE, --This is a superb Sunday for weather--very cloudy, and thethermometer as low as 65. The city in the valley is purple with shade, as seen from up here at the study. The Cranes are reading and loafingin the canvas-curtained summer-house 50 yards away on a higher (thehighest) point; the cats are loafing over at "Ellerslie" which is thechildren's estate and dwellinghouse in their own private grounds (bydeed from Susie Crane) a hundred yards from the study, amongst theclover and young oaks and willows. Livy is down at the house, butI shall now go and bring her up to the Cranes to help us occupy thelounges and hammocks--whence a great panorama of distant hill andvalley and city is seeable. The children have gone on a lark through theneighboring hills and woods. It is a perfect day indeed. 

 With love to you all. SAM. 

Two days after this letter was written we get a hint of what was thebeginning of business trouble--that is to say, of the failing health ofCharles L. Webster. Webster was ambitious, nervous, and not robust. Hehad overworked and was paying the penalty. His trouble was neurasthenia, and he was presently obliged to retire altogether from the business. The"Sam and Mary" mentioned were Samuel Moffet and his wife. 

*****

To Mrs. Pamela Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y. 

 ELMIRA, July 12, '87

MY DEAR SISTER, --I had no idea that Charley's case was so serious. Iknew it was bad, and persistent, but I was not aware of the full size ofthe matter. 

I have just been writing to a friend in Hartford' who treated whatI imagine was a similar case surgically last fall, and produced apermanent cure. If this is a like case, Charley must go to him. 

If relief fails there, he must take the required rest, whether thebusiness can stand it or not. 

It is most pleasant to hear such prosperous accounts of Sam and Mary, Ido not see how Sam could well be more advantageously fixed. He can growup with that paper, and achieve a successful life. 

It is not all holiday here with Susie and Clara this time. They have toput in some little time every day on their studies. Jean thinks she isstudying too, but I don't know what it is unless it is the horses;she spends the day under their heels in the stables--and that is but acontinuation of her Hartford system of culture. 

With love from us all to you all. 

 Affectionately SAM. 

Mark Twain had a few books that he read regularly every year or two. Among these were 'Pepys's Diary', Suetonius's 'Lives of the TwelveCaesars', and Thomas Carlyle's 'French Revolution'. He had a passion forhistory, biography, and personal memoirs of any sort. In his early lifehe had cared very little for poetry, but along in the middle eightieshe somehow acquired a taste for Browning and became absorbed in it. ABrowning club assembled as often as once a week at the Clemens home inHartford to listen to his readings of the master. He was an impressivereader, and he carefully prepared himself for these occasions, indicating by graduated underscorings, the exact values he wished togive to words and phrases. Those were memorable gatherings, and theymust have continued through at least two winters. It is one of thepuzzling phases of Mark Twain's character that, notwithstanding hispassion for direct and lucid expression, he should have found pleasurein the poems of Robert Browning. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 ELMIRA, Aug. 22, '87. 

MY DEAR HOWELLS, --How stunning are the changes which age makes in a manwhile he sleeps. When I finished Carlyle's French Revolution in 1871, I was a Girondin; every time I have read it since, I have read itdifferently being influenced and changed, little by little, by life andenvironment (and Taine and St. Simon): and now I lay the book downonce more, and recognize that I am a Sansculotte!--And not a pale, characterless Sansculotte, but a Marat. Carlyle teaches no such gospelso the change is in me--in my vision of the evidences. 

People pretend that the Bible means the same to them at 50 that it didat all former milestones in their journey. I wonder how they can lie so. It comes of practice, no doubt. They would not say that of Dickens's orScott's books. Nothing remains the same. When a man goes back to look atthe house of his childhood, it has always shrunk: there is no instanceof such a house being as big as the picture in memory and imaginationcall for. Shrunk how? Why, to its correct dimensions: the house hasn'taltered; this is the first time it has been in focus. 

Well, that's loss. To have house and Bible shrink so, under thedisillusioning corrected angle, is loss-for a moment. But there arecompensations. You tilt the tube skyward and bring planets and cometsand corona flames a hundred and fifty thousand miles high into thefield. Which I see you have done, and found Tolstoi. I haven't got himin focus yet, but I've got Browning. .. . 

 Ys Ever MARK. 

 Mention has been made already of Mark Twain's tendency to absentmindedness. He was always forgetting engagements, or getting them wrong. Once he hurried to an afternoon party, and finding the mistress of the house alone, sat down and talked to her comfortably for an hour or two, not remembering his errand at all. It was only when he reached home that he learned that the party had taken place the week before. It was always dangerous for him to make engagements, and he never seemed to profit by sorrowful experience. We, however, may profit now by one of his amusing apologies. 

*****

To Mrs. Grover Cleveland, in Washington:

 HARTFORD, Nov. 6, 1887. 

MY DEAR MADAM, --I do not know how it is in the White House, but in thishouse of ours whenever the minor half of the administration tries to runitself without the help of the major half it gets aground. Last nightwhen I was offered the opportunity to assist you in the throwing openthe Warner brothers superb benefaction in Bridgeport to those fortunatewomen, I naturally appreciated the honor done me, and promptly seized mychance. I had an engagement, but the circumstances washed it out ofmy mind. If I had only laid the matter before the major half of theadministration on the spot, there would have been no blunder; butI never thought of that. So when I did lay it before her, later, Irealized once more that it will not do for the literary fraction of acombination to try to manage affairs which properly belong in the officeof the business bulk of it. I suppose the President often acts just likethat: goes and makes an impossible promise, and you never find it outuntil it is next to impossible to break it up and set thingsstraight again. Well, that is just our way, exactly-one half of theadministration always busy getting the family into trouble, and theother half busy getting it out again. And so we do seem to be all prettymuch alike, after all. The fact is, I had forgotten that we were to havea dinner party on that Bridgeport date--I thought it was the next day:which is a good deal of an improvement for me, because I am more usedto being behind a day or two than ahead. But that is just the differencebetween one end of this kind of an administration and the other end ofit, as you have noticed, yourself--the other end does not forget thesethings. Just so with a funeral; if it is the man's funeral, he is mostalways there, of course--but that is no credit to him, he wouldn't bethere if you depended on him to remember about it; whereas, if on theother hand--but I seem to have got off from my line of argument somehow;never mind about the funeral. Of course I am not meaning to sayanything against funerals--that is, as occasions--mere occasions--for asdiversions I don't think they amount to much But as I was saying--if youare not busy I will look back and see what it was I was saying. 

I don't seem to find the place; but anyway she was as sorry as everanybody could be that I could not go to Bridgeport, but there wasno help for it. And I, I have been not only sorry but very sincerelyashamed of having made an engagement to go without first making surethat I could keep it, and I do not know how to apologize enough for myheedless breach of good manners. 

 With the sincerest respect, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Samuel Clemens was one of the very few authors to copyright a book in England before the enactment of the international copyright law. As early as 1872 he copyrighted 'Roughing It' in England, and piratical publishers there respected his rights. Finally, in 1887, the inland revenue office assessed him with income tax, which he very willingly paid, instructing his London publishers, Chatto & Windus, to pay on the full amount he had received from them. But when the receipt for his taxes came it was nearly a yard square with due postage of considerable amount. Then he wrote:

*****

To Mr. Chatto, of Chatto & Windus, in London:

 HARTFORD, Dec. 5, '87. 

MY DEAR CHATTO, --Look here, I don't mind paying the tax, but don't youlet the Inland Revenue Office send me any more receipts for it, for thepostage is something perfectly demoralizing. If they feel obliged toprint a receipt on a horse-blanket, why don't they hire a ship and sendit over at their own expense?

Wasn't it good that they caught me out with an old book instead of a newone? The tax on a new book would bankrupt a body. It was my purpose togo to England next May and stay the rest of the year, but I've foundthat tax office out just in time. My new book would issue in March, and they would tax the sale in both countries. Come, we must get up acompromise somehow. You go and work in on the good side of those revenuepeople and get them to take the profits and give me the tax. Then I willcome over and we will divide the swag and have a good time. 

I wish you to thank Mr. Christmas for me; but we won't resist. Thecountry that allows me copyright has a right to tax me. 

 Sincerely Yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Another English tax assessment came that year, based on the report that it was understood that he was going to become an English resident, and had leased Buckenham Hall, Norwich, for a year. Clemens wrote his publishers: "I will explain that all that about Buckenham Hall was an English newspaper's mistake. I was not in England, and if I had been I wouldn't have been at Buckenham Hall, anyway, but at Buckingham Palace, or I would have endeavored to find out the reason why. " Clemens made literature out of this tax experience. He wrote an open letter to Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Such a letter has no place in this collection. It was published in the "Drawer" of Harper's Magazine, December, 1887, and is now included in the uniform edition of his works under the title of, "A Petition to the Queen of England. "

 From the following letter, written at the end of the year, we gather that the type-setter costs were beginning to make a difference in the Clemens economies. 

*****

To Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia:

 HARTFORD, Dec. 18, '87. 

DEAR PAMELA, --will you take this $15 and buy some candy or some othertrifle for yourself and Sam and his wife to remember that we rememberyou, by?

If we weren't a little crowded this year by the typesetter, I'd send acheck large enough to buy a family Bible or some other useful thing likethat. However we go on and on, but the type-setter goes on forever--at$3, 000 a month; which is much more satisfactory than was the case thefirst seventeen months, when the bill only averaged $2, 000, and promisedto take a thousand years. We'll be through, now, in 3 or 4 months, Ireckon, and then the strain will let up and we can breathe freely oncemore, whether success ensues or failure. 

Even with a type-setter on hand we ought not to be in the leastscrimped--but it would take a long letter to explain why and who is toblame. 

All the family send love to all of you and best Christmas wishes foryour prosperity. 

 Affectionately, SAM. 

XXVIII. LETTERS, 1888. A YALE DEGREE. WORK ON "THE YANKEE. " ONINTERVIEWING, ETC. 

 Mark Twain received his first college degree when he was made Master of Arts by Yale, in June, 1888. Editor of the Courant, Charles H. Clarke, was selected to notify him of his new title. Clarke was an old friend to whom Clemens could write familiarly. 

*****

To Charles H. Clarke, in Hartford:

 ELMIRA, July 2, '88. 

MY DEAR CHARLES, --Thanks for your thanks, and for your initiationintentions. I shall be ready for you. I feel mighty proud of thatdegree; in fact, I could squeeze the truth a little closer and say vainof it. And why shouldn't I be?--I am the only literary animal of myparticular subspecies who has ever been given a degree by any College inany age of the world, as far as I know. 

 Sincerely Yours S. L. Clemens M. A. 

 Reply: Charles H. Clarke to S. L Clemens:

MY DEAR FRIEND, You are "the only literary animal of your particularsubspecies" in existence and you've no cause for humility in the fact. Yale has done herself at least as much credit as she has done you, and"Don't you forget it. "

 C. H. C. 

 With the exception of his brief return to the river in 1882. Mark Twain had been twenty-seven years away from pilots and piloting. Nevertheless, he always kept a tender place in his heart for the old times and for old river comrades. Major "Jack" Downing had been a Mississippi pilot of early days, but had long since retired from the river to a comfortable life ashore, in an Ohio town. Clemens had not heard from him for years when a letter came which invited the following answer. 

*****

To Major "Jack" Downing, in Middleport Ohio:

 ELMIRA, N. Y. [no month] 1888. 

DEAR MAJOR, --And has it come to this that the dead rise up and speak?For I supposed that you were dead, it has been so long since I heardyour name. 

And how young you've grown! I was a mere boy when I knew you on theriver, where you had been piloting for 35 years, and now you are only ayear and a half older than I am! I mean to go to Hot Springs myself andget 30 or 40 years knocked off my age. It's manifestly the place thatPonce de Leon was striking for, but the poor fellow lost the trail. 

Possibly I may see you, for I shall be in St. Louis a day or two inNovember. I propose to go down the river and "note the changes" oncemore before I make the long crossing, and perhaps you can come there. Will you? I want to see all the boys that are left alive. 

And so Grant Marsh, too, is flourishing yet? A mighty good fellow, andsmart too. When we were taking that wood flat down to the Chambers, which was aground, I soon saw that I was a perfect lubber at pilotingsuch a thing. I saw that I could never hit the Chambers with it, soI resigned in Marsh's favor, and he accomplished the task to myadmiration. We should all have gone to the mischief if I had remained inauthority. I always had good judgement, more judgement than talent, infact. 

No; the nom de plume did not originate in that way. Capt. Sellers usedthe signature, "Mark Twain, " himself, when he used to write up theantiquities in the way of river reminiscences for the New OrleansPicayune. He hated me for burlesquing them in an article in the TrueDelta; so four years later when he died, I robbed the corpse--that isI confiscated the nom de plume. I have published this vital fact 3, 000times now. But no matter, it is good practice; it is about the only factthat I can tell the same way every time. Very glad, indeed, to hear fromyou Major, and shall be gladder still to see you in November. 

 Truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 He did not make the journey down the river planned for that year. He had always hoped to make another steamboat trip with Bixby, but one thing and another interfered and he did not go again. 

 Authors were always sending their books to Mark Twain to read, and no busy man was ever more kindly disposed toward such offerings, more generously considerate of the senders. Louis Pendleton was a young unknown writer in 1888, but Clemens took time to read his story carefully, and to write to him about it a letter that cost precious time, thought, and effort. It must have rejoiced the young man's heart to receive a letter like that, from one whom all young authors held supreme. 

*****

To Louis Pendleton, in Georgia:

 ELMIRA, N. Y. , Aug. 4, '88. 

MY DEAR SIR, --I found your letter an hour ago among some others whichhad lain forgotten a couple of weeks, and I at once stole time enough toread Ariadne. Stole is the right word, for the summer "Vacation" isthe only chance I get for work; so, no minute subtracted from work isborrowed, it is stolen. But this time I do not repent. As a rule, people don't send me books which I can thank them for, and so Isay nothing--which looks uncourteous. But I thank you. Ariadne is abeautiful and satisfying story; and true, too--which is the best part ofa story; or indeed of any other thing. Even liars have to admit that, if they are intelligent liars; I mean in their private [the wordconscientious written but erased] intervals. (I struck that word outbecause a man's private thought can never be a lie; what he thinks, isto him the truth, always; what he speaks--but these be platitudes. )

If you want me to pick some flaws--very well--but I do it unwillingly. I notice one thing--which one may notice also in my books, and in allbooks whether written by man or God: trifling carelessness of statementor Expression. If I think that you meant that she took the lizard fromthe water which she had drawn from the well, it is evidence--it isalmost proof--that your words were not as clear as they should havebeen. True, it is only a trifling thing; but so is mist on a mirror. Iwould have hung the pail on Ariadne's arm. You did not deceive me whenyou said that she carried it under her arm, for I knew she didn't; stillit was not your right to mar my enjoyment of the graceful picture. Ifthe pail had been a portfolio, I wouldn't be making these remarks. Theengraver of a fine picture revises, and revises, and revises--and thenrevises, and revises, and revises; and then repeats. And alwaysthe charm of that picture grows, under his hand. It was good enoughbefore--told its story, and was beautiful. True: and a lovely girl islovely, with freckles; but she isn't at her level best with them. 

This is not hypercriticism; you have had training enough to know that. 

So much concerning exactness of statement. In that other not-smallmatter--selection of the exact single word--you are hard to catch. Still, I should hold that Mrs. Walker considered that there was nooccasion for concealment; that "motive" implied a deeper mental searchthan she expended on the matter; that it doesn't reflect the attitude ofher mind with precision. Is this hypercriticism? I shan't dispute it. I only say, that if Mrs. Walker didn't go so far as to have a motive, I had to suggest that when a word is so near the right one that a bodycan't quite tell whether it is or isn't, it's good politics to strike itout and go for the Thesaurus. That's all. Motive may stand; but you haveallowed a snake to scream, and I will not concede that that was the bestword. 

I do not apologize for saying these things, for they are not said in thespeck-hunting spirit, but in the spirit of want-to-help-if-I-can. Theywould be useful to me if said to me once a month, they may be useful toyou, said once. 

I save the other stories for my real vacation--which is nine monthslong, to my sorrow. I thank you again. 

 Truly Yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 In the next letter we get a sidelight on the type-setting machine, the Frankenstein monster that was draining their substance and holding out false hopes of relief and golden return. The program here outlined was one that would continue for several years yet, with the end always in sight, but never quite attained. 

*****

To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Ia. :

 Oct. 3, '88. 

Private. 

Saturday 29th, by a closely calculated estimate, there were 85 days'work to do on the machine. 

We can use 4 men, but not constantly. If they could work constantly itwould complete the machine in 21 days, of course. They will all beon hand and under wages, and each will get in all the work there isopportunity for, but by how much they can reduce the 85 days toward the21 days, nobody can tell. 

*****

To-day I pay Pratt & Whitney $10, 000. This squares back indebtedness andeverything to date. They began about May or April or March 1886--alongthere somewhere, and have always kept from a dozen to two dozenmaster-hands on the machine. 

That outgo is done; 4 men for a month or two will close up that leakand caulk it. Work on the patents is also kind of drawing toward aconclusion. 

Love to you both. All well here. 

And give our love to Ma if she can get the idea. 

 SAM. 

 Mark Twain that year was working pretty steadily on 'The Yankee at King Arthur's Court', a book which he had begun two years before. He had published nothing since the Huck Finn story, and his company was badly in need of a new book by an author of distinction. Also it was highly desirable to earn money for himself; wherefore he set to work to finish the Yankee story. He had worked pretty steadily that summer in his Elmira study, but on his return to Hartford found a good deal of confusion in the house, so went over to Twichell's, where carpenter work was in progress. He seems to have worked there successfully, though what improvement of conditions he found in that numerous, lively household, over those at home it would be difficult to say. 

*****

To Theodore W. Crane, at Quarry Farm, Elmira, N. Y. 

 Friday, Oct. , 5, '88. 

DEAR THEO, --I am here in Twichell's house at work, with the noise of thechildren and an army of carpenters to help. Of course they don't help, but neither do they hinder. It's like a boiler-factory for racket, andin nailing a wooden ceiling onto the room under me the hammering ticklesmy feet amazingly sometimes, and jars my table a good deal; but I neveram conscious of the racket at all, and I move my feet into position ofrelief without knowing when I do it. I began here Monday morning, andhave done eighty pages since. I was so tired last night that I thought Iwould lie abed and rest, to-day; but I couldn't resist. I mean to try toknock off tomorrow, but it's doubtful if I do. I want to finish the daythe machine finishes, and a week ago the closest calculations for thatindicated Oct. 22--but experience teaches me that their calculationswill miss fire, as usual. 

The other day the children were projecting a purchase, Livy and I tofurnish the money--a dollar and a half. Jean discouraged the idea. Shesaid: "We haven't got any money. Children, if you would think, you wouldremember the machine isn't done. "

It's billiards to-night. I wish you were here. 

 With love to you both S. L. C. 

P. S. I got it all wrong. It wasn't the children, it was Marie. Shewanted a box of blacking, for the children's shoes. Jean reprovedher--and said:

"Why, Marie, you mustn't ask for things now. The machine isn't done. "

 S. L. C. 

 The letter that follows is to another of his old pilot friends, one who was also a schoolmate, Will Bowen, of Hannibal. There is today no means of knowing the occasion upon which this letter was written, but it does not matter; it is the letter itself that is of chief value. 

*****

To Will Bowen, in Hannibal, Mo. :

 HARTFORD, Nov 4, '88. 

DEAR WILL, --I received your letter yesterday evening, just as I wasstarting out of town to attend a wedding, and so my mind was privatelybusy, all the evening, in the midst of the maelstrom of chat and chaffand laughter, with the sort of reflections which create themselves, examine themselves, and continue themselves, unaffected bysurroundings--unaffected, that is understood, by the surroundings, butnot uninfluenced by them. Here was the near presence of the two supremeevents of life: marriage, which is the beginning of life, and deathwhich is the end of it. I found myself seeking chances to shirk intocorners where I might think, undisturbed; and the most I got out of mythought, was this: both marriage and death ought to be welcome: the onepromises happiness, doubtless the other assures it. A long procession ofpeople filed through my mind--people whom you and I knew so many yearsago--so many centuries ago, it seems like-and these ancient dead marchedto the soft marriage music of a band concealed in some remote room ofthe house; and the contented music and the dreaming shades seemed inright accord with each other, and fitting. Nobody else knew that aprocession of the dead was passing though this noisy swarm of theliving, but there it was, and to me there was nothing uncanny about it;Rio, they were welcome faces to me. I would have liked to bring upevery creature we knew in those days--even the dumb animals--it would bebathing in the fabled Fountain of Youth. 

We all feel your deep trouble with you; and we would hope, if we might, but your words deny us that privilege. To die one's self is a thingthat must be easy, and of light consequence, but to lose a part of one'sself--well, we know how deep that pang goes, we who have suffered thatdisaster, received that wound which cannot heal. 

 Sincerely your friend S. L. CLEMENS. 

 His next is of quite a different nature. Evidently the typesetting conditions had alarmed Orion, and he was undertaking some economies with a view of retrenchment. Orion was always reducing economy to science. Once, at an earlier date, he recorded that he had figured his personal living expenses down to sixty cents a week, but inasmuch as he was then, by his own confession, unable to earn the sixty cents, this particular economy was wasted. Orion was a trial, certainly, and the explosion that follows was not without excuse. Furthermore, it was not as bad as it sounds. Mark Twain's rages always had an element of humor in them, a fact which no one more than Orion himself would appreciate. He preserved this letter, quietly noting on the envelope, "Letter from Sam, about ma's nurse. "

 Letter to Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa:

 NOV. 29, '88. 

Jesus Christ!--It is perilous to write such a man. You can go crazy onless material than anybody that ever lived. What in hell has producedall these maniacal imaginings? You told me you had hired an attendantfor ma. Now hire one instantly, and stop this nonsense of wearingMollie and yourself out trying to do that nursing yourselves. Hire theattendant, and tell me her cost so that I can instruct Webster & Co. Toadd it every month to what they already send. Don't fool away any moretime about this. And don't write me any more damned rot about "storms, "and inability to pay trivial sums of money and--and--hell and damnation!You see I've read only the first page of your letter; I wouldn't readthe rest for a million dollars. 

 Yr SAM. 

P. S. Don't imagine that I have lost my temper, because I swear. I swearall day, but I do not lose my temper. And don't imagine that I am on myway to the poorhouse, for I am not; or that I am uneasy, for I am not;or that I am uncomfortable or unhappy--for I never am. I don't know whatit is to be unhappy or uneasy; and I am not going to try to learn how, at this late day. 

 SAM. 

 Few men were ever interviewed oftener than Mark Twain, yet he never welcomed interviewers and was seldom satisfied with them. "What I say in an interview loses it character in print, " he often remarked, "all its life and personality. The reporter realizes this himself, and tries to improve upon me, but he doesn't help matters any. "

 Edward W. Bok, before he became editor of the Ladies Home Journal, was conducting a weekly syndicate column under the title of "Bok's Literary Leaves. " It usually consisted of news and gossip of writers, comment, etc. , literary odds and ends, and occasional interviews with distinguished authors. He went up to Hartford one day to interview Mark Twain. The result seemed satisfactory to Bok, but wishing to be certain that it would be satisfactory to Clemens, he sent him a copy for approval. The interview was not returned; in the place of it came a letter-not altogether disappointing, as the reader may believe. 

*****

To Edward W. Bok, in New York:

MY DEAR MR. BOK, --No, no. It is like most interviews, pure twaddle andvalueless. 

For several quite plain and simple reasons, an "interview" must, as arule, be an absurdity, and chiefly for this reason--It is an attempt touse a boat on land or a wagon on water, to speak figuratively. Spokenspeech is one thing, written speech is quite another. Print is theproper vehicle for the latter, but it isn't for the former. The moment"talk" is put into print you recognize that it is not what it was whenyou heard it; you perceive that an immense something has disappearedfrom it. That is its soul. You have nothing but a dead carcass lefton your hands. Color, play of feature, the varying modulations of thevoice, the laugh, the smile, the informing inflections, everything thatgave that body warmth, grace, friendliness and charm and commended it toyour affections--or, at least, to your tolerance--is gone and nothing isleft but a pallid, stiff and repulsive cadaver. 

Such is "talk" almost invariably, as you see it lying in state in an"interview". The interviewer seldom tries to tell one how a thing wassaid; he merely puts in the naked remark and stops there. When onewrites for print his methods are very different. He follows forms whichhave but little resemblance to conversation, but they make the readerunderstand what the writer is trying to convey. And when the writer ismaking a story and finds it necessary to report some of the talk of hischaracters observe how cautiously and anxiously he goes at that riskyand difficult thing. "If he had dared to say that thing in my presence, "said Alfred, "taking a mock heroic attitude, and casting an arch glanceupon the company, blood would have flowed. "

"If he had dared to say that thing in my presence, " said Hawkwood, with that in his eye which caused more than one heart in that guiltyassemblage to quake, "blood would have flowed. "

"If he had dared to say that thing in my presence, " said the paltryblusterer, with valor on his tongue and pallor on his lips, "blood wouldhave flowed. "

So painfully aware is the novelist that naked talk in print conveys nomeaning that he loads, and often overloads, almost every utteranceof his characters with explanations and interpretations. It is a loudconfession that print is a poor vehicle for "talk"; it is a recognitionthat uninterpreted talk in print would result in confusion to thereader, not instruction. 

Now, in your interview, you have certainly been most accurate; you haveset down the sentences I uttered as I said them. But you have not a wordof explanation; what my manner was at several points is not indicated. Therefore, no reader can possibly know where I was in earnest andwhere I was joking; or whether I was joking altogether or in earnestaltogether. Such a report of a conversation has no value. It canconvey many meanings to the reader, but never the right one. To addinterpretations which would convey the right meaning is a somethingwhich would require--what? An art so high and fine and difficult that nopossessor of it would ever be allowed to waste it on interviews. 

No; spare the reader, and spare me; leave the whole interview out; itis rubbish. I wouldn't talk in my sleep if I couldn't talk better thanthat. 

If you wish to print anything print this letter; it may have somevalue, for it may explain to a reader here and there why it is that ininterviews, as a rule, men seem to talk like anybody but themselves. 

 Very sincerely yours, MARK TWAIN. 

XXIX. LETTERS, 1889. THE MACHINE. DEATH OF MR. CRANE. CONCLUSION OF THEYANKEE. 

In January, 1889, Clemens believed, after his long seven years ofwaiting, fruition had come in the matter of the type machine. Paige, the inventor, seemed at last to have given it its finishing touches. The mechanical marvel that had cost so much time, mental stress, anda fortune in money, stood complete, responsive to the human will andtouch--the latest, and one of the greatest, wonders of the world. ToGeorge Standring, a London printer and publisher, Clemens wrote: "Themachine is finished!" and added, "This is by far the most marvelousinvention ever contrived by man. And it is not a thing of rags andpatches; it is made of massive steel, and will last a century. "

In his fever of enthusiasm on that day when he had actually seen it inoperation, he wrote a number of exuberant letters. They were more orless duplicates, but as the one to his brother is of fuller detail andmore intimate than the others, it has been selected for preservationhere. 

*****

To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk:

 HARTFORD, Jan. 5, '89. 

DEAR ORION, --At 12. 20 this afternoon a line of movable types wasspaced and justified by machinery, for the first time inthe history of the world! And I was there to see. It was doneautomatically--instantly--perfectly. This is indeed the first line ofmovable types that ever was perfectly spaced and perfectly justified onthis earth. 

This was the last function that remained to be tested--and so by longodds the most amazing and extraordinary invention ever born of the brainof man stands completed and perfect. Livy is down stairs celebrating. 

But it's a cunning devil, is that machine!--and knows more than any manthat ever lived. You shall see. We made the test in this way. We set upa lot of random letters in a stick--three-fourths of a line; then filledout the line with quads representing 14 spaces, each space to be 35/1000of an inch thick. Then we threw aside the quads and put the letters intothe machine and formed them into 15 two-letter words, leaving the wordsseparated by two-inch vacancies. Then we started up the machine slowly, by hand, and fastened our eyes on the space-selecting pins. The firstpin-block projected its third pin as the first word came traveling alongthe race-way; second block did the same; but the third block projectedits second pin!

"Oh, hell! stop the machine--something wrong--it's going to set a30/1000 space!"

General consternation. "A foreign substance has got into the spacingplates. " This from the head mathematician. 

"Yes, that is the trouble, " assented the foreman. 

Paige examined. "No--look in, and you can see that there's nothing ofthe kind. " Further examination. "Now I know what it is--what it must be:one of those plates projects and binds. It's too bad--the first test isa failure. " A pause. "Well, boys, no use to cry. Get to work--take themachine down. --No--Hold on! don't touch a thing! Go right ahead! We arefools, the machine isn't. The machine knows what it's about. There isa speck of dirt on one of those types, and the machine is putting in athinner space to allow for it!"

That was just it. The machine went right ahead, spaced the line, justified it to a hair, and shoved it into the galley complete andperfect! We took it out and examined it with a glass. You could not tellby your eye that the third space was thinner than the others, but theglass and the calipers showed the difference. Paige had always saidthat the machine would measure invisible particles of dirt and allow forthem, but even he had forgotten that vast fact for the moment. 

All the witnesses made written record of the immense historicalbirth--the first justification of a line of movable type bymachinery--and also set down the hour and the minute. Nobody haddrank anything, and yet everybody seemed drunk. Well-dizzy, stupefied, stunned. 

All the other wonderful inventions of the human brain sink prettynearly into commonplace contrasted with this awful mechanical miracle. Telephones, telegraphs, locomotives, cotton gins, sewing machines, Babbage calculators, jacquard looms, perfecting presses, Arkwright'sframes--all mere toys, simplicities! The Paige Compositor marches aloneand far in the lead of human inventions. 

In two or three weeks we shall work the stiffness out of her joints andhave her performing as smoothly and softly as human muscles, and then weshall speak out the big secret and let the world come and gaze. 

Return me this letter when you have read it. 

 SAM. 

 Judge of the elation which such a letter would produce in Keokuk! Yet it was no greater than that which existed in Hartford--for a time. 

 Then further delays. Before the machine got "the stiffness out of her joints" that "cunning devil" manifested a tendency to break the types, and Paige, who was never happier than when he was pulling things to pieces and making improvements, had the type-setter apart again and the day of complete triumph was postponed. 

 There was sadness at the Elmira farm that spring. Theodore Crane, who had long been in poor health, seemed to grow daily worse. In February he had paid a visit to Hartford and saw the machine in operation, but by the end of May his condition was very serious. Remembering his keen sense of humor, Clemens reported to him cheering and amusing incidents. 

*****

To Mrs. Theodore Crane. In Elmira, N. Y. :

 HARTFORD, May 28, '89. 

Susie dear, I want you to tell this to Theodore. You know howabsent-minded Twichell is, and how desolate his face is when he isin that frame. At such times, he passes the word with a friend on thestreet and is not aware of the meeting at all. Twice in a week, ourClara had this latter experience with him within the past month. Butthe second instance was too much for her, and she woke him up, in histracks, with a reproach. She said:

"Uncle Joe, why do you always look as if you were just going down intothe grave, when you meet a person on the street?"--and then went onto reveal to him the funereal spectacle which he presented on suchoccasions. Well, she has met Twichell three times since then, and wouldswim the Connecticut to avoid meeting him the fourth. As soon as hesights her, no matter how public the place nor how far off she is, he makes a bound into the air, heaves arms and legs into all sortsof frantic gestures of delight, and so comes prancing, skipping andpirouetting for her like a drunken Indian entering heaven. 

With a full invoice of love from us all to you and Theodore. 

 S. L. C. 

 The reference in the next to the "closing sentence" in a letter written by Howells to Clemens about this time, refers to a heart-broken utterance of the former concerning his daughter Winnie, who had died some time before. She had been a gentle talented girl, but never of robust health. Her death had followed a long period of gradual decline. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, Judy 13, '89. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I came on from Elmira a day or two ago, where I lefta house of mourning. Mr. Crane died, after ten months of pain and twowhole days of dying, at the farm on the hill, the 3rd inst: A man whohad always hoped for a swift death. Mrs. Crane and Mrs. Clemens and thechildren were in a gloom which brought back to me the days of nineteenyears ago, when Mr. Langdon died. It is heart-breaking to see Mrs. Crane. Many a time, in the past ten days, the sight of her has remindedme, with a pang, of the desolation which uttered itself in the closingsentence of your last letter to me. I do see that there is an argumentagainst suicide: the grief of the worshipers left behind; the awfulfamine in their hearts, these are too costly terms for the release. 

I shall be here ten days yet, and all alone: nobody in the house but theservants. Can't Mrs. Howells spare you to me? Can't you come andstay with me? The house is cool and pleasant; your work will not beinterrupted; we will keep to ourselves and let the rest of the world dothe same; you can have your choice of three bedrooms, and you will findthe Children's schoolroom (which was built for my study, ) the perfectionof a retired and silent den for work. There isn't a fly or a mosquito onthe estate. Come--say you will. 

With kindest regards to Mrs. Howells, and Pilla and John, Yours Ever MARK. 

Howells was more hopeful. He wrote: "I read something in a strange book, The Physical Theory of Another Life, that consoles a little; namely, wesee and feel the power of Deity in such fullness that we ought to inferthe infinite justice and Goodness which we do not see or feel. " And afew days later, he wrote: "I would rather see and talk with you than anyother man in the world outside my own blood. "

A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court was brought to an end thatyear and given to the artist and printer. Dan Beard was selected for thedrawings, and was given a free hand, as the next letter shows. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, Manager Charles L. Webster & Co. :

[Charles L. Webster, owing to poor health, had by this time retired fromthe firm. ]

 ELMIRA, July 20, '89. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --Upon reflection--thus: tell Beard to obey his owninspiration, and when he sees a picture in his mind put that picture onpaper, be it humorous or be it serious. I want his genius to be whollyunhampered, I shan't have fears as to the result. They will be betterpictures than if I mixed in and tried to give him points on his owntrade. 

Send this note and he'll understand. 

 Yr S. L. C. 

 Clemens had made a good choice in selecting Beard for the illustrations. He was well qualified for the work, and being of a socialistic turn of mind put his whole soul into it. When the drawings were completed, Clemens wrote: "Hold me under permanent obligations. What luck it was to find you! There are hundreds of artists that could illustrate any other book of mine, but there was only one who could illustrate this one. Yes, it was a fortunate hour that I went netting for lightning bugs and caught a meteor. Live forever!"

 Clemens, of course, was anxious for Howells to read The Yankee, and Mrs. Clemens particularly so. Her eyes were giving her trouble that summer, so that she could not read the MS. For herself, and she had grave doubts as to some of its chapters. It may be said here that the book to-day might have been better if Mrs. Clemens had been able to read it. Howells was a peerless critic, but the revolutionary subject-matter of the book so delighted him that he was perhaps somewhat blinded to its literary defects. However, this is premature. Howells did not at once see the story. He had promised to come to Hartford, but wrote that trivial matters had made his visit impossible. From the next letter we get the situation at this time. The "Mr. Church" mentioned was Frederick S. Church, the well-known artist. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 ELMIRA, July 24, '89. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I, too, was as sorry as I could be; yes, and desperatelydisappointed. I even did a heroic thing: shipped my book off to New Yorklest I should forget hospitality and embitter your visit with it. Notthat I think you wouldn't like to read it, for I think you would;but not on a holiday that's not the time. I see how you weresituated--another familiarity of Providence and wholly wantonintrusion--and of course we could not help ourselves. Well, justthink of it: a while ago, while Providence's attention was absorbed indisordering some time-tables so as to break up a trip of mine to Mr. Church's on the Hudson, that Johnstown dam got loose. I swear I wasafraid to pray, for fear I should laugh. Well, I'm not going to despair;we'll manage a meet yet. 

I expect to go to Hartford again in August and maybe remain till I haveto come back here and fetch the family. And, along there in August, sometime, you let on that you are going to Mexico, and I will let on that Iam going to Spitzbergen, and then under cover of this clever stratagemwe will glide from the trains at Worcester and have a time. I havenoticed that Providence is indifferent about Mexico and Spitzbergen. 

 Ys Ever MARK. 

 Possibly Mark Twain was not particularly anxious that Howells should see his MS. , fearing that he might lay a ruthless hand on some of his more violent fulminations and wild fancies. However this may be, further postponement was soon at an end. Mrs. Clemens's eyes troubled her and would not permit her to read, so she requested that the Yankee be passed upon by soberminded critics, such as Howells and Edmund Clarence Stedman. Howells wrote that even if he hadn't wanted to read the book for its own sake, or for the author's sake, he would still want to do it for Mrs. Clemens's. Whereupon the proofs were started in his direction. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 ELMIRA, Aug. 24, '89. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --If you should be moved to speak of my book in the Study, I shall be glad and proud--and the sooner it gets in, the better for thebook; though I don't suppose you can get it in earlier than the Novembernumber--why, no, you can't get it in till a month later than that. Well, anyway I don't think I'll send out any other press copy--except perhapsto Stedman. I'm not writing for those parties who miscall themselvescritics, and I don't care to have them paw the book at all. It's myswan-song, my retirement from literature permanently, and I wish to passto the cemetery unclodded. 

I judge that the proofs have begun to reach you about this time, as Ihad some (though not revises, ) this morning. I'm sure I'm going to becharmed with Beard's pictures. Observe his nice take-off of Middle-Ageart-dinner-table scene. 

 Ys sincerely MARK. 

 Howells's approval of the Yankee came almost in the form of exultant shouts, one after reading each batch of proof. First he wrote: "It's charming, original, wonderful! good in fancy and sound to the core in morals. " And again, "It's a mighty great book, and it makes my heart burn with wrath. It seems God did not forget to put a soul into you. He shuts most literary men off with a brain, merely. " Then, a few days later: "The book is glorious--simply noble; what masses of virgin truth never touched in print before!" and, finally, "Last night I read your last chapter. As Stedman says of the whole book, it's titanic. "

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, Sept. 22, '89. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --It is immensely good of you to grind through that stufffor me; but it gives peace to Mrs. Clemens's soul; and I am as gratefulto you as a body can be. I am glad you approve of what I say about theFrench Revolution. Few people will. It is odd that even to this dayAmericans still observe that immortal benefaction through English andother monarchical eyes, and have no shred of an opinion about it thatthey didn't get at second-hand. 

Next to the 4th of July and its results, it was the noblest and theholiest thing and the most precious that ever happened in this earth. And its gracious work is not done yet--not anywhere in the remoteneighborhood of it. 

Don't trouble to send me all the proofs; send me the pages with yourcorrections on them, and waste-basket the rest. We issue the book Dec. 10; consequently a notice that appears Dec. 20 will be just in goodtime. 

I am waiting to see your Study set a fashion in criticism. When thathappens--as please God it must--consider that if you lived threecenturies you couldn't do a more valuable work for this country, or ahumaner. 

As a rule a critic's dissent merely enrages, and so does no good; butby the new art which you use, your dissent must be as welcome as yourapproval, and as valuable. I do not know what the secret of it is, unless it is your attitude--man courteously reasoning with man andbrother, in place of the worn and wearisome critical attitude of allthis long time--superior being lecturing a boy. 

Well, my book is written--let it go. But if it were only to write overagain there wouldn't be so many things left out. They burn in me; andthey keep multiplying and multiplying; but now they can't ever be said. And besides, they would require a library--and a pen warmed up in hell. 

 Ys Ever MARK. 

 The type-setting machine began to loom large in the background. Clemens believed it perfected by this time. Paige had got it together again and it was running steadily--or approximately so --setting type at a marvelous speed and with perfect accuracy. In time an expert operator would be able to set as high as eight thousand ems per hour, or about ten times as much as a good compositor could set and distribute by hand. Those who saw it were convinced--most of them--that the type-setting problem was solved by this great mechanical miracle. If there were any who doubted, it was because of its marvelously minute accuracy which the others only admired. Such accuracy, it was sometimes whispered, required absolutely perfect adjustment, and what would happen when the great inventor--"the poet in steel, " as Clemens once called him--was no longer at hand to supervise and to correct the slightest variation. But no such breath of doubt came to Mark Twain; he believed the machine as reliable as a constellation. 

