P. S. I got here two days after Henry.
It is said that Mark Twain never really recovered from the tragedy
of his brother's death--that it was responsible for the serious,
pathetic look that the face of the world's greatest laugh-maker
always wore in repose.
He went back to the river, and in September of the same year, after
an apprenticeship of less than eighteen months, received his license
as a St. Louis and New Orleans pilot, and was accepted by his old
chief, Bixby, as full partner on an important boat. In Life on the
Mississippi Mark Twain makes the period of his study from two to two
and a half years, but this is merely an attempt to magnify his
dullness. He was, in fact, an apt pupil and a pilot of very high
class.
Clemens was now suddenly lifted to a position of importance. The
Mississippi River pilot of those days was a person of distinction,
earning a salary then regarded as princely. Certainly two hundred
and fifty dollars a month was large for a boy of twenty-three. At
once, of course, he became the head of the Clemens family. His
brother Orion was ten years older, but he had not the gift of
success. By common consent the younger brother assumed permanently
the position of family counselor and financier. We expect him to
feel the importance of his new position, and he is too human to
disappoint us. Incidentally, we notice an improvement in his
English. He no longer writes “between you and I.”
Fragment of a letter to Orion Clemens. Written at St. Louis in 1859:
... I am not talking nonsense, now--I am in earnest, I want you to keep
your troubles and your plans out of the reach of meddlers, until the
latter are consummated, so that in case you fail, no one will know it
but yourself.
Above all things (between you and me) never tell Ma any of your
troubles; she never slept a wink the night your last letter came, and
she looks distressed yet. Write only cheerful news to her. You know that
she will not be satisfied so long as she thinks anything is going on
that she is ignorant of--and she makes a little fuss about it when her
suspicions are awakened; but that makes no difference--. I know that
it is better that she be kept in the dark concerning all things of an
unpleasant nature. She upbraids me occasionally for giving her only the
bright side of my affairs (but unfortunately for her she has to put up
with it, for I know that troubles that I curse awhile and forget,
would disturb her slumbers for some time.) (Parenthesis No. 2--Possibly
because she is deprived of the soothing consolation of swearing.) Tell
her the good news and me the bad.
Putting all things together, I begin to think I am rather lucky than
otherwise--a notion which I was slow to take up. The other night I
was about to round to for a storm--but concluded that I could find a
smoother bank somewhere. I landed 5 miles below. The storm came--passed
away and did not injure us. Coming up, day before yesterday, I looked
at the spot I first chose, and half the trees on the bank were torn to
shreds. We couldn't have lived 5 minutes in such a tornado. And I am
also lucky in having a berth, while all the young pilots are idle. This
is the luckiest circumstance that ever befell me. Not on account of the
wages--for that is a secondary consideration--but from the fact that
the City of Memphis is the largest boat in the trade and the hardest to
pilot, and consequently I can get a reputation on her, which is a
thing I never could accomplish on a transient boat. I can “bank” in the
neighborhood of $100 a month on her, and that will satisfy me for the
present (principally because the other youngsters are sucking their
fingers.) Bless me! what a pleasure there is in revenge! and what vast
respect Prosperity commands! Why, six months ago, I could enter the
“Rooms,” and receive only a customary fraternal greeting--but now they
say, “Why, how are you, old fellow--when did you get in?”
And the young pilots who used to tell me, patronizingly, that I could
never learn the river cannot keep from showing a little of their chagrin
at seeing me so far ahead of them. Permit me to “blow my horn,” for I
derive a living pleasure from these things, and I must confess that
when I go to pay my dues, I rather like to let the d---d rascals get
a glimpse of a hundred dollar bill peeping out from amongst notes of
smaller dimensions, whose face I do not exhibit! You will despise this
egotism, but I tell you there is a “stern joy” in it.....
Pilots did not remain long on one boat, as a rule; just why it is not so
easy to understand. Perhaps they liked the experience of change;
perhaps both captain and pilot liked the pursuit of the ideal. In the
light-hearted letter that follows--written to a friend of the family,
formerly of Hannibal--we get something of the uncertainty of the pilot's
engagements.
To Mrs. Elizabeth W. Smith, in Jackson, Cape Girardeau County, Mo.:
ST. Louis, Oct. 31 [probably 1859].
DEAR AUNT BETSEY,--Ma has not written you, because she did not know when
I would get started down the river again....
You see, Aunt Betsey, I made but one trip on the packet after you left,
and then concluded to remain at home awhile. I have just discovered this
morning that I am to go to New Orleans on the “Col. Chambers”--fine,
light-draught, swift-running passenger steamer--all modern
accommodations and improvements--through with dispatch--for freight
or passage apply on board, or to--but--I have forgotten the agent's
name--however, it makes no difference--and as I was saying, or had
intended to say, Aunt Betsey, probably, if you are ready to come up, you
had better take the “Ben Lewis,” the best boat in the packet line. She
will be at Cape Girardeau at noon on Saturday (day after tomorrow,)
and will reach here at breakfast time, Sunday. If Mr. Hamilton is chief
clerk,--very well, I am slightly acquainted with him. And if Messrs.
Carter Gray and Dean Somebody (I have forgotten his other name,) are in
the pilot-house--very well again-I am acquainted with them. Just tell
Mr. Gray, Aunt Betsey--that I wish him to place himself at your command.
All the family are well--except myself--I am in a bad way
again--disease, Love, in its most malignant form. Hopes are entertained
of my recovery, however. At the dinner table--excellent symptom--I am
still as “terrible as an army with banners.”
Aunt Betsey--the wickedness of this world--but I haven't time to
moralize this morning.