At a quarter past 9 this evening she that was the life of my lifepassed to the relief & the peace of death after as months of unjust& unearned suffering. I first saw her near 37 years ago, & now Ihave looked upon her face for the last time. Oh, so unexpected!...I was full of remorse for things done & said in these 34 years ofmarried life that hurt Livy's heart.
He envied her lying there, so free from it all, with the great peace upon her face. He wrote to Howells and to Twichell, and to Mrs. Crane, those nearest and dearest ones. To Twichell he said:
How sweet she was in death, how young, how beautiful, how like herdear girlish self of thirty years ago, not a gray hair showing!This rejuvenescence was noticeable within two hours after her death;& when I went down again (2.30) it was complete. In all that night& all that day she never noticed my caressing hand—it seemedstrange.
To Howells he recalled the closing scene:
I bent over her & looked in her face & I think I spoke—I wassurprised & troubled that she did not notice me. Then we understood& our hearts broke. How poor we are to-day!But how thankful I am that her persecutions are ended! I would notcall her back if I could.To-day, treasured in her worn, old Testament, I found a dear &gentle letter from you dated Far Rockaway, September 13, 1896, aboutour poor Susy's death. I am tired & old; I wish I were with Livy.
And in a few days:
It would break Livy's heart to see Clara. We excuse ourself from all the friends that call—though, of course, only intimates come. Intimates—but they are not the old, old friends, the friends of the old, old times when we laughed. Shall we ever laugh again? If I could only see a dog that I knew in the old times & could put my arms around his neck and tell him all, everything, & ease my heart!
A tidal wave of sympathy poured in. Noble and commoner, friend and stranger—humanity of every station—sent their messages of condolence to the friend of mankind. The cablegrams came first—bundles of them from every corner of the world—then the letters, a steady inflow. Howells, Twichell, Aldrich—those oldest friends who had themselves learned the meaning of grief—spoke such few and futile words as the language can supply to allay a heart's mourning, each recalling the rarity and beauty of the life that had slipped away. Twichell and his wife wrote:
DEAR, DEAR MARK,—There is nothing we can say. What is there to say? But here we are—with you all every hour and every minute—filled with unutterable thoughts; unutterable affection for the dead and for the living. HARMONY AND JOE.
Howells in his letter said:
She hallowed what she touched far beyond priests.... What are you going to do, you poor soul?
A hundred letters crowd in for expression here, but must be denied—not, however, the beam of hope out of Helen Keller's illumined night:
Do try to reach through grief and feel the pressure of her hand, asI reach through darkness and feel the smile on my friends' lips andthe light in their eyes though mine are closed.
They were adrift again without plans for the future. They would return to America to lay Mrs. Clemens to rest by Susy and little Langdon, but beyond that they could not see. Then they remembered a quiet spot in Massachusetts, Tyringham, near Lee, where the Gilders lived, and so, on June 7th, he wrote:
DEAR GILDER FAMILY,—I have been worrying and worrying to know whatto do; at last I went to the girls with an idea—to ask the Gildersto get us shelter near their summer home. It was the first timethey have not shaken their heads. So to-morrow I will cable to youand shall hope to be in time.An hour ago the best heart that ever beat for me and mine wascarried silent out of this house, and I am as one who wanders andhas lost his way. She who is gone was our head, she was our hands.We are now trying to make plans—we: we who have never made a planbefore, nor ever needed to. If she could speak to us she would makeit all simple and easy with a word, & our perplexities would vanishaway. If she had known she was near to death she would have told uswhere to go and what to do, but she was not suspecting, neither werewe. She was all our riches and she is gone; she was our breath, shewas our life, and now we are nothing.We send you our love-and with it the love of you that was in herheart when she died.S. L. CLEMENS.
They arranged to sail on the Prince Oscar on the 29th of June. There was an earlier steamer, but it was the Princess Irene, which had brought them, and they felt they would not make the return voyage on that vessel. During the period of waiting a curious thing happened. Clemens one day got up in a chair in his room on the second floor to pull down the high window-sash. It did not move easily and his hand slipped. It was only by the merest chance that he saved himself from falling to the ground far below. He mentions this in his note-book, and once, speaking of it to Frederick Duneka, he said:
“Had I fallen it would probably have killed me, and in my bereaved circumstances the world would have been convinced that it was suicide. It was one of those curious coincidences which are always happening and being misunderstood.”
The homeward voyage and its sorrowful conclusion are pathetically conveyed in his notes:
June 29, 1904. Sailed last night at 10. The bugle-call tobreakfast. I recognized the notes and was distressed. When I heardthem last Livy heard them with me; now they fall upon her earunheeded.In my life there have been 68 Junes—but how vague & colorless 67 ofthem are contrasted with the deep blackness of this one!July 1, 1904. I cannot reproduce Livy's face in my mind's eye—Iwas never in my life able to reproduce a face. It is a curiousinfirmity—& now at last I realize it is a calamity.July 2, 1904. In these 34 years we have made many voyages together,Livy dear—& now we are making our last; you down below & lonely; Iabove with the crowd & lonely.July 3, 1904. Ship-time, 8 A.M. In 13 hours & a quarter it will be4 weeks since Livy died.Thirty-one years ago we made our first voyage together—& this isour last one in company. Susy was a year old then. She died at 24& had been in her grave 8 years.July 10, 1904. To-night it will be 5 weeks. But to me it remainsyesterday—as it has from the first. But this funeral march—howsad & long it is!Two days more will end the second stage of it.July 14, 1904 (ELMIRA). Funeral private in the house of Livy'syoung maidenhood. Where she stood as a bride 34 years ago there hercoffin rested; & over it the same voice that had made her a wifethen committed her departed spirit to God now.
It was Joseph Twichell who rendered that last service. Mr. Beecher was long since dead. It was a simple, touching utterance, closing with this tender word of farewell:
Robert Browning, when he was nearing the end of his earthly days,said that death was the thing that we did not believe in. Nor do webelieve in it. We who journeyed through the bygone years incompanionship with the bright spirit now withdrawn are growing old.The way behind is long; the way before is short. The end cannot befar off. But what of that? Can we not say, each one:“So long that power hath blessed me, sure it stillWill lead me on;O'er moor and fen; o'er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn, their angel faces smile,Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!”And so good-by. Good-by, dear heart! Strong, tender, and true.Good-by until for us the morning break and these shadows fly away.
Dr. Eastman, who had succeeded Mr. Beecher, closed the service with a prayer, and so the last office we can render in this life for those we love was finished.
Clemens ordered that a simple marker should be placed at the grave, bearing, besides the name, the record of birth and death, followed by the German line:
'Gott sei dir gnadig, O meine Wonne'!
There was an extra cottage on the Gilder place at Tyringham, and this they occupied for the rest of that sad summer. Clemens, in his note-book, has preserved some of its aspects and incidents.
July 24, 1904. Rain—rain—rain. Cold. We built a fire in my room. Then clawed the logs out & threw water, remembering there was a brood of swallows in the chimney. The tragedy was averted.
July 31. LEE, MASSACHUSETTS (BERKSHIRE HILLS). Last night the young people out on a moonlight ride. Trolley frightened Jean's horse—collision—horse killed. Rodman Gilder picked Jean up, unconscious; she was taken to the doctor, per the car. Face, nose, side, back contused; tendon of left ankle broken.
August 10. NEW YORK. Clam here sick—never well since June 5. Jean is at the summer home in the Berkshire Hills crippled.
The next entry records the third death in the Clemens family within a period of eight months—that of Mrs. Moffett, who had been Pamela Clemens. Clemens writes:
September 1. Died at Greenwich, Connecticut, my sister, PamelaMoffett, aged about 73.Death dates this year January 14, June 5, September 1.
