have never made anything out of him. It is service to an author to
have a lawyer. There is something so disagreeable in having a personal
contact with a publisher. So it is better to work through a lawyer—and
lose your case. I understand that the publishers have been meeting
together also like us. I don't know what for, but possibly they are
devising new and mysterious ways for remunerating authors. I only wish
now to thank you for electing me a member of this club—I believe I have
paid my dues—and to thank you again for the pleasant things you have
said of me.
Last February, when Rudyard Kipling was ill in America, the sympathy
which was poured out to him was genuine and sincere, and I believe
that which cost Kipling so much will bring England and America closer
together. I have been proud and pleased to see this growing affection
and respect between the two countries. I hope it will continue to grow,
and, please God, it will continue to grow. I trust we authors will leave
to posterity, if we have nothing else to leave, a friendship between
England and America that will count for much. I will now confess that I
have been engaged for the past eight days in compiling a publication. I
have brought it here to lay at your feet. I do not ask your indulgence
in presenting it, but for your applause.
Here it is: “Since England and America may be joined together in
Kipling, may they not be severed in 'Twain.'”
BOOKSELLERS
Address at banquet on Wednesday evening, May 20, 1908, of the
American Booksellers' Association, which included most of the
leading booksellers of America, held at the rooms of the Aldine
Association, New York.
This annual gathering of booksellers from all over America comes
together ostensibly to eat and drink, but really to discuss business;
therefore I am required to talk shop. I am required to furnish a
statement of the indebtedness under which I lie to you gentlemen for
your help in enabling me to earn my living. For something over forty
years I have acquired my bread by print, beginning with The Innocents
Abroad, followed at intervals of a year or so by Roughing It, Tom
Sawyer, Gilded Age, and so on. For thirty-six years my books were sold
by subscription. You are not interested in those years, but only in the
four which have since followed. The books passed into the hands of my
present publishers at the beginning of 1900, and you then became the
providers of my diet. I think I may say, without flattering you, that
you have done exceedingly well by me. Exceedingly well is not too strong
a phrase, since the official statistics show that in four years you have
sold twice as many volumes of my venerable books as my contract with my
publishers bound you and them to sell in five years. To your sorrow you
are aware that frequently, much too frequently, when a book gets to be
five or ten years old its annual sale shrinks to two or three hundred
copies, and after an added ten or twenty years ceases to sell. But you
sell thousands of my moss-backed old books every year—the youngest of
them being books that range from fifteen to twenty-seven years old, and
the oldest reaching back to thirty-five and forty.
By the terms of my contract my publishers had to account to me for
50,000 volumes per year for five years, and pay me for them whether they
sold them or not. It is at this point that you gentlemen come in, for
it was your business to unload 250,000 volumes upon the public in five
years if you possibly could. Have you succeeded? Yes, you have—and more.
For in four years, with a year still to spare, you have sold the 250,000
volumes, and 240,000 besides.
Your sales have increased each year. In the first year you sold 90,328;
in the second year, 104,851; in the third, 133,975; in the fourth
year—which was last year—you sold 160,000. The aggregate for the four
years is 500,000 volumes, lacking 11,000.
Of the oldest book, The Innocents Abroad,—now forty years old—you
sold upward of 46,000 copies in the four years; of Roughing It—now
thirty-eight years old, I think—you sold 40,334; of Tom Sawyer, 41,000.
And so on.
And there is one thing that is peculiarly gratifying to me: the Personal
Recollections of Joan of Arc is a serious book; I wrote it for love, and
never expected it to sell, but you have pleasantly disappointed me in
that matter. In your hands its sale has increased each year. In 1904 you
sold 1726 copies; in 1905, 2445; in 1906, 5381; and last year, 6574.
“MARK TWAIN'S FIRST APPEARANCE”
On October 5, 1906, Mr. Clemens, following a musical recital by
his daughter in Norfolk, Conn., addressed her audience on the
subject of stage-fright. He thanked the people for making
things as easy as possible for his daughter's American debut as
a contralto, and then told of his first experience before the
public.
