With the exception of his brief return to the river in 1882. Mark
Twain had been twenty-seven years away from pilots and piloting.
Nevertheless, he always kept a tender place in his heart for the old
times and for old river comrades. Major “Jack” Downing had been a
Mississippi pilot of early days, but had long since retired from the
river to a comfortable life ashore, in an Ohio town. Clemens had
not heard from him for years when a letter came which invited the
following answer.
*****
To Major “Jack” Downing, in Middleport Ohio:
ELMIRA, N. Y.[no month] 1888.
DEAR MAJOR,--And has it come to this that the dead rise up and speak?
For I supposed that you were dead, it has been so long since I heard
your name.
And how young you've grown! I was a mere boy when I knew you on the
river, where you had been piloting for 35 years, and now you are only a
year and a half older than I am! I mean to go to Hot Springs myself and
get 30 or 40 years knocked off my age. It's manifestly the place that
Ponce de Leon was striking for, but the poor fellow lost the trail.
Possibly I may see you, for I shall be in St. Louis a day or two in
November. I propose to go down the river and “note the changes” once
more before I make the long crossing, and perhaps you can come there.
Will you? I want to see all the boys that are left alive.
And so Grant Marsh, too, is flourishing yet? A mighty good fellow, and
smart too. When we were taking that wood flat down to the Chambers,
which was aground, I soon saw that I was a perfect lubber at piloting
such a thing. I saw that I could never hit the Chambers with it, so
I resigned in Marsh's favor, and he accomplished the task to my
admiration. We should all have gone to the mischief if I had remained in
authority. I always had good judgement, more judgement than talent, in
fact.
No; the nom de plume did not originate in that way. Capt. Sellers used
the signature, “Mark Twain,” himself, when he used to write up the
antiquities in the way of river reminiscences for the New Orleans
Picayune. He hated me for burlesquing them in an article in the True
Delta; so four years later when he died, I robbed the corpse--that is
I confiscated the nom de plume. I have published this vital fact 3,000
times now. But no matter, it is good practice; it is about the only fact
that I can tell the same way every time. Very glad, indeed, to hear from
you Major, and shall be gladder still to see you in November.
Truly yours,
S. L. CLEMENS.
He did not make the journey down the river planned for that year.
He had always hoped to make another steamboat trip with Bixby, but
one thing and another interfered and he did not go again.
Authors were always sending their books to Mark Twain to read, and
no busy man was ever more kindly disposed toward such offerings,
more generously considerate of the senders. Louis Pendleton was a
young unknown writer in 1888, but Clemens took time to read his
story carefully, and to write to him about it a letter that cost
precious time, thought, and effort. It must have rejoiced the young
man's heart to receive a letter like that, from one whom all young
authors held supreme.
*****
To Louis Pendleton, in Georgia:
ELMIRA, N. Y., Aug. 4, '88.
MY DEAR SIR,--I found your letter an hour ago among some others which
had lain forgotten a couple of weeks, and I at once stole time enough to
read Ariadne. Stole is the right word, for the summer “Vacation” is
the only chance I get for work; so, no minute subtracted from work is
borrowed, it is stolen. But this time I do not repent. As a rule,
people don't send me books which I can thank them for, and so I
say nothing--which looks uncourteous. But I thank you. Ariadne is a
beautiful and satisfying story; and true, too--which is the best part of
a story; or indeed of any other thing. Even liars have to admit that,
if they are intelligent liars; I mean in their private [the word
conscientious written but erased] intervals. (I struck that word out
because a man's private thought can never be a lie; what he thinks, is
to him the truth, always; what he speaks--but these be platitudes.)
If you want me to pick some flaws--very well--but I do it unwillingly.
I notice one thing--which one may notice also in my books, and in all
books whether written by man or God: trifling carelessness of statement
or Expression. If I think that you meant that she took the lizard from
the water which she had drawn from the well, it is evidence--it is
almost proof--that your words were not as clear as they should have
been. True, it is only a trifling thing; but so is mist on a mirror. I
would have hung the pail on Ariadne's arm. You did not deceive me when
you said that she carried it under her arm, for I knew she didn't; still
it was not your right to mar my enjoyment of the graceful picture. If
the pail had been a portfolio, I wouldn't be making these remarks. The
engraver of a fine picture revises, and revises, and revises--and then
revises, and revises, and revises; and then repeats. And always
the charm of that picture grows, under his hand. It was good enough
before--told its story, and was beautiful. True: and a lovely girl is
lovely, with freckles; but she isn't at her level best with them.
This is not hypercriticism; you have had training enough to know that.
So much concerning exactness of statement. In that other not-small
matter--selection of the exact single word--you are hard to catch.
Still, I should hold that Mrs. Walker considered that there was no
occasion for concealment; that “motive” implied a deeper mental search
than she expended on the matter; that it doesn't reflect the attitude of
her mind with precision. Is this hypercriticism? I shan't dispute it.
I only say, that if Mrs. Walker didn't go so far as to have a motive,
I had to suggest that when a word is so near the right one that a body
can't quite tell whether it is or isn't, it's good politics to strike it
out and go for the Thesaurus. That's all. Motive may stand; but you have
allowed a snake to scream, and I will not concede that that was the best
word.
I do not apologize for saying these things, for they are not said in the
speck-hunting spirit, but in the spirit of want-to-help-if-I-can. They
would be useful to me if said to me once a month, they may be useful to
you, said once.
I save the other stories for my real vacation--which is nine months
long, to my sorrow. I thank you again.
Truly Yours
S. L. CLEMENS.
In the next letter we get a sidelight on the type-setting machine,
the Frankenstein monster that was draining their substance and
holding out false hopes of relief and golden return. The program
here outlined was one that would continue for several years yet,
with the end always in sight, but never quite attained.
*****
To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Ia.:
Oct. 3, '88.
Private.
Saturday 29th, by a closely calculated estimate, there were 85 days'
work to do on the machine.
We can use 4 men, but not constantly. If they could work constantly it
would complete the machine in 21 days, of course. They will all be
on hand and under wages, and each will get in all the work there is
opportunity for, but by how much they can reduce the 85 days toward the
21 days, nobody can tell.
*****
To-day I pay Pratt & Whitney $10,000. This squares back indebtedness and
everything to date. They began about May or April or March 1886--along
there somewhere, and have always kept from a dozen to two dozen
master-hands on the machine.
That outgo is done; 4 men for a month or two will close up that leak
and caulk it. Work on the patents is also kind of drawing toward a
conclusion.
Love to you both. All well here.
And give our love to Ma if she can get the idea.