That fall they took a house in New York City, on the corner of Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, No. 21, remaining for a time at the Grosvenor while the new home was being set in order. The home furniture was brought from Hartford, unwrapped, and established in the light of strange environment. Clemens wrote:
We have not seen it for thirteen years. Katie Leary, our old housekeeper, who has been in our service more than twenty-four years, cried when she told me about it to-day. She said, “I had forgotten it was so beautiful, and it brought Mrs. Clemens right back to me—in that old time when she was so young and lovely.”
Clara Clemens had not recovered from the strain of her mother's long illness and the shock of her death, and she was ordered into retirement with the care of a trained nurse. The life at 21 Fifth Avenue, therefore, began with only two remaining members of the broken family—Clemens and Jean.
Clemens had undertaken to divert himself with work at Tyringham, though without much success. He was not well; he was restless and disturbed; his heart bleak with a great loneliness. He prepared an article on Copyright for the 'North American Review',—[Published Jan., 7905. A dialogue presentation of copyright conditions, addressed to Thorwald Stolberg, Register of Copyrights, Washington, D. C. One of the best of Mark Twain's papers on the subject.]—and he began, or at least contemplated, that beautiful fancy, 'Eve's Diary', which in the widest and most reverential sense, from the first word to the last, conveys his love, his worship, and his tenderness for the one he had laid away. Adam's single comment at the end, “Wheresoever she was, there was Eden,” was his own comment, and is perhaps the most tenderly beautiful line he ever wrote. These two books, Adam's Diary and Eve's—amusing and sometimes absurd as they are, and so far removed from the literal—are as autobiographic as anything he has done, and one of them as lovely in its truth. Like the first Maker of men, Mark Twain created Adam in his own image; and his rare Eve is no less the companion with whom, half a lifetime before, he had begun the marriage journey. Only here the likeness ceases. No Serpent ever entered their Eden. And they never left it; it traveled with them so long as they remained together.
In the Christmas Harper for 1904 was published “Saint Joan of Arc”—the same being the Joan introduction prepared in London five years before. Joan's proposed beatification had stirred a new interest in the martyred girl, and this most beautiful article became a sort of key-note of the public heart. Those who read it were likely to go back and read the Recollections, and a new appreciation grew for that masterpiece. In his later and wider acceptance by his own land, and by the world at large, the book came to be regarded with a fresh understanding. Letters came from scores of readers, as if it were a newly issued volume. A distinguished educator wrote:
I would rather have written your history of Joan of Arc than anyother piece of literature in any language.
And this sentiment grew. The demand for the book increased, and has continued to increase, steadily and rapidly. In the long and last analysis the good must prevail. A day will come when there will be as many readers of Joan as of any other of Mark Twain's works.
[The growing appreciation of Joan is shown by the report of sales for the three years following 1904. The sales for that year in America were 1,726; for 1905, 2,445 for 1906, 5,381; for 1907, 6,574. At this point it passed Pudd'nhead Wilson, the Yankee, The Gilded Age, Life on the Mississippi, overtook the Tramp Abroad, and more than doubled The American Claimant. Only The Innocents Abroad, Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, and Roughing It still ranged ahead of it, in the order named.]
The house at 21 Fifth Avenue, built by the architect who had designed Grace Church, had a distinctly ecclesiastical suggestion about its windows, and was of fine and stately proportions within. It was a proper residence for a venerable author and a sage, and with the handsome Hartford furnishings distributed through it, made a distinctly suitable setting for Mark Twain. But it was lonely for him. It lacked soul. He added, presently, a great AEolian Orchestrelle, with a variety of music for his different moods. He believed that he would play it himself when he needed the comfort of harmony, and that Jean, who had not received musical training, or his secretary could also play to him. He had a passion for music, or at least for melody and stately rhythmic measures, though his ear was not attuned to what are termed the more classical compositions. For Wagner, for instance, he cared little, though in a letter to Mrs. Crane he said:
Certainly nothing in the world is so solemn and impressive and so divinely beautiful as “Tannhauser.” It ought to be used as a religious service.