 But now there was need of capital to manufacture and market the wonder. Clemens, casting about in his mind, remembered Senator Jones, of Nevada, a man of great wealth, and his old friend, Joe Goodman, of Nevada, in whom Jones had unlimited confidence. He wrote to Goodman, and in this letter we get a pretty full exposition of the whole matter as it stood in the fall of 1889. We note in this communication that Clemens says that he has been at the machine three years and seven months, but this was only the period during which he had spent the regular monthly sum of three thousand dollars. His interest in the invention had begun as far back as 1880. 

*****

To Joseph T. Goodman, in Nevada:

 Private. HARTFORD, Oct. 7, '89. 

DEAR JOE, --I had a letter from Aleck Badlam day before yesterday, andin answering him I mentioned a matter which I asked him to considera secret except to you and John McComb, --[This is Col. McComb, ofthe Alta-California, who had sent Mark Twain on the Quaker Cityexcursion]--as I am not ready yet to get into the newspapers. 

I have come near writing you about this matter several times, but itwasn't ripe, and I waited. It is ripe, now. It is a type-setting machinewhich I undertook to build for the inventor (for a consideration). Ihave been at it three years and seven months without losing a day, at acost of $3, 000 a month, and in so private a way that Hartford has knownnothing about it. Indeed only a dozen men have known of the matter. Ihave reported progress from time to time to the proprietors of the N. Y. Sun, Herald, Times, World, Harper Brothers and John F. Trow; also to theproprietors of the Boston Herald and the Boston Globe. Three years ago Iasked all these people to squelch their frantic desire to load up theiroffices with the Mergenthaler (N. Y. Tribune) machine, and wait for mineand then choose between the two. They have waited--with no very gaudypatience--but still they have waited; and I could prove to them to-daythat they have not lost anything by it. But I reserve the proof for thepresent--except in the case of the N. Y. Herald; I sent an invitationthere the other day--a courtesy due a paper which ordered $240, 000 worthof our machines long ago when it was still in a crude condition. TheHerald has ordered its foreman to come up here next Thursday; but thatis the only invitation which will go out for some time yet. 

The machine was finished several weeks ago, and has been running eversince in the machine shop. It is a magnificent creature of steel, all ofPratt & Whitney's super-best workmanship, and as nicely adjusted and asaccurate as a watch. In construction it is as elaborate and complexas that machine which it ranks next to, by every right--Man--and inperformance it is as simple and sure. 

Anybody can set type on it who can read--and can do it after only 15minutes' instruction. The operator does not need to leave his seat atthe keyboard; for the reason that he is not required to do anythingbut strike the keys and set type--merely one function; the spacing, justifying, emptying into the galley, and distributing of dead matter isall done by the machine without anybody's help--four functions. 

The ease with which a cub can learn is surprising. Day before yesterdayI saw our newest cub set, perfectly space and perfectly justify 2, 150ems of solid nonpareil in an hour and distribute the like amount in thesame hour--and six hours previously he had never seen the machine orits keyboard. It was a good hour's work for 3-year veterans on the othertype-setting machines to do. We have 3 cubs. The dean of the trio is aschool youth of 18. Yesterday morning he had been an apprentice on themachine 16 working days (8-hour days); and we speeded him to see what hecould do in an hour. In the hour he set 5, 900 ems solid nonpareil, andthe machine perfectly spaced and justified it, and of course distributedthe like amount in the same hour. Considering that a good faircompositor sets 700 and distributes 700 in the one hour, this boy didthe work of about 8 x a compositors in that hour. This fact sends allother type-setting machines a thousand miles to the rear, and the bestof them will never be heard of again after we publicly exhibit in NewYork. 

We shall put on 3 more cubs. We have one school boy and two compositors, now, --and we think of putting on a type writer, a stenographer, andperhaps a shoemaker, to show that no special gifts or training arerequired with this machine. We shall train these beginners two or threemonths--or until some one of them gets up to 7, 000 an hour--then we willshow up in New York and run the machine 24 hours a day 7 days in theweek, for several months--to prove that this is a machine which willnever get out of order or cause delay, and can stand anything an anvilcan stand. You know there is no other typesetting machine that canrun two hours on a stretch without causing trouble and delay with itsincurable caprices. 

We own the whole field--every inch of it--and nothing can dislodge us. 

Now then, above is my preachment, and here follows the reason andpurpose of it. I want you to run over here, roost over the machine aweek and satisfy yourself, and then go to John P. Jones or to whom youplease, and sell me a hundred thousand dollars' worth of this propertyand take ten per cent in cash or the "property" for your trouble--thelatter, if you are wise, because the price I ask is a long way short ofthe value. 

What I call "property" is this. A small part of my ownership consists ofa royalty of $500 on every machine marketed under the American patents. My selling-terms are, a permanent royalty of one dollar on everyAmerican-marketed machine for a thousand dollars cash to me in handpaid. We shan't market any fewer than 5, 000 machines in 15 years--areturn of fifteen thousand dollars for one thousand. A royalty is betterthan stock, in one way--it must be paid, every six months, rain orshine; it is a debt, and must be paid before dividends are declared. Byand by, when we become a stock company I shall buy these royalties backfor stock if I can get them for anything like reasonable terms. 

I have never borrowed a penny to use on the machine, and never sold apenny's worth of the property until the machine was entirely finishedand proven by the severest tests to be what she started out tobe--perfect, permanent, and occupying the position, as regards allkindred machines, which the City of Paris occupies as regards thecanvas-backs of the mercantile marine. 

It is my purpose to sell two hundred dollars of my royalties at theabove price during the next two months and keep the other $300. 

Mrs. Clemens begs Mrs. Goodman to come with you, and asks pardon fornot writing the message herself--which would be a pathetically-welcomespectacle to me; for I have been her amanuensis for 8 months, now, sinceher eyes failed her. Yours as always

 MARK. 

 While this letter with its amazing contents is on its way to astonish Joe Goodman, we will consider one of quite a different, but equally characteristic sort. We may assume that Mark Twain's sister Pamela had been visiting him in Hartford and was now making a visit in Keokuk. 

*****

To Mrs. Moffett, in Keokuk:

 HARTFORD, Oct 9, '89. 

DEAR PAMELA, --An hour after you left I was suddenly struck with arealizing sense of the utter chuckle-headedness of that notion of mine:to send your trunk after you. Land! it was idiotic. None but a lunaticwould, separate himself from his baggage. 

Well, I am soulfully glad the baggage fetcher saved me from consummatingmy insane inspiration. I met him on the street in the afternoon and paidhim again. I shall pay him several times more, as opportunity offers. 

I declined the invitation to banquet with the visiting South AmericanCongress, in a polite note explaining that I had to go to New Yorktoday. I conveyed the note privately to Patrick; he got the envelopesoiled, and asked Livy to put on a clean one. That is why I am going tothe banquet; also why I have disinvited the boys I thought I was goingto punch billiards with, upstairs to-night. 

Patrick is one of the injudiciousest people I ever struck. And I am theother. 

 Your Brother SAM. 

 The Yankee was now ready for publication, and advance sheets were already in the reviewers' hands. Just at this moment the Brazilian monarchy crumbled, and Clemens was moved to write Sylvester Baxter, of the Boston Herald, a letter which is of special interest in its prophecy of the new day, the dawn of which was even nearer than he suspected. 

DEAR MR. BAXTER, Another throne has gone down, and I swim in oceans ofsatisfaction. I wish I might live fifty years longer; I believe I shouldsee the thrones of Europe selling at auction for old iron. I believe Ishould really see the end of what is surely the grotesquest of all theswindles ever invented by man-monarchy. It is enough to make a gravenimage laugh, to see apparently rational people, away down here in thiswholesome and merciless slaughter-day for shams, still mouthing emptyreverence for those moss-backed frauds and scoundrelisms, hereditarykingship and so-called "nobility. " It is enough to make the monarchsand nobles themselves laugh--and in private they do; there can be noquestion about that. I think there is only one funnier thing, andthat is the spectacle of these bastard Americans--these Hamersleysand Huntingtons and such--offering cash, encumbered by themselves, for rotten carcases and stolen titles. When our great brethren thedisenslaved Brazilians frame their Declaration of Independence, Ihope they will insert this missing link: "We hold these truths tobe self-evident: that all monarchs are usurpers, and descendants ofusurpers; for the reason that no throne was ever set up in this world bythe will, freely exercised, of the only body possessing the legitimateright to set it up--the numerical mass of the nation. "

You already have the advance sheets of my forthcoming book in yourhands. If you will turn to about the five hundredth page, you willfind a state paper of my Connecticut Yankee in which he announcesthe dissolution of King Arthur's monarchy and proclaims the EnglishRepublic. Compare it with the state paper which announces the downfallof the Brazilian monarchy and proclaims the Republic of the UnitedStates of Brazil, and stand by to defend the Yankee from plagiarism. There is merely a resemblance of ideas, nothing more. The Yankee'sproclamation was already in print a week ago. This is merely one ofthose odd coincidences which are always turning up. Come, protectthe Yank from that cheapest and easiest of all charges--plagiarism. Otherwise, you see, he will have to protect himself by chargingapproximate and indefinite plagiarism upon the official servants of ourmajestic twin down yonder, and then there might be war, or some similarannoyance. 

Have you noticed the rumor that the Portuguese throne is unsteady, andthat the Portuguese slaves are getting restive? Also, that the headslave-driver of Europe, Alexander III, has so reduced his usual monthlyorder for chains that the Russian foundries are running on only halftime now? Also that other rumor that English nobility acquired an addedstench the other day--and had to ship it to India and the continentbecause there wasn't any more room for it at home? Things are working. By and by there is going to be an emigration, may be. Of course we shallmake no preparation; we never do. In a few years from now we shall havenothing but played-out kings and dukes on the police, and driving thehorse-cars, and whitewashing fences, and in fact overcrowding all theavenues of unskilled labor; and then we shall wish, when it is too late, that we had taken common and reasonable precautions and drowned them atCastle Garden. 

 There followed at this time a number of letters to Goodman, but as there is much of a sameness in them, we need not print them all. Clemens, in fact, kept the mails warm with letters bulging with schemes for capitalization, and promising vast wealth to all concerned. When the letters did not go fast enough he sent telegrams. In one of the letters Goodman is promised "five hundred thousand dollars out of the profits before we get anything ourselves. " One thing we gather from these letters is that Paige has taken the machine apart again, never satisfied with its perfection, or perhaps getting a hint that certain of its perfections were not permanent. A letter at the end of November seems worth preserving here. 

*****

To Joseph T. Goodman, in California:

 HARTFORD, Nov. 29, '89. 

DEAR JOE, Things are getting into better and more flexible shape everyday. Papers are now being drawn which will greatly simplify the raisingof capital; I shall be in supreme command; it will not be necessary forthe capitalist to arrive at terms with anybody but me. I don't want todicker with anybody but Jones. I know him; that is to say, I want todicker with you, and through you with Jones. Try to see if you can't behere by the 15th of January. 

The machine was as perfect as a watch when we took her apart the otherday; but when she goes together again the 15th of January we expect herto be perfecter than a watch. 

Joe, I want you to sell some royalties to the boys out there, if youcan, for I want to be financially strong when we go to New York. Youknow the machine, and you appreciate its future enormous career betterthan any man I know. At the lowest conceivable estimate (2, 000 machinesa year, ) we shall sell 34, 000 in the life of the patent--17 years. 

All the family send love to you--and they mean it, or they wouldn't sayit. 

 Yours ever MARK. 

 The Yankee had come from the press, and Howells had praised it in the "Editor's Study" in Harper's Magazine. He had given it his highest commendation, and it seems that his opinion of it did not change with time. "Of all fanciful schemes of fiction it pleases me most, " he in one place declared, and again referred to it as "a greatly imagined and symmetrically developed tale. "

 In more than one letter to Goodman, Clemens had urged him to come East without delay. "Take the train, Joe, and come along, " he wrote early in December. And we judge from the following that Joe had decided to come. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, Dec. 23, '89. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --The magazine came last night, and the Study notice isjust great. The satisfaction it affords us could not be more prodigiousif the book deserved every word of it; and maybe it does; I hope itdoes, though of course I can't realize it and believe it. But I am yourgrateful servant, anyway and always. 

I am going to read to the Cadets at West Point Jan. 11. I go from hereto New York the 9th, and up to the Point the 11th. Can't you go with me?It's great fun. I'm going to read the passages in the "Yankee" in whichthe Yankee's West Point cadets figure--and shall covertly work ina lecture on aristocracy to those boys. I am to be the guest of theSuperintendent, but if you will go I will shake him and we will go tothe hotel. He is a splendid fellow, and I know him well enough to takethat liberty. 

And won't you give me a day or two's visit toward the end of January?For two reasons: the machine will be at work again by that time, and wewant to hear the rest of the dream-story; Mrs. Clemens keeps speakingabout it and hankering for it. And we can have Joe Goodman on hand againby that time, and I want you to get to know him thoroughly. It's wellworth it. I am going to run up and stay over night with you as soon as Ican get a chance. 

We are in the full rush of the holidays now, and an awful rush it is, too. You ought to have been here the other day, to make that day perfectand complete. All alone I managed to inflict agonies on Mrs. Clemens, whereas I was expecting nothing but praises. I made a party call the dayafter the party--and called the lady down from breakfast to receiveit. I then left there and called on a new bride, who received me in herdressing-gown; and as things went pretty well, I stayed to luncheon. The error here was, that the appointed reception-hour was 3 in theafternoon, and not at the bride's house but at her aunt's in anotherpart of the town. However, as I meant well, none of these disastersdistressed me. 

 Yrs ever MARK. 

 The Yankee did not find a very hearty welcome in England. English readers did not fancy any burlesque of their Arthurian tales, or American strictures on their institutions. Mark Twain's publishers had feared this, and asked that the story be especially edited for the English edition. Clemens, however, would not listen to any suggestions of the sort. 

*****

To Messrs. Chatto & Windus, in London, Eng. :

GENTLEMEN, --Concerning The Yankee, I have already revised the storytwice; and it has been read critically by W. D. Howells and EdmundClarence Stedman, and my wife has caused me to strike out severalpassages that have been brought to her attention, and to soften others. Furthermore, I have read chapters of the book in public where Englishmenwere present and have profited by their suggestions. 

Now, mind you, I have taken all this pains because I wanted to say aYankee mechanic's say against monarchy and its several natural props, and yet make a book which you would be willing to print exactly as itcomes to you, without altering a word. 

We are spoken of (by Englishmen) as a thin-skinned people. It is you whoare thin-skinned. An Englishman may write with the most brutal franknessabout any man or institution among us and we republish him withoutdreaming of altering a line or a word. But England cannot standthat kind of a book written about herself. It is England that isthin-skinned. It causeth me to smile when I read the modifications of mylanguage which have been made in my English editions to fit them for thesensitive English palate. 

Now, as I say, I have taken laborious pains to so trim this book ofoffense that you might not lack the nerve to print it just as it stands. I am going to get the proofs to you just as early as I can. I want youto read it carefully. If you can publish it without altering a singleword, go ahead. Otherwise, please hand it to J. R. Osgood in time forhim to have it published at my expense. 

This is important, for the reason that the book was not written forAmerica; it was written for England. So many Englishmen have done theirsincerest best to teach us something for our betterment that it seemsto me high time that some of us should substantially recognize the goodintent by trying to pry up the English nation to a little higher levelof manhood in turn. 

 Very truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

The English nation, at least a considerable portion of it, did not wishto be "pried up to a higher level of manhood" by a Connecticut Yankee. The papers pretty generally denounced the book as coarse; in fact, avulgar travesty. Some of the critics concluded that England, after all, had made a mistake in admiring Mark Twain. Clemens stood this for a timeand then seems to have decided that something should be done. One of theforemost of English critics was his friend and admirer; he would statethe case to him fully and invite his assistance. 

*****

To Andrew Lang, in London:

[First page missing. ]

 1889

They vote but do not print. The head tells you pretty promptly whetherthe food is satisfactory or not; and everybody hears, and thinks thewhole man has spoken. It is a delusion. Only his taste and his smellhave been heard from--important, both, in a way, but these do not buildup the man; and preserve his life and fortify it. 

The little child is permitted to label its drawings "This is a cow thisis a horse, " and so on. This protects the child. It saves it fromthe sorrow and wrong of hearing its cows and its horses criticized askangaroos and work benches. A man who is white-washing a fence is doinga useful thing, so also is the man who is adorning a rich man's housewith costly frescoes; and all of us are sane enough to judge theseperformances by standards proper to each. Now, then, to be fair, anauthor ought to be allowed to put upon his book an explanatory line:"This is written for the Head;" "This is written for the Belly and theMembers. " And the critic ought to hold himself in honor bound to putaway from him his ancient habit of judging all books by one standard, and thenceforth follow a fairer course. 

The critic assumes, every time, that if a book doesn't meet thecultivated-class standard, it isn't valuable. Let us apply his law allaround: for if it is sound in the case of novels, narratives, pictures, and such things, it is certainly sound and applicable to all the stepswhich lead up to culture and make culture possible. It condemns thespelling book, for a spelling book is of no use to a person of culture;it condemns all school books and all schools which lie between thechild's primer and Greek, and between the infant school and theuniversity; it condemns all the rounds of art which lie between thecheap terra cotta groups and the Venus de Medici, and between the chromoand the Transfiguration; it requires Whitcomb Riley to sing no more tillhe can sing like Shakespeare, and it forbids all amateur music and willgrant its sanction to nothing below the "classic. "

Is this an extravagant statement? No, it is a mere statement of fact. It is the fact itself that is extravagant and grotesque. And what is theresult? This--and it is sufficiently curious: the critic has actuallyimposed upon the world the superstition that a painting by Raphael ismore valuable to the civilizations of the earth than is a chromo;and the august opera than the hurdy-gurdy and the villagers' singingsociety; and Homer than the little everybody's-poet whose rhymes are inall mouths today and will be in nobody's mouth next generation; andthe Latin classics than Kipling's far-reaching bugle-note; and JonathanEdwards than the Salvation Army; and the Venus de Medici than theplaster-cast peddler; the superstition, in a word, that the vast andawful comet that trails its cold lustre through the remote abysses ofspace once a century and interests and instructs a cultivated handfulof astronomers is worth more to the world than the sun which warms andcheers all the nations every day and makes the crops to grow. 

If a critic should start a religion it would not have any object butto convert angels: and they wouldn't need it. The thin top crust ofhumanity--the cultivated--are worth pacifying, worth pleasing, worthcoddling, worth nourishing and preserving with dainties and delicacies, it is true; but to be caterer to that little faction is no verydignified or valuable occupation, it seems to me; it is merely feedingthe over-fed, and there must be small satisfaction in that. It is notthat little minority who are already saved that are best worth trying touplift, I should think, but the mighty mass of the uncultivated who areunderneath. That mass will never see the Old Masters--that sight is forthe few; but the chromo maker can lift them all one step upward towardappreciation of art; they cannot have the opera, but the hurdy-gurdyand the singing class lift them a little way toward that far light; theywill never know Homer, but the passing rhymester of their day leavesthem higher than he found them; they may never even hear of the Latinclassics, but they will strike step with Kipling's drum-beat, and theywill march; for all Jonathan Edwards's help they would die in theirslums, but the Salvation Army will beguile some of them up to pure airand a cleaner life; they know no sculpture, the Venus is not even a nameto them, but they are a grade higher in the scale of civilization bythe ministrations of the plaster-cast than they were before it took itsplace upon then mantel and made it beautiful to their unexacting eyes. 

Indeed I have been misjudged, from the very first. I have never triedin even one single instance, to help cultivate the cultivated classes. Iwas not equipped for it, either by native gifts or training. And Inever had any ambition in that direction, but always hunted for biggergame--the masses. I have seldom deliberately tried to instruct them, but have done my best to entertain them. To simply amuse them wouldhave satisfied my dearest ambition at any time; for they could getinstruction elsewhere, and I had two chances to help to the teacher'sone: for amusement is a good preparation for study and a good healer offatigue after it. My audience is dumb, it has no voice in print, andso I cannot know whether I have won its approbation or only got itscensure. 

Yes, you see, I have always catered for the Belly and the Members, but have been served like the others--criticized from theculture-standard--to my sorrow and pain; because, honestly, I nevercared what became of the cultured classes; they could go to the theatreand the opera--they had no use for me and the melodeon. 

And now at last I arrive at my object and tender my petition, makingsupplication to this effect: that the critics adopt a rule recognizingthe Belly and the Members, and formulate a standard whereby work donefor them shall be judged. Help me, Mr. Lang; no voice can reach furtherthan yours in a case of this kind, or carry greater weight of authority. 

 Lang's reply was an article in the Illustrated London News on "The Art of Mark Twain. " Lang had no admiration to express for the Yankee, which he confessed he had not cared to read, but he glorified Huck Finn to the highest. "I can never forget, nor be ungrateful for the exquisite pleasure with which I read Huckleberry Finn for the first time, years ago, " he wrote; "I read it again last night, deserting Kenilworth for Huck. I never laid it down till I had finished it. "

 Lang closed his article by referring to the story of Huck as the "great American novel which had escaped the eyes of those who watched to see this new planet swim into their ken. "

XXX. LETTERS, 1890, CHIEFLY TO JOS. T. GOODMAN. THE GREAT MACHINEENTERPRISE

 Dr. John Brown's son, whom Mark Twain and his wife had known in 1873 as "Jock, " sent copies of Dr. John Brown and His Sister Isabella, by E. T. McLaren. It was a gift appreciated in the Clemens home. 

*****

To Mr. John Brown, in Edinburgh, Scotland:

 HARTFORD, Feby 11, 1890. 

DEAR MR. BROWN, --Both copies came, and we are reading and re-readingthe one, and lending the other, to old time adorers of "Rab andhis Friends. " It is an exquisite book; the perfection of literaryworkmanship. It says in every line, "Don't look at me, look at him"--andone tries to be good and obey; but the charm of the painter is so strongthat one can't keep his entire attention on the developing portrait, butmust steal side-glimpses of the artist, and try to divine the trick ofher felicitous brush. In this book the doctor lives and moves just ashe was. He was the most extensive slave-holder of his time, and thekindest; and yet he died without setting one of his bondmen free. We allsend our very, very kindest regards. 

 Sincerely yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 If Mark Twain had been less interested in the type-setting machine he might possibly have found a profit that winter in the old Sellers play, which he had written with Howells seven years before. The play had eventually been produced at the Lyceum Theatre in New York, with A. P. Burbank in the leading role, and Clemens and Howells as financial backers. But it was a losing investment, nor did it pay any better when Clemens finally sent Burbank with it on the road. Now, however, James A. Herne, a well-known actor and playwright, became interested in the idea, after a discussion of the matter with Howells, and there seemed a probability that with changes made under Herne's advisement the play might be made sensible and successful. 

 But Mark Twain's greater interest was now all in the type-machine, and certainly he had no money to put into any other venture. His next letter to Goodman is illuminating--the urgency of his need for funds opposed to that conscientiousness which was one of the most positive forces of Mark Twain's body spiritual. The Mr. Arnot of this letter was an Elmira capitalist. 

*****

To Jos. T. Goodman, in California:

 HARTFORD, March 31, '90. 

DEAR JOE, --If you were here, I should say, "Get you to Washington andbeg Senator Jones to take the chances and put up about ten or "--no, Iwouldn't. The money would burn a hole in my pocket and get away fromme if the furnisher of it were proceeding upon merely your judgment andmine and without other evidence. It is too much of a responsibility. 

But I am in as close a place to-day as ever I was; $3, 000 due for thelast month's machine-expenses, and the purse empty. I notified Mr. Arnota month ago that I should want $5, 000 to-day, and his check arrived lastnight; but I sent it back to him, because when he bought of me on the9th of December I said that I would not draw upon him for 3 months, andthat before that date Senator Jones would have examined the machine andapproved, or done the other thing. If Jones should arrive here a weekor ten days from now (as he expects to do, ) and should not approve, and shouldn't buy any royalties, my deal with Arnot would not besymmetrically square, and then how could I refund? The surest way was toreturn his check. 

I have talked with the madam, and here is the result. I will go down tothe factory and notify Paige that I will scrape together $6, 000 to meetthe March and April expenses, and will retire on the 30th of Apriland return the assignment to him if in the meantime I have not foundfinancial relief. 

It is very rough; for the machine does at last seem perfect, and just abird to go! I think she's going to be good for 8, 000 ems an hour in thehands of a good ordinary man after a solid year's practice. I may be inerror, but I most solidly believe it. 

There's an improved Mergenthaler in New York; Paige and Davis and Iwatched it two whole afternoons. 

 With the love of us all, MARK. 

 Arnot wrote Clemens urging him to accept the check for five thousand dollars in this moment of need. Clemens was probably as sorely tempted to compromise with his conscience as he had ever been in his life, but his resolution field firm. 

*****

To M. H. Arnot, in Elmira, N. Y. :

MR. M. H. ARNOT

DEAR SIR, --No--no, I could not think of taking it, with you unsatisfied;and you ought not to be satisfied until you have made personalexamination of the machine and had a consensus of testimony ofdisinterested people, besides. My own perfect knowledge of what isrequired of such a machine, and my perfect knowledge of the factthat this is the only machine that can meet that requirement, make itdifficult for me to realize that a doubt is possible to less well-postedmen; and so I would have taken your money without thinking, and thuswould have done a great wrong to you and a great one to myself. And nowthat I go back over the ground, I remember that where I said I could getalong 3 months without drawing on you, that delay contemplated a visitfrom you to the machine in the interval, and your satisfaction with itscharacter and prospects. I had forgotten all that. But I remember itnow; and the fact that it was not "so nominated in the bond" does notalter the case or justify me in making my call so prematurely. I do notknow that you regarded all that as a part of the bargain--for youwere thoroughly and magnanimously unexacting--but I so regarded it, notwithstanding I have so easily managed to forget all about it. 

You so gratified me, and did me so much honor in bonding yourself to mein a large sum, upon no evidence but my word and with no protection butmy honor, that my pride in that is much stronger than my desire to reapa money advantage from it. 

With the sincerest appreciation I am Truly yours

 S L. CLEMENS. 

P. S. I have written a good many words and yet I seem to have failedto say the main thing in exact enough language--which is, that thetransaction between us is not complete and binding until you shallhave convinced yourself that the machine's character and prospects aresatisfactory. 

I ought to explain that the grippe delayed us some weeks, and that wehave since been waiting for Mr. Jones. When he was ready, we were not;and now we have been ready more than a month, while he has been kept inWashington by the Silver bill. He said the other day that to venture outof the Capitol for a day at this time could easily chance to hurt himif the bill came up for action, meantime, although it couldn't hurt thebill, which would pass anyway. Mrs. Jones said she would send me two orthree days' notice, right after the passage of the bill, and that theywould follow as soon as I should return word that their coming would notinconvenience us. I suppose I ought to go to New York without waitingfor Mr. Jones, but it would not be wise to go there without money. 

The bill is still pending. 

 The Mergenthaler machine, like the Paige, was also at this time in the middle stages of experimental development. It was a slower machine, but it was simpler, less expensive, occupied less room. There was not so much about it to get out of order; it was not so delicate, not so human. These were immense advantages. 

 But no one at this time could say with certainty which typesetter would reap the harvest of millions. It was only sure that at least one of them would, and the Mergenthaler people were willing to trade stock for stock with the Paige company in order to insure financial success for both, whichever won. Clemens, with a faith that never faltered, declined this offer, a decision that was to cost him millions. 

 Winter and spring had gone and summer had come, but still there had been no financial conclusion with Jones, Mackay, and the other rich Californians who were to put up the necessary million for the machine's manufacture. Goodman was spending a large part of his time traveling back and forth between California and Washington, trying to keep business going at both ends. Paige spent most of his time working out improvements for the type-setter, delicate attachments which complicated its construction more and more. 

*****

To Joe T. Goodman, in Washington:

 HARTFORD, June 22, '90. 

DEAR JOE, --I have been sitting by the machine 2 hours, this afternoon, and my admiration of it towers higher than ever. There is no sort ofmistake about it, it is the Big Bonanza. In the 2 hours, the time lostby type-breakage was 3 minutes. 

This machine is totally without a rival. Rivalry with it is impossible. Last Friday, Fred Whitmore (it was the 28th day of his apprenticeshipon the machine) stacked up 49, 700 ems of solid nonpareil in 8 hours, andthe type-breaking delay was only 6 minutes for the day. 

I claim yet, as I have always claimed, that the machine's market (abroadand here together, ) is today worth $150, 000, 000 without saying anythingabout the doubling and trebling of this sum that will follow withinthe life of the patents. Now here is a queer fact: I am one of thewealthiest grandees in America--one of the Vanderbilt gang, in fact--andyet if you asked me to lend you a couple of dollars I should have to askyou to take my note instead. 

It makes me cheerful to sit by the machine: come up with Mrs. Goodmanand refresh yourself with a draught of the same. 

 Ys ever MARK. 

 The machine was still breaking the types now and then, and no doubt Paige was itching to take it to pieces, and only restrained by force from doing so. He was never thoroughly happy unless he was taking the machine apart or setting it up again. Finally, he was allowed to go at it--a disasterous permission, for it was just then that Jones decided to steal a day or two from the Silver Bill and watch the type-setter in operation. Paige already had it in parts when this word came from Goodman, and Jones's visit had to be called off. His enthusiasm would seem to have weakened from that day. In July, Goodman wrote that both Mackay and Jones had become somewhat diffident in the matter of huge capitalization. He thought it partly due, at least, to "the fatal delays that have sicklied over the bloom of original enthusiasm. " Clemens himself went down to Washington and perhaps warmed Jones with his eloquence; at least, Jones seemed to have agreed to make some effort in the matter a qualified promise, the careful word of a wary politician and capitalist. How many Washington trips were made is not certain, but certainly more than one. Jones would seem to have suggested forms of contracts, but if he came to the point of signing any there is no evidence of it to-day. 

 Any one who has read Mark Twain's, "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, " has a pretty good idea of his opinion of kings in general, and tyrants in particular. Rule by "divine right, " however liberal, was distasteful to him; where it meant oppression it stirred him to violence. In his article, "The Czar's Soliloquy, " he gave himself loose rein concerning atrocities charged to the master of Russia, and in a letter which he wrote during the summer of 1890, he offered a hint as to remedies. The letter was written by editorial request, but was never mailed. Perhaps it seemed too openly revolutionary at the moment. 

 Yet scarcely more than a quarter of a century was needed to make it "timely. " Clemens and his family were spending some weeks in the Catskills when it was written. 

*****

An unpublished letter on the Czar. 

 ONTEORA, 1890. 

TO THE EDITOR OF FREE RUSSIA, --I thank you for the compliment of yourinvitation to say something, but when I ponder the bottom paragraph onyour first page, and then study your statement on your third page, ofthe objects of the several Russian liberation-parties, I do not quiteknow how to proceed. Let me quote here the paragraph referred to:

"But men's hearts are so made that the sight of one voluntary victim fora noble idea stirs them more deeply than the sight of a crowd submittingto a dire fate they cannot escape. Besides, foreigners could not see soclearly as the Russians how much the Government was responsible for thegrinding poverty of the masses; nor could they very well realize themoral wretchedness imposed by that Government upon the whole of educatedRussia. But the atrocities committed upon the defenceless prisonersare there in all their baseness, concrete and palpable, admitting ofno excuse, no doubt or hesitation, crying out to the heart of humanityagainst Russian tyranny. And the Tzar's Government, stupidly confidentin its apparently unassailable position, instead of taking warningfrom the first rebukes, seems to mock this humanitarian age by theaggravation of brutalities. Not satisfied with slowly killing itsprisoners, and with burying the flower of our young generation in theSiberian desserts, the Government of Alexander III. Resolved to breaktheir spirit by deliberately submitting them to a regime of unheard-ofbrutality and degradation. "

When one reads that paragraph in the glare of George Kennan'srevelations, and considers how much it means; considers that all earthlyfigures fail to typify the Czar's government, and that one must descendinto hell to find its counterpart, one turns hopefully to your statementof the objects of the several liberation-parties--and is disappointed. Apparently none of them can bear to think of losing the present hellentirely, they merely want the temperature cooled down a little. 

I now perceive why all men are the deadly and uncompromising enemies ofthe rattlesnake: it is merely because the rattlesnake has not speech. Monarchy has speech, and by it has been able to persuade men that itdiffers somehow from the rattlesnake, has something valuable about itsomewhere, something worth preserving, something even good and high andfine, when properly "modified, " something entitling it to protectionfrom the club of the first comer who catches it out of its hole. Itseems a most strange delusion and not reconcilable with our superstitionthat man is a reasoning being. If a house is afire, we reasonconfidently that it is the first comer's plain duty to put the fire outin any way he can--drown it with water, blow it up with dynamite, useany and all means to stop the spread of the fire and save the rest ofthe city. What is the Czar of Russia but a house afire in the midst ofa city of eighty millions of inhabitants? Yet instead of extinguishinghim, together with his nest and system, the liberation-parties are allanxious to merely cool him down a little and keep him. 

It seems to me that this is illogical--idiotic, in fact. Suppose you hadthis granite-hearted, bloody-jawed maniac of Russia loose in your house, chasing the helpless women and little children--your own. What wouldyou do with him, supposing you had a shotgun? Well, he is loose in yourhouse-Russia. And with your shotgun in your hand, you stand trying tothink up ways to "modify" him. 

Do these liberation-parties think that they can succeed in a projectwhich has been attempted a million times in the history of the world andhas never in one single instance been successful--the "modification" ofa despotism by other means than bloodshed? They seem to think they can. My privilege to write these sanguinary sentences in soft security wasbought for me by rivers of blood poured upon many fields, in many lands, but I possess not one single little paltry right or privilege that cometo me as a result of petition, persuasion, agitation for reform, or anykindred method of procedure. When we consider that not even the mostresponsible English monarch ever yielded back a stolen public rightuntil it was wrenched from them by bloody violence, is it rational tosuppose that gentler methods can win privileges in Russia?

Of course I know that the properest way to demolish the Russian thronewould be by revolution. But it is not possible to get up a revolutionthere; so the only thing left to do, apparently, is to keep the thronevacant by dynamite until a day when candidates shall decline withthanks. Then organize the Republic. And on the whole this method hassome large advantages; for whereas a revolution destroys some liveswhich cannot well be spared, the dynamite way doesn't. Consider this:the conspirators against the Czar's life are caught in every rank oflife, from the low to the high. And consider: if so many take anactive part, where the peril is so dire, is this not evidence that thesympathizers who keep still and do not show their hands, are countlessfor multitudes? Can you break the hearts of thousands of families withthe awful Siberian exodus every year for generations and not eventuallycover all Russia from limit to limit with bereaved fathers and mothersand brothers and sisters who secretly hate the perpetrator of thisprodigious crime and hunger and thirst for his life? Do you not believethat if your wife or your child or your father was exiled to the minesof Siberia for some trivial utterances wrung from a smarting spirit bythe Czar's intolerable tyranny, and you got a chance to kill him and didnot do it, that you would always be ashamed to be in your own societythe rest of your life? Suppose that that refined and lovely Russian ladywho was lately stripped bare before a brutal soldiery and whipped todeath by the Czar's hand in the person of the Czar's creature had beenyour wife, or your daughter or your sister, and to-day the Czar shouldpass within reach of your hand, how would you feel--and what would youdo? Consider, that all over vast Russia, from boundary to boundary, a myriad of eyes filled with tears when that piteous news came, andthrough those tears that myriad of eyes saw, not that poor lady, butlost darlings of their own whose fate her fate brought back with newaccess of grief out of a black and bitter past never to be forgotten orforgiven. 

If I am a Swinburnian--and clear to the marrow I am--I hold human naturein sufficient honor to believe there are eighty million mute Russiansthat are of the same stripe, and only one Russian family that isn't. 

 MARK TWAIN. 

 Type-setter matters were going badly. Clemens still had faith in Jones, and he had lost no grain of faith in the machine. The money situation, however, was troublesome. With an expensive establishment, and work of one sort or another still to be done on the machine, his income would not reach. Perhaps Goodman had already given up hope, for he does not seem to have returned from California after the next letter was written--a colorless letter --in which we feel a note of resignation. The last few lines are sufficient. 

*****

To Joe T. Goodman, in California:

DEAR JOE, --. .. .. . I wish you could get a day off and make those two orthree Californians buy those privileges, for I'm going to need moneybefore long. 

I don't know where the Senator is; but out on the Coast I reckon. 

I guess we've got a perfect machine at last. We never break a type, now, and the new device for enabling the operator to touch the last lettersand justify the line simultaneously works, to a charm. 

 With love to you both, MARK

 The year closed gloomily enough. The type-setter seemed to be perfected, but capital for its manufacture was not forthcoming. The publishing business of Charles L. Webster & Co. Was returning little or no profit. Clemens's mother had died in Keokuk at the end of October, and his wife's mother, in Elmira a month later. Mark Twain, writing a short business letter to his publishing manager, Fred J. Ball, closed it: "Merry Xmas to you!--and I wish to God I could have one myself before I die. "

XXXI. LETTERS, 1891, TO HOWELLS, MRS. CLEMENS AND OTHERS. RETURN TOLITERATURE. AMERICAN CLAIMANT. LEAVING HARTFORD. EUROPE. DOWN THE RHINE. 

 Clemens was still not without hope in the machine, at the beginning of the new year (1891) but it was a hope no longer active, and it presently became a moribund. Jones, on about the middle of February, backed out altogether, laying the blame chiefly on Mackay and the others, who, he said, had decided not to invest. Jones "let his victim down easy" with friendly words, but it was the end, for the present, at least, of machine financiering. 

 It was also the end of Mark Twain's capital. His publishing business was not good. It was already in debt and needing more money. There was just one thing for him to do and he did it at once, not stopping to cry over spilt milk, but with good courage and the old enthusiasm that never failed him, he returned to the trade of authorship. He dug out half-finished articles and stories, finished them and sold them, and within a week after the Jones collapse he was at work on a novel based an the old Sellers idea, which eight years before he and Howells had worked into a play. The brief letter in which he reported this news to Howells bears no marks of depression, though the writer of it was in his fifty-sixth year; he was by no means well, and his financial prospects were anything but golden. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, Feb. 24, '91

DEAR HOWELLS, --Mrs. Clemens has been sick abed for near two weeks, butis up and around the room now, and gaining. I don't know whether she haswritten Mrs. Howells or not--I only know she was going to--and will yet, if she hasn't. We are promising ourselves a whole world of pleasure inthe visit, and you mustn't dream of disappointing us. 

Does this item stir an interest in you? Began a novel four days ago, andthis moment finished chapter four. Title of the book:

 "Colonel Mulberry Sellers. American Claimant Of the Great Earldom of Rossmore' in the Peerage of Great Britain. "

 Ys Ever MARK. 

Probably Mark Twain did not return to literary work reluctantly. He hadalways enjoyed writing and felt now that he was equipped better thanever for authorship, at least so far as material was concerned. Thereexists a fragmentary copy of a letter to some unknown correspondent, inwhich he recites his qualifications. It bears evidence of having beenwritten just at this time and is of unusual interest at this point. 

*****

Fragment of Letter to -------, 1891:

. .. . I confine myself to life with which I am familiar when pretendingto portray life. But I confined myself to the boy-life out on theMississippi because that had a peculiar charm for me, and not becauseI was not familiar with other phases of life. I was a soldier two weeksonce in the beginning of the war, and was hunted like a rat the wholetime. Familiar? My splendid Kipling himself hasn't a moreburnt-in, hard-baked, and unforgetable familiarity with thatdeath-on-the-pale-horse-with-hell-following-after, which is a rawsoldier's first fortnight in the field--and which, without any doubt, isthe most tremendous fortnight and the vividest he is ever going to see. 

