A number of dictations of this period were about Susy, her childhood,
and the biography she had written of him, most of which he included in
his chapters. More than once after such dictations he reproached himself
bitterly for the misfortunes of his house. He consoled himself a little
by saying that Susy had died at the right time, in the flower of youth
and happiness; but he blamed himself for the lack of those things which
might have made her childhood still more bright. Once he spoke of the
biography she had begun, and added:
“Oh, I wish I had paid more attention to that little girl's work! If I
had only encouraged her now and then, what it would have meant to her,
and what a beautiful thing it would have been to have had her story
of me told in her own way, year after year! If I had shown her that I
cared, she might have gone on with it. We are always too busy for our
children; we never give them the time nor the interest they deserve.
We lavish gifts upon them; but the most precious gift-our personal
association, which means so much to them-we give grudgingly and throw
it away on those who care for it so little.” Then, after a moment of
silence: “But we are repaid for it at last. There comes a time when we
want their company and their interest. We want it more than anything
in the world, and we are likely to be starved for it, just as they were
starved so long ago. There is no appreciation of my books that is so
precious to me as appreciation from my children. Theirs is the praise we
want, and the praise we are least likely to get.”
His moods of remorse seemed to overwhelm him at times. He spoke of
Henry's death and little Langdon's, and charged himself with both.
He declared that for years he had filled Mrs. Clemens's life with
privations, that the sorrow of Susy's death had hastened her own end.
How darkly he painted it! One saw the jester, who for forty years had
been making the world laugh, performing always before a background of
tragedy.
But such moods were evanescent. He was oftener gay than somber. One
morning before we settled down to work he related with apparent joy how
he had made a failure of story-telling at a party the night before. An
artist had told him a yarn, he said, which he had considered the most
amusing thing in the world. But he had not been satisfied with it, and
had attempted to improve on it at the party. He had told it with what
he considered the nicest elaboration of detail and artistic effect, and
when he had concluded and expected applause, only a sickening silence
had followed.
“A crowd like that can make a good deal of silence when they combine,”
he said, “and it probably lasted as long as ten seconds, because it
seemed an hour and a half. Then a lady said, with evident feeling,
'Lord, how pathetic!' For a moment I was stupefied. Then the fountains
of my great deeps were broken up, and I rained laughter for forty
days and forty nights during as much as three minutes. By that time
I realized it was my fault. I had overdone the thing. I started in to
deceive them with elaborate burlesque pathos, in order to magnify the
humorous explosion at the end; but I had constructed such a fog of
pathos that when I got to the humor you couldn't find it.”
He was likely to begin the morning with some such incident which perhaps
he did not think worth while to include in his dictations, and sometimes
he interrupted his dictations to relate something aside, or to outline
some plan or scheme which his thought had suggested.
Once, when he was telling of a magazine he had proposed to start, the
Back Number, which was, to contain reprints of exciting events from
history--newspaper gleanings--eye-witness narrations, which he said
never lost their freshness of interest--he suddenly interrupted himself
to propose that we start such a magazine in the near future--he to be
its publisher and I its editor. I think I assented, and the dictation
proceeded, but the scheme disappeared permanently.
He usually had a number of clippings or slips among the many books on
the bed beside him from which he proposed to dictate each day, but
he seldom could find the one most needed. Once, after a feverishly
impatient search for a few moments, he invited Miss Hobby to leave the
room temporarily, so, as he said, that he might swear. He got up and we
began to explore the bed, his profanity increasing amazingly with each
moment. It was an enormously large bed, and he began to disparage the
size of it.
“One could lose a dog in this bed,” he declared.
Finally I suggested that he turn over the clipping which he had in his
hand. He did so, and it proved to be the one he wanted. Its discovery
was followed by a period of explosions, only half suppressed as to
volume. Then he said:
“There ought to be a room in this house to swear in. It's dangerous to
have to repress an emotion like that.”
A moment later, when Miss Hobby returned, he was serene and happy again.
He was usually gentle during the dictations, and patient with those
around him--remarkably so, I thought, as a rule. But there were moments
that involved risk. He had requested me to interrupt his dictation
at any time that I found him repeating or contradicting himself, or
misstating some fact known to me. At first I hesitated to do this, and
cautiously mentioned the matter when he had finished. Then he was likely
to say:
“Why didn't you stop me? Why did you let me go on making a jackass of
myself when you could have saved me?”
So then I used to take the risk of getting struck by lightning, and
nearly always stopped him at the time. But if it happened that I upset
his thought the thunderbolt was apt to fly. He would say:
“Now you've knocked everything out of my head.”
Then, of course, I would apologize and say I was sorry, which would
rectify matters, though half an hour later it might happen again. I
became lightning-proof at last; also I learned better to select the
psychological moment for the correction.
There was a humorous complexion to the dictations which perhaps I have
not conveyed to the reader at all; humor was his natural breath and
life, and was not wholly absent in his most somber intervals.
But poetry was there as well. His presence was full of it: the grandeur
of his figure; the grace of his movement; the music of his measured
speech. Sometimes there were long pauses when he was wandering in
distant valleys of thought and did not speak at all. At such times he
had a habit of folding and refolding the sleeve of his dressing-gown
around his wrist, regarding it intently, as it seemed. His hands were so
fair and shapely; the palms and finger-tips as pink as those of a child.
Then when he spoke he was likely to fling back his great, white mane,
his eyes half closed yet showing a gleam of fire between the lids, his
clenched fist lifted, or his index-finger pointing, to give force and
meaning to his words. I cannot recall the picture too often, or remind
myself too frequently how precious it was to be there, and to see him
and to hear him. I do not know why I have not said before that he
smoked continually during these dictations--probably as an aid to
thought--though he smoked at most other times, for that matter. His
cigars were of that delicious fragrance which characterizes domestic
tobacco; but I had learned early to take refuge in another brand when he
offered me one. They were black and strong and inexpensive, and it was
only his early training in the printing-office and on the river that had
seasoned him to tobacco of that temper. Rich, admiring friends used to
send him quantities of expensive imported cigars; but he seldom touched
them, and they crumbled away or were smoked by visitors. Once, to a
minister who proposed to send him something very special, he wrote:
I should accept your hospitable offer at once but for the fact that
I couldn't do it and remain honest. That is to say, if I allowed
you to send me what you believed to be good cigars it would
distinctly mean that I meant to smoke them, whereas I should do
nothing of the kind. I know a good cigar better than you do, for I
have had 60 years' experience.
No, that is not what I mean; I mean I know a bad cigar better than
anybody else. I judge by the price only; if it costs above 5 cents
I know it to be either foreign or half foreign & unsmokable--by me.
I have many boxes of Havana cigars, of all prices from 20 cents
apiece up to $1.66 apiece; I bought none of them, they were all
presents; they are an accumulation of several years. I have never
smoked one of them & never shall; I work them off on the visitor.
You shall have a chance when you come.
He smoked a pipe a good deal, and he preferred it to be old and violent;
and once, when he had bought a new, expensive English brier-root he
regarded it doubtfully for a time, and then handed it over to me,
saying:
“I'd like to have you smoke that a year or two, and when it gets so you
can't stand it, maybe it will suit me.”
I am happy to add that subsequently he presented me with the pipe
altogether, for it apparently never seemed to get qualified for his
taste, perhaps because the tobacco used was too mild.
One day, after the dictation, word was brought up that a newspaper man
was down-stairs who wished to see him concerning a report that Chauncey
Depew was to resign his Senatorial seat and Mark Twain was to be
nominated in his place. The fancy of this appealed to him, and the
reporter was allowed to come up. He was a young man, and seemed rather
nervous, and did not wish to state where the report had originated. His
chief anxiety was apparently to have Mark Twain's comment on the matter.
Clemens said very little at the time. He did not wish to be a Senator;
he was too busy just now dictating biography, and added that he didn't
think he would care for the job, anyway. When the reporter was gone,
however, certain humorous possibilities developed. The Senatorship
would be a stepping-stone to the Presidency, and with the combination
of humorist, socialist, and peace-patriot in the Presidential chair the
nation could expect an interesting time. Nothing further came of the
matter. There was no such report. The young newspaper man had invented
the whole idea to get a “story” out of Mark Twain. The item as printed
next day invited a good deal of comment, and Collier's Weekly made it
a text for an editorial on his mental vigor and general fitness for the
place.
If it happened that he had no particular engagement for the afternoon,
he liked to walk out, especially when the pleasant weather came.
Sometimes we walked up Fifth Avenue, and I must admit that for a good
while I could not get rid of a feeling of self-consciousness, for most
people turned to look, though I was fully aware that I did not in the
least come into their scope of vision. They saw only Mark Twain. The
feeling was a more comfortably one at The Players, where we sometimes
went for luncheon, for the acquaintance there and the democracy of that
institution had a tendency to eliminate contrasts and incongruities. We
sat at the Round Table among those good fellows who were always so glad
to welcome him.
Once we went to the “Music Master,” that tender play of Charles Klein's,
given by that matchless interpreter, David Warfield. Clemens was
fascinated, and said more than once:
“It is as permanent as 'Rip Van Winkle.' Warfield, like Jefferson, can
go on playing it all his life.”
We went behind when it was over, and I could see that Warfield glowed
with Mark Twain's unstinted approval. Later, when I saw him at The
Players, he declared that no former compliment had ever made him so
happy.
There were some billiard games going on between the champions Hoppe
and Sutton, at the Madison Square Garden, and Clemens, with his eager
fondness for the sport, was anxious to attend them. He did not like to
go anywhere alone, and one evening he invited me to accompany him.
Just as he stepped into the auditorium there was a vigorous round of
applause. The players stopped, somewhat puzzled, for no especially
brilliant shot had been made. Then they caught the figure of Mark
Twain and realized that the game, for the moment, was not the chief
attraction. The audience applauded again, and waved their handkerchiefs.
Such a tribute is not often paid to a private citizen.
Clemens had a great admiration for the young champion Hoppe, which the
billiardist's extreme youth and brilliancy invited, and he watched his
game with intense eagerness. When it was over the referee said a
few words and invited Mark Twain to speak. He rose and told them a
story-probably invented on the instant. He said:
“Once in Nevada I dropped into a billiard-room casually, and picked
up a cue and began to knock the balls around. The proprietor, who
was a red-haired man, with such hair as I have never seen anywhere
except on a torch, asked me if I would like to play. I said, 'Yes.'
He said, 'Knock the balls around a little and let me see how you can
shoot.' So I knocked them around, and thought I was doing pretty
well, when he said, 'That's all right; I'll play you left-handed.'
It hurt my pride, but I played him. We banked for the shot and he
won it. Then he commenced to play, and I commenced to chalk my cue
to get ready to play, and he went on playing, and I went on chalking
my cue; and he played and I chalked all through that game. When he
had run his string out I said:
“That's wonderful! perfectly wonderful! If you can play that way
left-handed what could you do right-handed?'
“'Couldn't do anything,' he said. 'I'm a left-handed man.'”
How it delighted them! I think it was the last speech of any sort he
made that season. A week or two later he went to Dublin, New Hampshire,
for the summer--this time to the Upton House, which had been engaged a
year before, the Copley Greene place being now occupied by its owner.