Now came the tranquil days of the Connecticut autumn. The change of
the landscape colors was a constant delight to Mark Twain. There
were several large windows in his room, and he called them his
picture-gallery. The window-panes were small, and each formed a separate
picture of its own that was changing almost hourly. The red tones that
began to run through the foliage; the red berry bushes; the fading
grass, and the little touches of sparkling frost that came every now and
then at early morning; the background of distant blue hills and changing
skies-these things gave his gallery a multitude of variation that no
art-museums could furnish. He loved it all, and he loved to walk out
in it, pacing up and down the terrace, or the long path that led to
the pergola at the foot of a natural garden. If a friend came, he was
willing to walk much farther; and we often descended the hill in
one direction or another, though usually going toward the “gorge,”
a romantic spot where a clear brook found its way through a deep and
rather dangerous-looking chasm. Once he was persuaded to descend into
this fairy-like place, for it was well worth exploring; but his footing
was no longer sure and he did not go far.
He liked better to sit on the grass-grown, rocky arch above and look
down into it, and let his talk follow his mood. He liked to contemplate
the geology of his surroundings, the record of the ageless periods of
construction required to build the world. The marvels of science always
appealed to him. He reveled in the thought of the almost limitless
stretches of time, the millions upon millions of years that had been
required for this stratum and that--he liked to amaze himself with the
sounding figures. I remember him expressing a wish to see the Grand
Canon of Arizona, where, on perpendicular walls six thousand feet high,
the long story of geological creation is written. I had stopped there
during my Western trip of the previous year, and I told him something
of its wonders. I urged him to see them for himself, offering to go with
him. He said:
“I should enjoy that; but the railroad journey is so far and I should
have no peace. The papers would get hold of it, and I would have to make
speeches and be interviewed, and I never want to do any of those things
again.”
I suggested that the railroads would probably be glad to place a private
car at his service, so that he might travel in comfort; but he shook his
head.
“That would only make me more conspicuous.”
“How about a disguise?”
“Yes,” he said, “I might put on a red wig and false whiskers and change
my name, but I couldn't disguise my drawling speech and they'd find me
out.”
It was amusing, but it was rather sad, too. His fame had deprived him of
valued privileges.
He talked of many things during these little excursions. Once he told
how he had successively advised his nephew, Moffett, in the matter of
obtaining a desirable position. Moffett had wanted to become a reporter.
Clemens devised a characteristic scheme. He said:
“I will get you a place on any newspaper you may select if you promise
faithfully to follow out my instructions.”
The applicant agreed, eagerly enough. Clemens said:
“Go to the newspaper of your choice. Say that you are idle and want
work, that you are pining for work--longing for it, and that you ask
no wages, and will support yourself. All that you ask is work. That
you will do anything, sweep, fill the inkstands, mucilage-bottles, run
errands, and be generally useful. You must never ask for wages. You
must wait until the offer of wages comes to you. You must work just as
faithfully and just as eagerly as if you were being paid for it. Then
see what happens.”
The scheme had worked perfectly. Young Moffett had followed his
instructions to the letter. By and by he attracted attention. He was
employed in a variety of ways that earned him the gratitude and the
confidence of the office. In obedience to further instructions, he began
to make short, brief, unadorned notices of small news matters that came
under his eye and laid them on the city editor's desk. No pay was asked;
none was expected. Occasionally one of the items was used. Then, of
course, it happened, as it must sooner or later at a busy time, that
he was given a small news assignment. There was no trouble about his
progress after that. He had won the confidence of the management and
shown that he was not afraid to work.
The plan had been variously tried since, Clemens said, and he could not
remember any case in which it had failed. The idea may have grown out
of his own pilot apprenticeship on the river, when cub pilots not only
received no salary, but paid for the privilege of learning.
Clemens discussed public matters less often than formerly, but they were
not altogether out of his mind. He thought our republic was in a fair
way to become a monarchy--that the signs were already evident. He
referred to the letter which he had written so long ago in Boston, with
its amusing fancy of the Archbishop of Dublin and his Grace of Ponkapog,
and declared that, after all, it contained something of prophecy.--[See
chap. xcvii; also Appendix M.]--He would not live to see the actual
monarchy, he said, but it was coming.