Yes, and I have shoveled silver tailings in a quartz-mill a couple ofweeks, and acquired the last possibilities of culture in that direction. And I've done "pocket-mining" during three months in the one littlepatch of ground in the whole globe where Nature conceals gold inpockets--or did before we robbed all of those pockets and exhausted, obliterated, annihilated the most curious freak Nature ever indulged in. There are not thirty men left alive who, being told there was a pockethidden on the broad slope of a mountain, would know how to go and findit, or have even the faintest idea of how to set about it; but I am oneof the possible 20 or 30 who possess the secret, and I could go and putmy hand on that hidden treasure with a most deadly precision. 

And I've been a prospector, and know pay rock from poor when I findit--just with a touch of the tongue. And I've been a silver miner andknow how to dig and shovel and drill and put in a blast. And so I knowthe mines and the miners interiorly as well as Bret Harte knows themexteriorly. 

And I was a newspaper reporter four years in cities, and so saw theinside of many things; and was reporter in a legislature two sessionsand the same in Congress one session, and thus learned to knowpersonally three sample bodies of the smallest minds and the selfishestsouls and the cowardliest hearts that God makes. 

And I was some years a Mississippi pilot, and familiarly knew all thedifferent kinds of steam-boatmen--a race apart, and not like other folk. 

And I was for some years a traveling "jour" printer, and wandered fromcity to city--and so I know that sect familiarly. 

And I was a lecturer on the public platform a number of seasons and wasa responder to toasts at all the different kinds of banquets--and so Iknow a great many secrets about audiences--secrets not to be got out ofbooks, but only acquirable by experience. 

And I watched over one dear project of mine for years, spent a fortuneon it, and failed to make it go--and the history of that would make alarge book in which a million men would see themselves as in a mirror;and they would testify and say, Verily, this is not imagination; thisfellow has been there--and after would cast dust upon their heads, cursing and blaspheming. 

And I am a publisher, and did pay to one author's widow (GeneralGrant's) the largest copyright checks this world has seen--aggregatingmore than L80, 000 in the first year. 

And I have been an author for 20 years and an ass for 55. 

Now then; as the most valuable capital or culture or education usablein the building of novels is personal experience I ought to be wellequipped for that trade. 

I surely have the equipment, a wide culture, and all of it real, none ofit artificial, for I don't know anything about books. 

 [No signature. ]

 Clemens for several years had been bothered by rheumatism in his shoulder. The return now to the steady use of the pen aggravated his trouble, and at times he was nearly disabled. The phonograph for commercial dictation had been tried experimentally, and Mark Twain was always ready for any innovation. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, Feb. 28, '91. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --Won't you drop-in at the Boylston Building (NewEngland Phonograph Co) and talk into a phonograph in an ordinaryconversation-voice and see if another person (who didn't hear you do it)can take the words from the thing without difficulty and repeat themto you. If the experiment is satisfactory (also make somebody put in amessage which you don't hear, and see if afterward you can get it outwithout difficulty) won't you then ask them on what terms they will rentme a phonograph for 3 months and furnish me cylinders enough to carry75, 000 words. 175 cylinders, ain't it?

I don't want to erase any of them. My right arm is nearly disabled byrheumatism, but I am bound to write this book (and sell 100, 000 copiesof it--no, I mean a million--next fall) I feel sure I can dictate thebook into a phonograph if I don't have to yell. I write 2, 000 words aday; I think I can dictate twice as many. 

But mind, if this is going to be too much trouble to you--go ahead anddo it, all the same. 

 Ys ever MARK. 

 Howells, always willing to help, visited the phonograph place, and a few days later reported results. He wrote: "I talked your letter into a fonograf in my usual tone at my usual gait of speech. Then the fonograf man talked his answer in at his wonted swing and swell. Then we took the cylinder to a type-writer in the next room, and she put the hooks into her ears and wrote the whole out. I send you the result. There is a mistake of one word. I think that if you have the cheek to dictate the story into the fonograf, all the rest is perfectly easy. It wouldn't fatigue me to talk for an hour as I did. "

 Clemens did not find the phonograph entirely satisfactory, at least not for a time, and he appears never to have used it steadily. His early experience with it, however, seems interesting. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, Apl. 4, '91. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I'm ashamed. It happened in this way. I was proposing toacknowledge the receipt of the play and the little book per phonograph, so that you could see that the instrument is good enough for mereletter-writing; then I meant to add the fact that you can't writeliterature with it, because it hasn't any ideas and it hasn't any giftfor elaboration, or smartness of talk, or vigor of action, or felicityof expression, but is just matter-of-fact, compressive, unornamental, and as grave and unsmiling as the devil. 

I filled four dozen cylinders in two sittings, then found I couldhave said about as much with the pen and said it a deal better. Then Iresigned. 

I believe it could teach one to dictate literature to aphonographer--and some time I will experiment in that line. 

The little book is charmingly written, and it interested me. But itflies too high for me. Its concretest things are filmy abstractions tome, and when I lay my grip on one of them and open my hand, I feel asembarrassed as I use to feel when I thought I had caught a fly. I'mgoing to try to mail it back to you to-day--I mean I am going to chargemy memory. Charging my memory is one of my chief industries. .. . 

With our loves and our kindest regards distributed among you accordingto the proprieties. 

 Yrs ever MARK. 

P. S. --I'm sending that ancient "Mental Telegraphy" article toHarper's--with a modest postscript. Probably read it to you years ago. 

 S. L. C. 

 The "little book" mentioned in this letter was by Swedenborg, an author in whom the Boston literary set was always deeply interested. "Mental Telegraphy" appeared in Harper's Magazine, and is now included in the Uniform Edition of Mark Twain's books. It was written in 1878. 

 Joe Goodman had long since returned to California, it being clear that nothing could be gained by remaining in Washington. On receipt of the news of the type-setter's collapse he sent a consoling word. Perhaps he thought Clemens would rage over the unhappy circumstance, and possibly hold him in some measure to blame. But it was generally the smaller annoyances of life that made Mark Twain rage; the larger catastrophes were likely to stir only his philosophy. 

 The Library of American Literature, mentioned in the following letter, was a work in many volumes, edited by Edmund Clarence Stedman and Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. 

*****

To Joe T. Goodman:

 April [?] 1891. 

DEAR JOE, Well, it's all right, anyway. Diplomacy couldn't have savedit--diplomacy of mine--at that late day. I hadn't any diplomacy instock, anyway. In order to meet Jones's requirements I had to surrenderthe old contract (a contract which made me boss of the situation andgave me the whip-hand of Paige) and allow the new one to be drafted andput in its place. I was running an immense risk, but it was justified byJones's promises--promises made to me not merely once but every time Itallied with him. When February arrived, I saw signs which were mightyplain reading. Signs which meant that Paige was hoping and praying thatJones would go back on me--which would leave Paige boss, and me robbedand out in the cold. His prayers were answered, and I am out in thecold. If I ever get back my nine-twentieths interest, it will be bylaw-suit--which will be instituted in the indefinite future, when thetime comes. 

I am at work again--on a book. Not with a great deal of spirit, but withenough--yes, plenty. And I am pushing my publishing house. It has turnedthe corner after cleaning $50, 000 a year for three consecutiveyears, and piling every cent of it into one book--Library of AmericanLiterature--and from next January onward it will resume dividends. ButI've got to earn $50, 000 for it between now and then--which I will do ifI keep my health. This additional capital is needed for that same book, because its prosperity is growing so great and exacting. 

It is dreadful to think of you in ill health--I can't realize it; youare always to me the same that you were in those days when matchlesshealth, and glowing spirits and delight in life were commonplaces withus. Lord save us all from old age and broken health and a hope-tree thathas lost the faculty of putting out blossoms. 

 With love to you both from us all. MARK. 

 Mark Twain's residence in Hartford was drawing rapidly to a close. Mrs. Clemens was poorly, and his own health was uncertain. They believed that some of the European baths would help them. Furthermore, Mark Twain could no longer afford the luxury of his Hartford home. In Europe life could be simpler and vastly cheaper. He was offered a thousand dollars apiece for six European letters, by the McClure syndicate and W. M. Laffan, of the Sun. This would at least give him a start on the other side. The family began immediately their sad arrangements for departure. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall (manager Chas. L. Webster & Co. ), N. Y. :

 HARTFORD, Apl. 14, '91. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --Privately--keep it to yourself--as you, are alreadyaware, we are going to Europe in June, for an indefinite stay. We shallsell the horses and shut up the house. We wish to provide a place forour coachman, who has been with us a 21 years, and is sober, active, diligent, and unusually bright and capable. You spoke of hiring acolored man as engineer and helper in the packing room. Patrick wouldsoon learn that trade and be very valuable. We will cease to need him bythe middle or end of June. Have you made irrevocable arrangements withthe colored man, or would you prefer to have Patrick, if he thinks hewould like to try?

I have not said anything to him about it yet. 

 Yours S. L. C. 

 It was to be a complete breaking up of their beautiful establishment. Patrick McAleer, George the butler, and others of their household help had been like members of the family. We may guess at the heartbreak of it all, even though the letters remain cheerful. 

 Howells, strangely enough, seems to have been about the last one to be told of their European plans; in fact, he first got wind of it from the papers, and wrote for information. Likely enough Clemens had not until then had the courage to confess. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 HARTFORD, May 20, '91. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --For her health's sake Mrs. Clemens must try bathssomewhere, and this it is that has determined us to go to Europe. The water required seems to be provided at a little obscure andlittle-visited nook up in the hills back of the Rhine somewhere and youget to it by Rhine traffic-boat and country stage-coach. Come, get "sickor sorry enough" and join us. We shall be a little while at that bath, and the rest of the summer at Annecy (this confidential to you) in HauteSavoie, 22 miles from Geneva. Spend the winters in Berlin. I don't knowhow long we shall be in Europe--I have a vote, but I don't cast it. I'mgoing to do whatever the others desire, with leave to change their mind, without prejudice, whenever they want to. Travel has no longer, anycharm for me. I have seen all the foreign countries I want to see exceptheaven and hell, and I have only a vague curiosity as concerns one ofthose. 

I found I couldn't use the play--I had departed too far from itslines when I came to look at it. I thought I might get a great deal ofdialogue out of it, but I got only 15 loosely written pages--they savedme half a days work. It was the cursing phonograph. There was abundanceof good dialogue, but it couldn't befitted into the new conditions ofthe story. 

Oh, look here--I did to-day what I have several times in past yearsthought of doing: answered an interviewing proposition from a richnewspaper with the reminder that they had not stated the terms; that mytime was all occupied with writing, at good pay, and that as talking washarder work I should not care to venture it unless I knew the pay wasgoing to be proportionately higher. I wish I had thought of this theother day when Charley Stoddard turned a pleasant Englishman loose on meand I couldn't think of any rational excuse. 

 Ys Ever MARK. 

 Clemens had finished his Sellers book and had disposed of the serial rights to the McClure syndicate. The house in Hartford was closed early in June, and on the 6th the family, with one maid, Katie Leary, sailed on the Gascogne. Two weeks later they had begun a residence abroad which was to last for more than nine years. 

 It was not easy to get to work in Europe. Clemens's arm remained lame, and any effort at writing brought suffering. The Century Magazine proposed another set of letters, but by the end of July he had barely begun on those promised to McClure and Laffan. In August, however, he was able to send three: one from Aix about the baths there, another from Bayreuth concerning the Wagner festival, and a third from Marienbad, in Bohemia, where they rested for a time. He decided that he would arrange for no more European letters when the six were finished, but would gather material for a book. He would take a courier and a kodak and go tramping again in some fashion that would be interesting to do and to write. 

 The idea finally matured when he reached Switzerland and settled the family at the Hotel Beau Rivage, Ouchy, Lausanne, facing Lake Leman. He decided to make a floating trip down the Rhone, and he engaged Joseph Very, a courier that had served him on a former European trip, to accompany him. The courier went over to Bourget and bought for five dollars a flat-bottomed boat and engaged its owner as their pilot. It was the morning of September 20, when they began their floating-trip down the beautiful historic river that flows through the loveliest and most romantic region of France. He wrote daily to Mrs. Clemens, and his letters tell the story of that drowsy, happy experience better than the notes made with a view to publication. Clemens had arrived at Lake Bourget on the evening before the morning of their start and slept on the Island of Chatillon, in an old castle of the same name. Lake Bourget connects with the Rhone by a small canal. 

*****

Letters and Memoranda to Mrs. Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland:

 Sept. 20, 1891. 

 Sunday, 11 a. M. 

On the lake Bourget--just started. The castle of Chatillon high overheadshowing above the trees. It was a wonderfully still place to sleep in. Beside us there was nobody in it but a woman, a boy and a dog. A Popewas born in the room I slept in. No, he became a Pope later. 

The lake is smooth as glass--a brilliant sun is shining. 

Our boat is comfortable and shady with its awning. 

11. 20 We have crossed the lake and are entering the canal. Shallpresently be in the Rhone. 

Noon. Nearly down to the Rhone. Passing the village of Chanaz. 

3. 15 p. M. Sunday. We have been in the Rhone 3 hours. It is unimaginablystill and reposeful and cool and soft and breezy. No rowing or work ofany kind to do--we merely float with the current--we glide noiseless andswift--as fast as a London cab-horse rips along--8 miles an hour--theswiftest current I've ever boated in. We have the entire river toourselves--nowhere a boat of any kind. 

 Good bye Sweetheart S. L. C. 

 PORT DE GROLEE, Monday, 4. 15 p. M. 

 [Sept. 21, 1891]

Name of the village which we left five minutes ago. 

We went ashore at 5 p. M. Yesterday, dear heart, and walked a short mileto St. Geuix, a big village, and took quarters at the principal inn; hada good dinner and afterwards along walk out of town on the banks of theGuiers till 7. 30. 

Went to bed at 8. 30 and continued to make notes and read books andnewspapers till midnight. Slept until 8, breakfasted in bed, and laytill noon, because there had been a very heavy rain in the night and theday was still dark and lowering. But at noon the sun broke through andin 15 minutes we were tramping toward the river. Got afloat at 1 p. M. But at 2. 40 we had to rush suddenly ashore and take refuge in the abovevillage. Just as we got ourselves and traps safely housed in the inn, the rain let go and came down in great style. We lost an hour and a halfthere, but we are off again, now, with bright sunshine. 

I wrote you yesterday my darling, and shall expect to write you everyday. 

Good-day, and love to all of you. 

 SAML. 

 ON THE RHONE BELOW VILLEBOIS, Tuesday noon. 

Good morning, sweetheart. Night caught us yesterday where we had to takequarters in a peasant's house which was occupied by the family and a lotof cows and calves--also several rabbits. --[His word for fleas. ]--Thelatter had a ball, and I was the ball-room; but they were very friendlyand didn't bite. 

The peasants were mighty kind and hearty, and flew around and did theirbest to make us comfortable. This morning I breakfasted on the shore inthe open air with two sociable dogs and a cat. Clean cloth, napkin andtable furniture, white sugar, a vast hunk of excellent butter, goodbread, first class coffee with pure milk, fried fish just caught. Wonderful that so much cleanliness should come out of such aphenomenally dirty house. 

An hour ago we saw the Falls of the Rhone, a prodigiously rough anddangerous looking place; shipped a little water but came to no harm. Itwas one of the most beautiful pieces of piloting and boat-management Iever saw. Our admiral knew his business. 

We have had to run ashore for shelter every time it has rainedheretofore, but Joseph has been putting in his odd time making awater-proof sun-bonnet for the boat, and now we sail along dry althoughwe had many heavy showers this morning. 

With a word of love to you all and particularly you, SAML. 

 ON THE RHONE, BELOW VIENNA. 

I salute you, my darling. Your telegram reached me in Lyons last nightand was very pleasant news indeed. 

I was up and shaved before 8 this morning, but we got delayed and didn'tsail from Lyons till 10. 30--an hour and a half lost. And we've lostanother hour--two of them, I guess--since, by an error. We came in sightof Vienne at 2 o'clock, several miles ahead, on a hill, and I proposedto walk down there and let the boat go ahead of us. So Joseph and I gotout and struck through a willow swamp along a dim path, and by and bycame out on the steep bank of a slough or inlet or something, and wefollowed that bank forever and ever trying to get around the head ofthat slough. Finally I noticed a twig standing up in the water, and byGeorge it had a distinct and even vigorous quiver to it! I don't knowwhen I have felt so much like a donkey. On an island! I wanted to drownsomebody, but I hadn't anybody I could spare. However, after anotherlong tramp we found a lonely native, and he had a scow and soon we wereon the mainland--yes, and a blamed sight further from Vienne than wewere when we started. 

Notes--I make millions of them; and so I get no time to write to you. Ifyou've got a pad there, please send it poste-restante to Avignon. I maynot need it but I fear I shall. 

I'm straining to reach St. Pierre de Boef, but it's going to be a closefit, I reckon. 

 AFLOAT, Friday, 3 p. M. , '91. 

Livy darling, we sailed from St. Pierre de Boef six hours ago, and arenow approaching Tournon, where we shall not stop, but go on and makeValence, a City Of 25, 000 people. It's too delicious, floating with theswift current under the awning these superb sunshiny days in deep peaceand quietness. Some of these curious old historical towns strangelypersuade me, but it is so lovely afloat that I don't stop, but view themfrom the outside and sail on. We get abundance of grapes and peaches fornext to nothing. 

Joseph is perfect. He is at his very best--and never was better in hislife. I guess he gets discouraged and feels disliked and in the way whenhe is lying around--but here he is perfection, and brim full of usefulalacrities and helps and ingenuities. 

When I woke up an hour ago and heard the clock strike 4, I said "I seemto have been asleep an immensely long time; I must have gone to bedmighty early; I wonder what time I did go to bed. " And I got up and lita candle and looked at my watch to see. 

 AFLOAT

 2 HOURS BELOW BOURG ST. ANDEOL. 

 Monday, 11 a. M. , Sept. 28. 

Livy darling, I didn't write yesterday. We left La Voulte in a drivingstorm of cold rain--couldn't write in it--and at 1 p. M. When we werenot thinking of stopping, we saw a picturesque and mighty ruin on a highhill back of a village, and I was seized with a desire to explore it;so we landed at once and set out with rubbers and umbrella, sending theboat ahead to St. Andeol, and we spent 3 hours clambering about thosecloudy heights among those worn and vast and idiotic ruins of a castlebuilt by two crusaders 650 years ago. The work of these asses wasfull of interest, and we had a good time inspecting, examining andscrutinizing it. All the hills on both sides of the Rhone have peaks andprecipices, and each has its gray and wasted pile of mouldy walls andbroken towers. The Romans displaced the Gauls, the Visigoths displacedthe Romans, the Saracens displaced the Visigoths, the Christiansdisplaced the Saracens, and it was these pious animals who built thesestrange lairs and cut each other's throats in the name and for the gloryof God, and robbed and burned and slew in peace and war; and the pauperand the slave built churches, and the credit of it went to the Bishopwho racked the money out of them. These are pathetic shores, and theymake one despise the human race. 

We came down in an hour by rail, but I couldn't get your telegram tillthis morning, for it was Sunday and they had shut up the post officeto go to the circus. I went, too. It was all one family--parents and5 children--performing in the open air to 200 of these enchantedvillagers, who contributed coppers when called on. It was a most gay andstrange and pathetic show. I got up at 7 this morning to see the poordevils cook their poor breakfast and pack up their sordid fineries. 

This is a 9 k-m. Current and the wind is with us; we shall make Avignonbefore 4 o'clock. I saw watermelons and pomegranates for sale at St. Andeol. 

 With a power of love, Sweetheart, SAML. 

 HOTEL D'EUROPE, AVIGNON, Monday, 6 p. M. , Sept. 28. 

Well, Livy darling, I have been having a perfect feast of letters for anhour, and I thank you and dear Clam with all my heart. It's like hearingfrom home after a long absence. 

It is early to be in bed, but I'm always abed before 9, on this voyage;and up at 7 or a trifle later, every morning. If I ever take such a tripagain, I will have myself called at the first tinge of dawn and get tosea as soon after as possible. The early dawn on the water-nothing canbe finer, as I know by old Mississippi experience. I did so long for youand Sue yesterday morning--the most superb sunrise!--the most marveloussunrise! and I saw it all from the very faintest suspicion of the comingdawn all the way through to the final explosion of glory. But it hadinterest private to itself and not to be found elsewhere in the world;for between me and it, in the far distant-eastward, was a silhouettemountain-range in which I had discovered, the previous afternoon, a mostnoble face upturned to the sky, and mighty form out stretched, whichI had named Napoleon Dreaming of Universal Empire--and now, thisprodigious face, soft, rich, blue, spirituelle, asleep, tranquil, reposeful, lay against that giant conflagration of ruddy and goldensplendors all rayed like a wheel with the upstreaming and far-reachinglances of the sun. It made one want to cry for delight, it was sosupreme in its unimaginable majesty and beauty. 

We had a curious experience today. A little after I had sealed anddirected my letter to you, in which I said we should make Avignon before4, we got lost. We ceased to encounter any village or ruin mentionedin our "particularizes" and detailed Guide of the Rhone--went driftingalong by the hour in a wholly unknown land and on an uncharted river!Confound it, we stopped talking and did nothing but stand up in the boatand search the horizons with the glass and wonder what in the devil hadhappened. And at last, away yonder at 5 o'clock when some east towersand fortresses hove in sight we couldn't recognize them for Avignon--yetwe knew by the broken bridge that it was Avignon. 

Then we saw what the trouble was--at some time or other we had drifteddown the wrong side of an island and followed a sluggish branch of theRhone not frequented in modern times. We lost an hour and a half by itand missed one of the most picturesque and gigantic and history-soddenmasses of castellated medieval ruin that Europe can show. 

It was dark by the time we had wandered through the town and got theletters and found the hotel--so I went to bed. 

We shall leave here at noon tomorrow and float down to Arles, arrivingabout dark, and there bid good bye to the boat, the river-trip finished. Between Arles and Nimes (and Avignon again, ) we shall be till Saturdaymorning--then rail it through on that day to Ouchy, reaching the hotelat 11 at night if the train isn't late. 

Next day (Sunday) if you like, go to Basel, and Monday to Berlin. But Ishall be at your disposal, to do exactly as you desire and prefer. 

 With no end of love to all of you and twice as much to you, sweetheart, SAML. 

I believe my arm is a trifle better than it was when I started. 

 The mention in the foregoing letter of the Napoleon effigy is the beginning of what proved to be a rather interesting episode. Mark Twain thought a great deal of his discovery, as he called it--the giant figure of Napoleon outlined by the distant mountain range. In his note-book he entered memoranda telling just where it was to be seen, and added a pencil sketch of the huge profile. But then he characteristically forgot all about it, and when he recalled the incident ten years later, he could not remember the name of the village, Beauchastel, from which the great figure could be seen; also, that he had made a record of the place. 

 But he was by this time more certain than ever that his discovery was a remarkable one, which, if known, would become one of the great natural wonders, such as Niagara Falls. Theodore Stanton was visiting him at the time, and Clemens urged him, on his return to France, to make an excursion to the Rhone and locate the Lost Napoleon, as he now called it. But Clemens remembered the wonder as being somewhere between Arles and Avignon, instead of about a hundred miles above the last-named town. Stanton naturally failed to find it, and it remained for the writer of these notes, motoring up the Rhone one September day, exactly twenty-two years after the first discovery, to re-locate the vast reclining figure of the first consul of France, "dreaming of Universal Empire. " The re-discovery was not difficult--with Mark Twain's memoranda as a guide--and it was worth while. Perhaps the Lost Napoleon is not so important a natural wonder as Mark Twain believed, but it is a striking picture, and on a clear day the calm blue face outlined against the sky will long hold the traveler's attention. 

*****

To Clara Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland:

 AFLOAT, 11. 20 a. M. , Sept. 29, Tuesday. 

DEAR OLD BEN, --The vast stone masses and huge towers of the ancientpapal palace of Avignon are projected above an intervening wooded islanda mile up the river behind me--for we are already on our way toArles. It is a perfectly still morning, with a brilliant sun, and veryhot--outside; but I am under cover of the linen hood, and it is cool andshady in here. 

Please tell mamma I got her very last letter this morning, and Iperceive by it that I do not need to arrive at Ouchy before Saturdaymidnight. I am glad, because I couldn't do the railroading I amproposing to do during the next two or three days and get there earlier. I could put in the time till Sunday midnight, but shall not venture itwithout telegraphic instructions from her to Nimes day after tomorrow, Oct. 1, care Hotel Manivet. 

The only adventures we have is in drifting into rough seas now andthen. They are not dangerous, but they go thro' all the motions of it. Yesterday when we shot the Bridge of the Holy Spirit it was probablyin charge of some inexperienced deputy spirit for the day, for we wereallowed to go through the wrong arch, which brought us into a tourbillonbelow which tried to make this old scow stand on its head. Of course Ilost my temper and blew it off in a way to be heard above the roar ofthe tossing waters. I lost it because the admiral had taken that arch indeference to my opinion that it was the best one, while his own judgmenttold him to take the one nearest the other side of the river. I couldhave poisoned him I was so mad to think I had hired such a turnip. Aboatman in command should obey nobody's orders but his own, and yield tonobody's suggestions. 

It was very sweet of you to write me, dear, and I thank you ever somuch. With greatest love and kisses, PAPA. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland:

 ARLES, Sept. 30, noon. 

Livy darling, I hain't got no time to write today, because I am sightseeing industriously and imagining my chapter. 

Bade good-bye to the river trip and gave away the boat yesterdayevening. We had ten great days in her. 

We reached here after dark. We were due about 4. 30, counting bydistance, but we couldn't calculate on such a lifeless current as wefound. 

 I love you, sweetheart. SAML. 

 It had been a long time since Clemens had written to his old friend Twichell, but the Rhone trip must have reminded him of those days thirteen years earlier, when, comparatively young men, he and Twichell were tramping through the Black Forest and scaling Gemmi Pass. He sent Twichell a reminder of that happy time. 

*****

To Rev. Joseph H. Twichell, in Hartford, Conn:

 NIMES, Oct. 1, '91. 

DEAR JOE, --I have been ten days floating down the Rhone on a raft, fromLake Bourget, and a most curious and darling kind of a trip it has been. You ought to have been along--I could have made room for you easily--andyou would have found that a pedestrian tour in Europe doesn't begin witha raft-voyage for hilarity and mild adventure, and intimate contact withthe unvisited native of the back settlements, and extinction from theworld and newspapers, and a conscience in a state of coma, and lazycomfort, and solid happiness. In fact there's nothing that's so lovely. 

But it's all over. I gave the raft away yesterday at Arles, and amloafing along back by short stages on the rail to Ouchy-Lausanne wherethe tribe are staying. 

 Love to you all MARK. 

 The Clemenses settled in Berlin for the winter, at 7 Kornerstrasse, and later at the Hotel Royal. There had been no permanent improvement in Mark Twain's arm and he found writing difficult. Some of the letters promised to Laffan and McClure were still unfinished. 

 Young Hall, his publishing manager in America, was working hard to keep the business afloat, and being full of the optimism of his years did not fail to make as good a showing as he could. We may believe his letters were very welcome to Clemens and his wife, who found little enough in the general prospect to comfort them. 

*****

To Mr. Hall, in New York:

 BERLIN, Nov. 27, '91. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --That kind of a statement is valuable. It came thismorning. This is the first time since the business began that I have hada report that furnished the kind of information I wanted, and wasreally enlightening and satisfactory. Keep it up. Don't let it fall intodesuetude. 

Everything looks so fine and handsome with the business, now, thatI feel a great let-up from depression. The rewards of your long andpatient industry are on their way, and their arrival safe in port, presently, seems assured. 

By George, I shall be glad when the ship comes in!

My arm is so much better that I was able to make a speech last night to250 Americans. But when they threw my portrait on the screen it wasa sorrowful reminder, for it was from a negative of 15 years ago, andhadn't a gray hair in it. And now that my arm is better, I have stolena couple of days and finished up a couple of McClure letters that havebeen lying a long time. 

I shall mail one of them to you next Tuesday--registered. Lookout forit. 

I shall register and mail the other one (concerning the "Jungfrau") nextFriday look out for it also, and drop me a line to let me know they havearrived. 

I shall write the 6th and last letter by and by when I have studiedBerlin sufficiently. 

Yours in a most cheerful frame of mind, and with my and all the family'sThanksgiving greetings and best wishes, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Postscript by Mrs. Clemens written on Mr. Clemens's letter:

DEAR MR. HALL, --This is my birthday and your letter this morning was ahappy addition to the little gifts on the breakfast table. I thought ofgoing out and spending money for something unnecessary after it came, but concluded perhaps I better wait a little longer. 

 Sincerely yours O. L. CLEMENS. 

 "The German Chicago" was the last of the six McClure letters and was finished that winter in Berlin. It is now included in the Uniform Edition of Mark Twain's works, and is one of the best descriptive articles of the German capital ever written. He made no use of the Rhone notes further than to put them together in literary form. They did not seem to him to contain enough substance to warrant publication. A letter to Hall, written toward the end of December, we find rather gloomy in tone, though he is still able to extract comfort and even cheerfulness from one of Mr. Hall's reports. 

 Memorandum to Fred J. Hall, in New York:

Among the MSS I left with you are a few that have a recent look andare written on rather stiff pale green paper. If you will have thosetype-writered and keep the originals and send me the copies (one permail, not two. ) I'll see if I can use them. 

But tell Howells and other inquirers that my hopes of writing anythingare very slender--I seem to be disabled for life. 

Drop McClure a line and tell him the same. I can't dare to make anengagement now for even a single letter. 

I am glad Howells is on a magazine, but sorry he gave up the Study. Ishall have to go on a magazine myself if this L. A. L. Continues to holdmy nose down to the grind-stone much longer. 

I'm going to hold my breath, now, for 30 days--then the annual statementwill arrive and I shall know how we feel! Merry Xmas to you from us all. 

 Sincerely, S. L. C. 

P. S. Just finished the above and finished raging at the eternal Germantax-gatherer, and so all the jubilant things which I was going to sayabout the past year's business got knocked out of me. After writing thispresent letter I was feeling blue about Huck Finn, but I sat down andoverhauled your reports from now back to last April and compared themwith the splendid Oct. -Nov. Business, and went to bed feeling refreshedand fine, for certainly it has been a handsome year. Now rush me alongthe Annual Report and let's see how we feel!

 S. L. C. 

XXXII. LETTERS, 1892, CHIEFLY TO MR. HALL AND MRS. CRANE. IN BERLIN, MENTONE, BAD-NAUHEIM, FLORENCE. 

Mark Twain was the notable literary figure in Berlin that winter, thecenter of every great gathering. He was entertained by the Kaiser, andshown many special attentions by Germans of every rank. His books wereas well known in Berlin as in New York, and at court assemblies andembassies he was always a chief center of interest. 

He was too popular for his own good; the gaiety of the capital told onhim. Finally, one night, after delivering a lecture in a hot room, hecontracted a severe cold, driving to a ball at General von Versen's, anda few days later was confined to his bed with pneumonia. It was not asevere attack, but it was long continued. He could write some lettersand even work a little, but he was not allowed to leave his bed for manyweeks, a condition which he did not find a hardship, for no man everenjoyed the loose luxury of undress and the comfort of pillows morethan Mark Twain. In a memorandum of that time he wrote: "I am having abooming time all to myself. "

Meantime, Hall, in America, was sending favorable reports of thepublishing business, and this naturally helped to keep up his spirits. He wrote frequently to Hall, of course, but the letters for the mostpart are purely of a business nature and of little interest to thegeneral reader. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 HOTEL ROYAL, BERLIN, Feb. 12. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --Daly wants to get the stage rights of the "AmericanClaimant. " The foundation from which I wrote the story is a play of thesame name which has been in A. P. Burbank's hands 5 or 6 years. Thatplay cost me some money (helping Burbank stage it) but has never broughtme any. I have written Burbank (Lotos Club) and asked him to giveme back his rights in the old play so that I can treat with Daly andutilize this chance to even myself up. Burbank is a lovely fellow, andif he objects I can't urge him. But you run in at the Lotos and see him;and if he relinquishes his claim, then I would like you to conduct thebusiness with Daly; or have Whitford or some other lawyer do it underyour supervision if you prefer. 

This morning I seem to have rheumatism in my right foot. 

I am ordered south by the doctor and shall expect to be well enough tostart by the end of this month. 

 [No signature. ]

 It is curious, after Clemens and Howells had tried so hard and so long to place their "Sellers" Play, that now, when the story appeared in book form, Augustin Daly should have thought it worth dramatizing. Daly and Clemens were old friends, and it would seem that Daly could hardly have escaped seeing the play when it was going the rounds. But perhaps there is nothing more mysterious in the world than the ways and wants of theatrical managers. The matter came to nothing, of course, but the fact that Daly should have thought a story built from an old discarded play had a play in it seems interesting. 

 Clemens and his wife were advised to leave the cold of Berlin as soon as he was able to travel. This was not until the first of March, when, taking their old courier, Joseph Very, they left the children in good hands and journeyed to the south of France. 

*****

To Susy Clemens, in Berlin:

 MENTONE, Mch 22, '92. 

SUSY DEAR, --I have been delighted to note your easy facility with yourpen and proud to note also your literary superiorities of one kind andanother--clearness of statement, directness, felicity of expression, photographic ability in setting forth an incident--style--good style--nobarnacles on it in the way of unnecessary, retarding words (the Shipmanscrapes off the barnacles when he wants his racer to go her best gaitand straight to the buoy. ) You should write a letter every day, long orshort--and so ought I, but I don't. 

Mamma says, tell Clara yes, she will have to write a note if the fancomes back mended. 

We couldn't go to Nice to-day--had to give it up, on variousaccounts--and this was the last chance. I am sorry for Mamma--I wish shecould have gone. She got a heavy fall yesterday evening and was prettystiff and lame this morning, but is working it off trunk packing. 

Joseph is gone to Nice to educate himself in Kodaking--and to get thepictures mounted which Mamma thinks she took here; but I noticedshe didn't take the plug out, as a rule. When she did, she took ninepictures on top of each other--composites. 

 With lots of love. PAPA. 

 In the course of their Italian wanderings they reached Florence, where they were so comfortable and well that they decided to engage a villa for the next winter. Through Prof. Willard Fiske, they discovered the Villa Viviani, near Settignano, an old palace beautifully located on the hilltops east of Florence, commanding a wonderful view of the ancient city. Clemens felt that he could work there, and time proved that he was right. 

 For the summer, however, they returned to Germany, and located at Bad-Nauheim. Clemens presently decided to make a trip to America to give some personal attention to business matters. For one thing, his publishing-house, in spite of prosperity, seemed constantly to be requiring more capital, and then a Chicago company had been persuaded by Paige to undertake the manufacture of the type-setter. It was the beginning of a series of feverish trips which he would make back and forth across the ocean during the next two years. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 BAD-NAUHEIM, June 11, '92. 

 Saturday. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --If this arrives before I do, let it inform you that I amleaving Bremen for New York next Tuesday in the "Havel. "

If you can meet me when the ship arrives, you can help me to get awayfrom the reporters; and maybe you can take me to your own or some otherlodgings where they can't find me. 

But if the hour is too early or too late for you, I shall obscure myselfsomewhere till I can come to the office. 

Yours sincerely S. L. C. 

 Nothing of importance happened in America. The new Paige company had a factory started in Chicago and expected to manufacture fifty machines as a beginning. They claimed to have capital, or to be able to command it, and as the main control had passed from Clemens's hands, he could do no more than look over the ground and hope for the best. As for the business, about all that he could do was to sign certain notes necessary to provide such additional capital as was needed, and agree with Hall that hereafter they would concentrate their efforts and resist further temptation in the way of new enterprise. Then he returned to Bad-Nauheim and settled down to literature. This was the middle of July, and he must have worked pretty steadily, for he presently had a variety of MSS. Ready to offer. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 Aug. 10, '92. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --I have dropped that novel I wrote you about, because Isaw a more effective way of using the main episode--to wit: by tellingit through the lips of Huck Finn. So I have started Huck Finn and TomSawyer (still 15 years old) and their friend the freed slave Jim aroundthe world in a stray balloon, with Huck as narrator, and somewhere afterthe end of that great voyage he will work in the said episode and thennobody will suspect that a whole book has been written and the globecircumnavigated merely to get that episode in an effective (and at thesame time apparently unintentional) way. I have written 12, 000 wordsof this narrative, and find that the humor flows as easily as theadventures and surprises--so I shall go along and make a book of from50, 000 to 100, 000 words. 

It is a story for boys, of course, and I think will interest any boybetween 8 years and 80. 

When I was in New York the other day Mrs. Dodge, editor of St. Nicholas, wrote and, offered me $5, 000 for (serial right) a story for boys 50, 000words long. I wrote back and declined, for I had other matter in mymind, then. 

I conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write sothat it will not only interest boys but will also strongly interest anyman who has ever been a boy. That immensely enlarges the audience. 

Now this story doesn't need to be restricted to a Childs magazine--itis proper enough for any magazine, I should think, or for a syndicate. Idon't swear it, but I think so. 

Proposed title of the story, "New Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. "

 [No signature. ]

 The "novel" mentioned in the foregoing was The Extraordinary Twins, a story from which Pudd'nhead Wilson would be evolved later. It was a wildly extravagant farce--just the sort of thing that now and then Mark Twain plunged into with an enthusiasm that had to work itself out and die a natural death, or mellow into something worth while. Tom Sawyer Abroad, as the new Huck story was finally called, was completed and disposed of to St. Nicholas for serial publication. 

 The Twichells were in Europe that summer, and came to Bad-Nauheim. The next letter records a pleasant incident. The Prince of Wales of that day later became King Edward VII. 

*****

To Mr. And Mrs. Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa. :

 Private. BAD-NAUHEIM, Aug. 23, '92. 

DEAR ORION AND MOLLIE, --("Private" because no newspaper-man or othergossip must get hold of it)

Livy is getting along pretty well, and the doctor thinks another summerhere will cure her. 

The Twichell's have been here four days and we have had good timeswith them. Joe and I ran over to Homburg, the great pleasure resort, Saturday, to dine with some friends, and in the morning I went walkingin the promenade and met the British Ambassador to the Court of Berlin, and he introduced me to the Prince of Wales, and I found him a mostunusually comfortable and unembarrassing Englishman to talk with--quickto see the obscurest point, and equipped with a laugh which isspontaneous and catching. Am invited by a near friend of his to meet himat dinner day after tomorrow, and there could be a good time, but thebrass band will smash the talk and spoil everything. 

We are expecting to move to Florence ten or twelve days hence, but ifthis hot weather continues we shall wait for cooler. I take Clara toBerlin for the winter-music, mainly, with German and French added. Thusfar, Jean is our only glib French scholar. 

We all send love to you all and to Pamela and Sam's family, and Annie. 

 SAM

 Clemens and family left Bad-Nauheim for Italy by way of Switzerland. In September Mrs. Clemens's sister, Mrs. Crane, who had been with them in Europe during the first year, had now returned to America. Mrs. Clemens had improved at the baths, though she had by no means recovered her health. We get a general report of conditions from the letter which Clemens wrote Mrs. Crane from Lucerne, Switzerland, where the party rested for several days. The "Phelps" mentioned in this letter was William Walter Phelps, United States Minister to Germany. The Phelps and Clemens families had been much associated in Berlin. "Mason" was Frank Mason, Consul General at Frankfort, and in later years at Paris. "Charlie and Ida" were Charles and Mrs. Langdon, of Elmira. 

*****

To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira, N. Y. :

 LUCERNE, Sept. 18, '92. 

DEAR AUNT SUE, --Imagine how I felt to find that you had actually goneoff without filling my traveling ink stand which you gave me! I found itout yesterday. Livy advised me to write you about it. 

I have been driving this pen hard. I wrote 280 pages on a yarn called"Tom Sawyer Abroad, " then took up the "Twins" again, destroyed the lasthalf of the manuscript and re-wrote it in another form, and am going tocontinue it and finish it in Florence. "Tom Sawyer" seems rather pale tothe family after the extravagances of the Twins, but they came to likeit after they got used to it. 

We remained in Nauheim a little too long. If we had left there four orfive days earlier we should have made Florence in 3 days; but by thetime we got started Livy had got smitten with what we feared might beerysipelas--greatly swollen neck and face, and unceasing headaches. Welay idle in Frankfort 4 days, doctoring. We started Thursday and madeBale. Hard trip, because it was one of those trains that gets tiredevery seven minutes and stops to rest three quarters of an hour. It tookus 3 1/2 hours to get here, instead of the regulation 2. 20. We reachedhere Friday evening and will leave tomorrow (Tuesday) morning. The resthas made the headaches better. We shall pull through to Milan tomorrowif possible. Next day we shall start at 10 a. M. , and try to makeBologna, 5 hours. Next day (Thursday) Florence, D. V. Next year we willwalk, for these excursions have got to be made over again. I've gotseven trunks, and I undertook to be courier because I meant to expressthem to Florence direct, but we were a couple of days too late. Allcontinental roads had issued a peremptory order that no baggage shouldtravel a mile except in the company of the owner. (All over Europepeople are howling; they are separated from their baggage and can't getit forwarded to them) I have to re-ship my trunks every day. It is veryamusing--uncommonly so. There seemed grave doubts about our being ableto get these trunks over the Italian frontier, but I've got a veryhandsome note from the Frankfort Italian Consul General addressed to allItalian Customs Officers, and we shall get through if anybody does. 

The Phelpses came to Frankfort and we had some great times--dinner athis hotel, the Masons, supper at our inn--Livy not in it. She wasmerely allowed a glimpse, no more. Of course, Phelps said she was merelypretending to be ill; was never looking so well and fine. 

The children are all right. They paddle around a little, and drive-sodo we all. Lucerne seems to be pretty full of tourists. The Fleulen boatwent out crowded yesterday morning. 

The Paris Herald has created a public interest by inoculating one of itscorrespondents with cholera. A man said yesterday he wished to God theywould inoculate all of them. Yes, the interest is quite general andstrong, and much hope is felt. 

Livy says, I have said enough bad things, and better send all our lovesto you and Charley and Ida and all the children and shut up. Which Ido--and shut up. 

 S. L. C. 

 They reached Florence on the 26th, and four days later we find Clemens writing again to Mrs. Crane, detailing everything at length. Little comment on this letter is required; it fully explains itself. Perhaps a word of description from one of his memoranda will not be out of place. Of the villa he wrote: "It is a plain, square building, like a box, and is painted light green and has green window-shutters. It stands in a commanding position on the artificial terrace of liberal dimensions, which is walled around with masonry. From the walls the vineyards and olive groves of the estate slant away toward the valley. .. . Roses overflow the retaining walls and the battered and mossy stone urn on the gate-post, in pink and yellow cataracts, exactly as they do on the drop-curtains in the theaters. The house is a very fortress for strength. "

 The Mrs. Ross in this letter was Janet Ross, daughter of Lady Duff Gordon, remembered to-day for her Egyptian letters. The Ross castle was but a little distance away. 

*****

To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira:

 VILLA VIVIANI, SETTIGNANO, FLORENCE. 

 Sept. 30, 1892

DEAR SUE, --We have been in the house several days, and certainly it is abeautiful place, --particularly at this moment, when the skies are adeep leaden color, the domes of Florence dim in the drizzling rain, andoccasional perpendicular coils of lightning quivering intensely in theblack sky about Galileo's Tower. It is a charming panorama, and the mostconspicuous towers and domes down in the city look to-day just as theylooked when Boccaccio and Dante used to contemplate them from thishillock five and six hundred years ago. 

The Mademoiselle is a great help to Livy in the housekeeping, and is acheery and cheerful presence in the house. The butler is equipped with alittle French, and it is this fact that enables the house to go--butit won't go well until the family get some sort of facility with theItalian tongue, for the cook, the woman-of-all-work and the coachmanunderstand only that. It is a stubborn and devilish language to learn, but Jean and the others will master it. Livy's German Nauheim girl isthe worst off of anybody, as there is no market for her tongue at allamong the help. 

With the furniture in and the curtains up the house is very pretty, andnot unhomelike. At mid-night last night we heard screams up stairs--Susyhad set the lofty window curtains afire with a candle. This sounds kindof frightful, whereas when you come to think of it, a burning curtainor pile of furniture hasn't any element of danger about it in thisfortress. There isn't any conceivable way to burn this house down, orenable a conflagration on one floor to climb to the next. 

Mrs. Ross laid in our wood, wine and servants for us, and they areexcellent. She had the house scoured from Cellar to rook the curtainswashed and put up, all beds pulled to pieces, beaten, washed and puttogether again, and beguiled the Marchese into putting a big porcelainstove in the vast central hall. She is a wonderful woman, and we don'tquite see how or when we should have gotten under way without her. 

Observe our address above--the post delivers letters daily at the house. 

Even with the work and fuss of settling the house Livy has improved--andthe best is yet to come. There is going to be absolute seclusion here--ahermit life, in fact. We (the rest of us) shall run over to the Ross'sfrequently, and they will come here now and then and see Livy--that isall. Mr. Fiske is away--nobody knows where--and the work on his househas been stopped and his servants discharged. Therefore we shall merelygo Rossing--as far as society is concerned--shan't circulate in Florenceuntil Livy shall be well enough to take a share in it. 

This present house is modern. It is not much more than two centuriesold; but parts of it, and also its foundations are of high antiquity. The fine beautiful family portraits--the great carved ones in the largeovals over the doors of the big hall--carry one well back into the past. One of them is dated 1305--he could have known Dante, you see. Anotheris dated 1343--he could have known Boccaccio and spent his afternoonsin Fiesole listening to the Decameron tales. Another is dated 1463--hecould have met Columbus. .. .. 

Evening. The storm thundered away until night, and the rain came down infloods. For awhile there was a partial break, which furnished about sucha sunset as will be exhibited when the Last Day comes and the universetumbles together in wreck and ruin. I have never seen anything morespectacular and impressive. 

One person is satisfied with the villa, anyway. Jean prefers it to allEurope, save Venice. Jean is eager to get at the Italian tongue again, now, and I see that she has forgotten little or nothing of what shelearned of it in Rome and Venice last spring. 

I am the head French duffer of the family. Most of the talk goes over myhead at the table. I catch only words, not phrases. When Italian comesto be substituted I shall be even worse off than I am now, I suppose. 

This reminds me that this evening the German girl said to Livy, "Man hatmir gesagt loss Sie una candella verlaught habe"--unconsciously droppingin a couple of Italian words, you see. So she is going to join thepolyglots, too, it appears. They say it is good entertainment to hearher and the butler talk together in their respective tongues, piecingout and patching up with the universal sign-language as they goalong. Five languages in use in the house (including thesign-language-hardest-worked of them all) and yet with all this opulenceof resource we do seem to have an uncommonly tough time making ourselvesunderstood. 

What we lack is a cat. If we only had Germania! That was the mostsatisfactory all-round cat I have seen yet. Totally ungermanic inthe raciness of his character and in the sparkle of his mind and thespontaneity of his movements. We shall not look upon his like again. .. . 

 S. L. C. 

 Clemens got well settled down to work presently. He found the situation, the climate, the background, entirely suited to literary production, and in a little while he had accomplished more than at any other time since his arrival in Europe. From letters to Mrs. Crane and to Mr. Hall we learn something of his employments and his satisfaction. 

*****

To Mrs. Crane, in Elmira:

 VILLA VIVIANI

 SETTIGNANO, FLORENCE. Oct. 22, '92. 

DEAR SUE, --We are getting wonted. The open fires have driven away thecold and the doubt, and now a cheery spirit pervades the place. Livyand the Kings and Mademoiselle having been taking their tea a number oftimes, lately, on the open terrace with the city and the hills and thesunset for company. I stop work, a few minutes, as a rule, when the sungets down to the hilltops west of Florence, and join the tea-group towonder and exclaim. There is always some new miracle in the view, a newand exquisite variation in the show, a variation which occurs every 15minutes between dawn and night. Once early in the morning, a multitudeof white villas not before perceived, revealed themselves on the farhills; then we recognized that all those great hills are snowed thickwith them, clear to the summit. 

The variety of lovely effects, the infinitude of change, is somethingnot to be believed by any who has not seen it. No view that I amacquainted with in the world is at all comparable to this for delicacy, charm, exquisiteness, dainty coloring, and bewildering rapidity ofchange. It keeps a person drunk with pleasure all the time. SometimesFlorence ceases to be substantial, and becomes just a faint soft dream, with domes and towers of air, and one is persuaded that he might blow itaway with a puff of his breath. 

Livy is progressing admirably. This is just the place for her. 

 [Remainder missing. ]

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 Dec. 12, '92. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --November check received. 

I have lent the Californian's Story to Arthur Stedman for his AuthorClub Book, so your suggestion that my new spring-book bear that namearrives too late, as he probably would not want us to use that story ina book of ours until the Author book had had its run. That is for him todecide--and I don't want him hampered at all in his decision. I, for mypart, prefer the "$1, 000, 000 Banknote and Other Stories" by Mark Twainas a title, but above my judgment I prefer yours. I mean this--it is nottaffy. 

I told Arthur to leave out the former squib or paragraph and use onlythe Californian's Story. Tell him this is because I am going to use thatin the book I am now writing. 

I finished "Those Extraordinary Twins" night before last makes 60 or80, 000 words--haven't counted. 

The last third of it suits me to a dot. I begin, to-day, to entirelyrecast and re-write the first two-thirds--new plan, with two minorcharacters, made very prominent, one major character cropped out, andthe Twins subordinated to a minor but not insignificant place. 

The minor character will now become the chiefest, and I will name thestory after him--"Puddn'head Wilson. "

Merry Xmas to you, and great prosperity and felicity!

 S. L. CLEMENS. 

XXXIII. LETTERS, 1893, TO MR. HALL, MRS. CLEMENS, AND OTHERS. FLORENCE. BUSINESS TROUBLES. "PUDD'NHEAD WILSON. " "JOAN OF ARC. " AT THE PLAYERS, NEW YORK. 

The reader may have suspected that young Mr. Hall in New York was havinghis troubles. He was by this time one-third owner in the business ofCharles L. Webster & Co. , as well as its general manager. The businesshad been drained of its capital one way and another-partly by thepublication of unprofitable books; partly by the earlier demands ofthe typesetter, but more than all by the manufacturing cost and agents'commissions demanded by L. A. L. ; that is to say, the eleven largevolumes constituting the Library of American Literature, which Websterhad undertaken to place in a million American homes. There was plentyof sale for it--indeed, that was just the trouble; for it was sold onpayments--small monthly payments--while the cost of manufacture andthe liberal agents' commissions were cash items, and it would require aconsiderable period before the dribble of collections would swell intoa tide large enough to satisfy the steady outflow of expense. A saleof twenty-five sets a day meant prosperity on paper, but unless capitalcould be raised from some other source to make and market those booksthrough a period of months, perhaps even years, to come, it meantbankruptcy in reality. It was Hall's job, with Clemens to back him, tokeep their ship afloat on these steadily ebbing financial waters. Itwas also Hall's affair to keep Mark Twain cheerful, to look pleasanthimself, and to show how they were steadily getting rich because orderswere pouring in, though a cloud that resembled bankruptcy loomed alwaysa little higher upon the horizon. If Hall had not been young and anoptimist, he would have been frightened out of his boots early in thegame. As it was, he made a brave steady fight, kept as cheerful andstiff an upper lip as possible, always hoping that something wouldhappen--some grand sale of his other books, some unexpected inflow fromthe type-setter interests--anything that would sustain his ship untilthe L. A. L. Tide should turn and float it into safety. 

Clemens had faith in Hall and was fond of him. He never found fault withhim; he tried to accept his encouraging reports at their face value. He lent the firm every dollar of his literary earnings not absolutelyneeded for the family's support; he signed new notes; he allowed Mrs. Clemens to put in such remnants of her patrimony as the type-setter hadspared. 

The situation in 1893 was about as here outlined. The letters to Hall ofthat year are frequent and carry along the story. To any who had formedthe idea that Mark Twain was irascible, exacting, and faultfinding, theywill perhaps be a revelation. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 FLORENCE, Jan. 1, '93. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --Yours of Dec. 19 is to hand, and Mrs. Clemens is deeplydistressed, for she thinks I have been blaming you or finding fault withyou about something. But most surely that cannot be. I tell her thatalthough I am prone to write hasty and regrettable things to otherpeople, I am not a bit likely to write such things to you. I can'tbelieve I have done anything so ungrateful. If I have, pile coals offire on my head, for I deserve it!

I wonder if my letter of credit isn't an encumbrance? Do you haveto deposit the whole amount it calls for? If that is so, it is anencumbrance, and we must withdraw it and take the money out of soak. Ihave never made drafts upon it except when compelled, because I thoughtyou deposited nothing against it, and only had to put up money that Idrew upon it; that therefore the less I drew the easier it would be foryou. 

I am dreadfully sorry I didn't know it would be a help to you to let mymonthly check pass over a couple of months. I could have stood that bydrawing what is left of Mrs. Clemens's letter of credit, and we wouldhave done it cheerfully. 

I will write Whitmore to send you the "Century" check for $1, 000, andyou can collect Mrs. Dodge's $2, 000 (Whitmore has power of attorneywhich I think will enable him to endorse it over to you in my name. )If you need that $3, 000 put it in the business and use it, and sendWhitmore the Company's note for a year. If you don't need it, turn itover to Mr. Halsey and let him invest it for me. 

I've a mighty poor financial head, and I may be all wrong--but tell meif I am wrong in supposing that in lending my own firm money at 6 percent I pay 4 of it myself and so really get only a per cent? Now don'tlaugh if that is stupid. 

Of course my friend declined to buy a quarter interest in the L. A. L. For $200, 000. I judged he would. I hoped he would offer $100, 000, buthe didn't. If the cholera breaks out in America, a few months hence, we can't borrow or sell; but if it doesn't we must try hard to raise$100, 000. I wish we could do it before there is a cholera scare. 

I have been in bed two or three days with a cold, but I got up an hourago, and I believe I am all right again. 

How I wish I had appreciated the need of $100, 000 when I was in New Yorklast summer! I would have tried my best to raise it. It would make usable to stand 1, 000 sets of L. A. L. Per month, but not any more, Iguess. 

You have done magnificently with the business, and we must raise themoney somehow, to enable you to reap the reward of all that labor. 

 Sincerely Yours

 S. L. CLEMENS. 

"Whitmore, " in this letter, was F. G. Whitmore, of Hartford, MarkTwain's financial agent. The money due from Mrs. Dodge was a balance onTom Sawyer Abroad, which had been accepted by St. Nicholas. Mr. Halseywas a down-town broker. 

Clemens, who was growing weary of the constant demands of L. A. L. , hadconceived the idea that it would be well to dispose of a portion of itfor enough cash to finance its manufacture. 

We don't know who the friend was to whom he offered a quarter interestfor the modest sum of two hundred thousand dollars. But in the nextletter we discover designs on a certain very canny Scotchman of Skibo. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 FLORENCE, Jan. 28, '92. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --I want to throw out a suggestion and see what youthink of it. We have a good start, and solid ground under us; we have avaluable reputation; our business organization is practical, sound andwell-devised; our publications are of a respect-worthy character and ofa money-breeding species. Now then I think that the association withus of some one of great name and with capital would give our business aprodigious impetus--that phrase is not too strong. 

As I look at it, it is not money merely that is needed; if that wereall, the firm has friends enough who would take an interest in a payingventure; we need some one who has made his life a success not only froma business standpoint, but with that achievement back of him, has beengreat enough to make his power felt as a thinker and a literary man. Itis a pretty usual thing for publishers to have this sort of partners. Now you see what a power Carnegie is, and how far his voice reaches inthe several lines I speak of. Do you know him? You do by correspondenceor purely business talks about his books--but personally, I mean? sothat it would not be an intrusion for you to speak to him about thisdesire of mine--for I would like you to put it before him, and if youfail to interest him in it, you will probably get at least some valuablesuggestions from him. I'll enclose a note of introduction--you needn'tuse it if you don't need to. 

 Yours S. L. C. 

P. S. Yes, I think I have already acknowledged the Dec. $1, 000 and theJan. $500--and if another $500 was mailed 3 days ago there's no hiatus. 

I think I also reminded you that the new letter of credit does not coverthe unexpended balance of the old one but falls considerably short ofit. 

Do your best with Carnegie, and don't wait to consider any of myintermediate suggestions or talks about our raising half of the $200, 000ourselves. I mean, wait for nothing. To make my suggestion available Ishould have to go over and see Arnot, and I don't want to until I canmention Carnegie's name to him as going in with us. 

My book is type-written and ready for print--"Pudd'nhead Wilson-a Tale. "(Or, "Those Extraordinary Twins, " if preferable. )

It makes 82, 500 words--12, 000 more than Huck Finn. But I don't know whatto do with it. Mrs. Clemens thinks it wouldn't do to go to the Am. Pub. Co. Or anywhere outside of our own house; we have no subscriptionmachinery, and a book in the trade is a book thrown away, as far asmoney-profit goes. I am in a quandary. Give me a lift out of it. 

I will mail the book to you and get you to examine it and see if it isgood or if it is bad. I think it is good, and I thought the Claimantbad, when I saw it in print; but as for real judgment, I think I amdestitute of it. 

I am writing a companion to the Prince and Pauper, which is half doneand will make 200, 000 words; and I have had the idea that if it weregotten up in handsome style, with many illustrations and put at a highenough price maybe the L. A. L. Canvassers would take it and run it withthat book. Would they? It could be priced anywhere from $4 up to $10, according to how it was gotten up, I suppose. 

I don't want it to go into a magazine. 

 S. L. C. 

I am having several short things type-"writered. " I will send them toyou presently. I like the Century and Harper's, but I don't know thatI have any business to object to the Cosmopolitan if they pay as goodrates. I suppose a man ought to stick to one magazine, but that may beonly superstition. What do you think?

 S. L. C. 

 "The companion to The Prince and the Pauper, " mentioned in this letter, was the story of Joan of Arc, perhaps the most finished of Mark Twain's literary productions. His interest in Joan had been first awakened when, as a printer's apprentice in Hannibal, he had found blowing along the street a stray leaf from some printed story of her life. That fragment of history had pictured Joan in prison, insulted and mistreated by ruffians. It had aroused all the sympathy and indignation in the boy, Sam Clemens; also, it had awakened his interest in history, and, indeed, in all literature. 

 His love for the character of Joan had grown with the years, until in time he had conceived the idea of writing her story. As far back as the early eighties he had collected material for it, and had begun to make the notes. One thing and another had interfered, and he had found no opportunity for such a story. Now, however, in Florence, in the ancient villa, and in the quiet garden, looking across the vineyards and olive groves to the dream city along the Arno, he felt moved to take up the tale of the shepherd girl of France, the soldier maid, or, as he called her, "The noble child, the most innocent, the most lovely, the most adorable the ages have produced. " His surroundings and background would seem to have been perfect, and he must have written with considerable ease to have completed a hundred thousand words in a period of not more than six weeks. 

 Perhaps Hall did not even go to see Carnegie; at all events nothing seems to have come of the idea. Once, at a later time, Mask Twain himself mentioned the matter to Carnegie, and suggested to him that it was poor financiering to put all of one's eggs into one basket, meaning into iron. But Carnegie answered, "That's a mistake; put all your eggs into one basket and watch that basket. "

 It was March when Clemens felt that once more his presence was demanded in America. He must see if anything could be realized from the type-setter or L. A. L. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 March 13, '93. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --I am busy getting ready to sail the 22d, in the KaiserWilhelm II. 

I send herewith 2 magazine articles. 

The Story contains 3, 800 to 4, 000 words. 

The "Diary" contains 3, 800 words. 

Each would make about 4 pages of the Century. 

The Diary is a gem, if I do say it myself that shouldn't. 

If the Cosmopolitan wishes to pay $600 for either of them or $1, 200 forboth, gather in the check, and I will use the money in America insteadof breaking into your treasury. 

If they don't wish to trade for either, send the articles to theCentury, without naming a price, and if their check isn't large enough Iwill call and abuse them when I come. 

I signed and mailed the notes yesterday. 

 Yours S. L. C. 

 Clemens reached New York on the 3d of April and made a trip to Chicago, but accomplished nothing, except to visit the World's Fair and be laid up with a severe cold. The machine situation had not progressed. The financial stringency of 1893 had brought everything to a standstill. The New York bank would advance Webster & Co. No more money. So disturbed were his affairs, so disordered was everything, that sometimes he felt himself as one walking amid unrealities. A fragment of a letter to Mrs. Crane conveys this:

 "I dreamed I was born and grew up and was a pilot on the Mississippi and a miner and a journalist in Nevada and a pilgrim in the Quaker City, and had a wife and children and went to live in a villa at Florence--and this dream goes on and on and sometimes seems so real that I almost believe it is real. I wonder if it is? But there is no way to tell, for if one applies tests they would be part of the dream, too, and so would simply aid the deceit. I wish I knew whether it is a dream or real. "

 He saw Warner, briefly, in America; also Howells, now living in New York, but he had little time for visiting. On May 13th he sailed again for Europe on the Kaiser Wilhelm II. On the night before sailing he sent Howells a good-by word. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York City:

 MURRAY HILL HOTEL, NEW YORE, May 12, 1893. 

 Midnight. 

DEAR HOWELLS--I am so sorry I missed you. 

I am very glad to have that book for sea entertainment, and I thank youever so much for it. 

I've had a little visit with Warner at last; I was getting afraid Iwasn't going to have a chance to see him at all. I forgot to tell youhow thoroughly I enjoyed your account of the country printing office, and how true it all was and how intimately recognizable in all itsdetails. But Warner was full of delight over it, and that reminded me, and I am glad, for I wanted to speak of it. 

You have given me a book; Annie Trumbull has sent me her book; I boughta couple of books; Mr. Hall gave me a choice German book; Laflan gave metwo bottles of whisky and a box of cigars--I go to sea nobly equipped. 

Good-bye and all good fortune attend you and yours--and upon you all Ileave my benediction. 

 MARK. 

 Mention has already been made of the Ross home being very near to Viviani, and the association of the Ross and Clemens families. There was a fine vegetable garden on the Ross estate, and it was in the interest of it that the next letter was written to the Secretary of Agriculture. 

*****

To Hon. J. Sterling Morton, in Washington, D. C. : Editorial DepartmentCentury Magazine, Union Square, NEW YORK, April 6, 1893. 

TO THE HON. J. STERLING MORTON, --Dear Sir: Your petitioner, Mark Twain, a poor farmer of Connecticut--indeed, the poorest one there, in theopinion of many-desires a few choice breeds of seed corn (maize), and inreturn will zealously support the Administration in all ways honorableand otherwise. 

To speak by the card, I want these things to hurry to Italy to anEnglish lady. She is a neighbor of mine outside of Florence, and has agreat garden and thinks she could raise corn for her table if she hadthe right ammunition. I myself feel a warm interest in this enterprise, both on patriotic grounds and because I have a key to that garden, whichI got made from a wax impression. It is not very good soil, still Ithink she can grow enough for one table and I am in a position to selectthe table. If you are willing to aid and abet a countryman (andGilder thinks you are, ) please find the signature and address of yourpetitioner below. 

Respectfully and truly yours. 

 MARK TWAIN, 67 Fifth Avenue, New York. 

P. S. --A handful of choice (Southern) watermelon seeds would pleasantlyadd to that lady's employments and give my table a corresponding lift. 

 His idea of business values had moderated considerably by the time he had returned to Florence. He was not hopeless yet, but he was clearly a good deal disheartened--anxious for freedom. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 FLORENCE May 30, '93

DEAR MR. HALL, --You were to cable me if you sold any machineroyalties--so I judge you have not succeeded. 

This has depressed me. I have been looking over the past year's lettersand statements and am depressed still more. 

I am terribly tired of business. I am by nature and disposition unfittedfor it and I want to get out of it. I am standing on the Mount Morrisvolcano with help from the machine a long way off--doubtless a long wayfurther off than the Connecticut Co. Imagines. 

Now here is my idea for getting out. 

The firm owes Mrs. Clemens and me--I do not know quite how much, butit is about $170, 000 or $175, 000, I suppose (I make this guess from thedocuments here, whose technicalities confuse me horribly. )

The firm owes other sums, but there is stock and cash assets to coverthe entire indebtedness and $116, 679. 20 over. Is that it? In additionwe have the L. A. L. Plates and copyright, worth more than $130, 000--isthat correct?

That is to say, we have property worth about $250, 000 aboveindebtedness, I suppose--or, by one of your estimates, $300, 000? Thegreater part of the first debts to me is in notes paying 6 percent. Therest (the old $70, 000 or whatever it is) pays no interest. 

Now then, will Harper or Appleton, or Putnam give me $200, 000 for thosedebts and my two-thirds interest in the firm? (The firm of course takingthe Mount Morris and all such obligations off my hands and leaving meclear of all responsibility. )

I don't want much money. I only want first class notes--$200, 000worth of them at 6 per cent, payable monthly;--yearly notes, renewableannually for 3 years, with $5, 000 of the principal payable at thebeginning and middle of each year. After that, the notes renewableannually and (perhaps) a larger part of the principal payablesemi-annually. 

Please advise me and suggest alterations and emendations of the abovescheme, for I need that sort of help, being ignorant of business and notable to learn a single detail of it. 

Such a deal would make it easy for a big firm to pour in a big cashcapital and jump L. A. L. Up to enormous prosperity. Then your one-thirdwould be a fortune--and I hope to see that day!

I enclose an authority to use with Whitmore in case you have sold anyroyalties. But if you can't make this deal don't make any. Wait a littleand see if you can't make the deal. Do make the deal if you possiblycan. And if any presence shall be necessary in order to complete it Iwill come over, though I hope it can be done without that. 

Get me out of business!

And I will be yours forever gratefully, S. L. CLEMENS. 

My idea is, that I am offering my 2/3 of L. A. L. And the business forthirty or forty thousand dollars. Is that it?

P. S. S. The new firm could retain my books and reduce them to a 10percent royalty. 

 S. L. C. 

*****

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

 VILLA VIVIANI, SETTIGNANO (FLORENCE)

 June 9, '93. 

DEAR JOE, --The sea voyage set me up and I reached here May 27 intolerable condition--nothing left but weakness, cough all gone. 

Old Sir Henry Layard was here the other day, visiting our neighbor JanetRoss, daughter of Lady Duff Gordon, and since then I have been readinghis account of the adventures of his youth in the far East. In afootnote he has something to say about a sailor which I thought mightinterest you--viz:

"This same quartermaster was celebrated among the English in Mesopotamiafor an entry which he made in his log-book-after a perilous storm; 'Thewindy and watery elements raged. Tears and prayers was had recourse to, but was of no manner of use. So we hauled up the anchor and got roundthe point. '"

There--it isn't Ned Wakeman; it was before his day. 

 With love, MARK. 

 They closed Villa Viviani in June and near the end of the month arrived in Munich in order that Mrs. Clemens might visit some of the German baths. The next letter is written by her and shows her deep sympathy with Hall in his desperate struggle. There have been few more unselfish and courageous women in history than Mark Twain's wife. 

*****

From Mrs. Clemens to Mr. Hall, in New York:

 June 27th 1893

 MUNICH. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --Your letter to Mr. Clemens of June 16th has just reachedhere; as he has gone to Berlin for Clara I am going to send you just aline in answer to it. 

Mr. Clemens did not realize what trouble you would be in when his lettershould reach you or he would not have sent it just then. I hope you willnot worry any more than you can help. Do not let our interests weighon you too heavily. We both know you will, as you always have, look inevery way to the best interests of all. 

I think Mr. Clemens is right in feeling that he should get out ofbusiness, that he is not fitted for it; it worries him too much. 

But he need be in no haste about it, and of course, it would be thevery farthest from his desire to imperil, in the slightest degree, yourinterests in order to save his own. 

I am sure that I voice his wish as well as mine when I say that he wouldsimply like you to bear in mind the fact that he greatly desires to bereleased from his present anxiety and worry, at a time when it shall notendanger your interest or the safety of the business. 

I am more sorry than I can express that this letter of Mr. Clemens'should have reached you when you were struggling under such terriblepressure. I hope now that the weight is not quite so heavy. He wouldnot have written you about the money if he had known that it was aninconvenience for you to send it. He thought the book-keeper whose dutyit is to forward it had forgotten. 

We can draw on Mr. Langdon for money for a few weeks until things area little easier with you. As Mr. Clemens wrote you we would say "do notsend us any more money at present" if we were not afraid to do so. Iwill say, however, do not trouble yourself if for a few weeks you arenot able to send the usual amount. 

Mr. Clemens and I have the greatest possible desire, not to increase inany way your burdens, and sincerely wish we might aid you. 

I trust my brother may be able, in his talk with you, to throw somehelpful light on the situation. 

Hoping you will see a change for the better and begin to reap the fruitof your long and hard labor. 

 Believe me Very Cordially yours OLIVIA L. CLEMENS. 

Hall, naturally, did not wish to be left alone with the business. Herealized that his credit would suffer, both at the bank and with thepublic, if his distinguished partner should retire. He wrote, therefore, proposing as an alternate that they dispose of the big subscription setthat was swamping them. It was a good plan--if it would work--and wefind Clemens entering into it heartily. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 MUNICH, July 3, '93. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --You make a suggestion which has once or twice flitteddimly through my mind heretofore to wit, sell L. A. L. 

I like that better than the other scheme, for it is no doubt feasible, whereas the other is perhaps not. 

The firm is in debt, but L. A. L. Is free--and not only free but haslarge money owing to it. A proposition to sell that by itself to a bighouse could be made without embarrassment we merely confess that wecannot spare capital from the rest of the business to run it on the hugescale necessary to make it an opulent success. 

It will be selling a good thing--for somebody; and it will be gettingrid of a load which we are clearly not able to carry. Whoever buyswill have a noble good opening--a complete equipment, a well organizedbusiness, a capable and experienced manager, and enterprise notexperimental but under full sail, and immediately able to pay 50 percent a year on every dollar the publisher shall actually invest in it--Imean in making and selling the books. 

I am miserably sorry to be adding bothers and torments to theover-supply which you already have in these hideous times, but I feel sotroubled, myself, considering the dreary fact that we are getting deeperand deeper in debt and the L. A. L. Getting to be a heavier and heavierburden all the time, that I must bestir myself and seek a way of relief. 

It did not occur to me that in selling out I would injure you--for thatI am not going to do. But to sell L. A. L. Will not injure you it willput you in better shape. 

 Sincerely Yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 July 8, '92. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --I am sincerely glad you are going to sell L. A. L. I amglad you are shutting off the agents, and I hope the fatal book willbe out of our hands before it will be time to put them on again. Withnothing but our non-existent capital to work with the book has no valuefor us, rich a prize as it will be to any competent house that gets it. 

I hope you are making an effort to sell before you discharge too manyagents, for I suppose the agents are a valuable part of the property. 

We have been stopping in Munich for awhile, but we shall make a breakfor some country resort in a few days now. 

 Sincerely Yours S. L. C. 

 July 8

P. S. No, I suppose I am wrong in suggesting that you wait a momentbefore discharging your L. A. L. Agents--in fact I didn't mean that. Ijudge your only hope of salvation is in discharging them all at once, since it is their commissions that threaten to swamp us. It is theywho have eaten up the $14, 000 I left with you in such a brief time, nodoubt. 

I feel panicky. 

I think the sale might be made with better advantage, however, now, thanlater when the agents have got out of the purchaser's reach. 

 S. L. C. 

P. S. No monthly report for many months. 

 Those who are old enough to remember the summer of 1893 may recall it as a black financial season. Banks were denying credit, businesses were forced to the wall. It was a poor time to float any costly enterprise. The Chicago company who was trying to build the machines made little progress. The book business everywhere was bad. In a brief note following the foregoing letters Clemens wrote Hall:

 "It is now past the middle of July and no cablegram to say the machine is finished. We are afraid you are having miserable days and worried nights, and we sincerely wish we could relieve you, but it is all black with us and we don't know any helpful thing to say or do. "

 He inclosed some kind of manuscript proposition for John Brisben Walker, of the Cosmopolitan, with the comment: "It is my ingenious scheme to protect the family against the alms-house for one more year--and after that--well, goodness knows! I have never felt so desperate in my life--and good reason, for I haven't got a penny to my name, and Mrs. Clemens hasn't enough laid up with Langdon to keep us two months. "

 It was like Mark Twain, in the midst of all this turmoil, to project an entirely new enterprise; his busy mind was always visioning success in unusual undertakings, regardless of immediate conditions and the steps necessary to achievement. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 July 26, '93. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --. .. .. I hope the machine will be finished this month;but it took me four years and cost me $100, 000 to finish the othermachine after it was apparently entirely complete and setting type likea house-afire. 

I wonder what they call "finished. " After it is absolutely perfect itcan't go into a printing-office until it has had a month's wear, runningnight and day, to get the bearings smooth, I judge. 

I may be able to run over about mid-October. Then if I find you relievedof L. A. L. We will start a magazine inexpensive, and of an entirelyunique sort. Arthur Stedman and his father editors of it. Arthur coulddo all the work, merely submitting it to his father for approval. 

The first number should pay--and all subsequent ones--25 cents a number. Cost of first number (20, 000 copies) $2, 000. Give most of them away, sell the rest. Advertising and other expenses--cost unknown. Send one toall newspapers--it would get a notice--favorable, too. 

But we cannot undertake it until L. A. L, is out of the way. With ourhands free and some capital to spare, we could make it hum. 

Where is the Shelley article? If you have it on hand, keep it and I willpresently tell you what to do with it. 

Don't forget to tell me. 

 Yours Sincerely S. L. C. 

 The Shelley article mentioned in this letter was the "Defense of Harriet Sheller, " one of the very best of his essays. How he could have written this splendid paper at a time of such distraction passes comprehension. Furthermore, it is clear that he had revised, indeed rewritten, the long story of Pudd'nhead Wilson. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 July 30, '93. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --This time "Pudd'nhead Wilson" is a success! Even Mrs. Clemens, the most difficult of critics, confesses it, and withoutreserves or qualifications. Formerly she would not consent that it bepublished either before or after my death. I have pulled the twins apartand made two individuals of them; I have sunk them out of sight, theyare mere flitting shadows, now, and of no importance; their story hasdisappeared from the book. Aunt Betsy Hale has vanished wholly, leavingnot a trace behind; aunt Patsy Cooper and her daughter Rowena havealmost disappeared--they scarcely walk across the stage. The whole storyis centered on the murder and the trial; from the first chapter themovement is straight ahead without divergence or side-play to the murderand the trial; everything that is done or said or that happens is apreparation for those events. Therefore, 3 people stand up high, frombeginning to end, and only 3--Pudd'nhead, "Tom" Driscoll, and his niggermother, Roxana; none of the others are important, or get in the way ofthe story or require the reader's attention. Consequently, the scenesand episodes which were the strength of the book formerly are strongerthan ever, now. 

When I began this final reconstruction the story contained 81, 500 words, now it contains only 58, 000. I have knocked out everything that delayedthe march of the story--even the description of a Mississippi steamboat. There's no weather in, and no scenery--the story is stripped for flight!

Now, then what is she worth? The amount of matter is but 3, 000 wordsshort of the American Claimant, for which the syndicate paid $12, 500. There was nothing new in that story, but the finger-prints in this oneis virgin ground--absolutely fresh, and mighty curious and interestingto everybody. 

I don't want any more syndicating--nothing short of $20, 000, anyway, and that I can't get--but won't you see how much the Cosmopolitan willstand?

Do your best for me, for I do not sleep these nights, for visions of thepoor-house. 

This in spite of the hopeful tone of yours of 11th to Langdon (justreceived) for in me hope is very nearly expiring. Everything does lookso blue, so dismally blue!

By and by I shall take up the Rhone open-boat voyage again, but notnow--we are going to be moving around too much. I have torn up some ofit, but still have 15, 000 words that Mrs. Clemens approves of, and thatI like. I may go at it in Paris again next winter, but not unless I knowI can write it to suit me. 

Otherwise I shall tackle Adam once more, and do him in a kind of afriendly and respectful way that will commend him to the Sunday schools. I've been thinking out his first life-days to-day and framing hischildish and ignorant impressions and opinions for him. 

Will ship Pudd'nhead in a few days. When you get it cable

 Mark Twain Care Brownship, London Received. 

I mean to ship "Pudd'nhead Wilson" to you-say, tomorrow. It'll furnishme hash for awhile I reckon. I am almost sorry it is finished; it wasgood entertainment to work at it, and kept my mind away from things. 

We leave here in about ten days, but the doctors have changed our plansagain. I think we shall be in Bohemia or thereabouts till near the endof September, then go to Paris and take a rest. 

 Yours Sincerely S. L. C. 

P. S. Mrs. Clemens has come in since, and read your letter and isdeeply distressed. She thinks that in some letter of mine I must havereproached you. She says it is wonderful that you have kept the shipafloat in this storm that has seen fleets and fleets go down; that fromwhat she learns of the American business-situation from her home lettersyou have accomplished a marvel in the circumstances, and that she cannotbear to have a word said to you that shall voice anything but praise andthe heartiest appreciation--and not the shadow of a reproach will sheallow. 

I tell her I didn't reproach you and never thought of such a thing. AndI said I would break open my letter and say so. 

Mrs. Clemens says I must tell you not to send any money for a month ortwo--so that you may be afforded what little relief is in our power. Allright--I'm willing; (this is honest) but I wish Brer Chatto would sendalong his little yearly contribution. I dropped him a line about anothermatter a week ago--asked him to subscribe for the Daily News for me--yousee I wanted to remind him in a covert way that it was pay-up time--butdoubtless I directed the letter to you or some one else, for I don'thear from him and don't get any Daily News either. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 Aug. 6, '93. 

DEAR MR. HALL, --I am very sorry--it was thoughtless in me. Let thereports go. Send me once a month two items, and two only:

Cash liabilities--(so much) Cash assets--(so much)

I can perceive the condition of the business at a glance, then, and thatwill be sufficient. 

Here we never see a newspaper, but even if we did I could not comeanywhere near appreciating or correctly estimating the tempest youhave been buffeting your way through--only the man who is in it can dothat--but I have tried not to burden you thoughtlessly or wantonly. Ihave been wrought and unsettled in mind by apprehensions, and that isa thing that is not helpable when one is in a strange land and seeshis resources melt down to a two months' supply and can't see any suredaylight beyond. The bloody machine offered but a doubtful outlook--andwill still offer nothing much better for a long time to come; for whenDavis's "three weeks" is up there's three months' tinkering to follow Iguess. That is unquestionably the boss machine of the world, but is thetoughest one on prophets, when it is in an incomplete state, that hasever seen the light. Neither Davis nor any other man can foretell withany considerable approach to certainty when it will be ready to get downto actual work in a printing office. 

 [No signature. ]

 Three days after the foregoing letter was written he wrote, briefly:

 "Great Scott but it's a long year-for you and me! I never knew the almanac to drag so. At least since I was finishing that other machine. 

 "I watch for your letters hungrily--just as I used to watch for the cablegram saying the machine's finished; but when 'next week certainly' swelled into 'three weeks sure' I recognized the old familiar tune I used to hear so much. Ward don't know what sick-heartedness is--but he is in a way to find out. "

 Always the quaint form of his humor, no matter how dark the way. We may picture him walking the floor, planning, scheming, and smoking--always smoking--trying to find a way out. It was not the kind of scheming that many men have done under the circumstances; not scheming to avoid payment of debts, but to pay them. 

*****

To Fred J. Hall, in New York:

 Aug. 14, '93

DEAR MR. HALL, --I am very glad indeed if you and Mr. Langdon are ableto see any daylight ahead. To me none is visible. I strongly advise thatevery penny that comes in shall be applied to paying off debts. I maybe in error about this, but it seems to me that we have no other courseopen. We can pay a part of the debts owing to outsiders--none to theClemenses. In very prosperous times we might regard our stock andcopyrights as assets sufficient, with the money owing to us, to squareup and quit even, but I suppose we may not hope for such luck in thepresent condition of things. 

What I am mainly hoping for, is to save my royalties. If they come intodanger I hope you will cable me, so that I can come over and try to savethem, for if they go I am a beggar. 

I would sail to-day if I had anybody to take charge of my family andhelp them through the difficult journeys commanded by the doctors. I maybe able to sail ten days hence; I hope so, and expect so. 

