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."
CCL
PHILOSOPHY AND PESSIMISM
In a letter to MacAlister, written at this time, he said:
The doctors banished Jean to the country 5 weeks ago; they banished
my secretary to the country for a fortnight last Saturday; they
banished Clara to the country for a fortnight last Monday . . . .
They banished me to Bermuda to sail next Wednesday, but I struck and
sha'n't go. My complaint is permanent bronchitis & is one of the
very best assets I've got, for it excuses me from every public
function this winter--& all other winters that may come.
If he had bronchitis when this letter was written, it must have been of a
very mild form, for it did not interfere with billiard games, which were
more protracted and strenuous than at almost any other period. I
conclude, therefore, that it was a convenient bronchitis, useful on
occasion.
For a full ten days we were alone in the big house with the servants. It
was a holiday most of the time. We hurried through the mail in the
morning and the telephone calls; then, while I answered such letters as
required attention, he dictated for an hour or so to Miss Hobby, after
which, billiards for the rest of the day and evening. When callers were
reported by the butler, I went down and got rid of them. Clara Clemens,
before her departure, had pinned up a sign, "NO BILLIARDS AFTER 10 P.M.,"
which still hung on the wall, but it was outlawed. Clemens occasionally
planned excursions to Bermuda and other places; but, remembering the
billiard-table, which he could not handily take along, he abandoned these
projects. He was a boy whose parents had been called away, left to his
own devices, and bent on a good time.
There were likely to be irritations in his morning's mail, and more often
he did not wish to see it until it had been pretty carefully sifted. So
many people wrote who wanted things, so many others who made the claim of
more or less distant acquaintanceship the excuse for long and trivial
letters.
"I have stirred up three generations," he said; "first the grandparents,
then the children, and now the grandchildren; the great-grandchildren
will begin to arrive soon."
His mail was always large; but often it did not look interesting. One
could tell from the envelope and the superscription something of the
contents. Going over one assortment he burst out:
"Look at them! Look how trivial they are! Every envelope looks as if it
contained a trivial human soul."
Many letters were filled with fulsome praise and compliment, usually of
one pattern. He was sated with such things, and seldom found it possible
to bear more than a line or two of them. Yet a fresh, well-expressed
note of appreciation always pleased him.
"I can live for two months on a good compliment," he once said. Certain
persistent correspondents, too self-centered to realize their lack of
consideration, or the futility of their purpose, followed him
relentlessly. Of one such he remarked:
"That woman intends to pursue me to the grave. I wish something could be
done to appease her."
And again:
"Everybody in the world who wants something--something of no interest to
me--writes to me to get it."
These morning sessions were likely to be of great interest. Once a
letter spoke of the desirability of being an optimist. "That word
perfectly disgusts me," he said, and his features materialized the
disgust, "just as that other word, pessimist, does; and the idea that one
can, by any effort of will, be one or the other, any more than he can
change the color of his hair. The reason why a man is a pessimist or an
optimist is not because he wants to be, but because he was born so; and
this man [a minister of the Gospel who was going to explain life to him]
is going to tell me why he isn't a pessimist. Oh, he'll do it, but he
won't tell the truth; he won't make it short enough."
Yet he was always patient with any one who came with spiritual messages,
theological arguments, and consolations. He might have said to them:
"Oh, dear friends, those things of which you speak are the toys that long
ago I played with and set aside." He could have said it and spoken the
truth; but I believe he did not even think it. He listened to any one
for whom he had respect, and was grateful for any effort in his behalf.
One morning he read aloud a lecture given in London by George Bernard
Shaw on religion, commenting as he read. He said:
"This letter is a frank breath of expression [and his comments were
equally frank]. There is no such thing as morality; it is not immoral
for the tiger to eat the wolf, or the wolf the cat, or the cat the bird,
and so on down; that is their business. There is always enough for each
one to live on. It is not immoral for one nation to seize another nation
by force of arms, or for one man to seize another man's property or life
if he is strong enough and wants to take it. It is not immoral to create
the human species--with or without ceremony; nature intended exactly
these things."
At one place in the lecture Shaw had said: "No one of good sense can
accept any creed to-day without reservation."
"Certainly not," commented Clemens; "the reservation is that he is a d--d
fool to accept it at all."
He was in one of his somber moods that morning. I had received a print
of a large picture of Thomas Nast--the last one taken. The face had a
pathetic expression which told the tragedy of his last years. Clemens
looked at the picture several moments without speaking. Then he broke
out:
"Why can't a man die when he's had his tragedy? I ought to have died
long ago." And somewhat later: "Once Twichell heard me cussing the human
race, and he said, 'Why, Mark, you are the last person in the world to do
that--one selected and set apart as you are.' I said 'Joe, you don't
know what you are talking about. I am not cussing altogether about my
own little troubles. Any one can stand his own misfortunes; but when I
read in the papers all about the rascalities and outrages going on I
realize what a creature the human animal is. Don't you care more about
the wretchedness of others than anything that happens to you?' Joe said
he did, and shut up."