Beethoven's sonatas and symphonies also moved him deeply. Once, writing to Jean, he asked:
What is your favorite piece of music, dear? Mine is Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. I have found that out within a day or two.
It was the majestic movement and melodies of the second part that he found most satisfying; but he oftener inclined to the still tenderer themes of Chopin's nocturnes and one of Schubert's impromptus, while the “Lorelei” and the “Erlking” and the Scottish airs never wearied him. Music thus became a chief consolation during these lonely days—rich organ harmonies that filled the emptiness of his heart and beguiled from dull, material surroundings back into worlds and dreams that he had known and laid away.
He went out very little that winter—usually to the homes of old and intimate friends. Once he attended a small dinner given him by George Smalley at the Metropolitan Club; but it was a private affair, with only good friends present. Still, it formed the beginning of his return to social life, and it was not in his nature to retire from the brightness of human society, or to submerge himself in mourning. As the months wore on he appeared here and there, and took on something of his old-time habit. Then his annual bronchitis appeared, and he was confined a good deal to his home, where he wrote or planned new reforms and enterprises.
The improvement of railway service, through which fewer persons should be maimed and destroyed each year, interested him. He estimated that the railroads and electric lines killed and wounded more than all of the wars combined, and he accumulated statistics and prepared articles on the subject, though he appears to have offered little of such matter for publication. Once, however, when his sympathy was awakened by the victim of a frightful trolley and train collision in Newark, New Jersey, he wrote a letter which promptly found its way into print.
DEAR MISS MADELINE, Your good & admiring & affectionate brother hastold me of your sorrowful share in the trolley disaster whichbrought unaccustomed tears to millions of eyes & fierce resentmentagainst those whose criminal indifference to their responsibilitiescaused it, & the reminder has brought back to me a pang out of thatbygone time. I wish I could take you sound & whole out of your bed& break the legs of those officials & put them in it—to stay there.For in my spirit I am merciful, and would not break their necks &backs also, as some would who have no feeling.It is your brother who permits me to write this line—& so it is notan intrusion, you see.May you get well-& soon!Sincerely yours,S. L. CLEMENS.
A very little later he was writing another letter on a similar subject to St. Clair McKelway, who had narrowly escaped injury in a railway accident.
DEAR McKELWAY, Your innumerable friends are grateful, most grateful.As I understand the telegrams, the engineers of your train had neverseen a locomotive before.... The government's officialreport, showing that our railways killed twelve hundred persons lastyear & injured sixty thousand, convinces me that under presentconditions one Providence is not enough properly & efficiently totake care of our railroad business. But it is characteristicallyAmerican—always trying to get along short-handed & save wages.
A massacre of Jews in Moscow renewed his animosity for semi-barbaric Russia. Asked for a Christmas sentiment, he wrote:
It is my warm & world-embracing Christmas hope that all of us thatdeserve it may finally be gathered together in a heaven of rest &peace, & the others permitted to retire into the clutches of Satan,or the Emperor of Russia, according to preference—if they have apreference.
An article, “The Tsar's Soliloquy,” written at this time, was published in the North American Review for March (1905). He wrote much more, but most of the other matter he put aside. On a subject like that he always discarded three times as much as he published, and it was usually about three times as terrific as that which found its way into type. “The Soliloquy,” however, is severe enough. It represents the Tsar as contemplating himself without his clothes, and reflecting on what a poor human specimen he presents:
Is it this that 140,000,000 Russians kiss the dust before andworship?—manifestly not! No one could worship this spectacle whichis Me. Then who is it, what is it, that they worship? Privately,none knows better than I: it is my clothes! Without my clothes Ishould be as destitute of authority as any other naked person. Noone could tell me from a parson and barber tutor. Then who is thereal Emperor of Russia! My clothes! There is no other.
The emperor continues this fancy, and reflects on the fierce cruelties that are done in his name. It was a withering satire on Russian imperialism, and it stirred a wide response. This encouraged Clemens to something even more pretentious and effective in the same line. He wrote “King Leopold's Soliloquy,” the reflections of the fiendish sovereign who had maimed and slaughtered fifteen millions of African subjects in his greed—gentle, harmless blacks-men, women, and little children whom he had butchered and mutilated in his Congo rubber-fields. Seldom in the history of the world have there been such atrocious practices as those of King Leopold in the Congo, and Clemens spared nothing in his picture of them. The article was regarded as not quite suitable for magazine publication, and it was given to the Congo Reform Association and issued as a booklet for distribution, with no return to the author, who would gladly have written a hundred times as much if he could have saved that unhappy race and have sent Leopold to the electric chair.—[The book was price-marked twenty-five cents, but the returns from such as were sold went to the cause. Thousands of them were distributed free. The Congo, a domain four times as large as the German empire, had been made the ward of Belgium at a convention in Berlin by the agreement of fourteen nations, America and thirteen European states. Leopold promptly seized the country for his personal advantage and the nations apparently found themselves powerless to depose him. No more terrible blunder was ever committed by an assemblage of civilized people.]
Various plans and movements were undertaken for Congo reform, and Clemens worked and wrote letters and gave his voice and his influence and exhausted his rage, at last, as one after another of the half-organized and altogether futile undertakings showed no results. His interest did not die, but it became inactive. Eventually he declared: “I have said all I can say on that terrible subject. I am heart and soul in any movement that will rescue the Congo and hang Leopold, but I cannot write any more.”
His fires were likely to burn themselves out, they raged so fiercely. His final paragraph on the subject was a proposed epitaph for Leopold when time should have claimed him. It ran:
Here under this gilded tomb lies rotting the body of one the smellof whose name will still offend the nostrils of men ages upon agesafter all the Caesars and Washingtons & Napoleons shall have ceasedto be praised or blamed & been forgotten—Leopold of Belgium.
Clemens had not yet lost interest in the American policy in the Philippines, and in his letters to Twichell he did not hesitate to criticize the President's attitude in this and related matters. Once, in a moment of irritation, he wrote:
DEAR JOE,—I knew I had in me somewhere a definite feeling about thePresident. If I could only find the words to define it with! Herethey are, to a hair—from Leonard Jerome:“For twenty years I have loved Roosevelt the man, and hatedRoosevelt the statesman and politician.”It's mighty good. Every time in twenty-five years that I have metRoosevelt the man a wave of welcome has streaked through me with thehand-grip; but whenever (as a rule) I meet Roosevelt the statesman &politician I find him destitute of morals & not respect-worthy. Itis plain that where his political self & party self are concerned hehas nothing resembling a conscience; that under those inspirationshe is naively indifferent to the restraints of duty & even unawareof them; ready to kick the Constitution into the back yard wheneverit gets in his way....But Roosevelt is excusable—I recognize it & (ought to) concede it.We are all insane, each in his own way, & with insanity goesirresponsibility. Theodore the man is sane; in fairness we ought tokeep in mind that Theodore, as statesman & politician, is insane &irresponsible.
He wrote a great deal more from time to time on this subject; but that is the gist of his conclusions, and whether justified by time, or otherwise, it expresses today the deduction of a very large number of people. It is set down here, because it is a part of Mark Twain's history, and also because a little while after his death there happened to creep into print an incomplete and misleading note (since often reprinted), which he once made in a moment of anger, when he was in a less judicial frame of mind. It seems proper that a man's honest sentiments should be recorded concerning the nation's servants.
