MARK TWAIN'S LOVE OF COLOUR IN ALL COSTUMING
The public thinks of Mark Twain as being the apostle of _white_ during
the last years of his life, but those who knew him well recall his
delightfully original way of expressing an intense love for _bright
colours_. This brings to mind a week-end at Mark Twain's beautiful
Italian villa in Reading, Connecticut, when, one night during dinner, he
held forth on the compelling fascination of colours and the American
Indian's superior judgment in wearing them. After a lengthy
elaboration--not to say exaggeration--of his theme, he ended by
declaring in uncompromising terms, that colour, and plenty of it,
crimson and yellow and blue, wrapped around man, as well as woman, was
an obligation shirked by humanity. It was all put as only Mark Twain
could have put it, with that serious vein showing through broad humour.
This quality combined with an unmatched originality, made every moment
passed in his company a memory to treasure. It was not alone his theme,
but how he dealt with it, that fascinated one.
PLATE XXIX
One of the 1917 silhouettes.
Naturally, since woman to-day dresses for her
occupation--work or play--the characteristic silhouettes are
many.
This one is reproduced to illustrate our point that outline
can be affected by the smallest detail.
The sketch is by Elisabeth Searcy.
[Illustration: _Drawn from Life by Elisabeth Searcy_
_A Modern Silhouette--1917 Tailor-made_]
Mark Twain was elemental and at the same time a great artist,--the
embodiment of extreme contradictions, and his flair for gay colour was
one proof of his elemental strain. We laughed that night as he made word
pictures of how men and women should dress. Next morning, toward noon,
on looking out of a window, we saw standing in the middle of the
driveway a figure wrapped in crimson silk, his white hair flying in the
wind, while smoke from a pipe encircled his head. Yes, it was Mark
Twain, who in the midst of his writing, had been suddenly struck with
the thought that the road needed mending, and had gone out to have
another look at it! It was a blustering day in Spring, and cold, so one
of the household was sent to persuade him to come in. We can see him
now, returning reluctantly, wind-blown and vehement, gesticulating, and
stopping every few steps to express his opinion of the men who had made
that road! The flaming red silk robe he wore was one his daughter had
brought him from Liberty's, in London, and he adored it. Still wrapped
in it, and seemingly unconscious of his unusual appearance, he joined us
on the balcony, to resume a conversation of the night before.
The red-robed figure seated itself in a wicker chair and berated the
idea that mortal man ever _could_ be generous,--act without selfish
motives. With the greatest reverence in his tone, sitting there in his
whimsical costume of bright red silk, at high noon,--an immaculate
French butler waiting at the door to announce lunch, Mark Twain
concluded an analysis of modern religion with "--why the God _I_ believe
in is too busy spinning spheres to have time to listen to human
prayers."
How often his words have been in our mind since war has shaken our
planet.