We can never resurrect the L. A. L. I would not spend any more money onthat book. You spoke, a while back, of trying to start it up again as apreparation to disposing of it, but we are not in shape to venture that, I think. It would require more borrowing, and we must not do that. 

 Yours Sincerely

 S. L. C. 

Aug. 16. I have thought, and thought, but I don't seem to arrive in anyvery definite place. Of course you will not have an instant's safetyuntil the bank debts are paid. There is nothing to be thought of butto hand over every penny as fast as it comes in--and that will be slowenough! Or could you secure them by pledging part of our cash assetsand--

I am coming over, just as soon as I can get the family moved andsettled. 

 S. L. C. 

 Two weeks following this letter he could endure the suspense no longer, and on August 29th sailed once more for America. In New York, Clemens settled down at the Players Club, where he could live cheaply, and undertook some literary work while he was casting about for ways and means to relieve the financial situation. Nothing promising occurred, until one night at the Murray Hill Hotel he was introduced by Dr. Clarence C. Rice to Henry H. Rogers, of the Standard Oil group of financiers. Rogers had a keen sense of humor and had always been a great admirer of Mark Twain's work. It was a mirthful evening, and certainly an eventful one in Mark Twain's life. A day or two later Doctor Rice asked the millionaire to interest himself a little in Clemens's business affairs, which he thought a good deal confused. Just what happened is not remembered now, but from the date of the next letter we realize that a discussion of the matter by Clemens and Rogers must have followed pretty promptly. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Europe:

 Oct. 18, '93. 

DEAR, DEAR SWEETHEART, --I don't seem to get even half a chance to writeyou, these last two days, and yet there's lots to say. 

Apparently everything is at last settled as to the giveaway of L. A. L. , and the papers will be signed and the transfer made to-morrow morning. 

Meantime I have got the best and wisest man in the whole Standard Oilgroup of mufti-millionaires a good deal interested in looking into thetype-setter (this is private, don't mention it. ) He has been searchinginto that thing for three weeks, and yesterday he said to me, "I findthe machine to be all you represented it--I have here exhaustive reportsfrom my own experts, and I know every detail of its capacity, itsimmense value, its construction, cost, history, and all about itsinventor's character. I know that the New York Co. And the Chicago Co. Are both stupid, and that they are unbusinesslike people, destitute ofmoney and in a hopeless boggle. "

Then he told me the scheme he had planned, then said: "If I can arrangewith these people on this basis--it will take several weeks to findout--I will see to it that they get the money they need. Then the thingwill move right along and your royalties will cease to be waste paper. I will post you the minute my scheme fails or succeeds. In the meantime, you stop walking the floor. Go off to the country and try to be gay. You may have to go to walking again, but don't begin till I tell you myscheme has failed. " And he added: "Keep me posted always as to where youare--for if I need you and can use you--I want to know where to put myhand on you. "

If I should even divulge the fact that the Standard Oil is merelytalking remotely about going into the type-setter, it would send myroyalties up. 

With worlds and worlds of love and kisses to you all, SAML. 

With so great a burden of care shifted to the broad financial shouldersof H. H. Rogers, Mark Twain's spirits went ballooning, soaring towardthe stars. He awoke, too, to some of the social gaieties about him, andfound pleasure in the things that in the hour of his gloom had seemedmainly mockery. We find him going to a Sunday evening at Howells's, toJohn Mackay's, and elsewhere. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 Dec. 2, '93. 

LIVY DARLING, --Last night at John Mackay's the dinner consisted of soup, raw oysters, corned beef and cabbage, and something like a custard. I ate without fear or stint, and yet have escaped all suggestion ofindigestion. The men present were old gray Pacific-coasters whom I knewwhen I and they were young and not gray. The talk was of the days whenwe went gypsying a long time ago--thirty years. Indeed it was a talkof the dead. Mainly that. And of how they looked, and the harum-scarumthings they did and said. For there were no cares in that life, no achesand pains, and not time enough in the day (and three-fourths of thenight) to work off one's surplus vigor and energy. Of the mid-nighthighway robbery joke played upon me with revolvers at my head on thewindswept and desolate Gold Hill Divide, no witness is left but me, thevictim. All the friendly robbers are gone. These old fools last nightlaughed till they cried over the particulars of that old forgottencrime. 

John Mackay has no family here but a pet monkey--a most affectionate andwinning little devil. But he makes trouble for the servants, for he isfull of curiosity and likes to take everything out of the drawers andexamine it minutely; and he puts nothing back. The examinations ofyesterday count for nothing to-day--he makes a new examination everyday. But he injures nothing. 

I went with Laffan to the Racquet Club the other night and played, billiards two hours without starting up any rheumatism. I suppose it wasall really taken out of me in Berlin. 

Richard Harding Davis spoke yesterday of Clara's impersonations at Mrs. Van Rensselaer's here and said they were a wonderful piece of work. 

Livy dear, I do hope you are comfortable, as to quarters and food atthe Hotel Brighton. But if you're not don't stay there. Make onemore effort--don't give it up. Dear heart, this is from one who lovesyou--which is Saml. 

 It was decided that Rogers and Clemens should make a trip to Chicago to investigate personally the type-setter situation there. Clemens reports the details of the excursion to Mrs. Clemens in a long subdivided letter, most of which has no general interest and is here omitted. The trip, as a whole, would seem to have been satisfactory. The personal portions of the long Christmas letter may properly be preserved. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 THE PLAYERS, Xmas, 1893. 

 No. 1. 

Merry Xmas, my darling, and all my darlings! I arrived from Chicagoclose upon midnight last night, and wrote and sent down my Christmascablegram before undressing: "Merry Xmas! Promising progress made inChicago. " It would get to the telegraph office toward 8 this morning andreach you at luncheon. 

I was vaguely hoping, all the past week, that my Xmas cablegram would bedefinite, and make you all jump with jubilation; but the thought alwaysintruded itself, "You are not going out there to negotiate with a man, but with a louse. This makes results uncertain. "

I was asleep as Christmas struck upon the clock at mid night, and didn'twake again till two hours ago. It is now half past 10 Xmas morning; Ihave had my coffee and bread, and shan't get out of bed till it is timeto dress for Mrs. Laflan's Christmas dinner this evening--where I shallmeet Bram Stoker and must make sure about that photo with Irving'sautograph. I will get the picture and he will attend to the rest. Inorder to remember and not forget--well, I will go there with my dresscoat wrong side out; it will cause remark and then I shall remember. 

 No. 2 and 3. 

I tell you it was interesting! The Chicago campaign, I mean. On the wayout Mr. Rogers would plan out the campaign while I walked the floor andsmoked and assented. Then he would close it up with a snap and drop itand we would totally change the subject and take up the scenery, etc. 

(Here follows the long detailed report of the Chicago conference, ofinterest only to the parties directly concerned. )

 No. 4. 

We had nice tripe, going and coming. Mr. Rogers had telegraphed thePennsylvania Railroad for a couple of sections for us in the fast trainleaving at 2 p. M. The 22nd. The Vice President telegraphed back thatevery berth was engaged (which was not true--it goes without saying)but that he was sending his own car for us. It was mighty nice andcomfortable. In its parlor it had two sofas, which could become beds atnight. It had four comfortably-cushioned cane arm-chairs. It had a verynice bedroom with a wide bed in it; which I said I would take becauseI believed I was a little wider than Mr. Rogers--which turned out tobe true; so I took it. It had a darling back-porch--railed, roofed androomy; and there we sat, most of the time, and viewed the scenery andtalked, for the weather was May weather, and the soft dream-pictures ofhill and river and mountain and sky were clear and away beyond anythingI have ever seen for exquisiteness and daintiness. 

The colored waiter knew his business, and the colored cook was afinished artist. Breakfasts: coffee with real cream; beefsteaks, sausage, bacon, chops, eggs in various ways, potatoes in various--yes, and quite wonderful baked potatoes, and hot as fire. Dinners--all mannerof things, including canvas-back duck, apollinaris, claret, champagne, etc. 

We sat up chatting till midnight, going and coming; seldom read a line, day or night, though we were well fixed with magazines, etc. ; then Ifinished off with a hot Scotch and we went to bed and slept till 9. 30a. M. I honestly tried to pay my share of hotel bills, fees, etc. , but Iwas not allowed--and I knew the reason why, and respected the motive. Iwill explain when I see you, and then you will understand. 

We were 25 hours going to Chicago; we were there 24 hours; we were 30hours returning. Brisk work, but all of it enjoyable. We insisted onleaving the car at Philadelphia so that our waiter and cook (to whom Mr. R. Gave $10 apiece, ) could have their Christmas-eve at home. 

Mr. Rogers's carriage was waiting for us in Jersey City and depositedme at the Players. There--that's all. This letter is to make up for thethree letterless days. I love you, dear heart, I love you all. 

 SAML. 

XXXIV. LETTERS 1894. A WINTER IN NEW YORK. BUSINESS FAILURE. END OF THEMACHINE. 

The beginning of the new year found Mark Twain sailing buoyantly on atide of optimism. He believed that with H. H. Rogers as his financialpilot he could weather safely any storm or stress. He could diverthimself, or rest, or work, and consider his business affairs withinterest and amusement, instead of with haggard anxiety. He ran over toHartford to see an amateur play; to Boston to give a charity reading; toFair Haven to open the library which Mr. Rogers had established there;he attended gay dinners, receptions, and late studio parties, acquiringthe name of the "Belle of New York. " In the letters that follow we getthe echo of some of these things. The Mrs. Rice mentioned in the nextbrief letter was the wife of Dr. Clarence C. Rice, who had introduced H. H. Rogers to Mark Twain. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 Jan. 12, '94

Livy darling, I came down from Hartford yesterday with Kipling, andhe and Hutton and I had the small smoking compartment to ourselves andfound him at last at his ease, and not shy. He was very pleasant companyindeed. He is to be in the city a week, and I wish I could invite him todinner, but it won't do. I should be interrupted by business, of course. The construction of a contract that will suit Paige's lawyer (not Paige)turns out to be very difficult. He is embarrassed by earlier adviceto Paige, and hates to retire from it and stultify himself. Thenegotiations are being conducted, by means of tedious long telegrams andby talks over the long-distance telephone. We keep the wires loaded. 

Dear me, dinner is ready. So Mrs. Rice says. 

 With worlds of love, SAML. 

Clemens and Oliver Wendell Holmes had met and become friends soon afterthe publication of Innocents Abroad, in 1869. Now, twenty-five yearslater, we find a record of what without doubt was their last meeting. Itoccurred at the home of Mrs. James T. Field. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 BOSTON, Jan. 25, '94. 

Livy darling, I am caught out worse this time than ever before, in thematter of letters. Tuesday morning I was smart enough to finish andmail my long letter to you before breakfast--for I was suspecting thatI would not have another spare moment during the day. It turned out justso. 

In a thoughtless moment I agreed to come up here and read for the poor. I did not reflect that it would cost me three days. I could not getreleased. Yesterday I had myself called at 8 and ran out to Mr. Rogers'shouse at 9, and talked business until half past 10; then caught 11o'clock train and arrived here at 6; was shaven and dressed by 7 andready for dinner here in Mrs. Field's charming house. 

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes never goes out now (he is in his 84th year, )but he came out this time--said he wanted to "have a time" once morewith me. 

Mrs. Fields said Aldrich begged to come and went away crying becauseshe wouldn't let him. She allowed only her family (Sarah Orne Jewett andsister) to be present, because much company would overtax Dr. Holmes. 

Well, he was just delightful! He did as brilliant and beautiful talking(and listening) as ever he did in his life, I guess. Fields and Jewettsaid he hadn't been in such splendid form in years. He had ordered hiscarriage for 9. 

The coachman sent in for him at 9; but he said, "Oh, nonsense!--leaveglories and grandeurs like these? Tell him to go away and come in anhour!"

At 10 he was called for again, and Mrs. Fields, getting uneasy, rose, but he wouldn't go--and so we rattled ahead the same as ever. Twice moreMrs. Fields rose, but he wouldn't go--and he didn't go till halfpast 10--an unwarrantable dissipation for him in these days. He wasprodigiously complimentary about some of my books, and is havingPudd'nhead read to him. I told him you and I used the Autocrat as acourting book and marked it all through, and that you keep it in thesacred green box with the love letters, and it pleased him. 

Good-bye, my dear darling, it is 15 minutes to dinner and I'm notdressed yet. I have a reception to-night and will be out very late atthat place and at Irving's Theatre where I have a complimentary box. Iwish you were all here. 

 SAML. 

 In the next letter we meet James J. Corbett--"Gentleman Jim, " as he was sometimes called--the champion pugilist of that day. 

 The Howells incident so amusingly dramatized will perhaps be more appreciated if the reader remembers that Mark Twain himself had at intervals been a mind-healing enthusiast. Indeed, in spite of his strictures on Mrs. Eddy, his interest in the subject of mind-cure continued to the end of his life. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 Sunday, 9. 30 a. M. 

Livy dear, when we got out to the house last night, Mrs. Rogers, who isup and around, now, didn't want to go down stairs to dinner, but Mr. R. Persuaded her and we had a very good time indeed. By 8 o'clock we weredown again and bought a fifteen-dollar box in the Madison Square Garden(Rogers bought it, not I, ) then he went and fetched Dr. Rice while I(went) to the Players and picked up two artists--Reid and Simmons--andthus we filled 5 of the 6 seats. There was a vast multitude of people inthe brilliant place. Stanford White came along presently and invited meto go to the World-Champion's dressing room, which I was very glad todo. Corbett has a fine face and is modest and diffident, besides beingthe most perfectly and beautifully constructed human animal in theworld. I said:

"You have whipped Mitchell, and maybe you will whip Jackson in June--butyou are not done, then. You will have to tackle me. "

He answered, so gravely that one might easily have thought him inearnest:

"No--I am not going to meet you in the ring. It is not fair or right torequire it. You might chance to knock me out, by no merit of your own, but by a purely accidental blow; and then my reputation would be goneand you would have a double one. You have got fame enough and you oughtnot to want to take mine away from me. "

Corbett was for a long time a clerk in the Nevada Bank in San Francisco. 

There were lots of little boxing matches, to entertain the crowd: thenat last Corbett appeared in the ring and the 8, 000 people present wentmad with enthusiasm. My two artists went mad about his form. They saidthey had never seen anything that came reasonably near equaling itsperfection except Greek statues, and they didn't surpass it. 

Corbett boxed 3 rounds with the middle-weight Australian champion--oh, beautiful to see!--then the show was over and we struggled out through aperfect wash of humanity. When we reached the street I found I had leftmy arctics in the box. I had to have them, so Simmons said he would goback and get them, and I didn't dissuade him. I couldn't see how he wasgoing to make his way a single yard into that solid oncoming wave ofpeople--yet he must plow through it full 50 yards. He was back with theshoes in 3 minutes!

How do you reckon he accomplished that miracle? By saying:

"Way, gentlemen, please--coming to fetch Mr. Corbett's overshoes. "

The word flew from mouth to mouth, the Red Sea divided, and Simmonswalked comfortably through and back, dry shod. Simmons (this wasrevealed to me under seal of secrecy by Reid) is the hero of "Gwen, " andhe and Gwen's author were once engaged to marry. This is "fire-escape"Simmons, the inveterate talker, you know: "Exit--in case of Simmons. "

I had an engagement at a beautiful dwelling close to the Players for10. 30; I was there by 10. 45. Thirty cultivated and very musical ladiesand gentlemen present--all of them acquaintances and many of thempersonal friends of mine. That wonderful Hungarian Band was there (theycharge $500 for an evening. ) Conversation and Band until midnight; thena bite of supper; then the company was compactly grouped before me andI told about Dr. B. E. Martin and the etchings, and followed it with theScotch-Irish Christening. My, but the Martin is a darling story! Next, the head tenor from the Opera sang half a dozen great songs that set thecompany wild, yes, mad with delight, that nobly handsome young Damroschaccompanying on the piano. 

Just a little pause--then the Band burst out into an explosion of weirdand tremendous dance music, a Hungarian celebrity and his wife took thefloor--I followed; I couldn't help it; the others drifted in, one byone, and it was Onteora over again. 

By half past 4 I had danced all those people down--and yet was nottired; merely breathless. I was in bed at 5, and asleep in ten minutes. Up at 9 and presently at work on this letter to you. I think I wroteuntil 2 or half past. Then I walked leisurely out to Mr. Rogers's (itis called 3 miles but it is short of it) arriving at 3. 30, but he wasout--to return at 5. 30--(and a person was in, whom I don't particularlylike)--so I didn't stay, but dropped over and chatted with the Howellsesuntil 6. 

First, Howells and I had a chat together. I asked about Mrs. H. He saidshe was fine, still steadily improving, and nearly back to her old besthealth. I asked (as if I didn't know):

"What do you attribute this strange miracle to?"

"Mind-cure--simply mind-cure. "

"Lord, what a conversion! You were a scoffer three months ago. "

"I? I wasn't. "

"You were. You made elaborate fun of me in this very room. "

"I did not, Clemens. "

"It's a lie, Howells, you did. "

I detailed to him the conversation of that time--with the statelyargument furnished by Boyesen in the fact that a patient had actuallybeen killed by a mind-curist; and Howells's own smart remark that whenthe mind-curist is done with you, you have to call in a "regular" atlast because the former can't procure you a burial permit. 

At last he gave in--he said he remembered that talk, but had now been amind-curist so long it was difficult for him to realize that he had everbeen anything else. 

Mrs. H. Came skipping in, presently, the very person, to a dot, that sheused to be, so many years ago. 

Mrs. H. Said: "People may call it what they like, but it isjust hypnotism, and that's all it is--hypnotism pure and simple. Mind-cure!--the idea! Why, this woman that cured me hasn't got any mind. She's a good creature, but she's dull and dumb and illiterate and--"

"Now Eleanor!"

"I know what I'm talking about!--don't I go there twice a week? And Mr. Clemens, if you could only see her wooden and satisfied face when shesnubs me for forgetting myself and showing by a thoughtless remark thatto me weather is still weather, instead of being just an abstraction anda superstition--oh, it's the funniest thing you ever saw! A-n-d-whenshe tilts up her nose-well, it's--it's--Well it's that kind of a nosethat--"

"Now Eleanor!--the woman is not responsible for her nose--" and so-onand so-on. It didn't seem to me that I had any right to be having thisfeast and you not there. 

She convinced me before she got through, that she and William James areright--hypnotism and mind-cure are the same thing; no difference betweenthem. Very well; the very source, the very center of hypnotism is Paris. Dr. Charcot's pupils and disciples are right there and ready to yourhand without fetching poor dear old Susy across the stormy sea. LetMrs. Mackay (to whom I send my best respects), tell you whom to go to tolearn all you need to learn and how to proceed. Do, do it, honey. Don'tlose a minute. 

. .. . At 11 o'clock last night Mr. Rogers said:

"I am able to feel physical fatigue--and I feel it now. You never showany, either in your eyes or your movements; do you ever feel any?"

I was able to say that I had forgotten what that feeling was like. Don'tyou remember how almost impossible it was for me to tire myself at theVilla? Well, it is just so in New York. I go to bed unfatigued at 3, Iget up fresh and fine six hours later. I believe I have taken only onedaylight nap since I have been here. 

When the anchor is down, then I shall say:

"Farewell--a long farewell--to business! I will never touch it again!"

I will live in literature, I will wallow in it, revel in it, I will swimin ink! Joan of Arc--but all this is premature; the anchor is not downyet. 

To-morrow (Tuesday) I will add a P. S. If I've any to add; but, whetheror no, I must mail this to morrow, for the mail steamer goes next day. 

5. 30 p. M. Great Scott, this is Tuesday! I must rush this letter intothe mail instantly. 

Tell that sassy Ben I've got her welcome letter, and I'll write heras soon as I get a daylight chance. I've most time at night, but I'ddruther write daytimes. 

 SAML. 

 The Reid and Simmons mentioned in the foregoing were Robert Reid and Edward Simmons, distinguished painter--the latter a brilliant, fluent, and industrious talker. The title; "Fire-escape Simmons, " which Clemens gives him, originated when Oliver Herford, whose quaint wit has so long delighted New-Yorkers, one day pinned up by the back door of the Players the notice: "Exit in case of Simmons. " Gwen, a popular novel of that day, was written by Blanche Willis Howard. 

 "Jamie" Dodge, in the next letter, was the son of Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, editor of St. Nicholas. 

*****

To Clara Clemens, in Paris:

 MR. ROGERS'S OFFICE, Feb. 5, '94. 

Dear Benny--I was intending to answer your letter to-day, but I amaway down town, and will simply whirl together a sentence or two forgood-fellowship. I have bought photographs of Coquelin and Jane Hadingand will ask them to sign them. I shall meet Coquelin tomorrow night, and if Hading is not present I will send her picture to her by somebody. 

I am to breakfast with Madame Nordica in a few days, and meantime I hopeto get a good picture of her to sign. She was of the breakfast companyyesterday, but the picture of herself which she signed and gave me doesnot do her majestic beauty justice. 

I am too busy to attend to the photo-collecting right, because I haveto live up to the name which Jamie Dodge has given me--the "Belle ofNew York"--and it just keeps me rushing. Yesterday I had engagements tobreakfast at noon, dine at 3, and dine again at 7. I got away from thelong breakfast at 2 p. M. , went and excused myself from the 3 o'clockdinner, then lunched with Mrs. Dodge in 58th street, returned to thePlayers and dressed, dined out at 9, and was back at Mrs. Dodge's at 10p. M. Where we had magic-lantern views of a superb sort, and a lot ofyarns until an hour after midnight, and got to bed at 2 this morning--agood deal of a gain on my recent hours. But I don't get tired; I sleepas sound as a dead person, and always wake up fresh and strong--usuallyat exactly 9. 

I was at breakfast lately where people of seven separate nationalitiessat and the seven languages were going all the time. At my side sata charming gentleman who was a delightful and active talker, andinteresting. He talked glibly to those folks in all those sevenlanguages and still had a language to spare! I wanted to kill him, forvery envy. 

 I greet you with love and kisses. 

 PAPA. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 Feb. --. Livy dear, last night I played billiards with Mr. Rogers until 11, thenwent to Robert Reid's studio and had a most delightful time until 4this morning. No ladies were invited this time. Among the people presentwere--

 Coquelin; Richard Harding Davis; Harrison, the great out-door painter; Wm. H. Chase, the artist; Bettini, inventor of the new phonograph. Nikola Tesla, the world-wide illustrious electrician; see article about him in Jan. Or Feb. Century. John Drew, actor; James Barnes, a marvelous mimic; my, you should see him! Smedley the artist; Zorn the artist; Zogbaum the artist; Reinhart the artist; Metcalf the artist; Ancona, head tenor at the Opera;

Oh, a great lot of others. Everybody there had done something and was inhis way famous. 

Somebody welcomed Coquelin in a nice little French speech; John Drew didthe like for me in English, and then the fun began. Coquelin did someexcellent French monologues--one of them an ungrammatical Englishmantelling a colorless historiette in French. It nearly killed the fifteenor twenty people who understood it. 

I told a yarn, Ancona sang half a dozen songs, Barnes did his darlingimitations, Harding Davis sang the hanging of Danny Deever, which wasof course good, but he followed it with that most fascinating (for whatreason I don't know) of all Kipling's poems, "On the Road to Mandalay, "sang it tenderly, and it searched me deeper and charmed me more than theDeever. 

Young Gerrit Smith played some ravishing dance music and we all dancedabout an hour. There couldn't be a pleasanter night than that one was. Some of those people complained of fatigue but I don't seem to know whatthe sense of fatigue is. 

Coquelin talks quite good English now. He said:

"I have a brother who has the fine mind--ah, a charming and delicatefancy, and he knows your writings so well, and loves them--and that isthe same with me. It will stir him so when I write and tell him I haveseen you!"

Wasn't that nice? We talked a good deal together. He is as winning ashis own face. But he wouldn't sign that photograph for Clara. "That? No!She shall have a better one. I will send it to you. "

He is much driven, and will forget it, but Reid has promised to get thepicture for me, and I will try and keep him reminded. 

Oh, dear, my time is all used up and your letters are not answered. 

Mama, dear, I don't go everywhere--I decline most things. But there areplenty that I can't well get out of. 

I will remember what you say and not make my yarning too common. 

I am so glad Susy has gone on that trip and that you are trying theelectric. May you both prosper. For you are mighty dear to me and in mythoughts always. 

 SAML. 

 The affairs of the Webster Publishing Company were by this time getting into a very serious condition indeed. The effects of the panic of the year before could not be overcome. Creditors were pressing their claims and profits were negligible. In the following letter we get a Mark Twain estimate of the great financier who so cheerfully was willing to undertake the solving of Mark Twain's financial problems. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 THE PLAYERS, Feb. 15, '94. 11. 30 p. M. 

Livy darling, Yesterday I talked all my various matters over with Mr. Rogers and we decided that it would be safe for me to leave here the7th of March, in the New York. So his private secretary, Miss Harrison, wrote and ordered a berth for me and then I lost no time in cabling youthat I should reach Southampton March 14, and Paris the 15th. Land, butit made my pulses leap, to think I was going to see you again!. .. Onething at a time. I never fully laid Webster's disastrous conditionbefore Mr. Rogers until to-night after billiards. I did hate to burdenhis good heart and over-worked head with it, but he took hold withavidity and said it was no burden to work for his friends, but apleasure. We discussed it from various standpoints, and found it asufficiently difficult problem to solve; but he thinks that after he hasslept upon it and thought it over he will know what to suggest. 

You must not think I am ever rude with Mr. Rogers, I am not. He is notcommon clay, but fine--fine and delicate--and that sort do not call outthe coarsenesses that are in my sort. I am never afraid of wounding him;I do not need to watch myself in that matter. The sight of him is peace. 

He wants to go to Japan--it is his dream; wants to go with me--whichmeans, the two families--and hear no more about business for awhile, andhave a rest. And he needs it. But it is like all the dreams of all busymen--fated to remain dreams. 

You perceive that he is a pleasant text for me. It is easy to writeabout him. When I arrived in September, lord how black the prospectwas--how desperate, how incurably desperate! Webster and Co. Had tohave a small sum of money or go under at once. I flew to Hartford--tomy friends--but they were not moved, not strongly interested, and I wasashamed that I went. It was from Mr. Rogers, a stranger, that I gotthe money and was by it saved. And then--while still a stranger--he sethimself the task of saving my financial life without putting upon me (inhis native delicacy) any sense that I was the recipient of a charity, a benevolence--and he has accomplished that task; accomplished it at acost of three months of wearing and difficult labor. He gave that timeto me--time which could not be bought by any man at a hundred thousanddollars a month--no, nor for three times the money. 

Well, in the midst of that great fight, that long and admirable fight, George Warner came to me and said:

"There is a splendid chance open to you. I know a man--a prominentman--who has written a book that will go like wildfire; a book thatarraigns the Standard Oil fiends, and gives them unmitigated hell, individual by individual. It is the very book for you to publish; thereis a fortune in it, and I can put you in communication with the author. "

I wanted to say:

"The only man I care for in the world; the only man I would give a damnfor; the only man who is lavishing his sweat and blood to save me andmine from starvation and shame, is a Standard Oil fiend. If you know me, you know whether I want the book or not. "

But I didn't say that. I said I didn't want any book; I wanted to getout of the publishing business and out of all business, and was here forthat purpose and would accomplish it if I could. 

But there's enough. I shall be asleep by 3, and I don't need muchsleep, because I am never drowsy or tired these days. Dear, dear Susy mystrength reproaches me when I think of her and you, my darling. 

 SAML. 

 But even so able a man as Henry Rogers could not accomplish the impossible. The affairs of the Webster Company were hopeless, the business was not worth saving. By Mr. Rogers's advice an assignment was made April, 18, 1894. After its early spectacular success less than ten years had brought the business to failure. The publication of the Grant memoirs had been its only great achievement. 

 Clemens would seem to have believed that the business would resume, and for a time Rogers appears to have comforted him in his hope, but we cannot believe that it long survived. Young Hall, who had made such a struggle for its salvation, was eager to go on, but he must presently have seen the futility of any effort in that direction. 

 Of course the failure of Mark Twain's firm made a great stir in the country, and it is easy to understand that loyal friends would rally in his behalf. 

*****

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris:

 April 22, '94. 

Dear old darling, we all think the creditors are going to allow us toresume business; and if they do we shall pull through and pay the debts. I am prodigiously glad we made an assignment. And also glad that we didnot make it sooner. Earlier we should have made a poor showing; but nowwe shall make a good one. 

I meet flocks of people, and they all shake me cordially by the hand andsay "I was so sorry to hear of the assignment, but so glad you did it. It was around, this long time, that the concern was tottering, and allyour friends were afraid you would delay the assignment too long. "

John Mackay called yesterday, and said, "Don't let it disturb you, Sam--we all have to do it, at one time or another; it's nothing to beashamed of. "

One stranger out in New York State sent me a dollar bill and thoughthe would like to get up a dollar-subscription for me. And PoultneyBigelow's note came promptly, with his check for $1, 000. I had beenmeeting him every day at the Club and liking him better and betterall the time. I couldn't take his money, of course, but I thanked himcordially for his good will. 

Now and then a good and dear Joe Twichell or Susy Warner condoles withme and says "Cheer up--don't be downhearted, " and some other friendsays, "I am glad and surprised to see how cheerful you are and howbravely you stand it"--and none of them suspect what a burden has beenlifted from me and how blithe I am inside. Except when I think of you, dear heart--then I am not blithe; for I seem to see you grieving andashamed, and dreading to look people in the face. For in the thick ofthe fight there is cheer, but you are far away and cannot hear the drumsnor see the wheeling squadrons. You only seem to see rout, retreat, anddishonored colors dragging in the dirt--whereas none of these thingsexist. There is temporary defeat, but no dishonor--and we will marchagain. Charley Warner said to-day, "Sho, Livy isn't worrying. So long asshe's got you and the children she doesn't care what happens. She knowsit isn't her affair. " Which didn't convince me. 

Good bye my darling, I love you and all of the kids--and you can tellClara I am not a spitting gray kitten. 

 SAML. 

 Clemens sailed for Europe as soon as his affairs would permit him to go. He must get settled where he could work comfortably. Type-setter prospects seemed promising, but meantime there was need of funds. 

 He began writing on the ship, as was his habit, and had completed his article on Fenimore Cooper by the time he reached London. In August we find him writing to Mr. Rogers from Etretat, a little Norman watering-place. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

 ETRETAT, (NORMANDIE)

 CHALET DES ABRIS

 Aug. 25, '94. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --I find the Madam ever so much better in health andstrength. The air is superb and soothing and wholesome, and the Chaletis remote from noise and people, and just the place to write in. I shallbegin work this afternoon. 

Mrs. Clemens is in great spirits on, account of the benefit which shehas received from the electrical treatment in Paris and is bound to takeit up again and continue it all the winter, and of course I am perfectlywilling. She requires me to drop the lecture platform out of my mind andgo straight ahead with Joan until the book is finished. If I should haveto go home for even a week she means to go with me--won't consent to beseparated again--but she hopes I won't need to go. 

I tell her all right, "I won't go unless you send, and then I must. "

She keeps the accounts; and as she ciphers it we can't get crowded formoney for eight months yet. I didn't know that. But I don't know muchanyway. 

 Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 The reader may remember that Clemens had written the first half of his Joan of Arc book at the Villa Viviani, in Florence, nearly two years before. He had closed the manuscript then with the taking of Orleans, and was by no means sure that he would continue the story beyond that point. Now, however, he was determined to reach the tale's tragic conclusion. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

 ETRETAT, Sunday, Sept. 9, '94. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, I drove the quill too hard, and I broke down--in myhead. It has now been three days since I laid up. When I wrote you aweek ago I had added 10, 000 words or thereabout to Joan. Next day Iadded 1, 500 which was a proper enough day's work though not a full one;but during Tuesday and Wednesday I stacked up an aggregate of 6, 000words--and that was a very large mistake. My head hasn't been worth acent since. 

However, there's a compensation; for in those two days I reached andpassed--successfully--a point which I was solicitous about before I everbegan the book: viz. , the battle of Patay. Because that would naturallybe the next to the last chapter of a work consisting of either two booksor one. In the one case one goes right along from that point (as I shalldo now); in the other he would add a wind-up chapter and make the bookconsist of Joan's childhood and military career alone. 

I shall resume work to-day; and hereafter I will not go at such anintemperate' rate. My head is pretty cobwebby yet. 

I am hoping that along about this time I shall hear that the machine isbeginning its test in the Herald office. I shall be very glad indeed toknow the result of it. I wish I could be there. 

 Sincerely yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Rouen, where Joan met her martyrdom, was only a short distance away, and they halted there en route to Paris, where they had arranged to spend the winter. The health of Susy Clemens was not good, and they lingered in Rouen while Clemens explored the old city and incidentally did some writing of another sort. In a note to Mr. Rogers he said: "To put in my odd time I am writing some articles about Paul Bourget and his Outre-Mer chapters--laughing at them and at some of our oracular owls who find them important. What the hell makes them important, I should like to know!"

 He was still at Rouen two weeks later and had received encouraging news from Rogers concerning the type-setter, which had been placed for trial in the office of the Chicago Herald. Clemens wrote: "I can hardly keep from sending a hurrah by cable. I would certainly do it if I wasn't superstitious. " His restraint, though wise, was wasted the end was near. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

 169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, PARIS, Dec. 22; '94. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --I seemed to be entirely expecting your letter, andalso prepared and resigned; but Lord, it shows how little we knowourselves and how easily we can deceive ourselves. It hit me like athunder-clap. It knocked every rag of sense out of my head, and I wentflying here and there and yonder, not knowing what I was doing, and onlyone clearly defined thought standing up visible and substantial out ofthe crazy storm-drift that my dream of ten years was in desperateperil, and out of the 60, 000 or 90, 000 projects for its rescue that camefloating through my skull, not one would hold still long enough for meto examine it and size it up. Have you ever been like that? Not so muchso, I reckon. 

There was another clearly defined idea--I must be there and see it die. That is, if it must die; and maybe if I were there we might hatch upsome next-to-impossible way to make it take up its bed and take a walk. 

So, at the end of four hours I started, still whirling and walked overto the rue Scribe--4 P. M. --and asked a question or two and was told Ishould be running a big risk if I took the 9 P. M. Train for London andSouthampton; "better come right along at 6. 52 per Havre special and stepaboard the New York all easy and comfortable. " Very! and I about twomiles from home, with no packing done. 

Then it occurred to me that none of these salvation-notions that werewhirl-winding through my head could be examined or made available unlessat least a month's time could be secured. So I cabled you, and saidto myself that I would take the French steamer tomorrow (which will beSunday). 

By bedtime Mrs. Clemens had reasoned me into a fairly rational andcontented state of mind; but of course it didn't last long. So I wenton thinking--mixing it with a smoke in the dressing room once anhour--until dawn this morning. Result--a sane resolution; no matter whatyour answer to my cable might be, I would hold still and not sail untilI should get an answer to this present letter which I am now writing, ora cable answer from you saying "Come" or "Remain. "

I have slept 6 hours, my pond has clarified, and I find the sediment ofmy 70, 000 projects to be of this character:

[Several pages of suggestions for reconstructing the machine follow. ]

Don't say I'm wild. For really I'm sane again this morning. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 

I am going right along with Joan, now, and wait untroubled till I hearfrom you. If you think I can be of the least use, cable me "Come. " I canwrite Joan on board ship and lose no time. Also I could discuss my planwith the publisher for a deluxe Joan, time being an object, for some ofthe pictures could be made over here cheaply and quickly, but would costmuch time and money in America. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 

If the meeting should decide to quit business Jan. 4, I'd like to haveStoker stopped from paying in any more money, if Miss Harrison doesn'tmind that disagreeable job. And I'll have to write them, too, of course. 

 With love, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 The "Stoker" of this letter was Bram Stoker, long associated with Sir Henry Irving. Irving himself had also taken stock in the machine. The address, 169 Rue de l'Universite, whence these letters are written, was the beautiful studio home of the artist Pomroy which they had taken for the winter. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York:

 169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, PARIS, Dec. 27, '94. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --Notwithstanding your heart is "old and hard, " you makea body choke up. I know you "mean every word you say" and I do take it"in the same spirit in which you tender it. " I shall keep your regardwhile we two live--that I know; for I shall always remember what youhave done for me, and that will insure me against ever doing anythingthat could forfeit it or impair it. I am 59 years old; yet I never hada friend before who put out a hand and tried to pull me ashore when hefound me in deep waters. 

It is six days or seven days ago that I lived through that despairingday, and then through a night without sleep; then settled down next dayinto my right mind (or thereabouts, ) and wrote you. I put in the rest ofthat day till 7 P. M. Plenty comfortably enough writing a long chapterof my book; then went to a masked ball blacked up as Uncle Remus, taking Clara along; and we had a good time. I have lost no day since andsuffered no discomfort to speak of, but drove my troubles out of my mindand had good success in keeping them out--through watchfulness. I havedone a good week's work and put the book a good way ahead in the GreatTrial, which is the difficult part which requires the most thought andcarefulness. I cannot see the end of the Trial yet, but I am on theroad. I am creeping surely toward it. 

"Why not leave them all to me. " My business bothers? I take you by thehand! I jump at the chance!

I ought to be ashamed and I am trying my best to be ashamed--and yet Ido jump at the chance in spite of it. I don't want to write Irving andI don't want to write Stoker. It doesn't seem as if I could. But I cansuggest something for you to write them; and then if you see that I amunwise, you can write them something quite different. Now this is myidea:

 1. To return Stoker's $100 to him and keep his stock. 

 2. And tell Irving that when luck turns with me I will make good to him what the salvage from the dead Co. Fails to pay him of his $500. 

P. S. Madam says No, I must face the music. So I enclose my effort to beused if you approve, but not otherwise. 

There! Now if you will alter it to suit your judgment and bang away, Ishall be eternally obliged. 

We shall try to find a tenant for our Hartford house; not an easymatter, for it costs heavily to live in. We can never live in it again;though it would break the family's hearts if they could believe it. 

Nothing daunts Mrs. Clemens or makes the world look black to her--whichis the reason I haven't drowned myself. 

We all send our deepest and warmest greetings to you and all of yoursand a Happy New Year!

 S. L. CLEMENS. 

Enclosure:

MY DEAR STOKER, --I am not dating this because it is not to be mailed atpresent. 

When it reaches you it will mean that there is a hitch in mymachine-enterprise--a hitch so serious as to make it take to itself theaspect of a dissolved dream. This letter, then, will contain cheque forthe $100 which you have paid. And will you tell Irving for me--I can'tget up courage enough to talk about this misfortune myself, except toyou, whom by good luck I haven't damaged yet that when the wreckagepresently floats ashore he will get a good deal of his $500 back; and adab at a time I will make up to him the rest. 

I'm not feeling as fine as I was when I saw you there in your home. Please remember me kindly to Mrs. Stoker. I gave up that Londonlecture-project entirely. Had to--there's never been a chance since tofind the time. 

 Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

XXXV. LETTERS, 1895-96, TO H. H. ROGERS AND OTHERS. FINISHING "JOAN OFARC. " THE TRIP AROUND THE WORLD. DEATH OF SUSY CLEMENS. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

 [No date. ]

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --Yours of Dec. 21 has arrived, containing the circularto stockholders and I guess the Co. Will really quit--there doesn't seemto be any other wise course. 

There's one thing which makes it difficult for me to soberly realizethat my ten year dream is actually dissolved; and that is, that itreveries my horoscope. The proverb says, "Born lucky, always lucky, " andI am very superstitious. As a small boy I was notoriously lucky. Itwas usual for one or two of our lads (per annum) to get drowned in theMississippi or in Bear Creek, but I was pulled out in a 2/3 drownedcondition 9 times before I learned to swim, and was considered to bea cat in disguise. When the "Pennsylvania" blew up and the telegraphreported my brother as fatally injured (with 60 others) but madeno mention of me, my uncle said to my mother "It means that Sam wassomewhere else, after being on that boat a year and a half--he was bornlucky. " Yes, I was somewhere else. I am so superstitious that I havealways been afraid to have business dealings with certain relatives andfriends of mine because they were unlucky people. All my life I havestumbled upon lucky chances of large size, and whenever they were wastedit was because of my own stupidity and carelessness. And so I have feltentirely certain that that machine would turn up trumps eventually. Itdisappointed me lots of times, but I couldn't shake off the confidenceof a life-time in my luck. 