My heart goes out in sympathy to any one who is making his first
appearance before an audience of human beings. By a direct process of
memory I go back forty years, less one month—for I'm older than I look.
I recall the occasion of my first appearance. San Francisco knew me
then only as a reporter, and I was to make my bow to San Francisco as
a lecturer. I knew that nothing short of compulsion would get me to the
theatre. So I bound myself by a hard-and-fast contract so that I could
not escape. I got to the theatre forty-five minutes before the hour set
for the lecture. My knees were shaking so that I didn't know whether I
could stand up. If there is an awful, horrible malady in the world, it
is stage-fright-and seasickness. They are a pair. I had stage-fright
then for the first and last time. I was only seasick once, too. It
was on a little ship on which there were two hundred other passengers.
I—was—sick. I was so sick that there wasn't any left for those other two
hundred passengers.
It was dark and lonely behind the scenes in that theatre, and I peeked
through the little peekholes they have in theatre curtains and looked
into the big auditorium. That was dark and empty, too. By-and-by it
lighted up, and the audience began to arrive.
I had got a number of friends of mine, stalwart men, to sprinkle
themselves through the audience armed with big clubs. Every time I said
anything they could possibly guess I intended to be funny they were to
pound those clubs on the floor. Then there was a kind lady in a box up
there, also a good friend of mine, the wife of the Governor. She was to
watch me intently, and whenever I glanced toward her she was going to
deliver a gubernatorial laugh that would lead the whole audience into
applause.
At last I began. I had the manuscript tucked under a United States flag
in front of me where I could get at it in case of need. But I managed to
get started without it. I walked up and down—I was young in those days
and needed the exercise—and talked and talked.
Right in the middle of the speech I had placed a gem. I had put in a
moving, pathetic part which was to get at the hearts and souls of my
hearers. When I delivered it they did just what I hoped and expected.
They sat silent and awed. I had touched them. Then I happened to glance
up at the box where the Governor's wife was—you know what happened.
Well, after the first agonizing five minutes, my stage-fright left me,
never to return. I know if I was going to be hanged I could get up
and make a good showing, and I intend to. But I shall never forget my
feelings before the agony left me, and I got up here to thank you for
her for helping my daughter, by your kindness, to live through her
first appearance. And I want to thank you for your appreciation of her
singing, which is, by-the-way, hereditary.
MORALS AND MEMORY
Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor at a reception held at
Barnard College (Columbia University), March 7, 1906, by the
Barnard Union. One of the young ladies presented Mr. Clemens,
and thanked him for his amiability in coming to make them an
address. She closed with the expression of the great joy it
gave her fellow-collegians, “because we all love you.”
If any one here loves me, she has my sincere thanks. Nay, if any one
here is so good as to love me—why, I'll be a brother to her. She shall
have my sincere, warm, unsullied affection. When I was coming up in the
car with the very kind young lady who was delegated to show me the way,
she asked me what I was going to talk about. And I said I wasn't sure. I
said I had some illustrations, and I was going to bring them in. I
said I was certain to give those illustrations, but that I hadn't the
faintest notion what they were going to illustrate.
Now, I've been thinking it over in this forest glade [indicating the
woods of Arcady on the scene setting], and I've decided to work them in
with something about morals and the caprices of memory. That seems to
me to be a pretty good subject. You see, everybody has a memory and it's
pretty sure to have caprices. And, of course, everybody has morals.
It's my opinion that every one I know has morals, though I wouldn't like
to ask. I know I have. But I'd rather teach them than practice them any
day. “Give them to others”—that's my motto. Then you never have any
use for them when you're left without. Now, speaking of the caprices of
memory in general, and of mine in particular, it's strange to think
of all the tricks this little mental process plays on us. Here
we're endowed with a faculty of mind that ought to be more supremely
serviceable to us than them all. And what happens? This memory of ours
stores up a perfect record of the most useless facts and anecdotes and
experiences. And all the things that we ought to know—that we need
to know—that we'd profit by knowing—it casts aside with the careless
indifference of a girl refusing her true lover. It's terrible to think
of this phenomenon. I tremble in all my members when I consider all
the really valuable things that I've forgotten in seventy years—when I
meditate upon the caprices of my memory.
There's a bird out in California that is one perfect symbol of the
human memory. I've forgotten the bird's name (just because it would be
valuable for me to know it—to recall it to your own minds, perhaps).
But this fool of a creature goes around collecting the most ridiculous
things you can imagine and storing them up. He never selects a thing
that could ever prove of the slightest help to him; but he goes
about gathering iron forks, and spoons, and tin cans, and broken
mouse-traps—all sorts of rubbish that is difficult for him to carry and
yet be any use when he gets it. Why, that bird will go by a gold watch
to bring back one of those patent cake-pans.
Now, my mind is just like that, and my mind isn't very different from
yours—and so our minds are just like that bird. We pass by what would be
of inestimable value to us, and pack our memories with the most
trivial odds and ends that never by any chance, under any circumstances
whatsoever, could be of the slightest use to any one.
Now, things that I have remembered are constantly popping into my head.
And I am repeatedly startled by the vividness with which they recur
to me after the lapse of years and their utter uselessness in being
remembered at all.
I was thinking over some on my way up here. They were the illustrations
I spoke about to the young lady on the way up. And I've come to the
conclusion, curious though it is, that I can use every one of these
freaks of memory to teach you all a lesson. I'm convinced that each one
has its moral. And I think it's my duty to hand the moral on to you.
Now, I recall that when I was a boy I was a good boy—I was a very good
boy. Why, I was the best boy in my school. I was the best boy in that
little Mississippi town where I lived. The population was only about
twenty million. You may not believe it, but I was the best boy in that
State—and in the United States, for that matter.
But I don't know why I never heard any one say that but myself. I always
recognized it. But even those nearest and dearest to me couldn't seem to
see it. My mother, especially, seemed to think there was something wrong
with that estimate. And she never got over that prejudice.
Now, when my mother got to be eighty-five years old her memory failed
her. She forgot little threads that hold life's patches of meaning
together. She was living out West then, and I went on to visit her.
I hadn't seen my mother in a year or so. And when I got there she knew
my face; knew I was married; knew I had a family, and that I was living
with them. But she couldn't, for the life of her, tell my name or who I
was. So I told her I was her boy.
“But you don't live with me,” she said.
“No,” said I, “I'm living in Rochester.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Going to school.”
“Large school?”
“Very large.”
“All boys?”
“All boys.”
“And how do you stand?” said my mother.
“I'm the best boy in that school,” I answered.
“Well,” said my mother, with a return of her old fire, “I'd like to know
what the other boys are like.”
Now, one point in this story is the fact that my mother's mind went back
to my school days, and remembered my little youthful self-prejudice when
she'd forgotten everything else about me.
The other point is the moral. There's one there that you will find if
you search for it.
Now, here's something else I remember. It's about the first time I ever
stole a watermelon. “Stole” is a strong word. Stole? Stole? No, I don't
mean that. It was the first time I ever withdrew a watermelon. It was
the first time I ever extracted a watermelon. That is exactly the word I
want—“extracted.” It is definite. It is precise. It perfectly conveys my
idea. Its use in dentistry connotes the delicate shade of meaning I am
looking for. You know we never extract our own teeth.
And it was not my watermelon that I extracted. I extracted that
watermelon from a farmer's wagon while he was inside negotiating with
another customer. I carried that watermelon to one of the secluded
recesses of the lumber-yard, and there I broke it open.
It was a green watermelon.
Well, do you know when I saw that I began to feel sorry—sorry—sorry. It
seemed to me that I had done wrong. I reflected deeply. I reflected that
I was young—I think I was just eleven. But I knew that though immature
I did not lack moral advancement. I knew what a boy ought to do who had
extracted a watermelon—like that.
I considered George Washington, and what action he would have taken
under similar circumstances. Then I knew there was just one thing to
make me feel right inside, and that was—Restitution.
So I said to myself: “I will do that. I will take that green watermelon
back where I got it from.” And the minute I had said it I felt
that great moral uplift that comes to you when you've made a noble
resolution.
So I gathered up the biggest fragments, and I carried them back to the
farmer's wagon, and I restored the watermelon—what was left of it. And I
made him give me a good one in place of it, too.
And I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself going around working
off his worthless, old, green watermelons on trusting purchasers who had
to rely on him. How could they tell from the outside whether the melons
were good or not? That was his business. And if he didn't reform, I told
him I'd see that he didn't get any more of my trade—nor anybody else's I
knew, if I could help it.
You know that man was as contrite as a revivalist's last convert. He
said he was all broken up to think I'd gotten a green watermelon.
He promised that he would never carry another green watermelon if he
starved for it. And he drove off—a better man.
Now, do you see what I did for that man? He was on a downward path, and
I rescued him. But all I got out of it was a watermelon.
Yet I'd rather have that memory—just that memory of the good I did for
that depraved farmer—than all the material gain you can think of. Look
at the lesson he got! I never got anything like that from it. But
I ought to be satisfied: I was only eleven years old, but I secured
everlasting benefit to other people.
The moral in this is perfectly clear, and I think there's one in the
next memory I'm going to tell you about.
To go back to my childhood, there's another little incident that comes
to me from which you can draw even another moral. It's about one of the
times I went fishing. You see, in our house there was a sort of family
prejudice against going fishing if you hadn't permission. But it would
frequently be bad judgment to ask. So I went fishing secretly, as it
were—way up the Mississippi. It was an exquisitely happy trip, I recall,
with a very pleasant sensation.
Well, while I was away there was a tragedy in our town. A stranger,
stopping over on his way East from California; was stabbed to death in
an unseemly brawl.
Now, my father was justice of the peace, and because he was justice
of the peace he was coroner; and since he was coroner he was also
constable; and being constable he was sheriff; and out of consideration
for his holding the office of sheriff he was likewise county clerk and a
dozen other officials I don't think of just this minute.
I thought he had power of life or death, only he didn't use it over
other boys. He was sort of an austere man. Somehow I didn't like being
round him when I'd done anything he disapproved of. So that's the reason
I wasn't often around.
Well, when this gentleman got knifed they communicated with the proper
authority, the coroner, and they laid the corpse out in the coroner's
office—our front sitting-room—in preparation for the inquest the next
morning.
About 9 or 10 o'clock I got back from fishing. It was a little too late
for me to be received by my folks, so I took my shoes off and slipped
noiselessly up the back way to the sitting-room. I was very tired, and I
didn't wish to disturb my people. So I groped my way to the sofa and lay
down.
Now, I didn't know anything of what had happened during my absence.
But I was sort of nervous on my own account-afraid of being caught, and
rather dubious about the morning affair. And I had been lying there
a few moments when my eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and I
became aware of something on the other side of the room.
It was something foreign to the apartment. It had an uncanny appearance.
And I sat up looking very hard, and wondering what in heaven this long,
formless, vicious-looking thing might be.
First I thought I'd go and see. Then I thought, “Never mind that.”
Mind you, I had no cowardly sensations whatever, but it didn't seem
exactly prudent to investigate. But I somehow couldn't keep my eyes off
the thing. And the more I looked at it the more disagreeably it grew on
me. But I was resolved to play the man. So I decided to turn over and
count a hundred, and let the patch of moonlight creep up and show me
what the dickens it was.
I turned over and tried to count, but I couldn't keep my mind on it. I
kept thinking of that grewsome mass. I was losing count all the time,
and going back and beginning over again. Oh no; I wasn't frightened—just
annoyed. But by the time I'd gotten to the century mark I turned
cautiously over and opened my eyes with great fortitude.
The moonlight revealed to me a marble-white human hand. Well, maybe I
wasn't embarrassed! But then that changed to a creepy feeling again,
and I thought I'd try the counting again. I don't know how many hours or
weeks it was that I lay there counting hard. But the moonlight crept up
that white arm, and it showed me a lead face and a terrible wound over
the heart.
I could scarcely say that I was terror-stricken or anything like that.
But somehow his eyes interested me so that I went right out of the
window. I didn't need the sash. But it seemed easier to take it than
leave it behind.
Now, let that teach you a lesson—I don't know just what it is. But at
seventy years old I find that memory of peculiar value to me. I have
been unconsciously guided by it all these years. Things that seemed
pigeon-holed and remote are a perpetual influence. Yes, you're taught in
so many ways. And you're so felicitously taught when you don't know it.
Here's something else that taught me a good deal.
When I was seventeen I was very bashful, and a sixteen-year-old girl
came to stay a week with us. She was a peach, and I was seized with a
happiness not of this world.
One evening my mother suggested that, to entertain her, I take her
to the theatre. I didn't really like to, because I was seventeen and
sensitive about appearing in the streets with a girl. I couldn't see my
way to enjoying my delight in public. But we went.
I didn't feel very happy. I couldn't seem to keep my mind on the play.
I became conscious, after a while, that that was due less to my lovely
company than my boots. They were sweet to look upon, as smooth as skin,
but fitted ten time as close. I got oblivious to the play and the girl
and the other people and everything but my boots until—I hitched one
partly off. The sensation was sensuously perfect: I couldn't help it.
I had to get the other off, partly. Then I was obliged to get them off
altogether, except that I kept my feet in the legs so they couldn't get
away.
From that time I enjoyed the play. But the first thing I knew the
curtain came down, like that, without my notice, and—I hadn't any boots
on. What's more, they wouldn't go on. I tugged strenuously. And the
people in our row got up and fussed and said things until the peach and
I simply had to move on.
We moved—the girl on one arm and the boots under the other.
We walked home that way, sixteen blocks, with a retinue a mile long:
Every time we passed a lamp-post, death gripped me at the throat. But we
got home—and I had on white socks.
If I live to be nine hundred and ninety-nine years old I don't suppose
I could ever forget that walk. I remember, it about as keenly as the
chagrin I suffered on another occasion.
At one time in our domestic history we had a colored butler who had a
failing. He could never remember to ask people who came to the door
to state their business. So I used to suffer a good many calls
unnecessarily.
One morning when I was especially busy he brought me a card engraved
with a name I did not know. So I said, “What does he wish to see
me for?” and Sylvester said, “Ah couldn't ask him, sah; he, wuz a
genlinun.” “Return instantly,” I thundered, “and inquire his mission.
Ask him what's his game.” Well, Sylvester returned with the announcement
that he had lightning-rods to sell. “Indeed,” said I, “things are coming
to a fine pass when lightning-rod agents send up engraved cards.” “He
has pictures,” added Sylvester. “Pictures, indeed! He maybe peddling
etchings. Has he a Russia leather case?” But Sylvester was too
frightened to remember. I said; “I am going down to make it hot for that
upstart!”
I went down the stairs, working up my temper all the way. When I got to
the parlor I was in a fine frenzy concealed beneath a veneer of frigid
courtesy. And when I looked in the door, sure enough he had a Russia
leather case in his hand. But I didn't happen to notice that it was our
Russia leather case.
And if you'd believe me, that man was sitting with a whole gallery of
etchings spread out before him. But I didn't happen to notice that
they were our etchings, spread out by some member of my family for some
unguessed purpose.
Very curtly I asked the gentleman his business. With a surprised, timid
manner he faltered that he had met my wife and daughter at Onteora, and
they had asked him to call. Fine lie, I thought, and I froze him.
He seemed to be kind of non-plussed, and sat there fingering the
etchings in the case until I told him he needn't bother, because we had
those. That pleased him so much that he leaned over, in an embarrassed
way, to pick up another from the floor. But I stopped him. I
said, “We've got that, too.” He seemed pitifully amazed, but I was
congratulating myself on my great success.
Finally the gentleman asked where Mr. Winton lived; he'd met him in the
mountains, too. So I said I'd show him gladly. And I did on the spot.
And when he was gone I felt queer, because there were all his etchings
spread out on the floor.
Well, my wife came in and asked me who had been in. I showed her the
card, and told her all exultantly. To my dismay she nearly fainted. She
told me he had been a most kind friend to them in the country, and had
forgotten to tell me that he was expected our way. And she pushed me out
of the door, and commanded me to get over to the Wintons in a hurry and
get him back.