For the time it would seem that Mark Twain had given up authorship for
business. The success of the Grant book had filled his head with plans
for others of a like nature. The memoirs of General McClellan and
General Sheridan were arranged for. Almost any war-book was considered a
good venture. And there was another plan afoot. Pope Leo XIII., in his
old age, had given sanction to the preparation of his memoirs, and it was
to be published, with his blessing, by Webster & Co., of Hartford. It
was generally believed that such a book would have a tremendous sale, and
Colonel Sellers himself could not have piled the figures higher than did
his creator in counting his prospective returns. Every Catholic in the
world must have a copy of the Pope's book, and in America alone there
were millions. Webster went to Rome to consult with the Pope in person,
and was received in private audience. Mark Twain's publishing firm
seemed on the top wave of success.
The McClellan and Sheridan books were issued, and, in due time, the Life
of Pope Leo XIII.--published simultaneously in six languages--issued from
the press. A large advance sale had been guaranteed by the general
canvassing agents--a fortunate thing, as it proved. For, strange as it
may seem, the book did not prove a great success. It is hard to explain
just why. Perhaps Catholics felt that there had been so many popes that
the life of any particular one was no great matter. The book paid, but
not largely. The McClellan and Sheridan books, likewise, were only
partially successful. Perhaps the public was getting tired of war
memoirs. Webster & Co. undertook books of a general sort--travel,
fiction, poetry. Many of them did not pay. Their business from a march
of triumph had become a battle. They undertook a "Library of American
Literature," a work of many volumes, costly to make and even more so to
sell. To float this venture they were obliged to borrow large sums.
It seems unfortunate that Mark Twain should have been disturbed by these
distracting things during what should have been his literary high-tide.
As it was, his business interests and cares absorbed the energy that
might otherwise have gone into books. He was not entirely idle. He did
an occasional magazine article or story, and he began a book which he
worked at from time to time the story of a Connecticut Yankee who
suddenly finds himself back in the days of King Arthur's reign. Webster
was eager to publish another book by his great literary partner, but the
work on it went slowly. Then Webster broke down from two years of
overwork, and the business management fell into other hands. Though
still recognized as a great publishing-house, those within the firm of
Charles L. Webster & Co. knew that its prospects were not bright.
Furthermore, Mark Twain had finally invested in another patent, the
type-setting machine mentioned in a former chapter, and the demands for
cash to promote this venture were heavy. To his sister Pamela, about the
end of 1887, he wrote: "The type-setter goes on forever at $3,000 a
month.... We'll be through with it in three or four months, I reckon"
--a false hope, for the three or four months would lengthen into as
many years.
But if there were clouds gathering in the business sky, they were not
often allowed to cast a shadow in Mark Twain's home. The beautiful house
in Hartford was a place of welcome and merriment, of many guests and of
happy children. Especially of happy children: during these years--the
latter half of the 'eighties--when Mark Twain's fortunes were on the
decline, his children were at the age to have a good time, and certainly
they had it. The dramatic stage which had been first set up at George
Warner's for the Christmas "Prince and Pauper" performance was brought
over and set up in the Clemens schoolroom, and every Saturday there were
plays or rehearsals, and every little while there would be a grand
general performance in the great library downstairs, which would
accommodate just eighty-four chairs, filled by parents of the performers
and invited guests. In notes dictated many years later, Mark Twain said:
"We dined as we could, probably with a neighbor, and by quarter to
eight in the evening the hickory fire in the hall was pouring a
sheet of flame up the chimney, the house was in a drench of gas-
light from the ground floor up, the guests were arriving, and there
was a babble of hearty greetings, with not a voice in it that was
not old and familiar and affectionate; and when the curtain went up,
we looked out from the stage upon none but faces dear to us, none
but faces that were lit up with welcome for us."
He was one of the children himself, you see, and therefore on the stage
with the others. Katy Leary, for thirty years in the family service,
once said to the author: "The children were crazy about acting, and we
all enjoyed it as much as they did, especially Mr. Clemens, who was the
best actor of all. I have never known a happier household than theirs
was during those years."
The plays were not all given by the children. Mark Twain had kept up his
German study, and a class met regularly in his home to struggle with the
problems of der, die, and das. By and by he wrote a play for the class,
"Meisterschaft," a picturesque mixture of German and English, which they
gave twice, with great success. It was unlike anything attempted before
or since. No one but Mark Twain could have written it. Later (January,
1888), in modified form, it was published in the "Century Magazine." It
is his best work of this period.
Many pleasant and amusing things could be recalled from these days if one
only had room. A visit with Robert Louis Stevenson was one of them.
Stevenson was stopping at a small hotel near Washington Square, and he
and Clemens sat on a bench in the sunshine and talked through at least
one golden afternoon. What marvelous talk that must have been! "Huck
Finn" was one of Stevenson's favorites, and once he told how he had
insisted on reading the book aloud to an artist who was painting his
portrait. The painter had protested at first, but presently had fallen a
complete victim to Huck's story. Once, in a letter, Stevenson wrote:
"My father, an old man, has been prevailed upon to read 'Roughing It'
(his usual amusement being found in theology), and after one evening
spent with the book he declared: 'I am frightened. It cannot be
safe for a man at my time of life to laugh so much.'"
Mark Twain had been a "mugwump" during the Blame-Cleveland campaign in
1880, which means that he had supported the independent Democratic
candidate, Grover Cleveland. He was, therefore, in high favor at the
White House during both Cleveland administrations, and called there
informally whenever business took him to Washington. But on one occasion
(it was his first visit after the President's marriage) there was to be a
party, and Mrs. Clemens, who could not attend, slipped a little note into
the pocket of his evening waistcoat, where he would be sure to find it
when dressing, warning him as to his deportment. Being presented to
young Mrs. Cleveland, he handed her a card on which he had written, "He
didn't," and asked her to sign her name below those words. Mrs.