Clemens wrote an article at this period which he called the “War Prayer.” It pictured the young recruits about to march away for war—the excitement and the celebration—the drum-beat and the heart-beat of patriotism—the final assembly in the church where the minister utters that tremendous invocation:
God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,Thunder, Thy clarion, and lightning, Thy sword!
and the “long prayer” for victory to the nation's armies. As the prayer closes a white-robed stranger enters, moves up the aisle, and takes the preacher's place; then, after some moments of impressive silence, he begins:
“I come from the Throne-bearing a message from Almighty God!....He has heard the prayer of His servant, your shepherd, & will grantit if such shall be your desire after I His messenger shall haveexplained to you its import—that is to say its full import. For itis like unto many of the prayers of men in that it asks for morethan he who utters it is aware of—except he pause & think.“God's servant & yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused & takenthought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two—one uttered, the othernot. Both have reached the ear of Him who heareth allsupplications, the spoken & the unspoken....“You have heard your servant's prayer—the uttered part of it. I amcommissioned of God to put into words the other part of it—thatpart which the pastor—and also you in your hearts—ferventlyprayed, silently. And ignorantly & unthinkingly? God grant that itwas so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord ourGod!' That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer iscompleted into those pregnant words.“Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspokenpart of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!“O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, goforth to battle—be Thou near them! With them—in spirit—wealso go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides tosmite the foe.“O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloodyshreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fieldswith the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown thethunder of the guns with the wounded, writhing in pain; help usto lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; helpus to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows withunavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with theirlittle children to wander unfriended through wastes of theirdesolated land in rags & hunger & thirst, sport of the sun-flames of summer & the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit,worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave &denied it—for our sakes, who adore Thee, Lord, blast theirhopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage,make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stainthe white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask ofone who is the Spirit of love & who is the ever-faithful refuge& friend of all that are sore beset, & seek His aid with humble& contrite hearts. Grant our prayer, O Lord; & Thine shall bethe praise & honor & glory now & ever, Amen.”(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it,speak!—the messenger of the Most High waits.”...............It was believed, afterward, that the man was a lunatic, becausethere was no sense in what he said.
To Dan Beard, who dropped in to see him, Clemens read the “War Prayer,” stating that he had read it to his daughter Jean, and others, who had told him he must not print it, for it would be regarded as sacrilege.
“Still you—are going to publish it, are you not?”
Clemens, pacing up and down the room in his dressing-gown and slippers, shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I have told the whole truth in that, and only dead men can tell the truth in this world. It can be published after I am dead.”
He did not care to invite the public verdict that he was a lunatic, or even a fanatic with a mission to destroy the illusions and traditions and conclusions of mankind. To Twichell he wrote, playfully but sincerely:
Am I honest? I give you my word of honor (privately) I am not. For seven years I have suppressed a book which my conscience tells me I ought to publish. I hold it a duty to publish it. There are other difficult duties which I am equal to, but I am not equal to that one. Yes, even I am dishonest. Not in many ways, but in some. Forty-one, I think it is. We are certainly all honest in one or several ways—every man in the world—though I have a reason to think I am the only one whose blacklist runs so light. Sometimes I feel lonely enough in this lofty solitude.
It was his Gospel he referred to as his unpublished book, his doctrine of Selfishness, and of Man the irresponsible Machine. To Twichell he pretended to favor war, which he declared, to his mind, was one of the very best methods known of diminishing the human race.
What a life it is!—this one! Everything we try to do, somebody intrudes & obstructs it. After years of thought & labor I have arrived within one little bit of a step of perfecting my invention for exhausting the oxygen in the globe's air during a stretch of two minutes, & of course along comes an obstructor who is inventing something to protect human life. Damn such a world anyway.
He generally wrote Twichell when he had things to say that were outside of the pale of print. He was sure of an attentive audience of one, and the audience, whether it agreed with him or not, would at least understand him and be honored by his confidence. In one letter of that year he said:
I have written you to-day, not to do you a service, but to do myself one. There was bile in me. I had to empty it or lose my day to-morrow. If I tried to empty it into the North American Review—oh, well, I couldn't afford the risk. No, the certainty! The certainty that I wouldn't be satisfied with the result; so I would burn it, & try again to-morrow; burn that and try again the next day. It happens so nearly every time. I have a family to support, & I can't afford this kind of dissipation. Last winter when I was sick I wrote a magazine article three times before I got it to suit me. I Put $500 worth of work on it every day for ten days, & at last when I got it to suit me it contained but 3,000 words-$900. I burned it & said I would reform.
And I have reformed. I have to work my bile off whenever it gets to where I can't stand it, but I can work it off on you economically, because I don't have to make it suit me. It may not suit you, but that isn't any matter; I'm not writing it for that. I have used you as an equilibrium—restorer more than once in my time, & shall continue, I guess. I would like to use Mr. Rogers, & he is plenty good-natured enough, but it wouldn't be fair to keep him rescuing me from my leather-headed business snarls & make him read interminable bile-irruptions besides; I can't use Howells, he is busy & old & lazy, & won't stand it; I dasn't use Clara, there's things I have to say which she wouldn't put up with—a very dear little ashcat, but has claws. And so—you're It.
[See the preface to the “Autobiography of Mark Twain”: 'I am writingfrom the grave. On these terms only can a man be approximatelyfrank. He cannot be straitly and unqualifiedly frank either in thegrave or out of it.' D.W.]
He took for the summer a house at Dublin, New Hampshire, the home of Henry Copley Greene, Lone Tree Hill, on the Monadnock slope. It was in a lovely locality, and for neighbors there were artists, literary people, and those of kindred pursuits, among them a number of old friends. Colonel Higginson had a place near by, and Abbott H. Thayer, the painter, and George de Forest Brush, and the Raphael Pumpelly family, and many more.
Colonel Higginson wrote Clemens a letter of welcome as soon as the news got out that he was going to Dublin; and Clemens, answering, said:
I early learned that you would be my neighbor in the summer & Irejoiced, recognizing in you & your family a large asset. I hopefor frequent intercourse between the two households. I shall havemy youngest daughter with me. The other one will go from the rest-cure in this city to the rest-cure in Norfolk, Connecticut; & weshall not see her before autumn. We have not seen her since themiddle of October.Jean, the younger daughter, went to Dublin & saw the house & cameback charmed with it. I know the Thayers of old—manifestly thereis no lack of attractions up there. Mrs. Thayer and I wereshipmates in a wild excursion perilously near 40 years ago.Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over thefields, with the fragrance still upon his spirit. I am tiredwanting for that man to get old.
They went to Dublin in May, and became at once a part of the summer colony which congregated there. There was much going to and fro among the different houses, pleasant afternoons in the woods, mountain-climbing for Jean, and everywhere a spirit of fine, unpretentious comradeship.
The Copley Greene house was romantically situated, with a charming outlook. Clemens wrote to Twichell:
We like it here in the mountains, in the shadows of Monadnock. Itis a woody solitude. We have no near neighbors. We have neighborsand I can see their houses scattered in the forest distances, for welive on a hill. I am astonished to find that I have known 8 ofthese 14 neighbors a long time; 10 years is the shortest; then sevenbeginning with 25 years & running up to 37 years' friendship. It isthe most remarkable thing I ever heard of.
This letter was written in July, and he states in it that he has turned out one hundred thousand words of a large manuscript.. It was a fantastic tale entitled “3,000 Years among the Microbes,” a sort of scientific revel—or revelry—the autobiography of a microbe that had been once a man, and through a failure in a biological experiment transformed into a cholera germ when the experimenter was trying to turn him into a bird. His habitat was the person of a disreputable tramp named Blitzowski, a human continent of vast areas, with seething microbic nations and fantastic life problems. It was a satire, of course—Gulliver's Lilliput outdone—a sort of scientific, socialistic, mathematical jamboree.
