Meanwhile, with the completion of the Sellers play Clemens had flung
himself into dramatic writing once more with a new and more violent
impetuosity than ever. Howells had hardly returned to Boston when he
wrote:
Now let's write a tragedy.
The inclosed is not fancy, it is history; except that the little girl
was a passing stranger, and not kin to any of the parties. I read
the incident in Carlyle's Cromwell a year ago, and made a note in my
note-book; stumbled on the note to-day, and wrote up the closing scene
of a possible tragedy, to see how it might work.
If we made this colonel a grand fellow, and gave him a wife to
suit--hey? It's right in the big historical times--war; Cromwell in big,
picturesque power, and all that.
Come, let's do this tragedy, and do it well. Curious, but didn't
Florence want a Cromwell? But Cromwell would not be the chief figure
here.
It was the closing scene of that pathetic passage in history from which
he would later make his story, “The Death Disc.” Howells was too tired
and too occupied to undertake immediately a new dramatic labor, so
Clemens went steaming ahead alone.
My billiard-table is stacked up with books relating to the Sandwich
Islands; the walls are upholstered with scraps of paper penciled
with notes drawn from them. I have saturated myself with knowledge
of that unimaginably beautiful land and that most strange and
fascinating people. And I have begun a story. Its hidden motive
will illustrate a but-little considered fact in human nature: that
the religious folly you are born in you will die in, no matter what
apparently reasonabler religious folly may seem to have taken its
place; meanwhile abolished and obliterated it. I start Bill
Ragsdale at eleven years of age, and the heroine at four, in the
midst of the ancient idolatrous system, with its picturesque and
amazing customs and superstitions, three months before the arrival
of the missionaries and--the erection of a shallow Christianity upon
the ruins of the old paganism.
Then these two will become educated Christians and highly civilized.
And then I will jump fifteen years and do Ragsdale's leper business.
When we come to dramatize, we can draw a deal of matter from the
story, all ready to our hand.
He made elaborate preparations for the Sandwich Islands story, which he
and Howells would dramatize later, and within the space of a few weeks
he actually did dramatize 'The Prince and the Pauper' and 'Tom Sawyer',
and was prodding Webster to find proper actors or managers; stipulating
at first severe and arbitrary terms, which were gradually modified,
as one after another of the prospective customers found these dramatic
wares unsuited to their needs. Mark Twain was one of the most
dramatic creatures that ever lived, but he lacked the faculty of stage
arrangement of the dramatic idea. It is one of the commonest defects in
the literary make-up; also one of the hardest to realize and to explain.
The winter of 1883-84 was a gay one in the Clemens home. Henry Irving
was among those entertained, Augustus Saint-Gaudens, Aldrich and his
wife, Howells of course, and George W. Cable. Cable had now permanently
left the South for the promised land which all authors of the South and
West seek eventually, and had in due course made his way to Hartford.
Clemens took Cable's fortunes in hand, as he had done with many another,
invited him to his home, and undertook to open negotiations with the
American Publishing Company, of which Frank Bliss was now the manager,
for the improvement of his fortunes.
Cable had been giving readings from his stories and had somewhere picked
up the measles. He suddenly came down with the complaint during his
visit to Clemens, and his case was a violent one. It required the
constant attendance of a trained nurse and one or two members of the
household to pull him through.
In the course of time he was convalescent, and when contagion was no
longer to be feared guests were invited in for his entertainment. At one
of these gatherings, Cable produced a curious book, which he said
had been lent to him by Prof. Francis Bacon, of New Haven, as a great
rarity. It was a little privately printed pamphlet written by a Southern
youth, named S. Watson Wolston, a Yale student of 1845, and was an
absurd romance of the hyperflorid, grandiloquent sort, entitled, “Love
Triumphant, or the Enemy Conquered.” Its heroine's name was Ambulinia,
and its flowery, half-meaningless periods and impossible situations
delighted Clemens beyond measure. He begged Cable to lend it to him, to
read at the Saturday Morning Club, declaring that he certainly must
own the book, at whatever cost. Henry C. Robinson, who was present,
remembered having seen a copy in his youth, and Twichell thought he
recalled such a book on sale in New Haven during his college days.
Twichell said nothing as to any purpose in the matter; but somewhat
later, being in New Haven, he stepped into the old book-store and found
the same proprietor, who remembered very well the book and its author.
Twichell rather fearfully asked if by any chance a copy of it might
still be obtained.
“Well,” was the answer, “I undertook to put my cellar in order the other
day, and found about a cord of them down there. I think I can supply
you.”
Twichell took home six of the books at ten cents each, and on their
first spring walk to Talcott's Tower casually mentioned to Clemens the
quest for the rare Ambulinia. But Clemens had given up the pursuit.
New York dealers had reported no success in the matter. The book was no
longer in existence.
“What would you give for a copy?” asked. Twichell.
Clemens became excited.
“It isn't a question of price,” he said; “that would be for the owner to
set if I could find him.”
Twichell drew a little package from his pocket.
“Well, Mark,” he said, “here are six copies of that book, to begin with.
If that isn't enough, I can get you a wagon-load.”
It was enough. But it did not deter Clemens in his purpose, which was to
immortalize the little book by pointing out its peculiar charms. He did
this later, and eventually included the entire story, with comments, in
one of his own volumes.
Clemens and Twichell did not always walk that spring. The early form of
bicycle, the prehistoric high-wheel, had come into vogue, and they each
got one and attempted its conquest. They practised in the early morning
hours on Farmington Avenue, which was wide and smooth, and they had an
instructor, a young German, who, after a morning or two, regarded Mark
Twain helplessly and said:
“Mr. Clemens, it's remarkable--you can fall off of a bicycle more
different ways than the man that invented it.”
They were curious things, those old high-wheel machines. You were
perched away up in the air, with the feeling that you were likely at any
moment to strike a pebble or something that would fling you forward with
damaging results. Frequently that is what happened. The word “header”
seems to have grown out of that early bicycling period. Perhaps Mark
Twain invented it. He had enough experience to do it. He always declared
afterward that he invented all the new bicycle profanity that has since
come into general use. Once he wrote:
There was a row of low stepping-stones across one end of the street,
a measured yard apart. Even after I got so I could steer pretty
fairly I was so afraid of those stones that I always hit them. They
gave me the worst falls I ever got in that street, except those
which I got from dogs. I have seen it stated that no expert is
quick enough to run over a dog; that a dog is always able to skip
out of his way. I think that that may be true; but I think that the
reason he couldn't run over the dog was because he was trying to. I
did not try to run over any dog. But I ran over every dog that came
along. I think it makes a great deal of difference. If you try to
run over the dog he knows how to calculate, but if you are trying to
miss him he does not know how to calculate, and is liable to jump
the wrong way every time. It was always so in my experience. Even
when I could not hit a wagon I could hit a dog that came to see me
practise. They all liked to see me practise, and they all came, for
there was very little going on in our neighborhood to entertain a
dog.
He conquered, measurably, that old, discouraging thing, and he and
Twichell would go on excursions, sometimes as far as Wethersfield or to
the tower. It was a pleasant change, at least it was an interesting one;
but bicycling on the high wheel was never a popular diversion with Mark
Twain, and his enthusiasm in the sport had died before the “safety” came
along.
He had his machine sent out to Elmira, but there were too many hills in
Chemung County, and after one brief excursion he came in, limping and
pushing his wheel, and did not try it again.
To return to Cable. When the 1st of April (1884) approached he concluded
it would be a good time to pay off his debt of gratitude for his
recent entertainment in the Clemens's home. He went to work at it
systematically. He had a “private and confidential” circular letter
printed, and he mailed it to one hundred and fifty of Mark Twain's
literary friends in Boston, Hartford, Springfield, New York, Brooklyn,
Washington, and elsewhere, suggesting that they write to him, so that
their letters would reach him simultaneously April 1st, asking for his
autograph. No stamps or cards were to be inclosed for reply, and it was
requested that “no stranger to Mr. Clemens and no minor” should take
part. Mrs. Clemens was let into the secret, so that she would see to
it that her husband did not reject his mail or commit it to the flames
unopened.
It would seem that every one receiving the invitation must have
responded to it, for on the morning of April 1st a stupefying mass of
letters was unloaded on Mark Twain's table. He did not know what to make
of it, and Mrs. Clemens stood off to watch the results. The first one
he opened was from Dean Sage, a friend whom he valued highly. Sage wrote
from Brooklyn:
DEAR CLEMENS,--I have recently been asked by a young lady who
unfortunately has a mania for autograph-collecting, but otherwise is
a charming character, and comely enough to suit your fastidious
taste, to secure for her the sign manual of the few distinguished
persons fortunate enough to have my acquaintance. In enumerating
them to her, after mentioning the names of Geo. Shepard Page, Joe
Michell, Capt. Isaiah Ryndus, Mr. Willard, Dan Mace, and J. L.
Sullivan, I came to yours. “Oh!” said she, “I have read all his
works--Little Breeches, The Heathen Chinee, and the rest--and think
them delightful. Do oblige me by asking him for his autograph,
preceded by any little sentiment that may occur to him, provided it
is not too short.”
Of course I promised, and hope you will oblige me by sending some
little thing addressed to Miss Oakes.
We are all pretty well at home just now, though indisposition has
been among us for the past fortnight. With regards to Mrs. Clemens
and the children, in which my wife joins,
Yours truly, DEAN SAGE.
It amused and rather surprised him, and it fooled him completely; but
when he picked up a letter from Brander Matthews, asking, in some absurd
fashion, for his signature, and another from Ellen Terry, and from
Irving, and from Stedman, and from Warner, and Waring, and H. C. Bunner,
and Sarony, and Laurence Hutton, and John Hay, and R. U. Johnson, and
Modjeska, the size and quality of the joke began to overawe him. He was
delighted, of course; for really it was a fine compliment, in its way,
and most of the letters were distinctly amusing. Some of them asked for
autographs by the yard, some by the pound. Henry Irving said:
I have just got back from a very late rehearsal-five o'clock--very
tired--but there will be no rest till I get your autograph.
Some requested him to sit down and copy a few chapters from The
Innocents Abroad for them or to send an original manuscript. Others
requested that his autograph be attached to a check of interesting size.
John Hay suggested that he copy a hymn, a few hundred lines of Young's
“Night Thoughts,” and an equal amount of Pollak's “Course of Time.”
I want my boy to form a taste for serious and elevated poetry, and
it will add considerable commercial value to have them in your
handwriting.
Altogether the reading of the letters gave him a delightful day, and his
admiration for Cable grew accordingly. Cable, too, was pleased with the
success of his joke, though he declared he would never risk such a thing
again. A newspaper of the time reports him as saying:
I never suffered so much agony as for a few days previous to the 1st
of April. I was afraid the letters would reach Mark when he was in
affliction, in which case all of us would never have ceased flying
to make it up to him.
When I visited Mark we used to open our budgets of letters together
at breakfast. We used to sing out whenever we struck an autograph-
hunter. I think the idea came from that. The first person I spoke
to about it was Robert Underwood Johnson, of the Century. My most
enthusiastic ally was the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. We never thought
it would get into the papers. I never played a practical joke
before. I never will again, certainly.
Mark Twain in those days did not encourage the regular
autograph-collectors, and seldom paid any attention to their requests
for his signature. He changed all this in later years, and kept a supply
always on hand to satisfy every request; but in those earlier days he
had no patience with collecting fads, and it required a particularly
pleasing application to obtain his signature.