Cleveland protested that she must know first what it was that he hadn't
done, finally agreeing to sign if he would tell her immediately all about
it, which he promised to do. She signed, and he handed her Mrs.
Clemens's note. It was very brief. It said, "Don't wear your arctics in
the White House."
Mrs. Cleveland summoned a messenger and had the card mailed immediately
to Mrs. Clemens.
Absent-mindedness was characteristic of Mark Twain. He lived so much in
the world within that to him the material outer world was often vague and
shadowy. Once when he was knocking the balls about in the billiard-room,
George, the colored butler, a favorite and privileged household
character, brought up a card. So many canvassers came to sell him one
thing and another that Clemens promptly assumed this to be one of them.
George insisted mildly, but firmly, that, though a stranger, the caller
was certainly a gentleman, and Clemens grumblingly descended the stairs.
As he entered the parlor the caller arose and extended his hand. Clemens
took it rather limply, for he had noticed some water-colors and
engravings leaning against the furniture as if for exhibition, and he was
instantly convinced that the caller was a picture-canvasser. Inquiries
by the stranger as to Mrs. Clemens and the children did not change Mark
Twain's conclusion. He was polite, but unresponsive, and gradually
worked the visitor toward the front door. His inquiry as to the home of
Charles Dudley Warner caused him to be shown eagerly in that direction.
Clemens, on his way back to the billiard-room, heard Mrs. Clemens call
him--she was ill that day: "Youth!"
"Yes, Livy." He went in for a word.
"George brought me Mr. B.'s card. I hope you were nice to him; the B's
were so nice to us, once, in Europe, while you were gone."
"The B's! Why, Livy!"
"Yes, of course; and I asked him to be sure to call when he came to
Hartford."
"Well, he's been here."
"Oh Youth, have you done anything?"
"Yes, of course I have. He seemed to have some pictures to sell, so I
sent him over to Warner's. I noticed he didn't take them with him. Land
sakes! Livy, what can I do?"
"Go right after him--go quick! Tell him what you have done."
He went without further delay, bareheaded and in his slippers, as usual.
Warner and B. were in cheerful conversation. They had met before.
Clemens entered gaily.
"Oh, yes, I see! You found him all right. Charlie, we met Mr. B. and
his wife in Europe, and they made things pleasant for us. I wanted to
come over here with him, but I was a good deal occupied just then. Livy
isn't very well, but she seems now a good deal better; so I just followed
along to have a good talk, all together."
He stayed an hour, and whatever bad impression had formed in B.'s mind
faded long before the hour ended. Returning home, Clemens noticed the
pictures still on the parlor floor.
"George," he said, "what pictures are these that gentleman left?"
"Why, Mr. Clemens, those are our own pictures! Mrs. Clemens had me set
them around to see how they would look in new places. The gentleman was
only looking at them while he waited for you to come down."
It was in June, 1888, that Yale College conferred upon Mark Twain the
degree of Master of Arts. He was proud of the honor, for it was
recognition of a kind that had not come to him before--remarkable
recognition, when we remember how as a child he had hated all schools and
study, having ended his class-room days before he was twelve years old.
He could not go to New Haven at the time, but later in the year made the
students a delightful address. In his capacity of Master of Arts, he
said, he had come down to New Haven to institute certain college reforms.
By advice, I turned my earliest attention to the Greek department. I
told the Greek Professor I had concluded to drop the use of the
Greek-written character, because it is so hard to spell with and so
impossible to read after you get it spelt. Let us draw the curtain there.
I saw by what followed that nothing but early neglect saved him from
being a very profane man.
He said he had given advice to the mathematical department with about the
same result. The astronomy department he had found in a bad way. He had
decided to transfer the professor to the law department and to put a
law-student in his place.
A boy will be more biddable, more tractable--also cheaper. It is true he
cannot be entrusted with important work at first, but he can comb the
skies for nebula till he gets his hand in.
It was hardly the sort of an address that the holder of a college degree
is expected to make, but doctors and students alike welcomed it
hilariously from Mark Twain.
Not many great things happened to Mark Twain during this long period of
semi-literary inaction, but many interesting ones. When Bill Nye, the
humorist, and James Whitcomb Riley joined themselves in an entertainment
combination, Mark Twain introduced them to their first Boston audience--a
great event to them, and to Boston. Clemens himself gave a reading now
and then, but not for money. Once, when Col. Richard Malcolm Johnston
and Thomas Nelson Page were to give a reading in Baltimore, Page's wife
fell ill, and Colonel Johnston wired to Charles Dudley Warner, asking him
to come in Page's stead. Warner, unable to go, handed the telegram to
Clemens, who promptly answered that he would come. They read to a packed
house, and when the audience had gone and the returns were counted, an
equal amount was handed to each of the authors. Clemens pushed his share
over to Johnston, saying:
"That's yours, Colonel. I'm not reading for money these days."
Colonel Johnston, to whom the sum was important, tried to thank him, but
Clemens only said:
"Never mind, Colonel; it only gives me pleasure to do you that little
favor. You can pass it along some day."
As a matter of fact, Mark Twain himself was beginning to be hard pressed
for funds at this time, but was strong in the faith that he would
presently be a multi-millionaire. The typesetting machine was still
costing a vast sum, but each week its inventor promised that a few more
weeks or months would see it finished, and then a tide of wealth would
come rolling in. Mark Twain felt that a man with ship-loads of money
almost in port could not properly entertain the public for pay. He read
for institutions, schools, benefits, and the like, without charge.