It was at the end of January, 1874, when Mark Twain returned to America.
His reception abroad had increased his prestige at home. Howells and
Aldrich came over from Boston to tell him what a great man he had become
--to renew those Boston days of three years before--to talk and talk of
all the things between the earth and sky. And Twichell came in, of
course, and Warner, and no one took account of time, or hurried, or
worried about anything at all.
"We had two such days as the aging sun no longer shines on in his round,"
wrote Howells, long after, and he tells how he and Aldrich were so
carried away with Clemens's success in subscription publication that on
the way back to Boston they planned a book to sell in that way. It was
to be called "Twelve Memorable Murders," and they had made two or three
fortunes from it by the time they reached Boston.
"But the project ended there. We never killed a single soul," Howells
once confessed to the writer of this memoir.
At Quarry Farm that summer Mark Twain began the writing of "The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer." He had been planning for some time to set
down the story of those far-off days along the river-front at Hannibal,
with John Briggs, Tom Blankenship, and the rest of that graceless band,
and now in the cool luxury of a little study which Mrs. Crane had built
for him on the hillside he set himself to spin the fabric of his youth.
The study was a delightful place to work. It was octagonal in shape,
with windows on all sides, something like a pilot-house. From any
direction the breeze could come, and there were fine views. To Twichell
he wrote:
"It is a cozy nest, and just room in it for a sofa, table, and three
or four chairs, and when the storm sweeps down the remote valley and
the lightning flashes behind the hills beyond, and the rain beats on
the roof over my head, imagine the luxury of it!"
He worked steadily there that summer. He would begin mornings, soon
after breakfast, keeping at it until nearly dinner-time, say until five
or after, for it was not his habit to eat the midday meal. Other members
of the family did not venture near the place; if he was wanted urgently,
a horn was blown. His work finished, he would light a cigar and,
stepping lightly down the stone flight that led to the house-level, he
would find where the family had assembled and read to them his day's
work. Certainly those were golden days, and the tale of Tom and Huck and
Joe Harper progressed. To Dr. John Brown, in Scotland, he wrote:
"I have been writing fifty pages of manuscript a day, on an average,
for some time now, .. . . and consequently have been so wrapped
up in it and dead to everything else that I have fallen mighty short
in letter-writing."
But the inspiration of Tom and Huck gave out when the tale was half
finished, or perhaps it gave way to a new interest. News came one day
that a writer in San Francisco, without permission, had dramatized "The
Gilded Age," and that it was being played by John T. Raymond, an actor of
much power. Mark Twain had himself planned to dramatize the character of
Colonel Sellers and had taken out dramatic copyright. He promptly
stopped the California production, then wrote the dramatist a friendly
letter, and presently bought the play of him, and set in to rewrite it.
It proved a great success. Raymond played it for several years. Colonel
Sellers on the stage became fully as popular as in the book, and very
profitable indeed.