“I'm not expecting it in my time nor in my children's time, though it
may be sooner than we think. There are two special reasons for it and
one condition. The first reason is, that it is in the nature of man
to want a definite something to love, honor, reverently look up to and
obey; a God and King, for example. The second reason is, that while
little republics have lasted long, protected by their poverty and
insignificance, great ones have not. And the condition is, vast power
and wealth, which breed commercial and political corruptions, and incite
public favorites to dangerous ambitions.”
He repeated what I had heard him say before, that in one sense we
already had a monarchy; that is to say, a ruling public and political
aristocracy which could create a Presidential succession. He did not say
these things bitterly now, but reflectively and rather indifferently.
He was inclined to speak unhopefully of the international plans for
universal peace, which were being agitated rather persistently.
“The gospel of peace,” he said, “is always making a deal of noise,
always rejoicing in its progress but always neglecting to furnish
statistics. There are no peaceful nations now. All Christendom is a
soldier-camp. The poor have been taxed in some nations to the starvation
point to support the giant armaments which Christian governments
have built up, each to protect itself from the rest of the Christian
brotherhood, and incidentally to snatch any scrap of real estate
left exposed by a weaker owner. King Leopold II. of Belgium, the most
intensely Christian monarch, except Alexander VI., that has escaped hell
thus far, has stolen an entire kingdom in Africa, and in fourteen years
of Christian endeavor there has reduced the population from thirty
millions to fifteen by murder and mutilation and overwork, confiscating
the labor of the helpless natives, and giving them nothing in return
but salvation and a home in heaven, furnished at the last moment by the
Christian priest.
“Within the last generation each Christian power has turned the bulk
of its attention to finding out newer and still newer and more and more
effective ways of killing Christians, and, incidentally, a pagan now and
then; and the surest way to get rich quickly in Christ's earthly kingdom
is to invent a kind of gun that can kill more Christians at one shot
than any other existing kind. All the Christian nations are at it. The
more advanced they are, the bigger and more destructive engines of war
they create.”
Once, speaking of battles great and small, and how important even a
small battle must seem to a soldier who had fought in no other, he said:
“To him it is a mighty achievement, an achievement with a big A, when
to a wax-worn veteran it would be a mere incident. For instance, to the
soldier of one battle, San Juan Hill was an Achievement with an A as big
as the Pyramids of Cheops; whereas, if Napoleon had fought it, he would
have set it down on his cuff at the time to keep from forgetting it
had happened. But that is all natural and human enough. We are all like
that.”
The curiosities and absurdities of religious superstitions never failed
to furnish him with themes more or less amusing. I remember one Sunday,
when he walked down to have luncheon at my house, he sat under the shade
and fell to talking of Herod's slaughter of the innocents, which he said
could not have happened.
“Tacitus makes no mention of it,” he said, “and he would hardly have
overlooked a sweeping order like that, issued by a petty ruler like
Herod. Just consider a little king of a corner of the Roman Empire
ordering the slaughter of the first-born of a lot of Roman subjects.
Why, the Emperor would have reached out that long arm of his and
dismissed Herod. That tradition is probably about as authentic as those
connected with a number of old bridges in Europe which are said to
have been built by Satan. The inhabitants used to go to Satan to build
bridges for them, promising him the soul of the first one that crossed
the bridge; then, when Satan had the bridge done, they would send over a
rooster or a jackass--a cheap jackass; that was for Satan, and of course
they could fool him that way every time. Satan must have been pretty
simple, even according to the New Testament, or he wouldn't have led
Christ up on a high mountain and offered him the world if he would fall
down and worship him. That was a manifestly absurd proposition, because
Christ, as the Son of God, already owned the world; and, besides, what
Satan showed him was only a few rocky acres of Palestine. It is just as
if some one should try to buy Rockefeller, the owner of all the Standard
Oil Company, with a gallon of kerosene.”
He often spoke of the unseen forces of creation, the immutable laws
that hold the planet in exact course and bring the years and the seasons
always exactly on schedule time. “The Great Law” was a phrase often
on his lips. The exquisite foliage, the cloud shapes, the varieties of
color everywhere: these were for him outward manifestations of the
Great Law, whose principle I understood to be unity--exact relations
throughout all nature; and in this I failed to find any suggestion
of pessimism, but only of justice. Once he wrote on a card for
preservation:
From everlasting to everlasting, this is the law: the sum of wrong &
misery shall always keep exact step with the sum of human
blessedness.
No “civilization,” no “advance,” has ever modified these proportions
by even the shadow of a shade, nor ever can, while our race endures.