Certainly this was a momentous period in Mark Twain's life. It was a
time of great events, and among them was one which presently would come
to mean more to him than all the rest--the beginning of his acquaintance
with Olivia Langdon.
One evening in late December when Samuel Clemens had come to New York to
visit his old "Quaker City" room-mate, Dan Slote, he found there other
ship comrades, including Jack Van Nostrand and Charlie Langdon. It was a
joyful occasion, but one still happier followed it. Young Langdon's
father and sister Olivia were in New York, and an evening or two later
the boy invited his distinguished "Quaker City" shipmate to dine with
them at the old St. Nicholas Hotel. We may believe that Samuel Clemens
went willingly enough. He had never forgotten the September day in the
Bay of Smyrna when he had first seen the sweet-faced miniature--now, at
last he looked upon the reality.
Long afterward he said: "It was forty years ago. From that day to this
she has never been out of my mind."
Charles Dickens gave a reading that night at Steinway Hall. The Langdons
attended, and Samuel Clemens with them. He recalled long after that
Dickens wore a black velvet coat with a fiery-red flower in his
buttonhole, and that he read the storm scene from "David Copperfield"
--the death of James Steerforth; but he remembered still more clearly the
face and dress and the slender, girlish figure of Olivia Langdon at his
side.
Olivia Langdon was twenty-two years old at this time, delicate as the
miniature he had seen, though no longer in the fragile health of her
girlhood. Gentle, winning, lovable, she was the family idol, and Samuel
Clemens was no less her worshiper from the first moment of their meeting.
Miss Langdon, on her part, was at first rather dazed by the strange,
brilliant, handsome man, so unlike anything she had known before. When
he had gone, she had the feeling that something like a great meteor had
crossed her sky. To her brother, who was eager for her good opinion of
his celebrity, she admitted her admiration, if not her entire approval.
Her father had no doubts. With a keen sense of humor and a deep
knowledge of men, Jervis Langdon was from that first evening the devoted
champion of Mark Twain. Clemens saw Miss Langdon again during the
holidays, and by the week's end he had planned to visit Elmira--soon.
But fate managed differently. He was not to see Elmira for the better
part of a year.
He returned to his work in Washington--the preparation of the book and
his newspaper correspondence. It was in connection with the latter that
he first met General Grant, then not yet President. The incident,
characteristic of both men, is worth remembering. Mark Twain had called
by permission, elated with the prospect of an interview. But when he
looked into the square, smileless face of the soldier he found himself,
for the first time in his life, without anything particular to say.
Grant nodded slightly and waited. His caller wished something would
happen. It did. His inspiration returned.
"General," he said, "I seem to be slightly embarrassed. Are you?"
Grant's severity broke up in laughter. There were no further
difficulties.
Work on the book did not go so well. There were many distractions in
Washington, and Clemens did not like the climate there. Then he found
the "Alta" had copyrighted his letters and were reluctant to allow him to
use them. He decided to sail at once for San Francisco. If he could
arrange the "Alta" matter, he would finish his work there. He did, in
fact, carry out this plan, and all difficulties vanished on his arrival.
His old friend Colonel McComb obtained for him free use of the "Alta"
letters. The way was now clear for his book. His immediate need of
funds, however, induced him to lecture. In May he wrote Bliss:
"I lectured here on the trip (the Quaker City excursion) the other
night; $1,600 in gold in the house; every seat taken and paid for
before night."
He settled down to work now with his usual energy, editing and rewriting,
and in two months had the big manuscript ready for delivery.
Mark Twain's friends urged him to delay his return to "the States" long
enough to make a lecture tour through California and Nevada. He must
give his new lecture, they told him, to his old friends. He agreed, and
was received at Virginia City, Carson, and elsewhere like a returning
conqueror. He lectured again in San Francisco just before sailing.
The announcement of his lecture was highly original. It was a hand-bill
supposed to have been issued by the foremost citizens of San Francisco, a
mock protest against his lecture, urging him to return to New York
without inflicting himself on them again. On the same bill was printed
his reply. In it he said:
"I will torment the people if I want to. It only costs them $1
apiece, and, if they can't stand it, what do they stay here for?"
He promised positively to sail on July 6th if they would let him talk
just this once.
There was a good deal more of this drollery on the bill, which ended with
the announcement that he would appear at the Mercantile Library on July
2d. It is unnecessary to say that the place was jammed on that evening.
It was probably the greatest lecture event San Francisco has ever known.
Four days later, July 6, 1868, Mark Twain sailed, via Aspinwall, for New
York, and on the 28th delivered the manuscript of "The Innocents Abroad,
or the New Pilgrim's Progress," to his Hartford publisher.