He tired of it before it reached completion, though not before it had attained the proportions of a book of size. As a whole it would hardly have added to his reputation, though it is not without fine and humorous passages, and certainly not without interest. Its chief mission was to divert him mentally that summer during, those days and nights when he would otherwise have been alone and brooding upon his loneliness.—[For extracts from “3,000 Years among the Microbes” see Appendix V, at the end of this work.] MARK TWAIN'S SUGGESTED TITLE-PAGE FOR HIS MICROBE BOOK:
3000 YEARSAMONG THE MICROBESBy a MicrobeWITH NOTESadded by the same Hand7000 years laterTranslated from the OriginalMicrobicbyMark Twain
His inability to reproduce faces in his mind's eye he mourned as an increasing calamity. Photographs were lifeless things, and when he tried to conjure up the faces of his dead they seemed to drift farther out of reach; but now and then kindly sleep brought to him something out of that treasure-house where all our realities are kept for us fresh and fair, perhaps for a day when we may claim them again. Once he wrote to Mrs. Crane:
SUSY DEAR,—I have had a lovely dream. Livy, dressed in black, wassitting up in my bed (here) at my right & looking as young & sweetas she used to when she was in health. She said, “What is the nameof your sweet sister?” I said, “Pamela.” “Oh yes, that is it, Ithought it was—(naming a name which has escaped me) won't you writeit down for me?” I reached eagerly for a pen & pad, laid my handsupon both, then said to myself, “It is only a dream,” and turnedback sorrowfully & there she was still. The conviction flamedthrough me that our lamented disaster was a dream, & this a reality.I said, “How blessed it is, how blessed it is, it was all a dream,only a dream!” She only smiled and did not ask what dream I meant,which surprised me. She leaned her head against mine & kept saying,“I was perfectly sure it was a dream; I never would have believed itwasn't.” I think she said several things, but if so they are gonefrom my memory. I woke & did not know I had been dreaming. She wasgone. I wondered how she could go without my knowing it, but I didnot spend any thought upon that. I was too busy thinking of howvivid & real was the dream that we had lost her, & how unspeakablyblessed it was to find that it was not true & that she was stillours & with us.
He had the orchestrelle moved to Dublin, although it was no small undertaking, for he needed the solace of its harmonies; and so the days passed along, and he grew stronger in body and courage as his grief drifted farther behind him. Sometimes, in the afternoon or in the evening; when the neighbors had come in for a little while, he would walk up and down and talk in his old, marvelous way of all the things on land and sea, of the past and of the future, “Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,” of the friends he had known and of the things he had done, of the sorrow and absurdities of the world.
It was the same old scintillating, incomparable talk of which Howells once said:
“We shall never know its like again. When he dies it will die with him.”
It was during the summer at Dublin that Clemens and Rogers together made up a philanthropic ruse on Twichell. Twichell, through his own prodigal charities, had fallen into debt, a fact which Rogers knew. Rogers was a man who concealed his philanthropies when he could, and he performed many of them of which the world will never know: In this case he said:
“Clemens, I want to help Twichell out of his financial difficulty. I will supply the money and you will do the giving. Twichell must think it comes from you.”
Clemens agreed to this on the condition that he be permitted to leave a record of the matter for his children, so that he would not appear in a false light to them, and that Twichell should learn the truth of the gift, sooner or later. So the deed was done, and Twichell and his wife lavished their thanks upon Clemens, who, with his wife, had more than once been their benefactors, making the deception easy enough now. Clemens writhed under these letters of gratitude, and forwarded them to Clara in Norfolk, and later to Rogers himself. He pretended to take great pleasure in this part of the conspiracy, but it was not an unmixed delight. To Rogers he wrote:
I wanted her [Clara] to see what a generous father she's got. Ididn't tell her it was you, but by and by I want to tell her, when Ihave your consent; then I shall want her to remember the letters. Iwant a record there, for my Life when I am dead, & must be able tofurnish the facts about the Relief-of-Lucknow-Twichell in case Ifall suddenly, before I get those facts with your consent, beforethe Twichells themselves.I read those letters with immense pride! I recognized that I hadscored one good deed for sure on my halo account. I haven't hadanything that tasted so good since the stolen watermelon.P. S.-I am hurrying them off to you because I dasn't read themagain! I should blush to my heels to fill up with this unearnedgratitude again, pouring out of the thankful hearts of those poorswindled people who do not suspect you, but honestly believe I gavethat money.
Mr. Rogers hastily replied: