Three weeks later.
SCENE I.
Enter GRETCHEN, and puts her shawl on a chair. Brushing around with the
traditional feather-duster of the drama. Smartly dressed, for she is
prosperous.
GR. Wie hatte man sich das vorstellen konnen! In nur drei Wochen bin ich
schon reich geworden! (Gets out of her pocket handful after handful of
silver, which she piles on the table, and proceeds to repile and count,
occasionally ringing or biting a piece to try its quality.) Oh, dass
(with a sigh) die Frau Wirthin nur ewig krank bliebe!... Diese edlen
jungen Manner--sie sind ja so liebenswurdig! Und so fleissig!--und
so treu! Jeden Morgen kommen sie gerade um drei Viertel auf neun; und
plaudern und schwatzen, und plappern, und schnattern, die jungen Damen
auch; um Schlage zwolf nehmen sie Abschied; um Sclage eins kommen sie
schon wieder, und plauden und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern;
gerade um sechs Uhr nehmen sie wiederum Abschied; um halb acht kehren
sie noche'mal zuruck, und plaudern und schwatzen und plappern und
schnattern bis zehn Uhr, oder vielleicht ein Viertel nach, falls ihre
Uhren nach gehen (und stets gehen sie nach am Ende des Besuchs, aber
stets vor Beginn desselben), und zuweilen unterhalten sich die jungen
Leute beim Spazierengehen; und jeden Sonntag gehen sie dreimal in
die Kirche; und immer plaudern sie, und schwatzen und plappern und
schnattern bis ihnen die Zahne aus dem Munde fallen. Und ich? Durch
Mangel an Uebung, ist mir die Zunge mit Moos belegt worden! Freilich
ist's mir eine dumme Zei gewesen. Aber--um Gotteswillen, was geht das
mir an? Was soll ich daraus machen? Taglich sagt die Frau Wirthin,
'Gretchen' (dumb-show of paying a piece of money into her hand), 'du
bist eine der besten Sprach--Lehrerinnen der Welt!' Act, Gott!
Und taglich sagen die edlen jungen Manner, 'Gretchen, liebes
Kind' (money-paying again in dumb-show--three coins), 'bleib'
taub--blind--todt!' und so bleibe ich.... Jetzt wird es ungefahr neun
Uhr sein; bald kommen sie vom Spaziergehen zuruck. Also, es ware gut
dass ich meinem eigenen Schatz einen Besuch abstatte und spazieren gehe.
(Dons her shawl. Exit. L.)
Enter WIRTHIN. R.
WIRTHIN. That was Mr. Stephenson's train that just came in. Evidently
the girls are out walking with Gretchen;--can't find them, and she
doesn't seem to be around. (A ring at the door.) That's him. I'll go
see. (Exit. R.)
Enter STEPHENSON and WIRTHIN. R.
S. Well, how does sickness seem to agree with you?
WIRTHIN. So well that I've never been out of my room since, till I heard
your train come in.
S. Thou miracle of fidelity! Now I argue from that, that the new plan is
working.
WIRTHIN. Working? Mr. Stephenson, you never saw anything like it in the
whole course of your life! It's absolutely wonderful the way it works.
S. Succeeds? No--you don't mean it.
WIRTHIN. Indeed I do mean it. I tell you, Mr. Stephenson, that plan was
just an inspiration--that's what it was. You could teach a cat German by
it.
S. Dear me, this is noble news! Tell me about it.
WIRTHIN. Well, it's all Gretchen--ev-ery bit of it. I told you she was a
jewel. And then the sagacity of that child--why, I never dreamed it was
in her. Sh-she, 'Never you ask the young ladies a question--never let
on--just keep mum--leave the whole thing to me,' sh-she.
S. Good! And she justified, did she?
WIRTHIN. Well, sir, the amount of German gabble that that child crammed
into those two girls inside the next forty-eight hours--well, I was
satisfied! So I've never asked a question--never wanted to ask any. I've
just lain curled up there, happy. The little dears! they've flitted in
to see me a moment, every morning and noon and supper-time; and as sure
as I'm sitting here, inside of six days they were clattering German to
me like a house afire!
S. Sp-lendid, splendid!
WIRTHIN. Of course it ain't grammatical--the inventor of the language
can't talk grammatical; if the dative didn't fetch him the accusative
would; but it's German all the same, and don't you forget it!
S. Go on--go on--this is delicious news--
WIRTHIN. Gretchen, she says to me at the start, 'Never you mind about
company for 'em,' sh-she--'I'm company enough.' And I says, 'All
right--fix it your own way, child;' and that she was right is shown by
the fact that to this day they don't care a straw for any company but
hers.
S. Dear me; why, it's admirable!
WIRTHIN. Well, I should think so! They just dote on that hussy--can't
seem to get enough of her. Gretchen tells me so herself. And the care
she takes of them! She tells me that every time there's a moonlight
night she coaxes them out for a walk; and if a body can believe her, she
actually bullies them off to church three times every Sunday!
S. Why, the little dev--missionary! Really, she's a genius!
WIRTHIN. She's a bud, I tell you! Dear me, how she's brought
those girls' health up! Cheeks?--just roses. Gait?--they walk on
watch-springs! And happy?--by the bliss in their eyes, you'd think
they're in Paradise! Ah, that Gretchen! Just you imagine our trying to
achieve these marvels!
S. You're right--every time. Those girls--why, all they'd have wanted to
know was what we wanted done, and then they wouldn't have done it--the
mischievous young rascals!
WIRTHIN. Don't tell me? Bless you, I found that out early--when I was
bossing.
S. Well, I'm im-mensely pleased. Now fetch them down. I'm not afraid
now. They won't want to go home.
WIRTHIN. Home! I don't believe you could drag them away from Gretchen
with nine span of horses. But if you want to see them, put on your hat
and come along; they're out somewhere trapseing along with Gretchen.
(Going.)
S. I'm with you--lead on.
WIRTHIN. We'll go out the side door. It's towards the Anlage. (Exit
both. L.)
Enter GEORGE and MARGARET. R. Her head lies upon his shoulder, his arm
is about her waist; they are steeped in sentiment.
M. (Turning a fond face up at him.) Du Engel!
GEO. Liebste!
M. Oh, das Liedchen dass Du mir gewidmet hast--es ist so schon, so
wunderschon. Wie hatte ich je geahnt dass Du ein Poet warest!
GEO. Mein Schatzchen!--es ist mir lieb wenn Dir die Kleinigkeit gefallt.
M. Ah, es ist mit der zartlichsten Musik gefullt--klingt ja so suss und
selig--wie das Flustern des Sommerwindes die Abenddammerung hindurch.
Wieder--Theuerste!--sag'es wieder.
GEO. Du bist wie eine Blume!--So schon und hold und rein--Ich schau'
Dich an, und Wehmuth Schleicht mir ins Herz hinein. Mir ist als ob ich
die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt', Betend, dass Gott Dich erhalte, So
rein und schon und hold.
M. A-ch! (Dumb-show sentimentalisms.) Georgie--
GEO. Kindchen!
M. Warum kommen sie nicht?
GEO. Das weiss ich gar night. Sie waren--
M. Es wird spat. Wir mussen sie antreiben. Komm!
GEO. Ich glaube sie werden recht bald ankommen, aber--(Exit both. L.)
Enter GRETCHEN, R., in a state of mind. Slumps into a chair limp with
despair.
GR. Ach! was wird jetzt aus mir werden! Zufallig habe ich in der Ferne
den verdammten Papa gesehen!--und die Frau Wirthin auch! Oh, diese
Erscheinung--die hat mir beinahe das Leben genommen. Sie suchen die
jungen Damen--das weiss ich wenn sie diese und die jungen Herren
zusammen fanden--du heileger Gott! Wenn das gescheiht, waren wir Alle
ganz und gar verloren! Ich muss sie gleich finden, und ihr eine Warnung
geben! (Exit. L.)
Enter ANNIE and WILL, R., posed like the former couple and sentimental.
A. Ich liebe Dich schon so sehr--Deiner edlen Natur wegen. Dass du dazu
auch ein Dichter bist!--ach, mein Leben ist ubermassig reich geworden!
Wer hatte sich doch einbilden konnen dass ich einen Mann zu einem so
wunderschonen Gedicht hatte begeistern konnen?
W. Liebste! Es ist nur eine Kleinigkeit.
A. Nein, nein, es ist ein echtes Wunder! Sage es noch einmal--ich flehe
Dich an.
W. Du bist wie eine Blume!--So schon und hold und rein--Ich schau' Dich
an, und Wehmuth Schleicht mir ins Herz hinein. Mir ist als ob ich die
HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt', Betend, dass Gott Dich erhalt, So rein
und schon und hold.
A. Ach, es ist himmlisch--einfach himmlisch. (Kiss.) Schreibt auch
George Gedicht?
W. Oh, ja--zuweilen.
A. Wie schon!
W. (Aside.) Smouches 'em, same as I do! It was a noble good idea to play
that little thing on her. George wouldn't ever think of that--somehow he
never had any invention.
A. (Arranging chairs.) Jetzt will ich bei Dir sitzen bleiben, und Du--
W. (They sit.) Ja--und ich--
A. Du wirst mir die alte Geschichte, die immer neu bleibt, noch wieder
erzahlen.
W. Zum Beispiel, dass ich Dich liebe!
A. Wieder!
W. Ich--sie kommen!
Enter GEORGE and MARGARET.
A. Das macht nichts. Fortan! (GEORGE unties M.'s bonnet. She reties
his cravat--interspersings of love-pats, etc., and dumb show of
love-quarrellings.)
W. Ich liebe Dich.
A. Ach! Noch einmal!
W. Ich habe Dich vom Herzen lieb.
A. Ach! Abermals!
W. Bist Du denn noch nicht satt?
A. Nein! (The other couple sit down, and MARGARET begins a retying of
the cravat. Enter the WIRTHIN and STEPHENSON, he imposing silence with a
sign.) Mich hungert sehr, ich verhungre!
W. Oh, Du armes Kind! (Lays her head on his shoulder. Dumb-show between
STEPHENSON and WIRTHIN.) Und hungert es nicht mich? Du hast mir nicht
einmal gesagt--
A. Dass ich Dich liebe? Mein Eigener! (Frau WIRTHIN threatens to
faint--is supported by STEPHENSON.) Hore mich nur an: Ich liebe Dich,
ich liebe Dich--
Enter GRETCHEN.
GR. (Tears her hair.) Oh, dass ich in der Holle ware!
M. Ich liebe Dich, ich liebe Dich! Ah, ich bin so glucklich dass ich
nicht schlafen kann, nicht lesen kann, nicht reden kann, nicht--
A. Und ich! Ich bin auch so glucklich dass ich nicht speisen kann, nicht
studieren, arbeiten, denken, schreiben--
S. (To Wirthin--aside.) Oh, there isn't any mistake about it--Gretchen's
just a rattling teacher!
WIRTHIN. (To Stephenson--aside.) I'll skin her alive when I get my hands
on her!
M. Komm, alle Verliebte! (They jump up, join hands, and sing in
chorus--) Du, Du, wie ich Dich liebe, Du, Du, liebest auch mich! Die,
die zartlichsten Triebe--
S. (Stepping forward.) Well! (The girls throw themselves upon his neck
with enthusiasm.)
THE GIRLS. Why, father!
S. My darlings! (The young men hesitate a moment, then they add their
embrace, flinging themselves on Stephenson's neck, along with the
girls.)
THE YOUNG MEN. Why, father!
S. (Struggling.) Oh, come, this is too thin!--too quick, I mean. Let go,
you rascals!
GEO. We'll never let go till you put us on the family list.
M. Right! hold to him!
A. Cling to him, Will! (GRETCHEN rushes in and joins the general
embrace, but is snatched away by the WIRTHIN, crushed up against the
wall, and threatened with destruction.)
S. (Suffocating.) All right, all right--have it your own way, you
quartette of swindlers!
W. He's a darling! Three cheers for papa!
EVERYBODY. (Except Stephenson, who bows with hand on heart)
Hip--hip--hip: hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
GR. Der Tiger--ah-h-h!
WIRTHIN. Sei ruhig, you hussy!
S. Well, I've lost a couple of precious daughters, but I've gained a
couple of precious scamps to fill up the gap with; so it's all
right. I'm satisfied, and everybody's forgiven--(With mock threats at
Gretchen.)
W. Oh, wir werden fur Dich sorgen--dur herrliches Gretchen!
GR. Danke schon!
M. (To Wirthin.) Und fur Sie auch; denn wenn Sie nicht so freundlich
gewesen waren, krank zu werden, wie waren wir je so glucklich geworden
wie jetzt?
WIRTHIN. Well, dear, I was kind, but I didn't mean it. But I ain't
sorry--not one bit--that I ain't. (Tableau.)
S. Come, now, the situation is full of hope, and grace, and tender
sentiment. If I had in the least poetic gift, I know I could improvise
under such an inspiration (each girl nudges her sweetheart) something
worthy to--to--Is there no poet among us? (Each youth turns solemnly
his back upon the other, and raises his hands in benediction over his
sweetheart's bowed head.)
BOTH YOUTHS AT ONCE. Mir ist als ob ich die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen
sollt'--(They turn and look reproachfully at each other--the girls
contemplate them with injured surprise.)
S. (Reflectively.) I think I've heard that before somewhere.
WIRTHIN. (Aside.) Why, the very cats in Germany know it!
(Curtain.)
(1) (EXPLANATORY.) I regard the idea of this play as a valuable
invention. I call it the Patent Universally-Applicable Automatically
Adjustable Language Drama. This indicates that it is adjustable to any
tongue, and performable in any tongue. The English portions of the play
are to remain just as they are, permanently; but you change the foreign
portions to any language you please, at will. Do you see? You at once
have the same old play in a new tongue. And you can keep changing it
from language to language, until your private theatrical pupils have
become glib and at home in the speech of all nations. Zum Beispiel,
suppose we wish to adjust the play to the French tongue. First, we give
Mrs. Blumenthal and Gretchen French names. Next, we knock the German
Meisterschaft sentences out of the first scene, and replace them with
sentences from the French Meisterschaft--like this, for instance: 'Je
voudrais faire des emplettes ce matin; voulez-vous avoir l'obligeance de
venir avec moi chez le tailleur francais?' And so on. Wherever you find
German, replace it with French, leaving the English parts undisturbed.
When you come to the long conversation in the second act, turn to any
pamphlet of your French Meisterschaft, and shovel in as much French talk
on any subject as will fill up the gaps left by the expunged German.
Example--page 423, French Meisterschaft: On dirait qu'il va faire chaud.
J'ai chaud. J'ai extremement chaud. Ah! qu'il fait chaud! Il fait une
chaleur etouffante! L'air est brulant. Je meurs de chaleur. Il est
presque impossible de supporter la chaleur. Cela vous fait transpirer.
Mettons-nous a l'ombre. Il fait du vent. Il fait un vent froid. Il fait
un tres agreable pour se promener aujourd'hui. And so on, all the way
through. It is very easy to adjust the play to any desired language.
Anybody can do it.
MY BOYHOOD DREAMS
The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not been realised. For all who
are old, there is something infinitely pathetic about the subject which
you have chosen, for in no greyhead's case can it suggest any but one
thing--disappointment. Disappointment is its own reason for its pain:
the quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter aside. The
dreamer's valuation of the thing lost--not another man's--is the only
standard to measure it by, and his grief for it makes it large and
great and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases. We should
carefully remember that. There are sixteen hundred million people in
the world. Of these there is but a trifling number--in fact, only
thirty-eight millions--who can understand why a person should have an
ambition to belong to the French army; and why, belonging to it, he
should be proud of that; and why, having got down that far, he should
want to go on down, down, down till he struck the bottom and got on the
General Staff; and why, being stripped of this livery, or set free
and reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick and thorough
process, let it be what it might, he should wish to return to his
strange serfage. But no matter: the estimate put upon these things by
the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper measure of their
value: the proper measure, the just measure, is that which is put upon
them by Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness or the
vastness of the disappointment which their loss cost him. There you have
it: the measure of the magnitude of a dream-failure is the measure of
the disappointment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in others'
eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do with the matter. With this
straightening out and classification of the dreamer's position to
help us, perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and respect his
dream--Dreyfus's, and the dreams our friends have cherished and reveal
to us. Some that I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me, are
curious enough; but we may not smile at them, for they were precious to
the dreamers, and their failure has left scars which give them dignity
and pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that were brown when
they and mine were young together rise old and white before me now,
beseeching me to speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.
Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton, Cable, Remus--how their young
hopes and ambitions come flooding back to my memory now, out of the
vague far past, the beautiful past, the lamented past! I remember it so
well--that night we met together--it was in Boston, and Mr. Fiends was
there, and Mr. Osgood, Ralph Keeler, and Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us
now these many years--and under the seal of confidence revealed to each
other what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams which had not as yet been
blighted, but over which was stealing the grey of the night that was to
come--a night which we prophetically felt, and this feeling oppressed us
and made us sad. I remember that Howells's voice broke twice, and it
was only with great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer. He told of his early
struggles to climb to his goal, and how at last he attained to within a
single step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune after misfortune
assailed him, and he went down, and down, and down, until now at last,
weary and disheartened, he had for the present given up the struggle
and become the editor of the Atlantic Monthly. This was in 1830. Seventy
years are gone since, and where now is his dream? It will never be
fulfilled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for the position;
no one would take him now; even if he got it, he would not be able to
do himself credit in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and
lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be put on real estate,
and would have the pain of seeing younger and abler men intrusted
with the furniture and other such goods--goods which draw a mixed and
intellectually low order of customers, who must be beguiled of their
bids by a vulgar and specialised humour and sparkle, accompanied
with antics. But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that had coveted that
thing and had set his heart of hearts upon it, and when we remember
this, a great wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and we
wish for his sake that his fate could have been different. At that time
Hay's boyhood dream was not yet past hope of realisation, but it was
fading, dimming, wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehension
was blowing cold over the perishing summer of his life. In the pride of
his young ambition he had aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy
saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the Mississippi and
dictating terms to roustabouts in high and wounding terms. I look back
now, from this far distance of seventy years, and note with sorrow the
stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's history is but Howells's, with
differences of detail. Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success
seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-plank, his eye upon
the capstan, misfortune came and his fall began. Down--down--down--ever
down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel in the field; Charge
d'Affaires in Paris; Charge d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the
Tribune; Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England; and now at last
there he lies--Secretary of State, Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has
fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream--where now
is his dream? Gone down in blood and tears with the dream of the
auctioneer. And the young dream of Aldrich--where is that? I remember
yet how he sat there that night fondling it, petting it; seeing it
recede and ever recede; trying to be reconciled and give it up, but
not able yet to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be a
horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the others, fell; then
fell again, and yet again, and again and again. And now at last he can
fall no further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle, and is only a
poet. No one would risk a horse with him now. His dream is over. Has
any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I must doubt it. Look at Brander
Matthews. He wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day? Nothing but
a professor in a university. Will he ever be a cowboy? It is hardly
conceivable. Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young dream? He hoped
to be a barkeeper. See where he has landed. Is it better with Cable?
What was Cable's young dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day? Nothing but a theologian
and novelist. And Uncle Remus--what was his young dream? To be a
buccaneer. Look at him now. Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful
they are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-have-beens, how
pathetic! The heart-secrets that were revealed that night now so long
vanished, how they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet privacies,
how they endeared us to each other! We were under oath never to tell
any of these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate when
speaking with persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them. Oh, our
lost Youth--God keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us,
with the indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!
TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE
Sleep! for the Sun that scores another Day
Against the Tale allotted You to stay,
Reminding You, is Risen, and now
Serves Notice--ah, ignore it while You stay!
The chill Wind blew, and those who stood before
The Tavern murmured, 'Having drunk his Score,
Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,
The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more
'Come, leave the Cup, and on the Winter's Snow
Your Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:
Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,
Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow.'
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,
I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,
'O Youth, O whither gone? Return,
And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine.'
In this subduing Draught of tender green
And kindly Absinth, with its wimpling Sheen
Of dusky half-lights, let me drown
The haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.
For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,
We pay some day its Weight in golden Grief
Mined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not--
From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!
The Joy of Life, that streaming through their Veins
Tumultuous swept, falls slack--and wanes
The Glory in the Eye--and one by one
Life's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.
Whether one hide in some secluded Nook--
Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook--
'Tis one. Old Age will search him out--and
He--He--He--when ready will know where to look.
From Cradle unto Grave I keep a House
Of Entertainment where may drowse
Bacilli and kindred Germs--or feed--or breed
Their festering Species in a deep Carouse.
Think--in this battered Caravanserai,
Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,
How Microbe after Microbe with his Pomp
Arrives unasked, and comes to stay.
Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the Lust
Of masticating, once, now own Disgust
Of Clay-Plug'd Cavities--full soon our Snags
Are emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,
And fat, like over-riped Figs--we know
The Sign--the Riggs' Disease is ours, and we
Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe;
Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,
And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and off
Our fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat--
We scoffered before, but now we may not scoff.
Some for the Bunions that afflict us prate
Of Plasters unsurpassable, and hate
To Cut a corn--ah cut, and let the Plaster go,
Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.
Some for the Honours of Old Age, and some
Long for its Respite from the Hum
And Clash of sordid Strife--O Fools,
The Past should teach them what's to Come:
Lo, for the Honours, cold Neglect instead!
For Respite, disputatious Heirs a Bed
Of Thorns for them will furnish. Go,
Seek not Here for Peace--but Yonder--with the Dead.
For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,
And even smitten thus, will not repine,
Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,
The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.
O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear!
Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year,
O whither are ye flown? Come back,
And break my heart, but bless my grieving ear.
Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,
And answer not when some that love it call:
Be glad for Me when this you note--and think
I've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic Bowl
That medicines hurt Minds and on the Soul
The Healing of its Peace doth lay--if then
Death claim me--Welcome be his Dole!
SANNA, SWEDEN, _September_ 15_th_.
Private.--If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is, the
dentist will tell you. I've had it--and it is more than interesting.
--M.T.
EDITORIAL NOTE
Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of this
article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them to
correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none
are discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a
disordered mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston,
nor elsewhere; and in their opinion there was never any such night.
They have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him--particularly under oath; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further, they think
it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite
lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own
at all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let
his article pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the
interest of truth.
P.S.--These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in some
fear lest they distress Mr. Twain if published without his privity, we
judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an opportunity to
defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or even aware that
he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: 'Do not worry about those
former young people. They can write good literature, but when it comes
to speaking the truth, they have not had my training.--MARK TWAIN.' The
last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate construction.
It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsibility of
doing it.--EDITOR.
IN MEMORIAM
OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS
DIED AUGUST 18, 1896; AGED 24
In a fair valley--oh, how long ago, how long ago!--
Where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines,
And fruitful fields and meadows starred with flowers,
And clear streams wandered at their idle will;
And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces
A dream of painted clouds, and soft airs
Went whispering with odorous breath,
And all was peace--in that fair vale,
Shut from the troubled world, a nameless hamlet drowsed.
Hard by, apart, a temple stood;
And strangers from the outer world
Passing, noted it with tired eyes,
And seeing, saw it not:
A glimpse of its fair form--an answering momentary thrill--
And they passed on, careless and unaware.
They could not know the cunning of its make;
They could not know the secret shut up in its heart;
Only the dwellers of the hamlet knew;
They knew that what seemed brass was gold;
What marble seemed, was ivory;
The glories that enriched the milky surfaces--
The trailing vines, and interwoven flowers,
And tropic birds a-wing, clothed all in tinted fires--
They knew for what they were, not what they seemed:
Encrustings all of gems, not perishable splendours of the brush.
They knew the secret spot where one must stand--
They knew the surest hour, the proper slant of sun--
To gather in, unmarred, undimmed,
The vision of the fane in all its fairy grace,
A fainting dream against the opal sky.
And more than this. They knew
That in the temple's inmost place a spirit dwelt,
Made all of light!
For glimpses of it they had caught
Beyond the curtains when the priests
That served the altar came and went.
All loved that light and held it dear
That had this partial grace;
But the adoring priests alone who lived
By day and night submerged in its immortal glow
Knew all its power and depth, and could appraise the loss
If it should fade and fail and come no more.
All this was long ago--so long ago!
The light burned on; and they that worshipped it,
And they that caught its flash at intervals and held it dear,
Contented lived in its secure possession. Ah,
How long ago it was!
And then when they
Were nothing fearing, and God's peace was in the air,
And none was prophesying harm,
The vast disaster fell:
Where stood the temple when the sun went down
Was vacant desert when it rose again!
Ah yes! 'Tis ages since it chanced!
So long ago it was,
That from the memory of the hamlet-folk the Light has passed--
They scarce believing, now, that once it was,
Or if believing, yet not missing it,
And reconciled to have it gone.
Not so the priests! Oh, not so
The stricken ones that served it day and night,
Adoring it, abiding in the healing of its peace:
They stand, yet, where erst they stood
Speechless in that dim morning long ago;
And still they gaze, as then they gazed,
And murmur, 'It will come again;
It knows our pain--it knows--it knows--
Ah surely it will come again.
S.L.C.
LAKE LUCERNE, _August_ 18, 1897.