Well, whatever I get out of the wreckage will be due to good luck--thegood luck of getting you into the scheme--for, but for that, therewouldn't be any wreckage; it would be total loss. 

I wish you had been in at the beginning. Then we should have had thegood luck to step promptly ashore. 

Miss Harrison has had a dream which promises me a large bank account, and I want her to go ahead and dream it twice more, so as to make theprediction sure to be fulfilled. 

I've got a first rate subject for a book. It kept me awake all night, and I began it and completed it in my mind. The minute I finish Joan Iwill take it up. 

 Love and Happy New Year to you all. Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 This was about the end of the machine interests so far as Clemens was concerned. Paige succeeded in getting some new people interested, but nothing important happened, or that in any way affected Mark Twain. Characteristically he put the whole matter behind him and plunged into his work, facing comparative poverty and a burden of debts with a stout heart. The beginning of the new year found him really poorer in purse than he had ever been in his life, but certainly not crushed, or even discouraged--at least, not permanently--and never more industrious or capable. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

 169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, PARIS, Jan. 23, '95. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --After I wrote you, two or three days ago I thoughtI would make a holiday of the rest of the day--the second deliberateholiday since I had the gout. On the first holiday I wrote a tale ofabout 6, 000 words, which was 3 days' work in one; and this time I did8, 000 before midnight. I got nothing out of that first holiday but therecreation of it, for I condemned the work after careful reading andsome revision; but this time I fared better--I finished the Huck Finntale that lies in your safe, and am satisfied with it. 

The Bacheller syndicate (117 Tribune Building) want a story of 5, 000words (lowest limit of their London agent) for $1, 000 and offer to plankthe check on delivery, and it was partly to meet that demand that I tookthat other holiday. So as I have no short story that suits me (and can'tand shan't make promises), the best I can do is to offer the longer onewhich I finished on my second holiday--"Tom Sawyer, Detective. "

It makes 27 or 28, 000 words, and is really written for grown folks, though I expect young folk to read it, too. It transfers to the banks ofthe Mississippi the incidents of a strange murder which was committed inSweden in old times. 

I'll refer applicants for a sight of the story to you or MissHarrison. --[Secretary to Mr. Rogers. ]

 Yours sincerely, S. L. CLEMENS. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

 169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, Apr. 29, '95. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --Your felicitous delightful letter of the 15th arrivedthree days ago, and brought great pleasure into the house. 

There is one thing that weighs heavily on Mrs. Clemens and me. That isBrusnahan's money. If he is satisfied to have it invested in the Chicagoenterprise, well and good; if not, we would like to have the moneypaid back to him. I will give him as many months to decide in as hepleases--let him name 6 or 10 or 12--and we will let the money staywhere it is in your hands till the time is up. Will Miss Harrisontell him so? I mean if you approve. I would like him to have a goodinvestment, but would meantime prefer to protect him against loss. 

At 6 minutes past 7, yesterday evening, Joan of Arc was burned at thestake. 

With the long strain gone, I am in a sort of physical collapse today, but it will be gone tomorrow. I judged that this end of the book wouldbe hard work, and it turned out so. I have never done any work beforethat cost so much thinking and weighing and measuring and planning andcramming, or so much cautious and painstaking execution. For I wantedthe whole Rouen trial in, if it could be got in in such a way that thereader's interest would not flag--in fact I wanted the reader's interestto increase; and so I stuck to it with that determination in view--withthe result that I have left nothing out but unimportant repetitions. Although it is mere history--history pure and simple--history strippednaked of flowers, embroideries, colorings, exaggerations, invention--thefamily agree that I have succeeded. It was a perilous thing to try in atale, but I never believed it a doubtful one--provided I stuck strictlyto business and didn't weaken and give up: or didn't get lazy and skimpthe work. The first two-thirds of the book were easy; for I only neededto keep my historical road straight; therefore I used for reference onlyone French history and one English one--and shoveled in as much fancywork and invention on both sides of the historical road as I pleased. But on this last third I have constantly used five French sources andfive English ones and I think no telling historical nugget in any ofthem has escaped me. 

Possibly the book may not sell, but that is nothing--it was written forlove. 

There--I'm called to see company. The family seldom require this of me, but they know I am not working today. 

 Yours sincerely, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 "Brusnahan, " of the foregoing letter, was an employee of the New York Herald, superintendent of the press-room--who had invested some of his savings in the type-setter. 

 In February Clemens returned to New York to look after matters connected with his failure and to close arrangements for a reading-tour around the world. He was nearly sixty years old, and time had not lessened his loathing for the platform. More than once, however, in earlier years, he had turned to it as a debt-payer, and never yet had his burden been so great as now. He concluded arrangements with Major Pond to take him as far as the Pacific Coast, and with R. S. Smythe, of Australia, for the rest of the tour. In April we find him once more back in Paris preparing to bring the family to America, He had returned by way of London, where he had visited Stanley the explorer--an old friend. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

 169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, Sunday, Apr. 7, '95. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --. .. .. Stanley is magnificently housed in London, ina grand mansion in the midst of the official world, right off DowningStreet and Whitehall. He had an extraordinary assemblage of brains andfame there to meet me--thirty or forty (both sexes) at dinner, and morethan a hundred came in, after dinner. Kept it up till after midnight. There were cabinet ministers, ambassadors, admirals, generals, canons, Oxford professors, novelists, playwrights, poets, and a number of peopleequipped with rank and brains. I told some yarns and made some speeches. I promised to call on all those people next time I come to London, andshow them the wife and the daughters. If I were younger and very strongI would dearly love to spend a season in London--provided I had no workon hand, or no work more exacting than lecturing. I think I will lecturethere a month or two when I return from Australia. 

There were many delightful ladies in that company. One was the wifeof His Excellency Admiral Bridge, Commander-in Chief of the AustralianStation, and she said her husband was able to throw wide all doors to mein that part of the world and would be glad to do it, and would yacht meand my party around, and excursion us in his flag-ship and make us havea great time; and she said she would write him we were coming, and wewould find him ready. I have a letter from her this morning enclosinga letter of introduction to the Admiral. I already know the Admiralcommanding in the China Seas and have promised to look in on him outthere. He sleeps with my books under his pillow. P'raps it is the onlyway he can sleep. 

According to Mrs. Clemens's present plans--subject to modification, ofcourse--we sail in May; stay one day, or two days in New York, spendJune, July and August in Elmira and prepare my lectures; then lecturein San Francisco and thereabouts during September and sail for Australiabefore the middle of October and open the show there about the middle ofNovember. We don't take the girls along; it would be too expensive andthey are quite willing to remain behind anyway. 

Mrs. C. Is feeling so well that she is not going to try the New Yorkdoctor till we have gone around the world and robbed it and made thefinances a little easier. 

 With a power of love to you all, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 There would come moments of depression, of course, and a week later he wrote: "I am tired to death all the time:" To a man of less vitality, less vigor of mind and body, it is easy to believe that under such circumstances this condition would have remained permanent. But perhaps, after all, it was his comic outlook on things in general that was his chief life-saver. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

 169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE, Apr. 29, '95. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --I have been hidden an hour or two, reading proof ofJoan and now I think I am a lost child. I can't find anybody on theplace. The baggage has all disappeared, including the family. I reckonthat in the hurry and bustle of moving to the hotel they forgot me. Butit is no matter. It is peacefuller now than I have known it for days anddays and days. 

In these Joan proofs which I have been reading for the September HarperI find a couple of tip-top platform readings--and I mean to read themon our trip. If the authorship is known by then; and if it isn't, I willreveal it. The fact is, there is more good platform-stuff in Joan thanin any previous book of mine, by a long sight. 

Yes, every danged member of the tribe has gone to the hotel and left melost. I wonder how they can be so careless with property. I have got totry to get there by myself now. 

All the trunks are going over as luggage; then I've got to findsomebody on the dock who will agree to ship 6 of them to the HartfordCustomhouse. If it is difficult I will dump them into the river. It isvery careless of Mrs. Clemens to trust trunks and things to me. 

 Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 By the latter part of May they were at Quarry Farm, and Clemens, laid up there with a carbuncle, was preparing for his long tour. The outlook was not a pleasant one. To Mr. Rogers he wrote: "I sha'n't be able to stand on the platform before we start west. I sha'n't get a single chance to practice my reading; but will have to appear in Cleveland without the essential preparation. Nothing in this world can save it from being a shabby, poor disgusting performance. I've got to stand; I can't do it and talk to a house, and how in the nation am I going to sit? Land of Goshen, it's this night week! Pray for me. "

 The opening at Cleveland July 15th appears not to have been much of a success, though from another reason, one that doubtless seemed amusing to him later. 

*****

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

 (Forenoon) CLEVELAND, July 16, '95. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --Had a roaring success at the Elmira reformatory Sundaynight. But here, last night, I suffered defeat--There were a couple ofhundred little boys behind me on the stage, on a lofty tier of bencheswhich made them the most conspicuous objects in the house. And there wasnobody to watch them or keep them quiet. Why, with their scufflings andhorse-play and noise, it was just a menagerie. Besides, a concert ofamateurs had been smuggled into the program (to precede me, ) and theirfamilies and friends (say ten per cent of the audience) kept encoringthem and they always responded. So it was 20 minutes to 9 before I gotthe platform in front of those 2, 600 people who had paid a dollar apiecefor a chance to go to hell in this fashion. 

I got started magnificently, but inside of half an hour the scufflingboys had the audience's maddened attention and I saw it was a gone case;so I skipped a third of my program and quit. The newspapers are kind, but between you and me it was a defeat. There ain't going to be any moreconcerts at my lectures. I care nothing for this defeat, because itwas not my fault. My first half hour showed that I had the house, and Icould have kept it if I hadn't been so handicapped. 

 Yours sincerely, S. L. CLEMENS. 

P. S. Had a satisfactory time at Petoskey. Crammed the house and turnedaway a crowd. We had $548 in the house, which was $300 more than ithad ever had in it before. I believe I don't care to have a talk go offbetter than that one did. 

 Mark Twain, on this long tour, was accompanied by his wife and his daughter Clara--Susy and Jean Clemens remaining with their aunt at Quarry Farm. The tour was a financial success from the start. By the time they were ready to sail from Vancouver five thousand dollars had been remitted to Mr. Rogers against that day of settlement when the debts of Webster & Co. Were to be paid. Perhaps it should be stated here that a legal settlement had been arranged on a basis of fifty cents on the dollar, but neither Clemens nor his wife consented to this as final. They would pay in full. 

 They sailed from Vancouver August 23, 1895. About the only letter of this time is an amusing note to Rudyard Kipling, written at the moment of departure. 

*****

To Rudyard Kipling, in England:

 August, 1895. 

DEAR KIPLING, --It is reported that you are about to visit India. Thishas moved me to journey to that far country in order that I may unloadfrom my conscience a debt long due to you. Years ago you came from Indiato Elmira to visit me, as you said at the time. It has always been mypurpose to return that visit and that great compliment some day. I shallarrive next January and you must be ready. I shall come riding my ayahwith his tusks adorned with silver bells and ribbons and escorted bya troop of native howdahs richly clad and mounted upon a herd of wildbungalows; and you must be on hand with a few bottles of ghee, for Ishall be thirsty. 

 Affectionately, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Clemens, platforming in Australia, was too busy to write letters. Everywhere he was welcomed by great audiences, and everywhere lavishly entertained. He was beset by other carbuncles, but would seem not to have been seriously delayed by them. A letter to his old friend Twichell carries the story. 

*****

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

 FRANK MOELLER'S MASONIC HOTEL, NAPIER, NEW ZEALAND, November 29, '95. 

DEAR JOE, --Your welcome letter of two months and five days ago has justarrived, and finds me in bed with another carbuncle. It is No. 3. Not aserious one this time. I lectured last night without inconvenience, butthe doctors thought best to forbid to-night's lecture. My second onekept me in bed a week in Melbourne. 

. .. We are all glad it is you who is to write the article, it delightsus all through. 

I think it was a good stroke of luck that knocked me on my back hereat Napier, instead of some hotel in the centre of a noisy city. Here wehave the smooth and placidly-complaining sea at our door, with nothingbetween us and it but 20 yards of shingle--and hardly a suggestion oflife in that space to mar it or make a noise. Away down here fifty-fivedegrees south of the Equator this sea seems to murmur in an unfamiliartongue--a foreign tongue--tongue bred among the ice-fields of theAntarctic--a murmur with a note of melancholy in it proper to the vastunvisited solitudes it has come from. It was very delicious and solacingto wake in the night and find it still pulsing there. I wish you werehere--land, but it would be fine!

Livy and Clara enjoy this nomadic life pretty well; certainly betterthan one could have expected they would. They have tough experiences, inthe way of food and beds and frantic little ships, but they put up withthe worst that befalls with heroic endurance that resembles contentment. 

No doubt I shall be on the platform next Monday. A week later we shallreach Wellington; talk there 3 nights, then sail back to Australia. Wesailed for New Zealand October 30. 

Day before yesterday was Livy's birthday (under world time), andtomorrow will be mine. I shall be 60--no thanks for it. 

I and the others send worlds and worlds of love to all you dear ones. 

 MARK. 

 The article mentioned in the foregoing letter was one which Twichell had been engaged by Harper's Magazine to write concerning the home life and characteristics of Mark Twain. By the time the Clemens party had completed their tour of India--a splendid, triumphant tour, too full of work and recreation for letter-writing--and had reached South Africa, the article had appeared, a satisfactory one, if we may judge by Mark Twain's next. 

 This letter, however, has a special interest in the account it gives of Mark Twain's visit to the Jameson raiders, then imprisoned at Pretoria. 

*****

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

 PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICAN REPUBLIC, The Queen's Birthday, '96. (May 24)

DEAR OLD JOE, --Harper for May was given to me yesterday in Johannesburgby an American lady who lives there, and I read your article on me whilecoming up in the train with her and an old friend and fellow-Missourianof mine, Mrs. John Hays Hammond, the handsome and spirited wife ofthe chief of the 4 Reformers, who lies in prison here under a 15-yearsentence, along with 50 minor Reformers who are in for 1 and 5-yearterms. Thank you a thousand times Joe, you have praised me away above mydeserts, but I am not the man to quarrel with you for that; and asfor Livy, she will take your very hardiest statements at par, and begrateful to you to the bottom of her heart. Between you and Punchand Brander Matthews, I am like to have my opinion of myself raisedsufficiently high; and I guess the children will be after you, for itis the study of their lives to keep my self-appreciation down somewherewithin bounds. 

I had a note from Mrs. Rev. Gray (nee Tyler) yesterday, and called onher to-day. She is well. 

Yesterday I was allowed to enter the prison with Mrs. Hammond. A Boerguard was at my elbow all the time, but was courteous and polite, onlyhe barred the way in the compound (quadrangle or big open court)and wouldn't let me cross a white mark that was on the ground--the"death-line" one of the prisoners called it. Not in earnest, though, Ithink. I found that I had met Hammond once when he was a Yale seniorand a guest of Gen. Franklin's. I also found that I had known Capt. Mein intimately 32 years ago. One of the English prisoners had heard melecture in London 23 years ago. After being introduced in turn to allthe prisoners, I was allowed to see some of the cells and examine theirfood, beds, etc. I was told in Johannesburg that Hammond's salary of$150, 000 a year is not stopped, and that the salaries of some of theothers are still continued. Hammond was looking very well indeed, andI can say the same of all the others. When the trouble first fell uponthem it hit some of them very hard; several fell sick (Hammond amongthem), two or three had to be removed to the hospital, and one of thefavorites lost his mind and killed himself, poor fellow, last week. Hisfuneral, with a sorrowing following of 10, 000, took the place of thepublic demonstration the Americans were getting up for me. 

These prisoners are strong men, prominent men, and I believe they areall educated men. They are well off; some of them are wealthy. They havea lot of books to read, they play games and smoke, and for awhile theywill be able to bear up in their captivity; but not for long, not forvery long, I take it. I am told they have times of deadly brooding anddepression. I made them a speech--sitting down. It just happened so. Idon't prefer that attitude. Still, it has one advantage--it is only atalk, it doesn't take the form of a speech. I have tried it once beforeon this trip. However, if a body wants to make sure of having "liberty, "and feeling at home, he had better stand up, of course. I advised themat considerable length to stay where they were--they would get used toit and like it presently; if they got out they would only get in againsomewhere else, by the look of their countenances; and I promised togo and see the President and do what I could to get him to double theirjail-terms. 

We had a very good sociable time till the permitted time was up and alittle over, and we outsiders had to go. I went again to-day, but theRev. Mr. Gray had just arrived, and the warden, a genial, elderly Boernamed Du Plessis--explained that his orders wouldn't allow him toadmit saint and sinner at the same time, particularly on a Sunday. DuPlessis--descended from the Huguenot fugitives, you see, of 200 yearsago--but he hasn't any French left in him now--all Dutch. 

It gravels me to think what a goose I was to make Livy and Clararemain in Durban; but I wanted to save them the 30-hour railway tripto Johannesburg. And Durban and its climate and opulent foliage wereso lovely, and the friends there were so choice and so hearty thatI sacrificed myself in their interests, as I thought. It is just thebeginning of winter, and although the days are hot, the nights are cool. But it's lovely weather in these regions, too; and the friends are aslovely as the weather, and Johannesburg and Pretoria are brimming withinterest. I talk here twice more, then return to Johannesburg nextWednesday for a fifth talk there; then to the Orange Free State capital, then to some town on the way to Port Elizabeth, where the two will joinus by sea from Durban; then the gang will go to Kimberley and presentlyto the Cape--and so, in the course of time, we shall get through andsail for England; and then we will hunt up a quiet village and I willwrite and Livy edit, for a few months, while Clara and Susy and Jeanstudy music and things in London. 

We have had noble good times everywhere and every day, from Cleveland, July 15, to Pretoria, May 24, and never a dull day either on sea orland, notwithstanding the carbuncles and things. Even when I was laidup 10 days at Jeypore in India we had the charmingest times with Englishfriends. All over India the English well, you will never know how goodand fine they are till you see them. 

Midnight and after! and I must do many things to-day, and lecturetonight. 

A world of thanks to you, Joe dear, and a world of love to all of you. 

 MARK. 

 Perhaps for readers of a later day a word as to what constituted the Jameson raid would not be out of place here. Dr. Leander Starr Jameson was an English physician, located at Kimberley. President Kruger (Oom Paul), head of the South African Republic, was one of his patients; also, Lobengula, the Matabele chief. From Lobengula concessions were obtained which led to the formation of the South African Company. Jameson gave up his profession and went in for conquest, associating himself with the projects of Cecil Rhodes. In time he became administrator of Rhodesia. By the end of 1894. He was in high feather, and during a visit to England was feted as a sort of romantic conqueror of the olden time. Perhaps this turned his head; at all events at the end of 1895 came the startling news that "Dr. Jim, " as he was called, at the head of six hundred men, had ridden into the Transvaal in support of a Rhodes scheme for an uprising at Johannesburg. The raid was a failure. Jameson, and those other knights of adventure, were captured by the forces of "Oom Paul, " and some of them barely escaped execution. The Boer president handed them over to the English Government for punishment, and they received varying sentences, but all were eventually released. Jameson, later, became again prominent in South-African politics, but there is no record of any further raids. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 

 The Clemens party sailed from South Africa the middle of July, 1896, and on the last day of the month reached England. They had not planned to return to America, but to spend the winter in or near London in some quiet place where Clemens could write the book of his travels. 

 The two daughters in America, Susy and Jean, were expected to arrive August 12th, but on that day there came, instead, a letter saying that Susy Clemens was not well enough to sail. A cable inquiry was immediately sent, but the reply when it came was not satisfactory, and Mrs. Clemens and Clara sailed for America without further delay. This was on August 15th. Three days later, in the old home at Hartford, Susy Clemens died of cerebral fever. She had been visiting Mrs. Charles Dudley Warner, but by the physician's advice had been removed to the comfort and quiet of her own home, only a few steps away. 

 Mark Twain, returning from his triumphant tour of the world in the hope that soon, now, he might be free from debt, with his family happily gathered about him, had to face alone this cruel blow. There was no purpose in his going to America; Susy would be buried long before his arrival. He awaited in England the return of his broken family. They lived that winter in a quiet corner of Chelsea, No. 23 Tedworth Square. 

*****

To Rev. Joseph H. Twichell, in Hartford, Conn. :

 Permanent address: % CHATTO & WINDUS 111 T. MARTIN'S LANE, LONDON, Sept. 27, '96. 

Through Livy and Katy I have learned, dear old Joe, how loyally youstood poor Susy's friend, and mine, and Livy's: how you came all the waydown, twice, from your summer refuge on your merciful errands to bringthe peace and comfort of your beloved presence, first to that poorchild, and again to the broken heart of her poor desolate mother. Itwas like you; like your good great heart, like your matchless andunmatchable self. It was no surprise to me to learn that you stayed bySusy long hours, careless of fatigue and heat, it was no surprise to meto learn that you could still the storms that swept her spirit when noother could; for she loved you, revered you, trusted you, and "UncleJoe" was no empty phrase upon her lips! I am grateful to you, Joe, grateful to the bottom of my heart, which has always been filled withlove for you, and respect and admiration; and I would have chosen youout of all the world to take my place at Susy's side and Livy's in thoseblack hours. 

Susy was a rare creature; the rarest that has been reared in Hartford inthis generation. And Livy knew it, and you knew it, and Charley Warnerand George, and Harmony, and the Hillyers and the Dunhams and theCheneys, and Susy and Lilly, and the Bunces, and Henry Robinson and DickBurton, and perhaps others. And I also was of the number, but not in thesame degree--for she was above my duller comprehension. I merely knewthat she was my superior in fineness of mind, in the delicacy andsubtlety of her intellect, but to fully measure her I was not competent. I know her better now; for I have read her private writings and soundedthe deeps of her mind; and I know better, now, the treasure that wasmine than I knew it when I had it. But I have this consolation: thatdull as I was, I always knew enough to be proud when she commended me ormy work--as proud as if Livy had done it herself--and I took it as theaccolade from the hand of genius. I see now--as Livy always saw--thatshe had greatness in her; and that she herself was dimly conscious ofit. 

And now she is dead--and I can never tell her. 

God bless you Joe--and all of your house. 

 S. L. C. 

*****

To Mr. Henry C. Robinson, Hartford, Conn. :

 LONDON, Sept. 28, '96. 

It is as you say, dear old friend, "the pathos of it" yes, it was apiteous thing--as piteous a tragedy as any the year can furnish. When westarted westward upon our long trip at half past ten at night, July 14, 1895, at Elmira, Susy stood on the platform in the blaze of the electriclight waving her good-byes to us as the train glided away, her motherthrowing back kisses and watching her through her tears. One year, onemonth, and one week later, Clara and her mother having exactly completedthe circuit of the globe, drew up at that platform at the same hour ofthe night, in the same train and the same car--and again Susy had come ajourney and was near at hand to meet them. She was waiting in the houseshe was born in, in her coffin. 

All the circumstances of this death were pathetic--my brain is worn torags rehearsing them. The mere death would have been cruelty enough, without overloading it and emphasizing it with that score of harsh andwanton details. The child was taken away when her mother was withinthree days of her, and would have given three decades for sight of her. 

In my despair and unassuageable misery I upbraid myself for ever partingwith her. But there is no use in that. Since it was to happen it wouldhave happened. 

 With love S. L. C. 

 The life at Tedworth Square that winter was one of almost complete privacy. Of the hundreds of friends which Mark Twain had in London scarcely half a dozen knew his address. He worked steadily on his book of travels, 'Following the Equator', and wrote few letters beyond business communications to Mr. Rogers. In one of these he said, "I am appalled! Here I am trying to load you up with work again after you have been dray-horsing over the same tiresome ground for a year. It's too bad, and I am ashamed of it. "

 But late in November he sent a letter of a different sort--one that was to have an important bearing on the life of a girl today of unique and world-wide distinction. 

*****

To Mrs. H. H. Rogers, in New York City:

For and in behalf of Helen Keller, stone blind and deaf, and formerlydumb. 

DEAR MRS. ROGERS, --Experience has convinced me that when one wishesto set a hard-worked man at something which he mightn't prefer to bebothered with, it is best to move upon him behind his wife. If she can'tconvince him it isn't worth while for other people to try. 

Mr. Rogers will remember our visit with that astonishing girl atLawrence Hutton's house when she was fourteen years old. Last July, in Boston, when she was 16 she underwent the Harvard examination foradmission to Radcliffe College. She passed without a single condition. She was allowed the same amount of time that is granted to otherapplicants, and this was shortened in her case by the fact that thequestion papers had to be read to her. Yet she scored an average of 90as against an average of 78 on the part of the other applicants. 

It won't do for America to allow this marvelous child to retire from herstudies because of poverty. If she can go on with them she will make afame that will endure in history for centuries. Along her special linesshe is the most extraordinary product of all the ages. 

There is danger that she must retire from the struggle for a Collegedegree for lack of support for herself and for Miss Sullivan, (theteacher who has been with her from the start--Mr. Rogers will rememberher. ) Mrs. Hutton writes to ask me to interest rich Englishmen in hercase, and I would gladly try, but my secluded life will not permit it. I see nobody. Nobody knows my address. Nothing but the strictest hidingcan enable me to write my long book in time. 

So I thought of this scheme: Beg you to lay siege to your husband andget him to interest himself and Mess. John D. And William Rockefellerand the other Standard Oil chiefs in Helen's case; get them to subscribean annual aggregate of six or seven hundred or a thousand dollars--andagree to continue this for three or four years, until she has completedher college course. I'm not trying to limit their generosity--indeed no, they may pile that Standard Oil, Helen Keller College Fund as high asthey please, they have my consent. 

Mrs. Hutton's idea is to raise a permanent fund the interest upon whichshall support Helen and her teacher and put them out of the fear ofwant. I shan't say a word against it, but she will find it a difficultand disheartening job, and meanwhile what is to become of thatmiraculous girl?

No, for immediate and sound effectiveness, the thing is for you toplead with Mr. Rogers for this hampered wonder of your sex, and send himclothed with plenary powers to plead with the other chiefs--they havespent mountains of money upon the worthiest benevolences, and I thinkthat the same spirit which moved them to put their hands down throughtheir hearts into their pockets in those cases will answer "Here!" whenits name is called in this one. 638

There--I don't need to apologize to you or to H. H. For this appeal thatI am making; I know you too well for that. 

Good-bye with love to all of you

 S. L. CLEMENS. 

Laurence Hutton is on the staff of Harper's Monthly--close by, and handywhen wanted. 

 The plea was not made in vain. Mr. And Mrs. Rogers interested themselves most liberally in Helen Keller's fortune, and certainly no one can say that any of those who contributed to her success ever had reason for disappointment. 

 In his letter of grateful acknowledgment, which follows, Clemens also takes occasion to thank Mr. Rogers for his further efforts in the matter of his own difficulties. This particular reference concerns the publishing, complications which by this time had arisen between the American Publishing Company, of Hartford, and the house in Franklin Square. 

 LONDON, Dec. 22, '96. 

DEAR MRS. ROGERS, --It is superb! And I am beyond measure grateful to youboth. I knew you would be interested in that wonderful girl, and thatMr. Rogers was already interested in her and touched by her; and I wassure that if nobody else helped her you two would; but you have gonefar and away beyond the sum I expected--may your lines fall in pleasantplaces here and Hereafter for it!

The Huttons are as glad and grateful as they can be, and I am glad fortheir sakes as well as for Helen's. 

I want to thank Mr. Rogers for crucifying himself again on the same oldcross between Bliss and Harper; and goodness knows I hope he will cometo enjoy it above all other dissipations yet, seeing that it has aboutit the elements of stability and permanency. However, at any time thathe says sign, we're going to do it. 

 Ever sincerely Yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

XXXVI. LETTERS 1897. LONDON, SWITZERLAND, VIENNA

 Mark Twain worked steadily on his book that sad winter and managed to keep the gloom out of his chapters, though it is noticeable that 'Following the Equator' is more serious than his other books of travel. He wrote few letters, and these only to his three closest friends, Howells, Twichell, and Rogers. In the letter to Twichell, which follows, there is mention of two unfinished manuscripts which he expects to resume. One of these was a dream story, enthusiastically begun, but perhaps with insufficient plot to carry it through, for it never reached conclusion. He had already tried it in one or two forms and would begin it again presently. The identity of the other tale is uncertain. 

*****

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

 LONDON, Jan. 19, '97. 

DEAR JOE, --Do I want you to write to me? Indeed I do. I do not want mostpeople to write, but I do want you to do it. The others break my heart, but you will not. You have a something divine in you that is not inother men. You have the touch that heals, not lacerates. And you knowthe secret places of our hearts. You know our life--the outside ofit--as the others do--and the inside of it--which they do not. You haveseen our whole voyage. You have seen us go to sea, a cloud of sail--andthe flag at the peak; and you see us now, chartless, adrift--derelicts;battered, water-logged, our sails a ruck of rags, our pride gone. For itis gone. And there is nothing in its place. The vanity of life was allwe had, and there is no more vanity left in us. We are even ashamed ofthat we had; ashamed that we trusted the promises of life and buildedhigh--to come to this!

I did know that Susy was part of us; I did not know that she could goaway; I did not know that she could go away, and take our lives withher, yet leave our dull bodies behind. And I did not know what she was. To me she was but treasure in the bank; the amount known, the needto look at it daily, handle it, weigh it, count it, realize it, notnecessary; and now that I would do it, it is too late; they tell meit is not there, has vanished away in a night, the bank is broken, myfortune is gone, I am a pauper. How am I to comprehend this? How am I tohave it? Why am I robbed, and who is benefited?

Ah, well, Susy died at home. She had that privilege. Her dying eyesrested upon nothing that was strange to them, but only upon things whichthey had known and loved always and which had made her young years glad;and she had you, and Sue, and Katy, and John, and Ellen. This was happyfortune--I am thankful that it was vouchsafed to her. If she had diedin another house-well, I think I could not have borne that. To us, ourhouse was not unsentient matter--it had a heart, and a soul, and eyes tosee us with; and approvals, and solicitudes, and deep sympathies; it wasof us, and we were in its confidence, and lived in its grace and in thepeace of its benediction. We never came home from an absence that itsface did not light up and speak out its eloquent welcome--and we couldnot enter it unmoved. And could we now, oh, now, in spirit we shouldenter it unshod. 

I am trying to add to the "assets" which you estimate so generously. No, I am not. The thought is not in my mind. My purpose is other. I amworking, but it is for the sake of the work--the "surcease of sorrow"that is found there. I work all the days, and trouble vanishes away whenI use that magic. This book will not long stand between it and me, now;but that is no matter, I have many unwritten books to fly to for mypreservation; the interval between the finishing of this one andthe beginning of the next will not be more than an hour, at most. Continuances, I mean; for two of them are already well along--in facthave reached exactly the same stage in their journey: 19, 000 words each. The present one will contain 180, 000 words--130, 000 are done. I am wellprotected; but Livy! She has nothing in the world to turn to; nothingbut housekeeping, and doing things for the children and me. She does notsee people, and cannot; books have lost their interest for her. Shesits solitary; and all the day, and all the days, wonders how it allhappened, and why. We others were always busy with our affairs, butSusy was her comrade--had to be driven from her lovingpersecutions--sometimes at 1 in the morning. To Livy the persecutionswere welcome. It was heaven to her to be plagued like that. But it isended now. Livy stands so in need of help; and none among us all couldhelp her like you. 

Some day you and I will walk again, Joe, and talk. I hope so. We couldhave such talks! We are all grateful to you and Harmony--how gratefulit is not given to us to say in words. We pay as we can, in love; and inthis coin practicing no economy. 

 Good bye, dear old Joe! MARK. 

 The letters to Mr. Rogers were, for the most part, on matters of business, but in one of them he said: "I am going to write with all my might on this book, and follow it up with others as fast as I can in the hope that within three years I can clear out the stuff that is in me waiting to be written, and that I shall then die in the promptest kind of a way and no fooling around. " And in one he wrote: "You are the best friend ever a man had, and the surest. "

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York

 LONDON, Feb. 23, '97. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I find your generous article in the Weekly, and I want tothank you for its splendid praises, so daringly uttered and so warmly. The words stir the dead heart of me, and throw a glow of color into alife which sometimes seems to have grown wholly wan. I don't mean thatI am miserable; no--worse than that--indifferent. Indifferent to nearlyeverything but work. I like that; I enjoy it, and stick to it. I do itwithout purpose and without ambition; merely for the love of it. 

This mood will pass, some day--there is history for it. But it cannotpass until my wife comes up out of the submergence. She was always soquick to recover herself before, but now there is no rebound, and we aredead people who go through the motions of life. Indeed I am a mud image, and it will puzzle me to know what it is in me that writes, and hascomedy-fancies and finds pleasure in phrasing them. It is a law of ournature, of course, or it wouldn't happen; the thing in me forgets thepresence of the mud image and goes its own way, wholly unconscious of itand apparently of no kinship with it. I have finished my book, but I goon as if the end were indefinitely away--as indeed it is. There is nohurry--at any rate there is no limit. 

Jean's spirits are good; Clara's are rising. They have youth--the onlything that was worth giving to the race. 

These are sardonic times. Look at Greece, and that whole shabby muddle. But I am not sorry to be alive and privileged to look on. If I were nota hermit I would go to the House every day and see those people scuffleover it and blether about the brotherhood of the human race. This hasbeen a bitter year for English pride, and I don't like to see Englandhumbled--that is, not too much. We are sprung from her loins, and ithurts me. I am for republics, and she is the only comrade we've got, inthat. We can't count France, and there is hardly enough of Switzerlandto count. Beneath the governing crust England is sound-hearted--andsincere, too, and nearly straight. But I am appalled to notice thatthe wide extension of the surface has damaged her manners, and made herrather Americanly uncourteous on the lower levels. 

Won't you give our love to the Howellses all and particular?

 Sincerely yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 The travel-book did not finish easily, and more than once when he thought it completed he found it necessary to cut and add and change. The final chapters were not sent to the printer until the middle of May, and in a letter to Mr. Rogers he commented: "A successful book is not made of what is in it, but what is left out of it. " Clemens was at the time contemplating a uniform edition of his books, and in one of his letters to Mr. Rogers on the matter he wrote, whimsically, "Now I was proposing to make a thousand sets at a hundred dollars a set, and do the whole canvassing myself. .. .. I would load up every important jail and saloon in America with de luxe editions of my books. But Mrs. Clemens and the children object to this, I do not know why. " And, in a moment of depression: "You see the lightning refuses to strike me--there is where the defect is. We have to do our own striking as Barney Barnato did. But nobody ever gets the courage until he goes crazy. "

 They went to Switzerland for the summer to the village of Weggis, on Lake Lucerne--"The charmingest place we ever lived in, " he declared, "for repose, and restfulness, and superb scenery. " It was here that he began work on a new story of Tom and Huck, and at least upon one other manuscript. From a brief note to Mr. Rogers we learn something of his employments and economies. 

*****

To Henry H. Rogers, in New York:

 LUCERNE, August the something or other, 1897. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --I am writing a novel, and am getting along very wellwith it. 

I believe that this place (Weggis, half an hour from Lucerne, ) is theloveliest in the world, and the most satisfactory. We have a small houseon the hillside all to ourselves, and our meals are served in it fromthe inn below on the lake shore. Six francs a day per head, house andfood included. The scenery is beyond comparison beautiful. We have a rowboat and some bicycles, and good roads, and no visitors. Nobody knows weare here. And Sunday in heaven is noisy compared to this quietness. 

 Sincerely yours S. L. C. 

*****

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

 LUCERNE, Aug. 22, '97. 

DEAR JOE, --Livy made a noble find on the Lucerne boat the other day onone of her shopping trips--George Williamson Smith--did I tell you aboutit? We had a lovely time with him, and such intellectual refreshment aswe had not tasted in many a month. 

And the other night we had a detachment of the jubilee Singers--6. I hadknown one of them in London 24 years ago. Three of the 6 were born inslavery, the others were children of slaves. How charming they were--inspirit, manner, language, pronunciation, enunciation, grammar, phrasing, matter, carriage, clothes--in every detail that goes to make the reallady and gentleman, and welcome guest. We went down to the villagehotel and bought our tickets and entered the beer-hall, where a crowdof German and Swiss men and women sat grouped at round tables with theirbeer mugs in front of them--self-contained and unimpressionable lookingpeople, an indifferent and unposted and disheartened audience--and upat the far end of the room sat the Jubilees in a row. The Singers got upand stood--the talking and glass jingling went on. Then rose and swelledout above those common earthly sounds one of those rich chords thesecret of whose make only the Jubilees possess, and a spell fell uponthat house. It was fine to see the faces light up with the pleasedwonder and surprise of it. No one was indifferent any more; and when thesingers finished, the camp was theirs. It was a triumph. It remindedme of Launcelot riding in Sir Kay's armor and astonishing complacentKnights who thought they had struck a soft thing. The Jubilees sang alot of pieces. Arduous and painstaking cultivation has not diminishedor artificialized their music, but on the contrary--to my surprise--hasmightily reinforced its eloquence and beauty. Away back in thebeginning--to my mind--their music made all other vocal music cheap; andthat early notion is emphasized now. It is utterly beautiful, to me; andit moves me infinitely more than any other music can. I think that inthe Jubilees and their songs America has produced the perfectest flowerof the ages; and I wish it were a foreign product, so that she wouldworship it and lavish money on it and go properly crazy over it. 

Now, these countries are different: they would do all that, if it werenative. It is true they praise God, but that is merely a formality, andnothing in it; they open out their whole hearts to no foreigner. 

The musical critics of the German press praise the Jubilees with greatenthusiasm--acquired technique etc, included. 

One of the jubilee men is a son of General Joe Johnson, and was educatedby him after the war. The party came up to the house and we had apleasant time. 

This is paradise, here--but of course we have got to leave it by and by. The 18th of August--[Anniversary of Susy Clemens's death. ]--has come andgone, Joe--and we still seem to live. 

 With love from us all. MARK. 

 Clemens declared he would as soon spend his life in Weggis "as anywhere else in the geography, " but October found them in Vienna for the winter, at the Hotel Metropole. The Austrian capital was just then in a political turmoil, the character of which is hinted in the following:

*****

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

 HOTEL METROPOLE, VIENNA, Oct. 23, '97. 

DEAR JOE, --We are gradually getting settled down and wonted. Viennais not a cheap place to live in, but I have made one small arrangementwhich: has a distinctly economical aspect. The Vice Consul made thecontract for me yesterday-to-wit: a barber is to come every morning 8. 30and shave me and keep my hair trimmed for $2. 50 a month. I used to pay$1. 50 per shave in our house in Hartford. 

Does it suggest to you reflections when you reflect that this is themost important event which has happened to me in ten days--unless Icount--in my handing a cabman over to the police day before yesterday, with the proper formalities, and promised to appear in court when hiscase comes up. 

If I had time to run around and talk, I would do it; for there is muchpolitics agoing, and it would be interesting if a body could get thehang of it. It is Christian and Jew by the horns--the advantage with thesuperior man, as usual--the superior man being the Jew every time andin all countries. Land, Joe, what chance would the Christian have in acountry where there were 3 Jews to 10 Christians! Oh, not the shade ofa shadow of a chance. The difference between the brain of the averageChristian and that of the average Jew--certainly in Europe--is about thedifference between a tadpole's and an Archbishop's. It's a marvelous, race--by long odds the most marvelous that the world has produced, Isuppose. 

And there's more politics--the clash between Czech and Austrian. I wishI could understand these quarrels, but of course I can't. 

With the abounding love of us all

 MARK. 