It occurred to me to suggest that he should not read the daily papers.
"No difference," he said. "I read books printed two hundred years ago,
and they hurt just the same."
"Those people are all dead and gone," I objected.
"They hurt just the same," he maintained.
I sometimes thought of his inner consciousness as a pool darkened by his
tragedies, its glassy surface, when calm, reflecting all the joy and
sunlight and merriment of the world, but easily--so easily--troubled and
stirred even to violence. Once following the dictation, when I came to
the billiard-room he was shooting the balls about the table, apparently
much depressed. He said:
"I have been thinking it out--if I live two years more I will put an end
to it all. I will kill myself."
"You have much to live for----"
"But I am so tired of the eternal round," he interrupted; "so tired." And
I knew he meant that he was ill of the great loneliness that had come to
him that day in Florence, and would never pass away.
I referred to the pressure of social demands in the city, and the relief
he would find in his country home. He shook his head.
"The country home I need," he said, fiercely, "is a cemetery."
Yet the mood changed quickly enough when the play began. He was gay and
hilarious presently, full of the humors and complexities of the game. H.
H. Rogers came in with a good deal of frequency, seldom making very long
calls, but never seeming to have that air of being hurried which one
might expect to find in a man whose day was only twenty-four hours long,
and whose interests were so vast and innumerable. He would come in where
we were playing, and sit down and watch the game, or perhaps would pick
up a book and read, exchanging a remark now and then. More often,
however, he sat in the bedroom, for his visits were likely to be in the
morning. They were seldom business calls, or if they were, the business
was quickly settled, and then followed gossip, humorous incident, or
perhaps Clemens would read aloud something he had written. But once,
after greetings, he began:
"Well, Rogers, I don't know what you think of it, but I think I have had
about enough of this world, and I wish I were out of it."
Mr. Rogers replied, "I don't say much about it, but that expresses my
view."
This from the foremost man of letters and one of the foremost financiers
of the time was impressive. Each at the mountain-top of his career, they
agreed that the journey was not worth while--that what the world had
still to give was not attractive enough to tempt them to prevent a desire
to experiment with the next stage. One could remember a thousand poor
and obscure men who were perfectly willing to go on struggling and
starving, postponing the day of settlement as long as possible; but
perhaps, when one has had all the world has to give, when there are no
new worlds in sight to conquer, one has a different feeling.
Well, the realization lay not so far ahead for either of them, though at
that moment they both seemed full of life and vigor--full of youth. One
could not imagine the day when for them it would all be over.
CCLI
A LOBBYING EXPEDITION
Clara Clemens came home now and then to see how matters were progressing,
and very properly, for Clemens was likely to become involved in social
intricacies which required a directing hand. The daughter inherited no
little of the father's characteristics of thought and phrase, and it was
always a delight to see them together when one could be just out of range
of the crossfire. I remember soon after her return, when she was making
some searching inquiries concerning the billiard-room sign, and other
suggested or instituted reforms, he said:
"Oh well, never mind, it doesn't matter. I'm boss in this house."
She replied, quickly: "Oh no, you're not. You're merely owner. I'm the
captain--the commander-in-chief."
One night at dinner she mentioned the possibility of going abroad that
year. During several previous summers she had planned to visit Vienna to
see her old music-master, Leschetizky, once more before his death. She
said:
"Leschetizky is getting so old. If I don't go soon I'm afraid I sha'n't
be in time for his funeral."
"Yes," said her father, thoughtfully, "you keep rushing over to
Leschetizky's funeral, and you'll miss mine."
He had made one or two social engagements without careful reflection, and
the situation would require some delicacy of adjustment. During a moment
between the courses, when he left the table and was taking his exercise
in the farther room, she made some remark which suggested a doubt of her
father's gift for social management. I said:
"Oh, well, he is a king, you know, and a king can do no wrong."
"Yes, I know," she answered. "The king can do no wrong; but he frightens
me almost to death, sometimes, he comes so near it."
He came back and began to comment rather critically on some recent
performance of Roosevelt's, which had stirred up a good deal of newspaper
amusement--it was the Storer matter and those indiscreet letters which
Roosevelt had written relative to the ambassadorship which Storer so much
desired. Miss Clemens was inclined to defend the President, and spoke
with considerable enthusiasm concerning his elements of popularity, which
had won him such extraordinary admiration.
"Certainly he is popular," Clemens admitted, "and with the best of
reasons. If the twelve apostles should call at the White House, he would
say, 'Come in, come in! I am delighted to see you. I've been watching
your progress, and I admired it very much.' Then if Satan should come,
he would slap him on the shoulder and say, 'Why, Satan, how do you do? I
am so glad to meet you. I've read all your works and enjoyed every one
of them.' Anybody could be popular with a gift like that."
It was that evening or the next, perhaps, that he said to her: