There was an unusual dramatic interest in the Clemens home that autumn.
Abby Sage Richardson had dramatized 'The Prince and the Pauper', and
Daniel Frohman had secured Elsie Leslie (Lyde) to take the double role
of the Prince and Tom Canty. The rehearsals were going on, and the
Clemens children were naturally a good deal excited over the outcome.
Susy Clemens was inspired to write a play of her own--a pretty
Greek fancy, called “The Triumph of Music,” and when it was given on
Thanksgiving night, by herself, with Clara and Jean and Margaret Warner,
it was really a lovely performance, and carried one back to the days
when emotions were personified, and nymphs haunted the seclusions of
Arcady. Clemens was proud of Susy's achievement, and deeply moved by it.
He insisted on having the play repeated, and it was given again later in
the year.
Pretty Elsie Leslie became a favorite of the Clemens household. She was
very young, and when she visited Hartford Jean and she were companions
and romped together in the hay-loft. She was also a favorite of William
Gillette. One day when Clemens and Gillette were together they decided
to give the little girl a surprise--a unique one. They agreed to
embroider a pair of slippers for her--to do the work themselves. Writing
to her of it, Mark Twain said:
Either one of us could have thought of a single slipper, but it took
both of us to think of two slippers. In fact, one of us did think
of one slipper, and then, quick as a flash, the other of the other
one. It shows how wonderful the human mind is....
Gillette embroidered his slipper with astonishing facility and
splendor, but I have been a long time pulling through with mine.
You see, it was my very first attempt at art, and I couldn't rightly
get the hang of it along at first. And then I was so busy that I
couldn't get a chance to work at it at home, and they wouldn't let
me embroider on the cars; they said it made the other passengers
afraid. They didn't like the light that flared into my eye when I
had an inspiration. And even the most fair-minded people doubted me
when I explained what it was I was making--especially brakemen.
Brakemen always swore at it and carried on, the way ignorant people
do about art. They wouldn't take my word that it was a slipper;
they said they believed it was a snow-shoe that had some kind of
disease.
He went on to explain and elucidate the pattern of the slipper, and
how Dr. Root had come in and insisted on taking a hand in it, and how
beautiful it was to see him sit there and tell Mrs. Clemens what had
been happening while they were away during the summer, holding the
slipper up toward the end of his nose, imagining the canvas was a
“subject” with a scalp-wound, working with a “lovely surgical stitch,”
never hesitating a moment in his talk except to say “Ouch!” when he
stuck himself with the needle.
Take the slippers and wear them next your heart, Elsie dear; for
every stitch in them is a testimony of the affection which two of
your loyalest friends bear you. Every single stitch cost us blood.
I've got twice as many pores in me now as I used to have; and you
would never believe how many places you can stick a needle in
yourself until you go into the embroidery line and devote yourself
to art.
Do not wear these slippers in public, dear; it would only excite
envy; and, as like as not, somebody would try to shoot you.
Merely use them to assist you in remembering that among the many,
many people who think all the world of you is your friend,