 In Following the Equator there was used an amusing picture showing Mark Twain on his trip around the world. It was a trick photograph made from a picture of Mark Twain taken in a steamer-chair, cut out and combined with a dilapidated negro-cart drawn by a horse and an ox. In it Clemens appears to be sitting luxuriously in the end of the disreputable cart. His companions are two negroes. To the creator of this ingenious effect Mark Twain sent a characteristic acknowledgment. 

*****

To T. S. Frisbie

 VIENNA, Oct. 25, '97. 

MR. T. S. FRISBIE, --Dear Sir: The picture has reached me, and hasmoved me deeply. That was a steady, sympathetic and honorable team, andalthough it was not swift, and not showy, it pulled me around the globesuccessfully, and always attracted its proper share of attention, evenin the midst of the most costly and fashionable turnouts. Princes anddukes and other experts were always enthused by the harness and couldhardly keep from trying to buy it. The barouche does not look as fine, now, as it did earlier-but that was before the earthquake. 

The portraits of myself and uncle and nephew are very good indeed, andyour impressionist reproduction of the palace of the Governor General ofIndia is accurate and full of tender feeling. 

I consider that this picture is much more than a work of art. How muchmore, one cannot say with exactness, but I should think two-thirds more. 

 Very truly yours MARK TWAIN. 

 Following the Equator was issued by subscription through Mark Twain's old publishers, the Blisses, of Hartford. The sale of it was large, not only on account of the value of the book itself, but also because of the sympathy of the American people with Mark Twain's brave struggle to pay his debts. When the newspapers began to print exaggerated stories of the vast profits that were piling up, Bliss became worried, for he thought it would modify the sympathy. He cabled Clemens for a denial, with the following result:

*****

To Frank E. Bliss, in Hartford:

 VIENNA, Nov. 4, 1897. 

DEAR BLISS, --Your cablegram informing me that a report is in circulationwhich purports to come from me and which says I have recently made$82, 000 and paid all my debts has just reached me, and I have cabledback my regret to you that it is not true. I wrote a letter--a privateletter--a short time ago, in which I expressed the belief that I shouldbe out of debt within the next twelvemonth. If you make as much as usualfor me out of the book, that belief will crystallize into a fact, and Ishall be wholly out of debt. I am encoring you now. 

It is out of that moderate letter that the Eighty-Two Thousand-Dollarmare's nest has developed. But why do you worry about the variousreports? They do not worry me. They are not unfriendly, and I don't seehow they can do any harm. Be patient; you have but a little while towait; the possible reports are nearly all in. It has been reported thatI was seriously ill--it was another man; dying--it was another man;dead--the other man again. It has been reported that I have received alegacy it was another man; that I am out of debt--it was another man;and now comes this $82, 000--still another man. It has been reportedthat I am writing books--for publication; I am not doing anything ofthe kind. It would surprise (and gratify) me if I should be able to getanother book ready for the press within the next three years. You cansee, yourself, that there isn't anything more to be reported--inventionis exhausted. Therefore, don't worry, Bliss--the long night is breaking. As far as I can see, nothing remains to be reported, except that I havebecome a foreigner. When you hear it, don't you believe it. And don'ttake the trouble to deny it. Merely just raise the American flag on ourhouse in Hartford, and let it talk. 

 Truly yours, MARK TWAIN. 

P. S. This is not a private letter. I am getting tired of privateletters. 

*****

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

 VIENNA HOTEL METROPOLE, NOV. 19, '97. 

DEAR JOE, --Above is our private (and permanent) address for the winter. You needn't send letters by London. 

I am very much obliged for Forrest's Austro-Hungarian articles. I havejust finished reading the first one: and in it I find that his opinionand Vienna's are the same, upon a point which was puzzling me--thepaucity (no, the absence) of Austrian Celebrities. He and Vienna bothsay the country cannot afford to allow great names to grow up; that thewhole safety and prosperity of the Empire depends upon keeping thingsquiet; can't afford to have geniuses springing up and developing ideasand stirring the public soul. I am assured that every time a man findshimself blooming into fame, they just softly snake him down and relegatehim to a wholesome obscurity. It is curious and interesting. 

Three days ago the New York World sent and asked a friend of mine(correspondent of a London daily) to get some Christmas greetings fromthe celebrities of the Empire. She spoke of this. Two or three brightAustrians were present. They said "There are none who are known all overthe world! none who have achieved fame; none who can point to theirwork and say it is known far and wide in the earth: there are no names;Kossuth (known because he had a father) and Lecher, who made the 12hour speech; two names-nothing more. Every other country in the world, perhaps, has a giant or two whose heads are away up and can be seen, but ours. We've got the material--have always had it--but we have tosuppress it; we can't afford to let it develop; our political salvationdepends upon tranquillity--always has. "

Poor Livy! She is laid up with rheumatism; but she is getting along now. We have a good doctor, and he says she will be out of bed in a couple ofdays, but must stay in the house a week or ten. 

Clara is working faithfully at her music, Jean at her usual studies, andwe all send love. 

 MARK. 

 Mention has already been made of the political excitement in Vienna. The trouble between the Hungarian and German legislative bodies presently became violent. Clemens found himself intensely interested, and was present in one of the galleries when it was cleared by the police. All sorts of stories were circulated as to what happened to him, one of which was cabled to America. A letter to Twichell sets forth what really happened. 

*****

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

 HOTEL METROPOLE, VIENNA, Dec. 10, '97. 

DEAR JOE, --Pond sends me a Cleveland paper with a cablegram from here init which says that when the police invaded the parliament and expelledthe 11 members I waved my handkerchief and shouted 'Hoch die Deutschen!'and got hustled out. Oh dear, what a pity it is that one's adventuresnever happen! When the Ordner (sergeant-at-arms) came up to our galleryand was hurrying the people out, a friend tried to get leave for me tostay, by saying, "But this gentleman is a foreigner--you don't need toturn him out--he won't do any harm. "

"Oh, I know him very well--I recognize him by his pictures; and I shouldbe very glad to let him stay, but I haven't any choice, because of thestrictness of the orders. "

And so we all went out, and no one was hustled. Below, I ran acrossthe London Times correspondent, and he showed me the way into thefirst gallery and I lost none of the show. The first gallery had notmisbehaved, and was not disturbed. 

. .. We cannot persuade Livy to go out in society yet, but all the lovelypeople come to see her; and Clara and I go to dinner parties, and aroundhere and there, and we all have a most hospitable good time. Jean'swoodcarving flourishes, and her other studies. 

Good-bye Joe--and we all love all of you. 

 MARK. 

 Clemens made an article of the Austrian troubles, one of the best things he ever wrote, and certainly one of the clearest elucidations of the Austro-Hungarian confusions. It was published in Harper's Magazine, and is now included in his complete works. 

 Thus far none of the Webster Company debts had been paid--at least, none of importance. The money had been accumulating in Mr. Rogers's hands, but Clemens was beginning to be depressed by the heavy burden. He wrote asking for relief. 

*****

Fragment of a letter to H. H. Rogers, in New York:

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --I throw up the sponge. I pull down the flag. Let usbegin on the debts. I cannot bear the weight any longer. It totallyunfits me for work. I have lost three entire months now. In that timeI have begun twenty magazine articles and books--and flung every one ofthem aside in turn. The debts interfered every time, and took the spiritout of any work. And yet I have worked like a bond slave and wasted notime and spared no effort----

Rogers wrote, proposing a plan for beginning immediately upon the debts. Clemens replied enthusiastically, and during the next few weeks wroteevery few days, expressing his delight in liquidation. 

 Extracts from letters to H. H. Rogers, in New York:

. .. We all delighted with your plan. Only don't leave B--out. Apparentlythat claim has been inherited by some women--daughters, no doubt. We don't want to see them lose any thing. B----- is an ass, anddisgruntled, but I don't care for that. I am responsible for the moneyand must do the best I can to pay it. .. .. I am writing hard--writing forthe creditors. 

 Dec. 29. 

Land we are glad to see those debts diminishing. For the first time inmy life I am getting more pleasure out of paying money out than pullingit in. 

 Jan. 2. 

Since we have begun to pay off the debts I have abundant peace of mindagain--no sense of burden. Work is become a pleasure again--it is notlabor any longer. 

 March 7. 

Mrs. Clemens has been reading the creditors' letters over and over againand thanks you deeply for sending them, and says it is the only reallyhappy day she has had since Susy died. 

XXXVII. LETTERS, 1898, TO HOWELLS AND TWICHELL. LIFE IN VIENNA. PAYMENTOF THE DEBTS. ASSASSINATION OF THE EMPRESS. 

The end of January saw the payment of the last of Mark Twain's debts. Once more he stood free before the world--a world that sounded hispraises. The latter fact rather amused him. "Honest men must be prettyscarce, " he said, "when they make so much fuss over even a defectivespecimen. " When the end was in sight Clemens wrote the news to Howellsin a letter as full of sadness as of triumph. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York:

 HOTEL METROPOLE, VIENNA, Jan. 22, '98. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --Look at those ghastly figures. I used to write it"Hartford, 1871. " There was no Susy then--there is no Susy now. Andhow much lies between--one long lovely stretch of scented fields, andmeadows, and shady woodlands, and suddenly Sahara! You speak of theglorious days of that old time--and they were. It is my quarrel--thattraps like that are set. Susy and Winnie given us, in miserable sport, and then taken away. 

About the last time I saw you I described to you the culminatingdisaster in a book I was going to write (and will yet, when the strokeis further away)--a man's dead daughter brought to him when he had beenthrough all other possible misfortunes--and I said it couldn't be doneas it ought to be done except by a man who had lived it--it must bewritten with the blood out of a man's heart. I couldn't know, then, howsoon I was to be made competent. I have thought of it many a time since. If you were here I think we could cry down each other's necks, as inyour dream. For we are a pair of old derelicts drifting around, now, with some of our passengers gone and the sunniness of the others ineclipse. 

I couldn't get along without work now. I bury myself in it up to theears. Long hours--8 and 9 on a stretch, sometimes. And all the days, Sundays included. It isn't all for print, by any means, for much of itfails to suit me; 50, 000 words of it in the past year. It was because ofthe deadness which invaded me when Susy died. But I have made a changelately--into dramatic work--and I find it absorbingly entertaining. Idon't know that I can write a play that will play: but no matter, I'llwrite half a dozen that won't, anyway. Dear me, I didn't know there wassuch fun in it. I'll write twenty that won't play. I get into immensespirits as soon as my day is fairly started. Of course a good deal ofthis friskiness comes of my being in sight of land--on the Webster & Co. Debts, I mean. (Private. ) We've lived close to the bone and saved everycent we could, and there's no undisputed claim, now, that we can'tcash. I have marked this "private" because it is for the friends who areattending to the matter for us in New York to reveal it when they wantto and if they want to. There are only two claims which I dispute andwhich I mean to look into personally before I pay them. But they aresmall. Both together they amount to only $12, 500. I hope you will neverget the like of the load saddled onto you that was saddled onto me 3years ago. And yet there is such a solid pleasure in paying the thingsthat I reckon maybe it is worth while to get into that kind of a hobble, after all. Mrs. Clemens gets millions of delight out of it; and thechildren have never uttered one complaint about the scrimping, from thebeginning. 

We all send you and all of you our love. 

 MARK. 

 Howells wrote: "I wish you could understand how unshaken you are, you old tower, in every way; your foundations are struck so deep that you will catch the sunshine of immortal years, and bask in the same light as Cervantes and Shakespeare. "

 The Clemens apartments at the Metropole became a sort of social clearing-house of the Viennese art and literary life, much more like an embassy than the home of a mere literary man. Celebrities in every walk of life, persons of social and official rank, writers for the press, assembled there on terms hardly possible in any other home in Vienna. Wherever Mark Twain appeared in public he was a central figure. Now and then he read or spoke to aid some benefit, and these were great gatherings attended by members of the royal family. It was following one such event that the next letter was written. 

(Private)

*****

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

 HOTEL METROPOLE, VIENNA, Feb. 3, '98. 

DEAR JOE, There's that letter that I began so long ago--you see howit is: can't get time to finish anything. I pile up lots of work, nevertheless. There may be idle people in the world, but I'm not one ofthem. I say "Private" up there because I've got an adventure to tell, and you mustn't let a breath of it get out. First I thought I wouldlay it up along with a thousand others that I've laid up for the samepurpose--to talk to you about, but--those others have vanished out of mymemory; and that must not happen with this. 

The other night I lectured for a Vienna charity; and at the end ofit Livy and I were introduced to a princess who is aunt to the heirapparent of the imperial throne--a beautiful lady, with a beautifulspirit, and very cordial in her praises of my books and thanks to mefor writing them; and glad to meet me face to face and shake me by thehand--just the kind of princess that adorns a fairy tale and makes itthe prettiest tale there is. 

Very well, we long ago found that when you are noticed by supremacies, the correct etiquette is to go, within a couple of days, and pay yourrespects in the quite simple form of writing your name in the Visitors'Book kept in the office of the establishment. That is the end of it, andeverything is squared up and ship-shape. 

So at noon today Livy and I drove to the Archducal palace, and got bythe sentries all right, and asked the grandly-uniformed porter forthe book and said we wished to write our names in it. And he calleda servant in livery and was sending us up stairs; and said her RoyalHighness was out but would soon be in. Of course Livy said "No--no--weonly want the book;" but he was firm, and said, "You are Americans?"

"Yes. "

"Then you are expected, please go up stairs. "

"But indeed we are not expected--please let us have the book and--"

"Her Royal Highness will be back in a very little while--she commandedme to tell you so--and you must wait. "

Well, the soldiers were there close by--there was no use trying toresist--so we followed the servant up; but when he tried to beguile usinto a drawing-room, Livy drew the line; she wouldn't go in. And shewouldn't stay up there, either. She said the princess might come in atany moment and catch us, and it would be too infernally ridiculous foranything. So we went down stairs again--to my unspeakable regret. For itwas too darling a comedy to spoil. I was hoping and praying the princesswould come, and catch us up there, and that those other Americans whowere expected would arrive, and be taken for impostors by the portier, and shot by the sentinels--and then it would all go into the papers, andbe cabled all over the world, and make an immense stir and be perfectlylovely. And by that time the princess would discover that we were notthe right ones, and the Minister of War would be ordered out, andthe garrison, and they would come for us, and there would be anotherprodigious time, and that would get cabled too, and--well, Joe, I was ina state of perfect bliss. But happily, oh, so happily, that big portierwouldn't let us out--he was sorry, but he must obey orders--we mustgo back up stairs and wait. Poor Livy--I couldn't help but enjoy herdistress. She said we were in a fix, and how were we going to explain, if the princess should arrive before the rightful Americans came? Wewent up stairs again--laid off our wraps, and were conducted through onedrawing room and into another, and left alone there and the door closedupon us. 

Livy was in a state of mind! She said it was too theatricallyridiculous; and that I would never be able to keep my mouth shut; thatI would be sure to let it out and it would get into the papers--and shetried to make me promise--"Promise what?" I said--"to be quiet aboutthis? Indeed I won't--it's the best thing that ever happened; I'lltell it, and add to it; and I wish Joe and Howells were here to makeit perfect; I can't make all the rightful blunders myself--it takes allthree of us to do justice to an opportunity like this. I would just liketo see Howells get down to his work and explain, and lie, and work hisfutile and inventionless subterfuges when that princess comes ragingin here and wanting to know. " But Livy could not hear fun--it was not atime to be trying to be funny--we were in a most miserable and shamefulsituation, and if--

Just then the door spread wide and our princess and 4 more, and 3 littleprinces flowed in! Our princess, and her sister the Archduchess MarieTherese (mother to the imperial Heir and to the young girl Archduchessespresent, and aunt to the 3 little princes)--and we shook hands allaround and sat down and had a most sociable good time for half anhour--and by and by it turned out that we were the right ones, and hadbeen sent for by a messenger who started too late to catch us at thehotel. We were invited for 2 o'clock, but we beat that arrangement by anhour and a half. 

Wasn't it a rattling good comedy situation? Seems a kind of pity we werethe right ones. It would have been such nuts to see the right onescome, and get fired out, and we chatting along comfortably and nobodysuspecting us for impostors. 

We send lots and lots of love. 

 MARK. 

 The reader who has followed these pages has seen how prone Mark Twain was to fall a victim to the lure of a patent-right--how he wasted several small fortunes on profitless contrivances, and one large one on that insatiable demon of intricacy and despair, the Paige type-setter. It seems incredible that, after that experience and its attending disaster, he should have been tempted again. But scarcely was the ink dry on the receipts from his creditors when he was once more borne into the clouds on the prospect of millions, perhaps even billions, to be made from a marvelous carpet-pattern machine, the invention of Sczezepanik, an Austrian genius. That Clemens appreciated his own tendencies is shown by the parenthetic line with which he opens his letter on the subject to Mr. Rogers. Certainly no man was ever a more perfect prototype of Colonel Sellers than the creator of that lovely, irrepressible visionary. 

*****

To Mr. Rogers, in New York:

 March 24, '98. 

DEAR MR. ROGERS, --(I feel like Col. Sellers). 

Mr. Kleinberg [agent for Sczezepanik] came according to appointment, at 8. 30 last night, and brought his English-speaking Secretary. I askedquestions about the auxiliary invention (which I call "No. 2 ") andgot as good an idea of it as I could. It is a machine. It automaticallypunches the holes in the jacquard cards, and does it with mathematicalaccuracy. It will do for $1 what now costs $3. So it has value, but "No. 2" is the great thing (the designing invention. ) It saves $9 out of $10and the jacquard looms must have it. 

Then I arrived at my new project, and said to him in substance, this:

"You are on the point of selling the No. 2 patents to Belgium, Italy, etc. I suggest that you stop those negotiations and put those people offtwo or three months. They are anxious now, they will not be less anxiousthen--just the reverse; people always want a thing that is denied them. 

"So far as I know, no great world-patent has ever yet been placed in thegrip of a single corporation. This is a good time to begin. 

"We have to do a good deal of guess-work here, because we cannotget hold of just the statistics we want. Still, we have some goodstatistics--and I will use those for a test. 

"You say that of the 1500 Austrian textile factories, 800 use thejacquard. Then we will guess that of the 4, 000 American factories 2, 000use the jacquard and must have our No. 2. 

"You say that a middle-sized Austrian factory employs from 20 to 30designers and pays them from 800 to 3, 000 odd florins a year--(a florinis 2 francs). Let us call the average wage 1500 florins ($600). 

"Let us apply these figures (the low wages too) to the 2, 000 Americanfactories--with this difference, to guard against over-guessing; thatinstead of allowing for 20 to 30 designers to a middle-sized factory, weallow only an average of 10 to each of the 2, 000 factories--a total of20, 000 designers. Wages at $600, a total of $12, 000, 000. Let us considerthat No. 2 will reduce this expense to $2, 000, 000 a year. The savingis $5, 000, 000 per each of the $200, 000, 000 of capital employed in thejacquard business over there. 

"Let us consider that in the countries covered by this patent, anaggregate of $1, 500, 000, 000 of capital is employed in factoriesrequiring No. 2. 

"The saving (as above) is $75, 000, 000 a year. The Company holding in itsgrip all these patents would collar $50, 000, 000 of that, as its share. Possibly more. 

"Competition would be at an end in the Jacquard business, on thisplanet. Price-cutting would end. Fluctuations in values would cease. Thebusiness would be the safest and surest in the world; commercialpanics could not seriously affect it; its stock would be as choice aninvestment as Government bonds. When the patents died the Company wouldbe so powerful that it could still keep the whole business in its hands. Would you like to grant me the privilege of placing the whole jacquardbusiness of the world in the grip of a single Company? And don't youthink that the business would grow-grow like a weed?"

"Ach, America--it is the country of the big! Let me get my breath--thenwe will talk. "

So then we talked--talked till pretty late. Would Germany and Englandjoin the combination? I said the Company would know how to persuadethem. 

Then I asked for a Supplementary Option, to cover the world, and weparted. 

I am taking all precautions to keep my name out of print in connectionwith this matter. And we will now keep the invention itself out of printas well as we can. Descriptions of it have been granted to the "DryGoods Economist" (New York) and to a syndicate of American papers. Ihave asked Mr. Kleinberg to suppress these, and he feels pretty sure hecan do it. 

 With love, S. L. C. 

 If this splendid enthusiasm had not cooled by the time a reply came from Mr. Rogers, it must have received a sudden chill from the letter which he inclosed--the brief and concise report from a carpet-machine expert, who said: "I do not feel that it would be of any value to us in our mills, and the number of jacquard looms in America is so limited that I am of the opinion that there is no field for a company to develop the invention here. A cursory examination of the pamphlet leads me to place no very high value upon the invention, from a practical standpoint. "

 With the receipt of this letter carpet-pattern projects would seem to have suddenly ceased to be a factor in Mark Twain's calculations. Such a letter in the early days of the type-machine would have saved him a great sum in money and years of disappointment. But perhaps he would not have heeded it then. 

 The year 1898 brought the Spanish-American War. Clemens was constitutionally against all wars, but writing to Twichell, whose son had enlisted, we gather that this one was an exception. 

*****

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

 KALTENLEUTGEBEN, NEAR VIENNA, June 17, '98. 

DEAR JOE, --You are living your war-days over again in Dave, and it mustbe a strong pleasure, mixed with a sauce of apprehension--enough tomake it just schmeck, as the Germans say. Dave will come out with two orthree stars on his shoulder-straps if the war holds, and then we shallall be glad it happened. 

We started with Bull Run, before. Dewey and Hobson have introduced animprovement on the game this time. 

I have never enjoyed a war-even in written history--as I am enjoyingthis one. For this is the worthiest one that was ever fought, so far asmy knowledge goes. It is a worthy thing to fight for one's freedom; itis another sight finer to fight for another man's. And I think this isthe first time it has been done. 

Oh, never mind Charley Warner, he would interrupt the raising ofLazarus. He would say, the will has been probated, the propertydistributed, it will be a world of trouble to settle the rows--betterleave well enough alone; don't ever disturb anything, where it's goingto break the soft smooth flow of things and wobble our tranquillity. 

Company! (Sh! it happens every day--and we came out here to be quiet. )

Love to you all. 

 MARK. 

 They were spending the summer at Kaltenleutgeben, a pleasant village near Vienna, but apparently not entirely quiet. Many friends came out from Vienna, including a number of visiting Americans. Clemens, however, appears to have had considerable time for writing, as we gather from the next to Howells. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in America:

 KALTENLEUTGEBEN, BEI WIEN, Aug. 16, '98. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --Your letter came yesterday. It then occurred to me that Imight have known (per mental telegraph) that it was due; for a couple ofweeks ago when the Weekly came containing that handsome reference tome I was powerfully moved to write you; and my letter went on writingitself while I was at work at my other literature during the day. Butnext day my other literature was still urgent--and so on and so on; somy letter didn't get put into ink at all. But I see now, that you werewriting, about that time, therefore a part of my stir could have comeacross the Atlantic per mental telegraph. In 1876 or '75 I wrote40, 000 words of a story called "Simon Wheeler" wherein the nub wasthe preventing of an execution through testimony furnished by mentaltelegraph from the other side of the globe. I had a lot of peoplescattered about the globe who carried in their pockets something likethe old mesmerizer-button, made of different metals, and when theywanted to call up each other and have a talk, they "pressed the button"or did something, I don't remember what, and communication was at onceopened. I didn't finish the story, though I re-began it in several newways, and spent altogether 70, 000 words on it, then gave it up and threwit aside. 

This much as preliminary to this remark: some day people will be ableto call each other up from any part of the world and talk by mentaltelegraph--and not merely by impression, the impression will bearticulated into words. It could be a terrible thing, but it won't be, because in the upper civilizations everything like sentimentality (I wasgoing to say sentiment) will presently get materialized out of peoplealong with the already fading spiritualities; and so when a man iscalled who doesn't wish to talk he will be like those visitors youmention: "not chosen"--and will be frankly damned and shut off. 

Speaking of the ill luck of starting a piece of literary work wrong-andagain and again; always aware that there is a way, if you could onlythink it out, which would make the thing slide effortless from thepen--the one right way, the sole form for you, the other forms being formen whose line those forms are, or who are capabler than yourself: I'vehad no end of experience in that (and maybe I am the only one--let ushope so. ) Last summer I started 16 things wrong--3 books and 13mag. Articles--and could only make 2 little wee things, 1500words altogether, succeed:--only that out of piles and stacks ofdiligently-wrought MS. , the labor of 6 weeks' unremitting effort. I could make all of those things go if I would take the trouble tore-begin each one half a dozen times on a new plan. But none of them wasimportant enough except one: the story I (in the wrong form) mapped outin Paris three or four years ago and told you about in New York underseal of confidence--no other person knows of it but Mrs. Clemens--thestory to be called "Which was the Dream?"

A week ago I examined the MS--10, 000 words--and saw that the plan wasa totally impossible one-for me; but a new plan suggested itself, and straightway the tale began to slide from the pen with ease andconfidence. I think I've struck the right one this time. I have alreadyput 12, 000 words of it on paper and Mrs. Clemens is pretty outspokenlysatisfied with it-a hard critic to content. I feel sure that all of thefirst half of the story--and I hope three-fourths--will be comedy; butby the former plan the whole of it (except the first 3 chapters) wouldhave been tragedy and unendurable, almost. I think I can carry thereader a long way before he suspects that I am laying a tragedy-trap. Inthe present form I could spin 16 books out of it with comfort and joy;but I shall deny myself and restrict it to one. (If you should seea little short story in a magazine in the autumn called "My PlatonicSweetheart" written 3 weeks ago) that is not this one. It may have beena suggester, though. 

I expect all these singular privacies to interest you, and you are notto let on that they don't. 

We are leaving, this afternoon, for Ischl, to use that as a base for thebaggage, and then gad around ten days among the lakes and mountains torest-up Mrs. Clemens, who is jaded with housekeeping. I hope I can get achance to work a little in spots--I can't tell. But you do it--thereforewhy should you think I can't?

 [Remainder missing. ]

 The dream story was never completed. It was the same that he had worked on in London, and perhaps again in Switzerland. It would be tried at other times and in other forms, but it never seemed to accommodate itself to a central idea, so that the good writing in it eventually went to waste. The short story mentioned, "My Platonic Sweetheart, " a charming, idyllic tale, was not published during Mark Twain's lifetime. Two years after his death it appeared in Harper's Magazine. 

 The assassination of the Empress of Austria at Geneva was the startling event of that summer. In a letter to Twichell Clemens presents the tragedy in a few vivid paragraphs. Later he treated it at some length in a magazine article which, very likely because of personal relations with members of the Austrian court, he withheld from print. It has since been included in a volume of essays, What Is Man, etc. 

*****

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

 KALTENLEUTGEBEN, Sep. 13, '98. 

DEAR JOE, --You are mistaken; people don't send us the magazines. No--Harper, Century and McClure do; an example I should like torecommend to other publishers. And so I thank you very much forsending me Brander's article. When you say "I like Brander Matthews; heimpresses me as a man of parts and power, " I back you, right up tothe hub--I feel the same way--. And when you say he has earned yourgratitude for cuffing me for my crimes against the Leather stockings andthe Vicar, I ain't making any objection. Dern your gratitude!

His article is as sound as a nut. Brander knows literature, and lovesit; he can talk about it and keep his temper; he can state his case solucidly and so fairly and so forcibly that you have to agree with him, even when you don't agree with him; and he can discover and praise suchmerits as a book has, even when they are half a dozen diamonds scatteredthrough an acre of mud. And so he has a right to be a critic. 

To detail just the opposite of the above invoice is to describe me. Ihaven't any right to criticise books, and I don't do it except when Ihate them. I often want to criticise Jane Austen, but her books maddenme so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore Ihave to stop every time I begin. 

That good and unoffending lady the Empress is killed by a mad-man, and Iam living in the midst of world-history again. The Queen's jubilee lastyear, the invasion of the Reichsrath by the police, and now this murder, which will still be talked of and described and painted a thousand yearsfrom now. To have a personal friend of the wearer of the crown burst inat the gate in the deep dusk of the evening and say in a voice brokenwith tears, "My God the Empress is murdered, " and fly toward her homebefore we can utter a question-why, it brings the giant event home toyou, makes you a part of it and personally interested; it is as if yourneighbor Antony should come flying and say "Caesar is butchered--thehead of the world is fallen!"

Of course there is no talk but of this. The mourning is universal andgenuine, the consternation is stupefying. The Austrian Empire is beingdraped with black. Vienna will be a spectacle to see, by next Saturday, when the funeral cortege marches. We are invited to occupy a room in thesumptuous new hotel (the "Krantz" where we are to live during the Falland Winter) and view it, and we shall go. 

Speaking of Mrs. Leiter, there is a noble dame in Vienna, about whomthey retail similar slanders. She said in French--she is weak inFrench--that she had been spending a Sunday afternoon in a gathering ofthe "demimonde. " Meaning the unknown land, that mercantile land, that mysterious half-world which underlies the aristocracy. But theseMalaproperies are always inventions--they don't happen. 

Yes, I wish we could have some talks; I'm full to the eye-lids. Had anoble good one with Parker and Dunham--land, but we were grateful forthat visit!

 Yours with all our loves. MARK. 

 [Inclosed with the foregoing. ]

Among the inadequate attempts to account for the assassination we mustconcede high rank to the German Emperor's. He justly describes it asa "deed unparalleled for ruthlessness, " and then adds that it was"ordained from above. "

I think this verdict will not be popular "above. " A man is either afree agent or he isn't. If a man is a free agent, this prisoner isresponsible for what he has done; but if a man is not a free agent, ifthe deed was ordained from above, there is no rational way of makingthis prisoner even partially responsible for it, and the German courtcannot condemn him without manifestly committing a crime. Logic islogic; and by disregarding its laws even Emperors as capable and acuteas William II can be beguiled into making charges which should not beventured upon except in the shelter of plenty of lightning-rods. 

 MARK. 

 The end of the year 1898 found Mark Twain once more in easy, even luxurious, circumstances. The hard work and good fortune which had enabled him to pay his debts had, in the course of another year, provided what was comparative affluence: His report to Howells is characteristic and interesting. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York:

 HOTEL KRANTZ, WIEN, L. NEVER MARKT 6 Dec. 30, '98. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I begin with a date--including all the details--thoughI shall be interrupted presently by a South-African acquaintance who ispassing through, and it may be many days before I catch anotherleisure moment. Note how suddenly a thing can become habit, and howindestructible the habit is, afterward! In your house in Cambridge ahundred years ago, Mrs. Howells said to me, "Here is a bunch of yourletters, and the dates are of no value, because you don't put anyin--the years, anyway. " That remark diseased me with a habit which hascost me worlds of time and torture and ink, and millions of vain effortsand buckets of tears to break it, and here it is yet--I could easier getrid of a virtue. .. .. 

I hope it will interest you (for I have no one else who would muchcare to know it) that here lately the dread of leaving the childrenin difficult circumstances has died down and disappeared and I am nowhaving peace from that long, long nightmare, and can sleep as well asanyone. Every little while, for these three years, now, Mrs. Clemens hascome with pencil and paper and figured up the condition of things (shekeeps the accounts and the bank-book) and has proven to me that theclouds were lifting, and so has hoisted my spirits temporarily and keptme going till another figuring-up was necessary. Last night she figuredup for her own satisfaction, not mine, and found that we own a house andfurniture in Hartford; that my English and American copyrights pay anincome which represents a value of $200, 000; and that we have $107, 000cash in the bank. I have been out and bought a box of 6-cent cigars; Iwas smoking 4 1/2 centers before. 

At the house of an English friend, on Christmas Eve, we saw theMouse-Trap played and well played. I thought the house would killitself with laughter. By George they played with life! and it was mostdevastatingly funny. And it was well they did, for they put us Clemensesin the front seat, and if they played it poorly I would have assaultedthem. The head young man and girl were Americans, the other partswere taken by English, Irish and Scotch girls. Then there was anigger-minstrel show, of the genuine old sort, and I enjoyed that, too, for the nigger-show was always a passion of mine. This one was createdand managed by a Quaker doctor from Philada. , (23 years old) and he wasthe middle man. There were 9 others--5 Americans from 5 States and aScotchman, 2 Englishmen and an Irishman--all post-graduate-medical youngfellows, of course--or, it could be music; but it would be bound to beone or the other. 

It's quite true--I don't read you "as much as I ought, " nor anywherenear half as much as I want to; still I read you all I get a chance to. I saved up your last story to read when the numbers should be complete, but before that time arrived some other admirer of yours carried off thepapers. I will watch admirers of yours when the Silver Wedding journeybegins, and that will not happen again. The last chance at a bound bookof yours was in London nearly two years ago--the last volume of yourshort things, by the Harpers. I read the whole book twice through andsome of the chapters several times, and the reason that that was as faras I got with it was that I lent it to another admirer of yours and heis admiring it yet. Your admirers have ways of their own; I don't knowwhere they get them. 

Yes, our project is to go home next autumn if we find we can affordto live in New York. We've asked a friend to inquire about flats andexpenses. But perhaps nothing will come of it. We do afford to livein the finest hotel in Vienna, and have 4 bedrooms, a dining-room, adrawing-room, 3 bath-rooms and 3 Vorzimmers, (and food) but we couldn'tget the half of it in New York for the same money ($600 a month). 

Susy hovers about us this holiday week, and the shadows fall all aboutus of

 "The days when we went gipsying A long time ago. "

Death is so kind, so benignant, to whom he loves; but he goes by usothers and will not look our way. We saw the "Master of Palmyra" lastnight. How Death, with the gentleness and majesty, made the humangrand-folk around him seem little and trivial and silly!

With love from all of us to all of you. 

 MARK. 

XXXVIII. LETTERS, 1899, TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS. VIENNA. LONDON. A SUMMERIN SWEDEN. 

The beginning of 1899 found the Clemens family still in Vienna, occupying handsome apartments at the Hotel Krantz. Their rooms, so oftenthronged with gay and distinguished people, were sometimes calledthe "Second Embassy. " Clemens himself was the central figure of theseassemblies. Of all the foreign visitors in the Austrian capital hewas the most notable. Everywhere he was surrounded by a crowd oflisteners--his sayings and opinions were widely quoted. 

A project for world disarmament promulgated by the Czar of Russia wouldnaturally interest Mark Twain, and when William T. Stead, of the Reviewof Reviews, cabled him for an opinion on the matter, he sent at first abrief word and on the same day followed it with more extended comment. The great war which has since devastated the world gives to thisincident an added interest. 

*****

To Wm. T. Stead, in London:

No. 1. 

 VIENNA, Jan. 9. 

DEAR MR. STEAD, --The Czar is ready to disarm: I am ready to disarm. Collect the others, it should not be much of a task now. 

 MARK TWAIN. 

*****

To Wm. T. Stead, in London:

No. 2. 

DEAR MR. STEAD, --Peace by compulsion. That seems a better idea than theother. Peace by persuasion has a pleasant sound, but I think we shouldnot be able to work it. We should have to tame the human race first, and history seems to show that that cannot be done. Can't we reducethe armaments little by little--on a pro rata basis--by concert of thepowers? Can't we get four great powers to agree to reduce their strength10 per cent a year and thrash the others into doing likewise? For, ofcourse, we cannot expect all of the powers to be in their right minds atone time. It has been tried. We are not going to try to get all of themto go into the scheme peaceably, are we? In that case I must withdrawmy influence; because, for business reasons, I must preserve the outwardsigns of sanity. Four is enough if they can be securely harnessedtogether. They can compel peace, and peace without compulsion would beagainst nature and not operative. A sliding scale of reduction of 10 percent a year has a sort of plausible look, and I am willing to try thatif three other powers will join. I feel sure that the armaments are nowmany times greater than necessary for the requirements of eitherpeace or war. Take wartime for instance. Suppose circumstances made itnecessary for us to fight another Waterloo, and that it would do what itdid before--settle a large question and bring peace. I will guess that400, 000 men were on hand at Waterloo (I have forgotten the figures). In five hours they disabled 50, 000 men. It took them that tedious, longtime because the firearms delivered only two or three shots a minute. But we would do the work now as it was done at Omdurman, with showerguns, raining 600 balls a minute. Four men to a gun--is that the number?A hundred and fifty shots a minute per man. Thus a modern soldier is 149Waterloo soldiers in one. Thus, also, we can now retain one man out ofeach 150 in service, disband the others, and fight our Waterloos justas effectively as we did eighty-five years ago. We should do the samebeneficent job with 2, 800 men now that we did with 400, 000 then. Theallies could take 1, 400 of the men, and give Napoleon 1, 400 and thenwhip him. 

But instead what do we see? In war-time in Germany, Russia and France, taken together we find about 8 million men equipped for the field. Eachman represents 149 Waterloo men, in usefulness and killing capacity. Altogether they constitute about 350 million Waterloo men, and there arenot quite that many grown males of the human race now on this planet. Thus we have this insane fact--that whereas those three countries couldarm 18, 000 men with modern weapons and make them the equals of 3 millionmen of Napoleon's day, and accomplish with them all necessary war work, they waste their money and their prosperity creating forces of theirpopulations in piling together 349, 982, 000 extra Waterloo equivalentswhich they would have no sort of use for if they would only stopdrinking and sit down and cipher a little. 

Perpetual peace we cannot have on any terms, I suppose; but I hope wecan gradually reduce the war strength of Europe till we get it down towhere it ought to be--20, 000 men, properly armed. Then we can have allthe peace that is worth while, and when we want a war anybody can affordit. 

 VIENNA, January 9. 

P. S. --In the article I sent the figures are wrong--"350 million" oughtto be 450 million; "349, 982, 000" ought to be 449, 982, 000, and the remarkabout the sum being a little more than the present number of males onthe planet--that is wrong, of course; it represents really one and ahalf the existing males. 

 Now and then one of Mark Twain's old comrades still reached out to him across the years. He always welcomed such letters--they came as from a lost land of romance, recalled always with tenderness. He sent light, chaffing replies, but they were never without an undercurrent of affection. 

*****

To Major "Jack" Downing, in Middleport, Ohio:

 HOTEL KRANTZ, WEIN, I, NEUER MART 6, Feb. 26, 1899. 

DEAR MAJOR, --No: it was to Bixby that I was apprenticed. He was to teachme the river for a certain specified sum. I have forgotten what it was, but I paid it. I steered a trip for Bart Bowen, of Keokuk, on the A. T. Lacy, and I was partner with Will Bowen on the A. B. Chambers (onetrip), and with Sam Bowen a whole summer on a small Memphis packet. 

The newspaper report you sent me is incorrect. Bixby is not 67: he is97. I am 63 myself, and I couldn't talk plain and had just begun to walkwhen I apprenticed myself to Bixby who was then passing himself off for57 and successfully too, for he always looked 60 or 70 years youngerthan he really was. At that time he was piloting the Mississippi on aPotomac commission granted him by George Washington who was a personalfriend of his before the Revolution. He has piloted every importantriver in America, on that commission, he has also used it as a passportin Russia. I have never revealed these facts before. I notice, too, thatyou are deceiving the people concerning your age. The printed portraitwhich you have enclosed is not a portrait of you, but a portrait of mewhen I was 19. I remember very well when it was common for peopleto mistake Bixby for your grandson. Is it spreading, I wonder--thisdisposition of pilots to renew their youth by doubtful methods? BeckJolly and Joe Bryan--they probably go to Sunday school now--but it willnot deceive. 

Yes, it is as you say. All of the procession but a fraction has passed. It is time for us all to fall in. 

 Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York:

 HOTEL KRANTZ, WIEN I. NEUER MARKT 6 April 2, '99. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --I am waiting for the April Harper, which is about duenow; waiting, and strongly interested. You are old enough to be a wearyman, with paling interests, but you do not show it. You do your workin the same old delicate and delicious and forceful and searching andperfect way. I don't know how you can--but I suspect. I suspect that toyou there is still dignity in human life, and that Man is not a joke--apoor joke--the poorest that was ever contrived. Since I wrote my Bible, (last year)--["What Is Man. "]--which Mrs. Clemens loathes, and shuddersover, and will not listen to the last half nor allow me to print anypart of it, Man is not to me the respect-worthy person he wasbefore; and so I have lost my pride in him, and can't write gaily norpraisefully about him any more. And I don't intend to try. I mean to goon writing, for that is my best amusement, but I shan't print much (forI don't wish to be scalped, any more than another. )

April 5. The Harper has come. I have been in Leipzig with your party, and then went on to Karlsbad and saw Mrs. Marsh's encounter with theswine with the toothpick and the other manners--["Their Silver WeddingJourney. "]--At this point Jean carried the magazine away. 

Is it imagination, or--Anyway I seem to get furtive and fleetingglimpses which I take to be the weariness and condolence of age;indifference to sights and things once brisk with interest;tasteless stale stuff which used to be champagne; the boredomof travel: the secret sigh behind the public smile, the privateWhat-in-hell-did-I-come-for!

But maybe that is your art. Maybe that is what you intend the reader todetect and think he has made a Columbus-discovery. Then it is welldone, perfectly done. I wrote my last travel book--[Following theEquator. ]--in hell; but I let on, the best I could, that it was anexcursion through heaven. Some day I will read it, and if its lyingcheerfulness fools me, then I shall believe it fooled the reader. HowI did loathe that journey around the world!--except the sea-part andIndia. 

Evening. My tail hangs low. I thought I was a financier--and I braggedto you. I am not bragging, now. The stock which I sold at such a fineprofit early in January, has never ceased to advance, and is now worth$60, 000 more than I sold it for. I feel just as if I had been spending$20, 000 a month, and I feel reproached for this showy and unbecomingextravagance. 

Last week I was going down with the family to Budapest to lecture, and to make a speech at a banquet. Just as I was leaving here I got atelegram from London asking for the speech for a New York paper. I (thisis strictly private) sent it. And then I didn't make that speech, butanother of a quite different character--a speech born of something whichthe introducer said. If that said speech got cabled and printed, youneedn't let on that it was never uttered. 

That was a darling night, and those Hungarians were lively people. Wewere there a week and had a great time. At the banquet I heard theirchief orator make a most graceful and easy and beautiful and deliciousspeech--I never heard one that enchanted me more--although I did notunderstand a word of it, since it was in Hungarian. But the art ofit!--it was superlative. 

They are wonderful English scholars, these people; my lectureaudience--all Hungarians--understood me perfectly--to judge by theeffects. The English clergyman told me that in his congregation are 150young English women who earn their living teaching their language; andthat there are others besides these. 

For 60 cents a week the telephone reads the morning news to you at home;gives you the stocks and markets at noon; gives you lessons in 3 foreignlanguages during 3 hours; gives you the afternoon telegrams; andat night the concerts and operas. Of course even the clerks andseamstresses and bootblacks and everybody else are subscribers. 

(Correction. Mrs. Clemens says it is 60 cents a month. )

I am renewing my youth. I made 4 speeches at one banquet here lastSaturday night. And I've been to a lot of football matches. 

Jean has been in here examining the poll for the Immortals("Literature, " March 24, ) in the hope, I think, that at last she shouldfind me at the top and you in second place; and if that is her ambitionshe has suffered disappointment for the third time--and will never fareany better, I hope, for you are where you belong, by every right. Shewanted to know who it is that does the voting, but I was not able totell her. Nor when the election will be completed and decided. 

Next Morning. I have been reading the morning paper. I do it everymorning--well knowing that I shall find in it the usual depravities andbasenesses and hypocrisies and cruelties that make up civilization, andcause me to put in the rest of the day pleading for the damnation ofthe human race. I cannot seem to get my prayers answered, yet I do notdespair. 

(Escaped from) 5 o'clock tea ('sh!) Oh, the American girl in Europe!Often she is creditable, but sometimes she is just shocking. This one, a minute ago--19, fat-face, raspy voice, pert ways, the self-complacencyof God; and with it all a silly laugh (embarrassed) which kept breakingout through her chatter all along, whereas there was no call for it, for she said nothing that was funny. "Spose so many 've told y' how they'njoyed y'r chapt'r on the Germ' tongue it's bringin' coals to NewcastleKehe! say anything 'bout it Ke-hehe! Spent m' vacation 'n Russia, 'n sawTolstoi; he said--" It made me shudder. 

April 12. Jean has been in here with a copy of Literature, complainingthat I am again behind you in the election of the 10 consecratedmembers; and seems troubled about it and not quite able to understandit. But I have explained to her that you are right there on the ground, inside the pool-booth, keeping game--and that that makes a largedifference in these things. 

13th. I have been to the Knustausstellung with Mrs. Clemens. The officeof art seems to be to grovel in the dirt before Emperors and this andthat and the other damned breed of priests. 

 Yrs ever MARK. 

 Howells and Clemens were corresponding regularly again, though not with the frequency of former years. Perhaps neither of them was bubbling over with things to say; perhaps it was becoming yearly less attractive to pick up a pen and write, and then, of course, there was always the discouragement of distance. Once Howells wrote: "I know this will find you in Austria before I can well turn round, but I must make believe you are in Kennebunkport before I can begin it. " And in another letter: "It ought to be as pleasant to sit down and write to you as to sit down and talk to you, but it isn't. .. .. The only reason why I write is that I want another letter from you, and because I have a whole afternoon for the job. I have the whole of every afternoon, for I cannot work later than lunch. I am fagged by that time, and Sunday is the only day that brings unbearable leisure. I hope you will be in New York another winter; then I shall know what to do with these foretastes of eternity. "

 Clemens usually wrote at considerable length, for he had a good deal to report of his life in the Austrian capital, now drawing to a close. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York:

 May 12, 1899. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --7. 15 p. M. Tea (for Mr. And Mrs. Tower, who are leavingfor Russia) just over; nice people and rather creditable to the humanrace: Mr. And Mrs. Tower; the new Minister and his wife; the Secretaryof Legation; the Naval (and Military) Attach; several English ladies; anIrish lady; a Scotch lady; a particularly nice young Austrian baron whowasn't invited but came and went supposing it was the usual thing andwondered at the unusually large gathering; two other Austrians andseveral Americans who were also in his fix; the old Baronin Langeman, the only Austrian invited; the rest were Americans. It made just acomfortable crowd in our parlor, with an overflow into Clara's throughthe folding doors. I don't enjoy teas, and am daily spared them by Mrs. Clemens, but this was a pleasant one. I had only one accident. Theold Baronin Langeman is a person I have a strong fondness for, forwe violently disagree on some subjects and as violently agree onothers--for instance, she is temperance and I am not: she has religiousbeliefs and feelings and I have none; (she's a Methodist!) she isa democrat and so am I; she is woman's rights and so am I; she islaborers' rights and approves trades unions and strikes, and that is me. And so on. After she was gone an English lady whom I greatly like, beganto talk sharply against her for contributing money, time, labor, andpublic expression of favor to a strike that is on (for an 11-hour day)in the silk factories of Bohemia--and she caught me unprepared andbetrayed me into over-warm argument. I am sorry: for she didn't knowanything about the subject, and I did; and one should be gentle with theignorant, for they are the chosen of God. 

(The new Minister is a good man, but out of place. The Sec. Of Legationis a good man, but out of place. The Attache is a good man, but out ofplace. Our government for displacement beats the new White Star ship;and her possible is 17, 200 tons. )

May 13, 4 p. M. A beautiful English girl and her handsome Englishhusband came up and spent the evening, and she certainly is a bird. English parents--she was born and reared in Roumania and couldn't talkEnglish till she was 8 or 10. She came up clothed like the sunset, andwas a delight to look at. (Roumanian costume. ). .. .. 

Twenty-four young people have gone out to the Semmering to-day (andto-morrow) and Mrs. Clemens and an English lady and old Leschetitzky andhis wife have gone to chaperon them. They gave me a chance to go, butthere are no snow mountains that I want to look at. Three hours out, three hours back, and sit up all night watching the young people dance;yelling conversationally and being yelled at, conversationally, by newacquaintances, through the deafening music, about how I like Vienna, andif it's my first visit, and how long we expect to stay, and did I seethe foot-washing, and am I writing a book about Vienna, and so on. Theterms seemed too severe. Snow mountains are too dear at the price. .. . 

For several years I have been intending to stop writing for print assoon as I could afford it. At last I can afford it, and have put thepot-boiler pen away. What I have been wanting is a chance to write abook without reserves--a book which should take account of no one'sfeelings, and no one's prejudices, opinions, beliefs, hopes, illusions, delusions; a book which should say my say, right out of my heart, in theplainest language and without a limitation of any sort. I judged thatthat would be an unimaginable luxury, heaven on earth. 

It is under way, now, and it is a luxury! an intellectual drunk: Twice Ididn't start it right; and got pretty far in, both times, before I foundit out. But I am sure it is started right this time. It is in tale-form. I believe I can make it tell what I think of Man, and how he isconstructed, and what a shabby poor ridiculous thing he is, and howmistaken he is in his estimate of his character and powers and qualitiesand his place among the animals. 

So far, I think I am succeeding. I let the madam into the secret daybefore yesterday, and locked the doors and read to her the openingchapters. She said--

"It is perfectly horrible--and perfectly beautiful!"

"Within the due limits of modesty, that is what I think. "

I hope it will take me a year or two to write it, and that it will turnout to be the right vessel to contain all the abuse I am planning todump into it. 

 Yours ever MARK. 

 The story mentioned in the foregoing, in which Mark Twain was to give his opinion of man, was The Mysterious Stranger. It was not finished at the time, and its closing chapter was not found until after his death. Six years later (1916) it was published serially in Harper's Magazine, and in book form. 

 The end of May found the Clemens party in London, where they were received and entertained with all the hospitality they had known in earlier years. Clemens was too busy for letter-writing, but in the midst of things he took time to report to Howells an amusing incident of one of their entertainments. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in America:

 LONDON, July 3, '99

DEAR HOWELLS, --. .. .. I've a lot of things to write you, but it's nouse--I can't get time for anything these days. I must break off andwrite a postscript to Canon Wilberforce before I go to bed. Thisafternoon he left a luncheon-party half an hour ahead of the rest, andcarried off my hat (which has Mark Twain in a big hand written in it. )When the rest of us came out there was but one hat that would go on myhead--it fitted exactly, too. So wore it away. It had no name in it, butthe Canon was the only man who was absent. I wrote him a note at 8 p. M. ;saying that for four hours I had not been able to take anything that didnot belong to me, nor stretch a fact beyond the frontiers of truth, andmy family were getting alarmed. Could he explain my trouble? And nowat 8. 30 p. M. Comes a note from him to say that all the afternoon hehas been exhibiting a wonder-compelling mental vivacity and graceof expression, etc. , etc. , and have I missed a hat? Our letters havecrossed. 

 Yours ever MARK. 

 News came of the death of Robert Ingersoll. Clemens had been always one of his most ardent admirers, and a warm personal friend. To Ingersoll's niece he sent a word of heartfelt sympathy. 

*****

To Miss Eva Farrell, in New York:

 30 WELLINGTON COURT, ALBERT GATE. 

DEAR MISS FARRELL, --Except my daughter's, I have not grieved for anydeath as I have grieved for his. His was a great and beautiful spirit, he was a man--all man from his crown to his foot soles. My reverence forhim was deep and genuine; I prized his affection for me and returned itwith usury. 

 Sincerely Yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Clemens and family decided to spend the summer in Sweden, at Sauna, in order to avail themselves of osteopathic treatment as practised by Heinrick Kellgren. Kellgren's method, known as the "Swedish movements, " seemed to Mark Twain a wonderful cure for all ailments, and he heralded the discovery far and wide. He wrote to friends far and near advising them to try Kellgren for anything they might happen to have. Whatever its beginning, any letter was likely to close with some mention of the new panacea. 

*****

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, traveling in Europe:

 SANNA, Sept. 6, '99. 

DEAR JOE, --I've no business in here--I ought to be outside. I shallnever see another sunset to begin with it this side of heaven. Venice?land, what a poor interest that is! This is the place to be. I have seenabout 60 sunsets here; and a good 40 of them were clear and awaybeyond anything I had ever imagined before for dainty and exquisite andmarvellous beauty and infinite change and variety. America? Italy? Thetropics? They have no notion of what a sunset ought to be. And thisone--this unspeakable wonder! It discounts all the rest. It brings thetears, it is so unutterably beautiful. 

If I had time, I would say a word about this curative system here. Thepeople actually do several of the great things the Christian Scientistspretend to do. You wish to advise with a physician about it? Certainly. There is no objection. He knows next to something about his own trade, but that will not embarrass him in framing a verdict about this one. Irespect your superstitions--we all have them. It would be quite naturalfor the cautious Chinaman to ask his native priest to instruct him as tothe value of the new religious specialty which the Western missionaryis trying to put on the market, before investing in it. (He would get averdict. )

 Love to you all! Always Yours MARK. 

 Howells wrote that he was going on a reading-tour-dreading it, of course-and asking for any advice that Clemens felt qualified to give. Naturally, Clemens gave him the latest he had in stock, without realizing, perhaps, that he was recommending an individual practice which few would be likely to imitate. Nevertheless, what he says is interesting. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in America:

 SANNA, SWEDEN, Sept. 26, '99. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --Get your lecture by heart--it will pay you. I learned atrick in Vienna--by accident--which I wish I had learned years ago. Imeant to read from a Tauchnitz, because I knew I hadn't well memorizedthe pieces; and I came on with the book and read a few sentences, then remembered that the sketch needed a few words of explanatoryintroduction; and so, lowering the book and now and then unconsciouslyusing it to gesture with, I talked the introduction, and it happened tocarry me into the sketch itself, and then I went on, pretending thatI was merely talking extraneous matter and would come to the sketchpresently. It was a beautiful success. I knew the substance of thesketch and the telling phrases of it; and so, the throwing of the restof it into informal talk as I went along limbered it up and gave it thesnap and go and freshness of an impromptu. I was to read several pieces, and I played the same game with all of them, and always the audiencethought I was being reminded of outside things and throwing them in, andwas going to hold up the book and begin on the sketch presently--and soI always got through the sketch before they were entirely sure that ithad begun. I did the same thing in Budapest and had the same good timeover again. It's a new dodge, and the best one that was ever invented. Try it. You'll never lose your audience--not even for a moment. Theirattention is fixed, and never wavers. And that is not the case where onereads from book or MS. , or where he stands up without a note and franklyexposes the fact, by his confident manner and smooth phrasing, that heis not improvising, but reciting from memory. And in the heat oftelling a thing that is memorised in substance only, one flashes out thehappiest suddenly-begotten phrases every now and then! Try it. Such aphrase has a life and sparkle about it that twice as good a one couldnot exhibit if prepared beforehand, and it "fetches" an audience insuch an enthusing and inspiring and uplifting way that that lucky phrasebreeds another one, sure. 

Your September instalment--["Their Silver Wedding journey. "]--wasdelicious--every word of it. You haven't lost any of your splendid art. Callers have arrived. 

 With love MARK. 

 "Yes, " wrote Howells, "if I were a great histrionic artist like you I would get my poor essays by heart, and recite them, but being what I am I should do the thing so lifelessly that I had better recognise their deadness frankly and read them. "

 From Vienna Clemens had contributed to the Cosmopolitan, then owned by John Brisben Walker, his first article on Christian Science. It was a delicious bit of humor and found such enthusiastic appreciation that Walker was moved to send an additional $200 check in payment for it. This brought prompt acknowledgment. 

*****

To John Brisben Walker, in Irvington, N. Y. :

 LONDON, Oct. 19, '99

DEAR MR. WALKER, --By gracious but you have a talent for making a manfeel proud and good! To say a compliment well is a high art--and fewpossess it. You know how to do it, and when you confirm its sinceritywith a handsome cheque the limit is reached and compliment can no highergo. I like to work for you: when you don't approve an article you sayso, recognizing that I am not a child and can stand it; and when youapprove an article I don't have to dicker with you as if I raisedpeanuts and you kept a stand; I know I shall get every penny the articleis worth. 

You have given me very great pleasure, and I thank you for it. 

 Sincerely Yours S. L. CLEMENS. 

 On the same day he sent word to Howells of the good luck which now seemed to be coming his way. The Joan of Arc introduction was the same that today appears in his collected works under the title of Saint Joan of Arc. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in New York:

 LONDON, Oct. 19, '99. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --My, it's a lucky day!--of the sort when it never rainsbut it pours. I was to write an introduction to a nobler book--theEnglish translation of the Official Record (unabridged) of the Trialsand Rehabilitation of Joan of Arc, and make a lot of footnotes. I wrotethe introduction in Sweden, and here a few days ago I tore loose froma tale I am writing, and took the MS book and went at the grind ofnote-making--a fearful job for a man not used to it. This morningbrought a note from my excellent friend Murray, a rich Englishman whoedits the translation, saying, "Never mind the notes--we'll make thetranslators do them. " That was comfort and joy. 

The same mail brought a note from Canon Wilberforce, asking me totalk Joan of Arc in his drawing-room to the Dukes and Earls and M. P. 's--(which would fetch me out of my seclusion and into print, and Icouldn't have that, ) and so of course I must run down to the Abbey andexplain--and lose an hour. Just then came Murray and said "Leave thatto me--I'll go and do the explaining and put the thing off 3 months; youwrite a note and tell him I am coming. "

(Which I did, later. ) Wilberforce carried off my hat from a lunch partylast summer, and in to-day's note he said he wouldn't steal my new hatthis time. In my note I said I couldn't make the drawing-room talk, now--Murray would explain; and added a P. S. : "You mustn't think it isbecause I am afraid to trust my hat in your reach again, for I assureyou upon honor it isn't. I should bring my old one. "

I had suggested to Murray a fortnight ago, that he get some big guns towrite introductory monographs for the book. 

Miss X, Joan's Voices and Prophecies. 

The Lord Chief Justice of England, the legal prodigies which sheperformed before her judges. 

Lord Roberts, her military genius. 

Kipling, her patriotism. 

And so on. When he came this morning he said he had captured Miss X;that Lord Roberts and Kipling were going to take hold and see if theycould do monographs worthy of the book. He hadn't run the others tocover yet, but was on their track. Very good news. It is a grand book, and is entitled to the best efforts of the best people. As for me, Itook pains with my Introduction, and I admit that it is no slouch of aperformance. 

Then I came down to Chatto's, and found your all too beautiful letter, and was lifted higher than ever. Next came letters from America properlyglorifying my Christian Science article in the Cosmopolitan (and oneroundly abusing it, ) and a letter from John Brisben Walker enclosing$200 additional pay for the article (he had already paid enough, but Ididn't mention that--which wasn't right of me, for this is the secondtime he has done such a thing, whereas Gilder has done it only once andno one else ever. ) I make no prices with Walker and Gilder--I can trustthem. 

And last of all came a letter from M-. How I do wish that man was inhell. Even-the briefest line from that idiot puts me in a rage. 

But on the whole it has been a delightful day, and with M----in hell itwould have been perfect. But that will happen, and I can wait. 

Ah, if I could look into the inside of people as you do, and put it onpaper, and invent things for them to do and say, and tell how they saidit, I could writs a fine and readable book now, for I've got a primesubject. I've written 30, 000 words of it and satisfied myself that thestuff is there; so I am going to discard that MS and begin all overagain and have a good time with it. 

Oh, I know how you feel! I've been in hell myself. You are theretonight. By difference in time you are at luncheon, now--and noteating it. Nothing is so lonesome as gadding around platforming. I havedeclined 45 lectures to-day-England and Scotland. I wanted the money, but not the torture: Good luck to you!--and repentance. 

 With love to all of you MARK. 

XXXIX. LETTERS OF 1900, MAINLY TO TWICHELL. THE BOER WAR. BOXERTROUBLES. THE RETURN TO AMERICA. 

The New Year found Clemens still in London, chiefly interested inosteopathy and characteristically glorifying the practice at the expenseof other healing methods. 

*****

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

 LONDON, Jan. 8, 1900. 

DEAR JOE, --Mental Telepathy has scored another. Mental Telegraphy willbe greatly respected a century hence. 

By the accident of writing my sister and describing to her theremarkable cures made by Kellgren with his hands and without drugs, Ibrought upon myself a quite stunning surprise; for she wrote to me thatshe had been taking this very treatment in Buffalo--and that it was anAmerican invention. 

Well, it does really turn out that Dr. Still, in the middle of Kansas, in a village, began to experiment in 1874, only five years afterKellgren began the same work obscurely in the village of Gotha, inGermany. Dr. Still seems to be an honest man; therefore I am persuadedthat Kellgren moved him to his experiments by Mental Telegraphy acrosssix hours of longitude, without need of a wire. By the time Still beganto experiment, Kellgren had completed his development of theprinciples of his system and established himself in a good practice inLondon--1874--and was in good shape to convey his discovery to Kansas, Mental Telegraphically. 

Yes, I was greatly surprised to find that my mare's nest was much inarrears: that this new science was well known in America under the nameof Osteopathy. Since then, I find that in the past 3 years it hasgot itself legalized in 14 States in spite of the opposition of thephysicians; that it has established 20 Osteopathic schools and colleges;that among its students are 75 allopathic physicians; that there is aschool in Boston and another in Philadelphia, that there are about 100students in the parent college (Dr. Still's at Kirksville, Missouri, )and that there are about 2, 000 graduates practicing in America. Dearme, there are not 30 in Europe. Europe is so sunk in superstitionsand prejudices that it is an almost impossible thing to get her todo anything but scoff at a new thing--unless it come from abroad; aswitness the telegraph, dentistry, &c. 

Presently the Osteopath will come over here from America and will soonmake himself a power that must be recognized and reckoned with; andthen, 25 years from now, England will begin to claim the invention andtell all about its origin, in the Cyclopedia B-----as in the case ofthe telegraph, applied anaesthetics and the other benefactions which sheheaped her abuse upon when her inventors first offered them to her. 

I cannot help feeling rather inordinately proud of America for the gayand hearty way in which she takes hold of any new thing that comes alongand gives it a first rate trial. Many an ass in America, is gettinga deal of benefit out of X-Science's new exploitation of an age-oldhealing principle--faith, combined with the patient's imagination--letit boom along! I have no objection. Let them call it by what namethey choose, so long as it does helpful work among the class which isnumerically vastly the largest bulk of the human race, i. E. The fools, the idiots, the pudd'nheads. 

We do not guess, we know that 9 in 10 of the species are pudd'nheads. Weknow it by various evidences; and one of them is, that for ages therace has respected (and almost venerated) the physician's grotesquesystem--the emptying of miscellaneous and harmful drugs into a person'sstomach to remove ailments which in many cases the drugs could not reachat all; in many cases could reach and help, but only at cost of damageto some other part of the man; and in the remainder of the cases thedrug either retarded the cure, or the disease was cured by nature inspite of the nostrums. The doctor's insane system has not only beenpermitted to continue its follies for ages, but has been protected bythe State and made a close monopoly--an infamous thing, a crime againsta free-man's proper right to choose his own assassin or his own methodof defending his body against disease and death. 

And yet at the same time, with curious and senile inconsistency, theState has allowed the man to choose his own assassin--in one detail--thepatent-medicine detail--making itself the protector of that perilousbusiness, collecting money out of it, and appointing no committee ofexperts to examine the medicines and forbid them when extra dangerous. Really, when a man can prove that he is not a jackass, I think he is inthe way to prove that he is no legitimate member of the race. 

I have by me a list of 52 human ailments--common ones--and in this listI count 19 which the physician's art cannot cure. But there isn't onewhich Osteopathy or Kellgren cannot cure, if the patient comes early. 

Fifteen years ago I had a deep reverence for the physician and thesurgeon. But 6 months of closely watching the Kellgren business hasrevolutionized all that, and now I have neither reverence nor respectfor the physician's trade, and scarcely any for the surgeon's, --I amconvinced that of all quackeries, the physician's is the grotesquest andthe silliest. And they know they are shams and humbugs. They have takenthe place of those augurs who couldn't look each other in the facewithout laughing. 

See what a powerful hold our ancient superstitions have upon us:two weeks ago, when Livy committed an incredible imprudence andby consequence was promptly stricken down with a heavy tripleattack--influenza, bronchitis, and a lung affected--she recognized thegravity of the situation, and her old superstitions rose: she thoughtshe ought to send for a doctor--Think of it--the last man in the world Ishould want around at such a time. Of course I did not say no--not thatI was indisposed to take the responsibility, for I was not, my notion ofa dangerous responsibility being quite the other way--but because it isunsafe to distress a sick person; I only said we knew no good doctor, and it could not be good policy to choose at hazard; so she allowed meto send for Kellgren. To-day she is up and around--cured. It is safe tosay that persons hit in the same way at the same time are in bed yet, and booked to stay there a good while, and to be in a shackly conditionand afraid of their shadows for a couple of years or more to come. 

It will be seen by the foregoing that Mark Twain's interest in theKellgren system was still an ardent one. Indeed, for a time he gave mostof his thought to it, and wrote several long appreciations, perhaps withlittle idea of publication, but merely to get his enthusiasm physicallyexpressed. War, however, presently supplanted medicine--the Boertroubles in South Africa and the Boxer insurrection in China. It was adisturbing, exciting year. 

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

 WELLINGTON COURT, KNIGHTSBRIDGE, Jan. 25, 1900. 

DEAR HOWELLS, --If you got half as much as Pond prophesied, be contentand praise God--it has not happened to another. But I am sorry he didn'tgo with you; for it is marvelous to hear him yarn. He is good company, cheery and hearty, and his mill is never idle. Your doing a lecture tourwas heroic. It was the highest order of grit, and you have a right to beproud of yourself. No mount of applause or money or both could save itfrom being a hell to a man constituted as you are. It is that even tome, who am made of coarser stuff. 

I knew the audiences would come forward and shake hands with you--thatone infallible sign of sincere approval. In all my life, wherever itfailed me I left the hall sick and ashamed, knowing what it meant. 

Privately speaking, this is a sordid and criminal war, and in every wayshameful and excuseless. Every day I write (in my head) bitter magazinearticles about it, but I have to stop with that. For England mustnot fall; it would mean an inundation of Russian and German politicaldegradations which would envelop the globe and steep it in a sort ofMiddle-Age night and slavery which would last till Christ comes again. Even wrong--and she is wrong--England must be upheld. He is an enemy ofthe human race who shall speak against her now. Why was the human racecreated? Or at least why wasn't something creditable created in place ofit. God had his opportunity. He could have made a reputation. But no, He must commit this grotesque folly--a lark which must have cost him aregret or two when He came to think it over and observe effects. For agiddy and unbecoming caprice there has been nothing like it till thiswar. I talk the war with both sides--always waiting until the other manintroduces the topic. Then I say "My head is with the Briton, but myheart and such rags of morals as I have are with the Boer--now we willtalk, unembarrassed and without prejudice. " And so we discuss, and haveno trouble. 

 Jan. 26. 

It was my intention to make some disparaging remarks about the humanrace; and so I kept this letter open for that purpose, and for thepurpose of telling my dream, wherein the Trinity were trying to guessa conundrum, but I can do better--for I can snip out of the "Times"various samples and side-lights which bring the race down to date, and expose it as of yesterday. If you will notice, there is seldoma telegram in a paper which fails to show up one or more members andbeneficiaries of our Civilization as promenading in his shirt-tail, withthe rest of his regalia in the wash. 

I love to see the holy ones air their smug pieties and admire them andsmirk over them, and at the same moment frankly and publicly show theircontempt for the pieties of the Boer--confidently expecting the approvalof the country and the pulpit, and getting it. 

I notice that God is on both sides in this war; thus history repeatsitself. But I am the only person who has noticed this; everybody herethinks He is playing the game for this side, and for this side only. 

 With great love to you all MARK. 

 One cannot help wondering what Mark Twain would have thought of human nature had he lived to see the great World War, fought mainly by the Christian nations who for nearly two thousand years had been preaching peace on earth and goodwill toward men. But his opinion of the race could hardly have been worse than it was. And nothing that human beings could do would have surprised him. 

*****

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

 LONDON, Jan. 27, 1900. 

DEAR JOE, --Apparently we are not proposing to set the Filipinos free andgive their islands to them; and apparently we are not proposing to hangthe priests and confiscate their property. If these things are so, thewar out there has no interest for me. 

I have just been examining chapter LXX of "Following the Equator, " tosee if the Boer's old military effectiveness is holding out. It readscuriously as if it had been written about the present war. 

I believe that in the next chapter my notion of the Boer was rightlyconceived. He is popularly called uncivilized, I do not know why. Happiness, food, shelter, clothing, wholesale labor, modest and rationalambitions, honesty, kindliness, hospitality, love of freedom andlimitless courage to fight for it, composure and fortitude in time ofdisaster, patience in time of hardship and privation, absence of noiseand brag in time of victory, contentment with a humble and peacefullife void of insane excitements--if there is a higher and better formof civilization than this, I am not aware of it and do not know whereto look for it. I suppose we have the habit of imagining that a lot ofartistic, intellectual and other artificialities must be added, or itisn't complete. We and the English have these latter; but as we lack thegreat bulk of these others, I think the Boer civilization is the best ofthe two. My idea of our civilization is that it is a shabby poorthing and full of cruelties, vanities, arrogancies, meannesses, andhypocrisies. As for the word, I hate the sound of it, for it conveysa lie; and as for the thing itself, I wish it was in hell, where itbelongs. 

Provided we could get something better in the place of it. But that isnot possible, perhaps. Poor as it is, it is better than real savagery, therefore we must stand by it, extend it, and (in public) praise it. Andso we must not utter any hateful word about England in these days, norfail to hope that she will win in this war, for her defeat andfall would be an irremediable disaster for the mangy human race. .. . Naturally, then, I am for England; but she is profoundly in the wrong, Joe, and no (instructed) Englishman doubts it. At least that is mybelief. 

Maybe I managed to make myself misunderstood, as to the Osteopathists. I wanted to know how the men impress you. As to their Art, I know fairlywell about that, and should not value Hartford's opinion of it; nor aphysician's; nor that of another who proposed to enlighten me out of hisignorance. Opinions based upon theory, superstition and ignorance arenot very precious. 

Livy and the others are off for the country for a day or two. 

 Love to you all MARK. 

 The next letter affords a pleasant variation. Without doubt it was written on realizing that good nature and enthusiasm had led him into indiscretion. This was always happening to him, and letters like this are not infrequent, though generally less entertaining. 

*****

To Mr. Ann, in London:

 WELLINGTON COURT, Feb. 23, '00. 

DEAR MR. ANN, --Upon sober second thought, it won't do!--I withdrawthat letter. Not because I said anything in it which is not true, forI didn't; but because when I allow my name to be used in forwarding astock-scheme I am assuming a certain degree of responsibility as towardthe investor, and I am not willing to do that. I have another objection, a purely selfish one: trading upon my name, whether the enterprisescored a success or a failure would damage me. I can't afford that;even the Archbishop of Canterbury couldn't afford it, and he has morecharacter to spare than I have. (Ah, a happy thought! If he would signthe letter with me that would change the whole complexion of the thing, of course. I do not know him, yet I would sign any commercial schemethat he would sign. As he does not know me, it follows that he wouldsign anything that I would sign. This is unassailable logic--but reallythat is all that can be said for it. )

No, I withdraw the letter. This virgin is pure up to date, and is goingto remain so. 

 Ys sincerely, S. L. C. 

*****

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

 WELLINGTON COURT, KNIGHTSBRIDGE, Mch. 4, '00. 

DEAR JOE, --Henry Robinson's death is a sharp wound to me, and it goesvery deep. I had a strong affection for him, and I think he had forme. Every Friday, three-fourths of the year for 16 years he was ofthe billiard-party in our house. When we come home, how shall we havebilliard-nights again--with no Ned Bunce and no Henry Robinson? Ibelieve I could not endure that. We must find another use for thatroom. Susy is gone, George is gone, Libby Hamersley, Ned Bunce, HenryRobinson. The friends are passing, one by one; our house, where suchwarm blood and such dear blood flowed so freely, is become a cemetery. But not in any repellent sense. Our dead are welcome there; their lifemade it beautiful, their death has hallowed it, we shall have them withus always, and there will be no parting. 

It was a moving address you made over Ward Cheney--that fortunate, youth! Like Susy, he got out of life all that was worth the living, andgot his great reward before he had crossed the tropic frontier of dreamsand entered the Sahara of fact. The deep consciousness of Susy's goodfortune is a constant comfort to me. 

London is happy-hearted at last. The British victories have swept theclouds away and there are no uncheerful faces. For three months theprivate dinner parties (we go to no public ones) have been Lodges ofSorrow, and just a little depressing sometimes; but now they are smileyand animated again. Joe, do you know the Irish gentleman and the Irishlady, the Scotch gentleman and the Scotch lady? These are darlings, every one. Night before last it was all Irish--24. One would have totravel far to match their ease and sociability and animation and sparkleand absence of shyness and self-consciousness. 

It was American in these fine qualities. This was at Mr. Lecky's. He isIrish, you know. Last night it was Irish again, at Lady Gregory's. LordRoberts is Irish; and Sir William Butler; and Kitchener, I think; anda disproportion of the other prominent Generals are of Irish and Scotchbreed-keeping up the traditions of Wellington, and Sir Colin Campbell ofthe Mutiny. You will have noticed that in S. A. As in the Mutiny, it isusually the Irish and the Scotch that are placed in the fore-front ofthe battle. An Irish friend of mine says this is because the Kelts areidealists, and enthusiasts, with age-old heroisms to emulate and keepbright before the world; but that the low-class Englishman is dulland without ideals, fighting bull-doggishly while he has a leader, butlosing his head and going to pieces when his leader falls--not so withthe Kelt. Sir Wm. Butler said "the Kelt is the spear-head of the Britishlance. "

 Love to you all. MARK. 

 The Henry Robinson mentioned in the foregoing letter was Henry C. Robinson, one-time Governor of Connecticut, long a dear and intimate friend of the Clemens household. "Lecky" was W. E. H. Lecky, the Irish historian whose History of European Morals had been, for many years, one of Mark Twain's favorite books:

 In July the Clemenses left the small apartment at 30 Wellington Court and established a summer household a little way out of London, at Dollis Hill. To-day the place has been given to the public under the name of Gladstone Park, so called for the reason that in an earlier time Gladstone had frequently visited there. It was a beautiful spot, a place of green grass and spreading oaks. In a letter in which Mrs. Clemens wrote to her sister she said: "It is simply divinely beautiful and peaceful; the great, old trees are beyond everything. I believe nowhere in the world do you find such trees as in England. " Clemens wrote to Twichell: "From the house you can see little but spacious stretches of hay-fields and green turf. .. .. Yet the massed, brick blocks of London are reachable in three minutes on a horse. By rail we can be in the heart of London, in Baker Street, in seventeen minutes--by a smart train in five. "

 Mail, however, would seem to have been less prompt. 

*****

To the Editor of the Times, in London:

SIR, --It has often been claimed that the London postal service wasswifter than that of New York, and I have always believed that the claimwas justified. But a doubt has lately sprung up in my mind. I liveeight miles from Printing House Square; the Times leaves that point at4 o'clock in the morning, by mail, and reaches me at 5 in the afternoon, thus making the trip in thirteen hours. 

It is my conviction that in New York we should do it in eleven. 

 C. 

DOLLIS HILL, N. W. 

*****

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

 DOLLIS HILL HOUSE, KILBURN, N. W. LONDON, Aug. 12, '00. 

DEAR JOE, --The Sages Prof. Fiske and Brander Matthews were out hereto tea a week ago and it was a breath of American air to see them. Wefurnished them a bright day and comfortable weather--and they used itall up, in their extravagant American way. Since then we have sat bycoal fires, evenings. 

We shall sail for home sometime in October, but shall winter in New Yorkwhere we can have an osteopath of good repute to continue the work ofputting this family in proper condition. 

Livy and I dined with the Chief Justice a month ago and he was aswell-conditioned as an athlete. 

It is all China, now, and my sympathies are with the Chinese. They havebeen villainously dealt with by the sceptred thieves of Europe, and Ihope they will drive all the foreigners out and keep them out for good. I only wish it; of course I don't really expect it. 

Why, hang it, it occurs to me that by the time we reach New York youTwichells will be invading Europe and once more we shall miss theconnection. This is thoroughly exasperating. Aren't we ever going tomeet again?

 With no end of love from all of us, MARK. 

P. S. Aug. 18. 

DEAR JOE, --It is 7. 30 a. M. I have been waking very early, lately. If itoccurs once more, it will be habit; then I will submit and adopt it. 

This is our day of mourning. It is four years since Susy died; it isfive years and a month that I saw her alive for the last time-throwingkisses at us from the railway platform when we started West around theworld. 

Sometimes it is a century; sometimes it was yesterday. 

 With love MARK. 

 We discover in the foregoing letter that the long European residence was drawing to an end. More than nine years had passed since the closing of the Hartford house--eventful years that had seen failure, bereavement, battle with debt, and rehabilitated fortunes. All the family were anxious to get home--Mark Twain most anxious of all. 

 They closed Dollis Hill House near the end of September, and put up for a brief period at a family hotel, an amusing picture of which follows. 

*****

To J. Y. M. MacAlister, in London:

 Sep. 1900. 

MY DEAR MACALISTER, --We do really start next Saturday. I meant to sailearlier, but waited to finish some studies of what are called FamilyHotels. They are a London specialty, God has not permitted them to existelsewhere; they are ramshackle clubs which were dwellings at the timeof the Heptarchy. Dover and Albemarle Streets are filled with them. The once spacious rooms are split up into coops which afford as muchdiscomfort as can be had anywhere out of jail for any money. All themodern inconveniences are furnished, and some that have been obsoletefor a century. The prices are astonishingly high for what you get. Thebedrooms are hospitals for incurable furniture. I find it so in thisone. They exist upon a tradition; they represent the vanishing home-likeinn of fifty years ago, and are mistaken by foreigners for it. Somequite respectable Englishmen still frequent them through inherited habitand arrested development; many Americans also, through ignorance andsuperstition. The rooms are as interesting as the Tower of London, butolder I think. Older and dearer. The lift was a gift of William theConqueror, some of the beds are prehistoric. They represent geologicalperiods. Mine is the oldest. It is formed in strata of Old RedSandstone, volcanic tufa, ignis fatuus, and bicarbonate of hornblende, superimposed upon argillaceous shale, and contains the prints ofprehistoric man. It is in No. 149. Thousands of scientists come to seeit. They consider it holy. They want to blast out the prints but cannot. Dynamite rebounds from it. 

Finished studies and sail Saturday in Minnehaha. 

 Yours ever affectionately, MARK TWAIN. 

 They sailed for New York October 6th, and something more than a week later America gave them a royal welcome. The press, far and wide, sounded Mark Twain's praises once more; dinners and receptions were offered on every hand; editors and lecture agents clamored for him. 

 The family settled in the Earlington Hotel during a period of house-hunting. They hoped eventually to return to Hartford, but after a brief visit paid by Clemens alone to the old place he wrote:

*****

To Sylvester Baxter, in Boston:

 NEW YORK, Oct. 26, 1900. 

DEAR MR. BAXTER, --It was a great pleasure to me to renew the other dayswith you, and there was a pathetic pleasure in seeing Hartford and thehouse again; but I realize that if we ever enter the house again tolive, our hearts will break. I am not sure that we shall ever be strongenough to endure that strain. 

 Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

 Mr. And Mrs. Rogers wished to have them in their neighborhood, but the houses there were not suitable, or were too expensive. Through Mr. Frank Doubleday they eventually found, at 14 West Tenth Street, a large residence handsomely furnished, and this they engaged for the winter. "We were lucky to get this big house furnished, " he wrote MacAlister in London. "There was not another one in town procurable that would answer us, but this one is all right--space enough in it for several families, the rooms all old-fashioned, great size. "

 The little note that follows shows that Mark Twain had not entirely forgotten the days of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. 

*****

To a Neighbor on West Tenth Street, New York:

 Nov. 30. 

DEAR MADAM, --I know I ought to respect my duty and perform it, but I amweak and faithless where boys are concerned, and I can't help secretlyapproving pretty bad and noisy ones, though I do object to the kind thatring door-bells. My family try to get me to stop the boys from holdingconventions on the front steps, but I basely shirk out of it, because Ithink the boys enjoy it. 

My wife has been complaining to me this evening about the boys on thefront steps and under compulsion I have made some promises. But I amvery forgetful, now that I am old, and my sense of duty is gettingspongy. 

 Very truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS.