“Lunch here,” he said, “and we'll try the new billiard-table.”
I said what was eminently true--that I could not play--that I had never
played more “than a few games of pool, and those very long ago.
“No matter,” he answered; “the poorer you play, the better I shall like
it.”
So I remained for luncheon and we began, November 2d, the first game
ever played on the Christmas table. We played the English game, in which
caroms and pockets both count. I had a beginner's luck, on the whole,
and I remember it as a riotous, rollicking game, the beginning of a
closer understanding between us--of a distinct epoch in our association.
When it was ended he said:
“I'm not going to Egypt. There was a man here yesterday afternoon who
said it was bad for bronchitis, and, besides, it's too far away from
this billiard-table.”
He suggested that I come back in the evening and play some more. I
did so, and the game lasted until after midnight. He gave me odds, of
course, and my “nigger luck,” as he called it, continued. It kept him
sweating and swearing feverishly to win. Finally, once I made a great
fluke--a carom, followed by most of the balls falling into the pockets.
“Well,” he said, “when you pick up that cue this damn table drips at
every pore.”
After that the morning dictations became a secondary interest. Like
a boy, he was looking forward to the afternoon of play, and it never
seemed to come quick enough to suit him. I remained regularly for
luncheon, and he was inclined to cut the courses short, that he might
the sooner get up-stairs to the billiard-room. His earlier habit of
not eating in the middle of the day continued; but he would get up and
dress, and walk about the dining-room in his old fashion, talking that
marvelous, marvelous talk which I was always trying to remember, and
with only fractional success at best. To him it was only a method of
killing time. I remember once, when he had been discussing with great
earnestness the Japanese question, he suddenly noticed that the luncheon
was about ending, and he said:
“Now we'll proceed to more serious matters--it's your--shot.” And he was
quite serious, for the green cloth and the rolling balls afforded him a
much larger interest.
To the donor of his new possession Clemens wrote:
DEAR MRS. ROGERS,--The billiard-table is better than the doctors.
I have a billiardist on the premises, & walk not less than ten miles
every day with the cue in my hand. And the walking is not the whole
of the exercise, nor the most health giving part of it, I think.
Through the multitude of the positions and attitudes it brings into
play every muscle in the body & exercises them all.
The games begin right after luncheons, daily, & continue until
midnight, with 2 hours' intermission for dinner & music. And so it
is 9 hours' exercise per day & 10 or 12 on Sunday. Yesterday & last
night it was 12--& I slept until 8 this morning without waking. The
billiard-table as a Sabbath-breaker can beat any coal-breaker in
Pennsylvania & give it 30 in the game. If Mr. Rogers will take to
daily billiards he can do without the doctors & the massageur, I
think.
We are really going to build a house on my farm, an hour & a half
from New York. It is decided.
With love & many thanks.
S. L. C.
Naturally enough, with continued practice I improved my game, and he
reduced my odds accordingly. He was willing to be beaten, but not too
often. Like any other boy, he preferred to have the balance in his
favor. We set down a record of the games, and he went to bed happier if
the tally-sheet showed him winner.
It was natural, too, that an intimacy of association and of personal
interest should grow under such conditions--to me a precious boon--and
I wish here to record my own boundless gratitude to Mrs. Rogers for her
gift, which, whatever it meant to him, meant so much more to me. The
disparity of ages no longer existed; other discrepancies no longer
mattered. The pleasant land of play is a democracy where such things do
not count.
To recall all the humors and interesting happenings of those early
billiard-days would be to fill a large volume. I can preserve no more
than a few characteristic phases.
He was not an even-tempered player. When the balls were perverse in
their movements and his aim unsteady, he was likely to become short with
his opponent--critical and even fault-finding. Then presently a reaction
would set in, and he would be seized with remorse. He would become
unnecessarily gentle and kindly--even attentive--placing the balls as
I knocked them into the pockets, hurrying from one end of the table to
render this service, endeavoring to show in every way except by actual
confession in words that he was sorry for what seemed to him, no doubt,
an unworthy display of temper, unjustified irritation.
Naturally, this was a mood that I enjoyed less than that which had
induced it. I did not wish him to humble himself; I was willing that
he should be severe, even harsh, if he felt so inclined; his age, his
position, his genius entitled him to special privileges; yet I am
glad, as I remember it now, that the other side revealed itself, for it
completes the sum of his great humanity.
Indeed, he was always not only human, but superhuman; not only a man,
but superman. Nor does this term apply only to his psychology. In
no other human being have I ever seen such physical endurance. I was
comparatively a young man, and by no means an invalid; but many a time,
far in the night, when I was ready to drop with exhaustion, he was
still as fresh and buoyant and eager for the game as at the moment of
beginning. He smoked and smoked continually, and followed the endless
track around the billiard-table with the light step of youth. At three
or four o'clock in the morning he would urge just one more game, and
would taunt me for my weariness. I can truthfully testify that
never until the last year of his life did he willingly lay down the
billiard-cue, or show the least suggestion of fatigue.
He played always at high pressure. Now and then, in periods of
adversity, he would fly into a perfect passion with things in general.
But, in the end, it was a sham battle, and he saw the uselessness and
humor of it, even in the moment of his climax. Once, when he found it
impossible to make any of his favorite shots, he became more and
more restive, the lightning became vividly picturesque as the clouds
blackened. Finally, with a regular thunder-blast, he seized the cue with
both hands and literally mowed the balls across the table, landing one
or two of them on the floor. I do not recall his exact remarks during
the performance; I was chiefly concerned in getting out of the way, and
those sublime utterances were lost. I gathered up the balls and we
went on playing as if nothing had happened, only he was very gentle and
sweet, like the sun on the meadows after the storm has passed by. After
a little he said:
“This is a most amusing game. When you play badly it amuses me, and when
I play badly and lose my temper it certainly must amuse you.”
His enjoyment of his opponent's perplexities was very keen. When he
had left the balls in some unfortunate position which made it almost
impossible for me to score he would laugh boisterously. I used to affect
to be injured and disturbed by this ridicule. Once, when he had made
the conditions unusually hard for me, and was enjoying the situation
accordingly, I was tempted to remark:
“Whenever I see you laugh at a thing like that I always doubt your sense
of humor.” Which seemed to add to his amusement.
Sometimes, when the balls were badly placed for me, he would offer
ostensible advice, suggesting that I should shoot here and there--shots
that were possible, perhaps, but not promising. Often I would follow his
advice, and then when I failed to score his amusement broke out afresh.
Other billiardists came from time to time: Colonel Harvey, Mr. Duneka,
and Major Leigh, of the Harper Company, and Peter Finley Dunne (Mr.
Dooley); but they were handicapped by their business affairs, and were
not dependable for daily and protracted sessions. Any number of his
friends were willing, even eager, to come for his entertainment; but the
percentage of them who could and would devote a number of hours each day
to being beaten at billiards and enjoy the operation dwindled down to
a single individual. Even I could not have done it--could not have
afforded it, however much I might have enjoyed the diversion--had it not
been contributory to my work. To me the association was invaluable; it
drew from him a thousand long-forgotten incidents; it invited a stream
of picturesque comments and philosophies; it furnished the most intimate
insight into his character.
He was not always glad to see promiscuous callers, even some one that he
might have met pleasantly elsewhere. One afternoon a young man whom he
had casually invited to “drop in some day in town” happened to call in
the midst of a very close series of afternoon games. It would all have
been well enough if the visitor had been content to sit quietly on the
couch and “bet on the game,” as Clemens suggested, after the greetings
were over; but he was a very young man, and he felt the necessity of
being entertaining. He insisted on walking about the room and getting in
the way, and on talking about the Mark Twain books he had read, and
the people he had met from time to time who had known Mark Twain on the
river, or on the Pacific coast, or elsewhere. I knew how fatal it
was for him to talk to Clemens during his play, especially concerning
matters most of which had been laid away. I trembled for our visitor.
If I could have got his ear privately I should have said: “For
heaven's sake sit down and keep still or go away! There's going to be
a combination of earthquake and cyclone and avalanche if you keep this
thing up.”
I did what I could. I looked at my watch every other minute. At last, in
desperation, I suggested that I retire from the game and let the visitor
have my cue. I suppose I thought this would eliminate an element of
danger. He declined on the ground that he seldom played, and continued
his deadly visit. I have never been in an atmosphere so fraught with
danger. I did not know how the game stood, and I played mechanically and
forgot to count the score. Clemens's face was grim and set and savage.
He no longer ventured even a word. By and by I noticed that he was
getting white, and I said, privately, “Now, this young man's hour has
come.”
It was certainly by the mercy of God just then that the visitor said:
“I'm sorry, but I've got to go. I'd like to stay longer, but I've got an
engagement for dinner.”
I don't remember how he got out, but I know that tons lifted as the door
closed behind him. Clemens made his shot, then very softly said:
“If he had stayed another five minutes I should have offered him
twenty-five cents to go.”
But a moment later he glared at me.
“Why in nation did you offer him your cue?”
“Wasn't that the courteous thing to do?” I asked.
“No!” he ripped out. “The courteous and proper thing would have been to
strike him dead. Did you want to saddle that disaster upon us for life?”
He was blowing off steam, and I knew it and encouraged it. My impulse
was to lie down on the couch and shout with hysterical laughter, but I
suspected that would be indiscreet. He made some further comment on
the propriety of offering a visitor a cue, and suddenly began to sing a
travesty of an old hymn:
“How tedious are they
Who their sovereign obey,”
and so loudly that I said:
“Aren't you afraid he'll hear you and come back?” Whereupon he pretended
alarm and sang under his breath, and for the rest of the evening was in
boundless good-humor.
I have recalled this incident merely as a sample of things that were
likely to happen at any time in his company, and to show the difficulty
one might find in fitting himself to his varying moods. He was not to
be learned in a day, or a week, or a month; some of those who knew him
longest did not learn him at all.
We celebrated his seventy-first birthday by playing billiards all day.
He invented a new game for the occasion; inventing rules for it with
almost every shot.
It happened that no member of the family was at home on this birthday.
Ill health had banished every one, even the secretary. Flowers,
telegrams, and congratulations came, and there was a string of callers;
but he saw no one beyond some intimate friends--the Gilders--late in the
afternoon. When they had gone we went down to dinner. We were entirely
alone, and I felt the great honor of being his only guest on such an
occasion. Once between the courses, when he rose, as usual, to walk
about, he wandered into the drawing-room, and seating himself at the
orchestrelle began to play the beautiful flower-song from “Faust.” It
was a thing I had not seen him do before, and I never saw him do it
again. When he came back to the table he said:
“Speaking of companions of the long ago, after fifty years they become
only shadows and might as well be in the grave. Only those whom one has
really loved mean anything at all. Of my playmates I recall John Briggs,
John Garth, and Laura Hawkins--just those three; the rest I buried long
ago, and memory cannot even find their graves.”
He was in his loveliest humor all that day and evening; and that night,
when he stopped playing, he said:
“I have never had a pleasanter day at this game.”
I answered, “I hope ten years from to-night we shall still be playing
it.”
“Yes,” he said, “still playing the best game on earth.”