Naturally Redpath would not give him any peace now. His London success must not be wasted. At first his victim refused point-blank, and with great brevity. But he was overborne and persuaded, and made occasional appearances, wiring at last this final defiant word:
Telegram to James Redpath, in Boston:
HARTFORD, March 3, 1874.
JAMES REDPATH,—Why don't you congratulate me?
I never expect to stand on a lecture platform again after Thursday night.
MARK.
That he was glad to be home again we may gather from a letter sent
at this time to Doctor Brown, of Edinburgh.
To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:
FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD
Feby. 28, 1874.
MY DEAR FRIEND,—We are all delighted with your commendations of the Gilded Age-and the more so because some of our newspapers have set forth the opinion that Warner really wrote the book and I only added my name to the title page in order to give it a larger sale. I wrote the first eleven chapters, every word and every line. I also wrote chapters 24, 25, 27, 28, 30, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 21, 42, 43, 45, 51, 52. 53, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, and portions of 35, 49 and 56. So I wrote 32 of the 63 chapters entirely and part of 3 others beside.
The fearful financial panic hit the book heavily, for we published it in the midst of it. But nevertheless in the 8 weeks that have now elapsed since the day we published, we have sold 40,000 copies; which gives L3,000 royalty to be divided between the authors. This is really the largest two-months' sale which any American book has ever achieved (unless one excepts the cheaper editions of Uncle Tom's Cabin). The average price of our book is 16 shillings a copy—Uncle Tom was 2 shillings a copy. But for the panic our sale would have been doubled, I verily believe. I do not believe the sale will ultimately go over 100,000 copies.
I shipped to you, from Liverpool, Barley's Illustrations of Judd's “Margaret” (the waiter at the Adelphi Hotel agreeing to ship it securely per parcel delivery,) and I do hope it did not miscarry, for we in America think a deal of Barley's—[Felix Octavius Carr barley, 1822-1888, illustrator of the works of Irving, Cooper, etc. Probably the most distinguished American illustrator of his time.]—work. I shipped the novel (“Margaret”) to you from here a week ago.
Indeed I am thankful for the wife and the child—and if there is one individual creature on all this footstool who is more thoroughly and uniformly and unceasingly happy than I am I defy the world to produce him and prove him. In my opinion, he doesn't exist. I was a mighty rough, coarse, unpromising subject when Livy took charge of me 4 years ago, and I may still be, to the rest of the world, but not to her. She has made a very creditable job of me.
Success to the Mark Twain Club!—and the novel shibboleth of the Whistle. Of course any member rising to speak would be required to preface his remark with a keen respectful whistle at the chair-the chair recognizing the speaker with an answering shriek, and then as the speech proceeded its gravity and force would be emphasized and its impressiveness augmented by the continual interjection of whistles in place of punctuation-pauses; and the applause of the audience would be manifested in the same way....
They've gone to luncheon, and I must follow. With strong love from us both.
Your friend,
SAML. L. CLEMENS.
These were the days when the Howells and Clemens families began
visiting back and forth between Boston and Hartford, and sometimes
Aldrich came, though less frequently, and the gatherings at the
homes of Warner and Clemens were full of never-to-be-forgotten
happiness. Of one such visit Howells wrote:
“In the good-fellowship of that cordial neighborhood we had two such
days as the aging sun no longer shines on in his round. There was
constant running in and out of friendly houses, where the lively
hosts and guests called one another by their christian names or
nicknames, and no such vain ceremony as knocking or ringing at
doors. Clemens was then building the stately mansion in which he
satisfied his love of magnificence as if it had been another
sealskin coat, and he was at the crest of the prosperity which
enabled him to humor every whim or extravagance.”
It was the delight of such a visit that kept Clemens constantly
urging its repetition. One cannot but feel the genuine affection of
these letters.
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
Mch. 1, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,—Now you will find us the most reasonable people in the world. We had thought of precipitating upon you George Warner and wife one day; Twichell and his jewel of a wife another day, and Chas. Perkins and wife another. Only those—simply members of our family, they are. But I'll close the door against them all—which will “fix” all of the lot except Twichell, who will no more hesitate to climb in at the back window than nothing.
And you shall go to bed when you please, get up when you please, talk when you please, read when you please. Mrs. Howells may even go to New York Saturday if she feels that she must, but if some gentle, unannoying coaxing can beguile her into putting that off a few days, we shall be more than glad, for I do wish she and Mrs. Clemens could have a good square chance to get acquainted with each other. But first and last and all the time, we want you to feel untrammeled and wholly free from restraint, here.
The date suits—all dates suit.
Yrs ever
MARK.
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, Mch. 20, 1876.
DEAR HOWELLS,—You or Aldrich or both of you must come to Hartford to live. Mr. Hall, who lives in the house next to Mrs. Stowe's (just where we drive in to go to our new house) will sell for $16,000 or $17,000. The lot is 85 feet front and 150 deep—long time and easy payments on the purchase? You can do your work just as well here as in Cambridge, can't you? Come, will one of you boys buy that house? Now say yes.
Mrs. Clemens is an invalid yet, but is getting along pretty fairly.
We send best regards. MARK.
April found the Clemens family in Elmira. Mrs. Clemens was not
over-strong, and the cares of house-building were many. They went
early, therefore, remaining at the Langdon home in the city until
Quarry Farm should feel a touch of warmer sun, Clemens wrote the
news to Doctor Brown.
To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:
ELMIRA, N. Y., April 27, '86.
DEAR DOCTOR,—This town is in the interior of the State of New York—and was my wife's birth-place. We are here to spend the whole summer. Although it is so near summer, we had a great snow-storm yesterday, and one the day before. This is rather breaking in upon our plans, as it may keep us down here in the valley a trifle longer than we desired. It gets fearfully hot here in the summer, so we spend our summers on top of a hill 6 or 700 feet high, about two or three miles from here—it never gets hot up there.
Mrs. Clemens is pretty strong, and so is the “little wifie” barring a desperate cold in the head the child grows in grace and beauty marvellously. I wish the nations of the earth would combine in a baby show and give us a chance to compete. I must try to find one of her latest photographs to enclose in this. And this reminds me that Mrs. Clemens keeps urging me to ask you for your photograph and last night she said, “and be sure to ask him for a photograph of his sister, and Jock-but say Master Jock—do not be headless and forget that courtesy; he is Jock in our memories and our talk, but he has a right to his title when a body uses his name in a letter.” Now I have got it all in—I can't have made any mistake this time. Miss Clara Spaulding looked in, a moment, yesterday morning, as bright and good as ever. She would like to lay her love at your feet if she knew I was writing—as would also fifty friends of ours whom you have never seen, and whose homage is as fervent as if the cold and clouds and darkness of a mighty sea did not lie between their hearts and you. Poor old Rab had not many “friends” at first, but if all his friends of today could gather to his grave from the four corners of the earth what a procession there would be! And Rab's friends are your friends.
I am going to work when we get on the hill-till then I've got to lie fallow, albeit against my will. We join in love to you and yours.
Your friend ever,
SAML. L. CLEMENS.
P. S. I enclose a specimen of villainy. A man pretends to be my brother and my lecture agent—gathers a great audience together in a city more than a thousand miles from here, and then pockets the money and elopes, leaving the audience to wait for the imaginary lecturer! I am after him with the law.
It was a historic summer at the Farm. A new baby arrived in June; a
new study was built for Mark Twain by Mrs. Crane, on the hillside
near the old quarry; a new book was begun in it—The Adventures of
Tom Sawyer—and a play, the first that Mark Twain had really
attempted, was completed—the dramatization of The Gilded Age.
An early word went to Hartford of conditions at the Farm.
To Rev. and Mrs. Twichell, in Hartford:
ELMIRA, June 11, 1874.
MY DEAR OLD JOE AND HARMONY,—The baby is here and is the great American Giantess—weighing 7 3/4 pounds. We had to wait a good long time for her, but she was full compensation when she did come.
The Modoc was delighted with it, and gave it her doll at once. There is nothing selfish about the Modoc. She is fascinated with the new baby. The Modoc rips and tears around out doors, most of the time, and consequently is as hard as a pine knot and as brown as an Indian. She is bosom friend to all the ducks, chickens, turkeys and guinea hens on the place. Yesterday as she marched along the winding path that leads up the hill through the red clover beds to the summer-house, there was a long procession of these fowls stringing contentedly after her, led by a stately rooster who can look over the Modoc's head. The devotion of these vassals has been purchased with daily largess of Indian meal, and so the Modoc, attended by her bodyguard, moves in state wherever she goes.
Susie Crane has built the loveliest study for me, you ever saw. It is octagonal, with a peaked roof, each octagon filled with a spacious window, and it sits perched in complete isolation on top of an elevation that commands leagues of valley and city and retreating ranges of distant blue hills. It is a cosy nest, with just room in it for a sofa and a table and three or four chairs—and when the storms sweep down the remote valley and the lightning flashes above the hills beyond, and the rain beats upon the roof over my head, imagine the luxury of it! It stands 500 feet above the valley and 2 1/2 miles from it.
However one must not write all day. We send continents of love to you and yours.
Affectionately
MARK.
We have mentioned before that Clemens had settled his mother and
sister at Fredonia, New York, and when Mrs. Clemens was in condition
to travel he concluded to pay them a visit.
It proved an unfortunate journey; the hot weather was hard on Mrs.
Clemens, and harder still, perhaps, on Mark Twain's temper. At any
period of his life a bore exasperated him, and in these earlier days
he was far more likely to explode than in his mellower age. Remorse
always followed—the price he paid was always costly. We cannot
know now who was the unfortunate that invited the storm, but in the
next letter we get the echoes of it and realize something of its
damage.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia:
ELMIRA, Aug. 15.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,—I came away from Fredonia ashamed of myself;—almost too much humiliated to hold up my head and say good-bye. For I began to comprehend how much harm my conduct might do you socially in your village. I would have gone to that detestable oyster-brained bore and apologized for my inexcusable rudeness to him, but that I was satisfied he was of too small a calibre to know how to receive an apology with magnanimity.
Pamela appalled me by saying people had hinted that they wished to visit Livy when she came, but that she had given them no encouragement. I feared that those people would merely comprehend that their courtesies were not wanted, and yet not know exactly why they were not wanted.
I came away feeling that in return for your constant and tireless efforts to secure our bodily comfort and make our visit enjoyable, I had basely repaid you by making you sad and sore-hearted and leaving you so. And the natural result has fallen to me likewise—for a guilty conscience has harassed me ever since, and I have not had one short quarter of an hour of peace to this moment.
You spoke of Middletown. Why not go there and live? Mr. Crane says it is only about a hundred miles this side of New York on the Erie road. The fact that one or two of you might prefer to live somewhere else is not a valid objection—there are no 4 people who would all choose the same place—so it will be vain to wait for the day when your tastes shall be a unit. I seriously fear that our visit has damaged you in Fredonia, and so I wish you were out of it.
The baby is fat and strong, and Susie the same. Susie was charmed with the donkey and the doll.
Ys affectionately
SAML.
P. S.—DEAR MA AND PAMELA—I am mainly grieved because I have been rude to a man who has been kind to you—and if you ever feel a desire to apologize to him for me, you may be sure that I will endorse the apology, no matter how strong it may be. I went to his bank to apologize to him, but my conviction was strong that he was not man enough to know how to take an apology and so I did not make it.
William Dean Howells was in those days writing those vividly
realistic, indeed photographic stories which fixed his place among
American men of letters. He had already written 'Their Wedding
Journey' and 'A Chance Acquaintance' when 'A Foregone Conclusion'
appeared. For the reason that his own work was so different, and
perhaps because of his fondness for the author, Clemens always
greatly admired the books of Howells. Howells's exact observation
and his gift for human detail seemed marvelous to Mark Twain, who
with a bigger brush was inclined to record the larger rather than
the minute aspects of life. The sincerity of his appreciation of
Howells, however, need not be questioned, nor, for that matter, his
detestation of Scott.
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
ELMIRA, Aug. 22, 1874.
DEAR HOWELLS,—I have just finished reading the 'Foregone Conclusion' to Mrs. Clemens and we think you have even outdone yourself. I should think that this must be the daintiest, truest, most admirable workmanship that was ever put on a story. The creatures of God do not act out their natures more unerringly than yours do. If your genuine stories can die, I wonder by what right old Walter Scott's artificialities shall continue to live.
I brought Mrs. Clemens back from her trip in a dreadfully broken-down condition—so by the doctor's orders we unpacked the trunks sorrowfully to lie idle here another month instead of going at once to Hartford and proceeding to furnish the new house which is now finished. We hate to have it go longer desolate and tenantless, but cannot help it.
By and by, if the madam gets strong again, we are hoping to have the Grays there, and you and the Aldrich households, and Osgood, down to engage in an orgy with them.
Ys Ever
MARK
Howells was editor of the Atlantic by this time, and had been urging
Clemens to write something suitable for that magazine. He had done
nothing, however, until this summer at Quarry Farm. There, one
night in the moonlight, Mrs. Crane's colored cook, who had been a
slave, was induced to tell him her story. It was exactly the story
to appeal to Mark Twain, and the kind of thing he could write. He
set it down next morning, as nearly in her own words and manner as
possible, without departing too far from literary requirements.
He decided to send this to Howells. He did not regard it very
highly, but he would take the chance. An earlier offering to the
magazine had been returned. He sent the “True Story,” with a brief
note:
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
ELMIRA, Sept. 2, '74.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,—.....I enclose also a “True Story” which has no humor
in it. You can pay as lightly as you choose for that, if you want it,
for it is rather out of my line. I have not altered the old colored
woman's story except to begin at the beginning, instead of the middle,
as she did—and traveled both ways....
Yrs Ever
MARK.
But Howells was delighted with it. He referred to its “realest kind
of black talk,” and in another place added, “This little story
delights me more and more. I wish you had about forty of them.”
Along with the “True Story” Mark Twain had sent the “Fable for Good
Old Boys and Girls”; but this Howells returned, not, as he said,
because he didn't like it, but because the Atlantic on matters of
religion was just in that “Good Lord, Good Devil condition when a
little fable like yours wouldn't leave it a single Presbyterian,
Baptist, Unitarian, Episcopalian, Methodist, or Millerite paying
subscriber, while all the deadheads would stick to it and abuse it
in the denominational newspapers!”
But the shorter MS. had been only a brief diversion. Mark Twain was
bowling along at a book and a play. The book was Tom Sawyer, as
already mentioned, and the play a dramatization from The Gilded Age.
Clemens had all along intended to dramatize the story of Colonel
Sellers, and was one day thunderstruck to receive word from
California that a San Francisco dramatist had appropriated his
character in a play written for John T. Raymond. Clemens had taken
out dramatic copyright on the book, and immediately stopped the
performance by telegraph. A correspondence between the author and
the dramatist followed, leading to a friendly arrangement by which
the latter agreed to dispose of his version to Mark Twain. A good
deal of discussion from time to time having arisen over the
authorship of the Sellers play, as presented by Raymond, certain
among the letters that follow may be found of special interest.
Meanwhile we find Clemens writing to Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh,
on these matters and events in general. The book MS., which he
mentions as having put aside, was not touched again for nearly a
year.
To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh:
QUARRY FARM, NEAR ELMIRA, N. Y.
Sept. 4, 1874.
DEAR FRIEND,—I have been writing fifty pages of manuscript a day, on an average, for sometime now, on a book (a story) and consequently have been so wrapped up in it and so dead to anything else, that I have fallen mighty short in letter-writing. But night before last I discovered that that day's chapter was a failure, in conception, moral truth to nature, and execution—enough blemish to impair the excellence of almost any chapter—and so I must burn up the day's work and do it all over again. It was plain that I had worked myself out, pumped myself dry. So I knocked off, and went to playing billiards for a change. I haven't had an idea or a fancy for two days, now—an excellent time to write to friends who have plenty of ideas and fancies of their own, and so will prefer the offerings of the heart before those of the head. Day after to-morrow I go to a neighboring city to see a five-act-drama of mine brought out, and suggest amendments in it, and would about as soon spend a night in the Spanish Inquisition as sit there and be tortured with all the adverse criticisms I can contrive to imagine the audience is indulging in. But whether the play be successful or not, I hope I shall never feel obliged to see it performed a second time. My interest in my work dies a sudden and violent death when the work is done.
I have invented and patented a pretty good sort of scrap-book (I think) but I have backed down from letting it be known as mine just at present—for I can't stand being under discussion on a play and a scrap-book at the same time!
I shall be away two days, and then return to take our tribe to New York, where we shall remain five days buying furniture for the new house, and then go to Hartford and settle solidly down for the winter. After all that fallow time I ought to be able to go to work again on the book. We shall reach Hartford about the middle of September, I judge.
We have spent the past four months up here on top of a breezy hill, six hundred feet high, some few miles from Elmira, N. Y., and overlooking that town; (Elmira is my wife's birthplace and that of Susie and the new baby). This little summer house on the hill-top (named Quarry Farm because there's a quarry on it,) belongs to my wife's sister, Mrs. Crane.
A photographer came up the other day and wanted to make some views, and I shall send you the result per this mail.
My study is a snug little octagonal den, with a coal-grate, 6 big windows, one little one, and a wide doorway (the latter opening upon the distant town.) On hot days I spread the study wide open, anchor my papers down with brickbats and write in the midst of the hurricanes, clothed in the same thin linen we make shirts of. The study is nearly on the peak of the hill; it is right in front of the little perpendicular wall of rock left where they used to quarry stones. On the peak of the hill is an old arbor roofed with bark and covered with the vine you call the “American Creeper”—its green is almost bloodied with red. The Study is 30 yards below the old arbor and 200 yards above the dwelling-house-it is remote from all noises.....
Now isn't the whole thing pleasantly situated?
In the picture of me in the study you glimpse (through the left-hand window) the little rock bluff that rises behind the pond, and the bases of the little trees on top of it. The small square window is over the fireplace; the chimney divides to make room for it. Without the stereoscope it looks like a framed picture. All the study windows have Venetian blinds; they long ago went out of fashion in America but they have not been replaced with anything half as good yet.
The study is built on top of a tumbled rock-heap that has morning-glories climbing about it and a stone stairway leading down through and dividing it.
There now—if you have not time to read all this, turn it over to “Jock” and drag in the judge to help.
Mrs. Clemens must put in a late picture of Susie—a picture which she maintains is good, but which I think is slander on the child.
We revisit the Rutland Street home many a time in fancy, for we hold every individual in it in happy and grateful memory.
Goodbye,
Your friend,
SAML. L. CLEMENS.
P. S.—I gave the P.O. Department a blast in the papers about sending misdirected letters of mine back to the writers for reshipment, and got a blast in return, through a New York daily, from the New York postmaster. But I notice that misdirected letters find me, now, without any unnecessary fooling around.
The new house in Hartford was now ready to be occupied, and in a
letter to Howells, written a little more than a fortnight after the
foregoing, we find them located in “part” of it. But what seems
more interesting is that paragraph of the letter which speaks of
close friendly relations still existing with the Warners, in that it
refutes a report current at this time that there was a break between
Clemens and Warner over the rights in the Sellers play. There was,
in fact, no such rupture. Warner, realizing that he had no hand in
the character of Sellers, and no share in the work of dramatization,
generously yielded all claim to any part of the returns.
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
FARMINGTON AVENUE, HARTFORD, Sept. 20, 1876.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,—All right, my boy, send proof sheets here. I amend dialect stuff by talking and talking and talking it till it sounds right—and I had difficulty with this negro talk because a negro sometimes (rarely) says “goin” and sometimes “gwyne,” and they make just such discrepancies in other words—and when you come to reproduce them on paper they look as if the variation resulted from the writer's carelessness. But I want to work at the proofs and get the dialect as nearly right as possible.
We are in part of the new house. Goodness knows when we'll get in the rest of it—full of workmen yet.
I worked a month at my play, and launched it in New York last Wednesday. I believe it will go. The newspapers have been complimentary. It is simply a setting for the one character, Col. Sellers—as a play I guess it will not bear a critical assault in force.
The Warners are as charming as ever. They go shortly to the devil for a year—(which is but a poetical way of saying they are going to afflict themselves with the unsurpassable—(bad word) of travel for a spell.) I believe they mean to go and see you, first-so they mean to start from heaven to the other place; not from earth. How is that?
I think that is no slouch of a compliment—kind of a dim religious light about it. I enjoy that sort of thing.
Yrs ever
MARK.
Raymond, in a letter to the Sun, stated that not “one line” of the
California dramatization had been used by Mark Twain, “except that
which was taken bodily from The Gilded Age.” Clemens himself, in a
statement that he wrote for the Hartford Post, but suppressed,
probably at the request of his wife, gave a full history of the
play's origin, a matter of slight interest to-day.
Sellers on the stage proved a great success. The play had no
special merit as a literary composition, but the character of
Sellers delighted the public, and both author and actor were richly
repaid for their entertainment.
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