Charley, your proof-reader, is an idiot; and not only an idiot, butblind; and not only blind, but partly dead.
Of course, one must regard many of Mark Twain's business aspects humorously. To consider them otherwise is to place him in a false light altogether. He wore himself out with his anxieties and irritations; but that even he, in the midst of his furies, saw the humor of it all is sufficiently evidenced by the form of his savage phrasing. There were few things that did not amuse him, and certainly nothing amused more, or oftener, than himself.
It is proper to add a detail in evidence of a business soundness which he sometimes manifested. He had observed the methods of Bliss and Osgood, and had drawn his conclusions. In the beginning of the Huck Finn canvass he wrote Webster:
Keep it diligently in mind that we don't issue till we have made abig sale.Get at your canvassing early and drive it with all your might, withan intent and purpose of issuing on the 10th or 15th of nextDecember (the best time in the year to tumble a big pile into thetrade); but if we haven't 40,000 subscriptions we simply postponepublication till we've got them. It is a plain, simple policy, andwould have saved both of my last books if it had been followed.[That is to say, 'The Prince and the Pauper' and the Mississippibook, neither of which had sold up to his expectations on theinitial canvass.]
Gerhardt returned from Paris that summer, after three years of study, a qualified sculptor. He was prepared to take commissions, and came to Elmira to model a bust of his benefactor. The work was finished after four or five weeks of hard effort and pronounced admirable; but Gerhardt, attempting to make a cast one morning, ruined it completely. The family gathered round the disaster, which to them seemed final, but the sculptor went immediately to work, and in an amazingly brief time executed a new bust even better than the first, an excellent piece of modeling and a fine likeness. It was decided that a cut of it should be used as a frontispiece for the new book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Clemens was at this time giving the final readings to the Huck Finn pages, a labor in which Mrs. Clemens and the children materially assisted. In the childish biography which Susy began of her father, a year later, she says:
Ever since papa and mama were married papa has written his books andthen taken them to mama in manuscript, and she has expurgated—[Susy's spelling is preserved]—them. Papa read Huckleberry Finn tous in manuscript,—[Probably meaning proof.]—just before it cameout, and then he would leave parts of it with mama to expurgate,while he went off to the study to work, and sometimes Clara and Iwould be sitting with mama while she was looking the manuscriptover, and I remember so well, with what pangs of regret we used tosee her turn down the leaves of the pages, which meant that somedelightfully terrible part must be scratched out. And I rememberone part pertickularly which was perfectly fascinating it was soterrible, that Clara and I used to delight in and oh, with whatdespair we saw mama turn down the leaf on which it was written, wethought the book would almost be ruined without it. But wegradually came to think as mama did.
Commenting on this phase of Huck's evolution Mark Twain has since written:
I remember the special case mentioned by Susy, and can see the groupyet—two-thirds of it pleading for the life of the culprit sentencethat was so fascinatingly dreadful, and the other third of itpatiently explaining why the court could not grant the prayer of thepleaders; but I do not remember what the condemned phrase was. Ithad much company, and they all went to the gallows; but it ispossible that that especially dreadful one which gave those littlepeople so much delight was cunningly devised and put into the bookfor just that function, and not with any hope or expectation that itwould get by the “expergator” alive. It is possible, for I had thatcustom.
Little Jean was probably too youthful yet to take part in that literary arbitration. She was four, and had more interest in cows. In some memoranda which her father kept of that period—the “Children's Book”—he says:
She goes out to the barn with one of us every evening toward sixo'clock, to look at the cows—which she adores—no weaker word canexpress her feeling for them. She sits rapt and contented whileDavid milks the three, making a remark now and then—always aboutthe cows. The time passes slowly and drearily for her attendant,but not for her. She could stand a week of it. When the milking isfinished, and “Blanche,” “Jean,” and “the cross cow” are turned intothe adjoining little cow-lot, we have to set Jean on a shed in thatlot, and stay by her half an hour, till Eliza, the German nurse,comes to take her to bed. The cows merely stand there, and donothing; yet the mere sight of them is all-sufficient for Jean. Sherequires nothing more. The other evening, after contemplating thema long time, as they stood in the muddy muck chewing the cud, shesaid, with deep and reverent appreciation, “Ain't this a sweetlittle garden?”Yesterday evening our cows (after being inspected and worshiped byJean from the shed for an hour) wandered off down into the pastureand left her bereft. I thought I was going to get back home, now,but that was an error. Jean knew of some more cows in a fieldsomewhere, and took my hand and led me thitherward. When we turnedthe corner and took the right-hand road, I saw that we shouldpresently be out of range of call and sight; so I began to argueagainst continuing the expedition, and Jean began to argue in favorof it, she using English for light skirmishing and German for“business.” I kept up my end with vigor, and demolished herarguments in detail, one after the other, till I judged I had herabout cornered. She hesitated a moment, then answered up, sharply:“Wir werden nichts mehr daruber sprechen!” (We won't talk any moreabout it.)It nearly took my breath away, though I thought I might possiblyhave misunderstood. I said:“Why, you little rascal! Was hast du gesagt?”But she said the same words over again, and in the same decided way.I suppose I ought to have been outraged, but I wasn't; I wascharmed.
His own note-books of that summer are as full as usual, but there are fewer literary ideas and more philosophies. There was an excitement, just then, about the trichina germ in pork, and one of his memoranda says:
I think we are only the microscopic trichina concealed in the bloodof some vast creature's veins, and that it is that vast creaturewhom God concerns himself about and not us.
And there is another which says:
People, in trying to justify eternity, say we can put it in bylearning all the knowledge acquired by the inhabitants of themyriads of stars. We sha'n't need that. We could use up twoeternities in learning all that is to be learned about our ownworld, and the thousands of nations that have risen, and flourished,and vanished from it. Mathematics alone would occupy me eightmillion years.
He records an incident which he related more fully in a letter to Howells:
Before I forget it I must tell you that Mrs. Clemens has said abright thing. A drop-letter came to me asking me to lecture herefor a church debt. I began to rage over the exceedingly coolwording of the request, when Mrs. Clemens said: “I think I know thatchurch, and, if so, this preacher is a colored man; he doesn't knowhow to write a polished letter. How should he?”My manner changed so suddenly and so radically that Mrs. C. said: “Iwill give you a motto, and it will be useful to you if you willadopt it: 'Consider every man colored till he is proved white.'”
“It is dern good, I think.”
One of the note-books contains these entries:
Talking last night about home matters, I said, “I wish I had said toGeorge when we were leaving home, 'Now, George, I wish you wouldtake advantage of these three or four months' idle time while I amaway——'”“To learn to let my matches alone,” interrupted Livy. The verywords I was going to use. Yet George had not been mentioned before,nor his peculiarities.
Several years ago I said:
“Suppose I should live to be ninety-two, and just as I was dying amessenger should enter and say——”“You are become Earl of Durham,” interrupted Livy. The very words Iwas going to utter. Yet there had not been a word said about theearl, or any other person, nor had there been any conversationcalculated to suggest any such subject.
The Republican Presidential nomination of James G. Blaine resulted in a political revolt such as the nation had not known. Blaine was immensely popular, but he had many enemies in his own party. There were strong suspicions of his being connected with doubtful financiering-enterprises, more or less sensitive to official influence, and while these scandals had become quieted a very large portion of the Republican constituency refused to believe them unjustified. What might be termed the intellectual element of Republicanism was against Blaine: George William Curtis, Charles Dudley Warner, James Russell Lowell, Henry Ward Beecher, Thomas Nast, the firm of Harper & Brothers, Joseph W. Hawley, Joseph Twichell, Mark Twain—in fact the majority of thinking men who held principle above party in their choice.
On the day of the Chicago nomination, Henry C. Robinson, Charles E. Perkins, Edward M. Bunce, F. G. Whitmore, and Samuel C. Dunham were collected with Mark Twain in his billiard-room, taking turns at the game and discussing the political situation, with George, the colored butler, at the telephone down-stairs to report the returns as they came in. As fast as the ballot was received at the political headquarters down-town, it was telephoned up to the house and George reported it through the speaking-tube.
The opposition to Blaine in the convention was so strong that no one of the assembled players seriously expected his nomination. What was their amazement, then, when about mid-afternoon George suddenly announced through the speaking-tube that Blaine was the nominee. The butts of the billiard cues came down on the floor with a bump, and for a moment the players were speechless. Then Henry Robinson said:
“It's hard luck to have to vote for that man.”
Clemens looked at him under his heavy brows.
“But—we don't—have to vote for him,” he said.
“Do you mean to say that you're not going to vote for him?”
“Yes, that is what I mean to say. I am not going to vote for him.”
There was a general protest. Most of those assembled declared that when a party's representatives chose a man one must stand by him. They might choose unwisely, but the party support must be maintained. Clemens said:
“No party holds the privilege of dictating to me how I shall vote. If loyalty to party is a form of patriotism, I am no patriot. If there is any valuable difference between a monarchist and an American, it lies in the theory that the American can decide for himself what is patriotic and what isn't. I claim that difference. I am the only person in the sixty millions that is privileged to dictate my patriotism.”
There was a good deal of talk back and forth, and, in the end, most of those there present remained loyal to Blaine. General Hawley and his paper stood by Blaine. Warner withdrew from his editorship of the Courant and remained neutral. Twichell stood with Clemens and came near losing his pulpit by it. Open letters were published in the newspapers about him. It was a campaign when politics divided neighbors, families, and congregations. If we except the Civil War period, there never had been a more rancorous political warfare than that waged between the parties of James G. Blaine and Grover Cleveland in 1884.
That Howells remained true to Blaine was a grief to Clemens. He had gone to the farm with Howells on his political conscience and had written fervent and imploring letters on the subject. As late as September 17th, he said:
Somehow I can't seem to rest quiet under the idea of your voting forBlaine. I believe you said something about the country and theparty. Certainly allegiance to these is well, but certainly a man'sfirst duty is to his own conscience and honor; the party and countrycome second to that, and never first. I don't ask you to vote atall. I only urge you not to soil yourself by voting for Blaine....Don't be offended; I mean no offense. I am not concerned about therest of the nation, but well, good-by.Yours ever, MARK.
Beyond his prayerful letters to Howells, Clemens did not greatly concern himself with politics on the farm, but, returning to Hartford, he went vigorously into the campaign, presided, as usual, at mass-meetings, and made political speeches which invited the laughter of both parties, and were universally quoted and printed without regard to the paper's convictions.
It was during one such speech as this that, in the course of his remarks, a band outside came marching by playing patriotic music so loudly as to drown his voice. He waited till the band got by, but by the time he was well under way again another band passed, and once more he was obliged to wait till the music died away in the distance. Then he said, quite serenely:
“You will find my speech, without the music, in the morning paper.”
In introducing Carl Schurz at a great mugwump mass-meeting at Hartford, October 20, 1884, he remarked that he [Clemens] was the only legitimately elected officer, and was expected to read a long list of vice-presidents; but he had forgotten all about it, and he would ask all the gentlemen there, of whatever political complexion, to do him a great favor by acting as vice-presidents. Then he said:
As far as my own political change of heart is concerned, I have notbeen convinced by any Democratic means. The opinion I hold of Mr.Blaine is due to the comments of the Republican press before thenomination. Not that they have said bitter or scandalous things,because Republican papers are above that, but the things they saiddid not seem to be complimentary, and seemed to me to implyeditorial disapproval of Mr. Blaine and the belief that he was notqualified to be President of the United States.It is just a little indelicate for me to be here on this occasionbefore an assemblage of voters, for the reason that the ablestnewspaper in Colorado—the ablest newspaper in the world—hasrecently nominated me for President. It is hardly fit for me topreside at a discussion of the brother candidate, but the best amongus will do the most repulsive things the moment we are smitten witha Presidential madness. If I had realized that this canvass was toturn on the candidate's private character I would have started thatColorado paper sooner. I know the crimes that can be imputed andproved against me can be told on the fingers of your hands. Thiscannot be said of any other Presidential candidate in the field.
Inasmuch as the Blaine-Cleveland campaign was essentially a campaign of scurrility, this touch was loudly applauded.
Mark Twain voted for Grover Cleveland, though up to the very eve of election he was ready to support a Republican nominee in whom he had faith, preferably Edmunds, and he tried to inaugurate a movement by which Edmunds might be nominated as a surprise candidate and sweep the country.
It was probably Dr. Burchard's ill-advised utterance concerning the three alleged R's of Democracy, “Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion,” that defeated Blaine, and by some strange, occult means Mark Twain's butler George got wind of this damning speech before it became news on the streets of Hartford. George had gone with his party, and had a considerable sum of money wagered on Blaine's election; but he knew it was likely to be very close, and he had an instant and deep conviction that these three fatal words and Blaine's failure to repudiate them meant the candidate's downfall. He immediately abandoned everything in the shape of household duties, and within the briefest possible time had changed enough money to make him safe, and leave him a good margin of winnings besides, in the event of Blaine's defeat. This was evening. A very little later the news of Blaine's blunder, announced from the opera-house stage, was like the explosion of a bomb. But it was no news to George, who went home rejoicing with his enemies.
The drain of many investments and the establishment of a publishing house had told heavily on Clemens's finances. It became desirable to earn a large sum of money with as much expedition as possible. Authors' readings had become popular, and Clemens had read in Philadelphia and Boston with satisfactory results. He now conceived the idea of a grand tour of authors as a commercial enterprise. He proposed to Aldrich, Howells, and Cable that he charter a private car for the purpose, and that with their own housekeeping arrangements, cooking, etc., they could go swinging around the circuit, reaping a golden harvest. He offered to be general manager of the expedition, the impresario as it were, and agreed to guarantee the others not less than seventy-five dollars a day apiece as their net return from the “circus,” as he called it.
Howells and Aldrich liked well enough to consider it as an amusing prospect, but only Cable was willing to realize it. He had been scouring the country on his own account, and he was willing enough to join forces with Mark Twain.
Clemens detested platforming, but the idea of reading from his books or manuscript for some reason seemed less objectionable, and, as already stated, the need of much money had become important.
He arranged with J. B. Pond for the business side of the expedition, though in reality he was its proprietor. The private-car idea was given up, but he employed Cable at a salary of four hundred and fifty dollars a week and expenses, and he paid Pond a commission. Perhaps, without going any further, we may say that the tour was a financial success, and yielded a large return of the needed funds.
Clemens and Cable had a pleasant enough time, and had it not been for the absence from home and the disagreeableness of railway travel, there would have been little to regret. They were a curiously associated pair. Cable was orthodox in his religion, devoted to Sunday-school, Bible reading, and church affairs in general. Clemens—well, Clemens was different. On the first evening of their tour, when the latter was comfortably settled in bed with an entertaining book, Cable appeared with his Bible, and proceeded to read a chapter aloud. Clemens made no comment, and this went on for an evening or two more. Then he said:
“See here, Cable, we'll have to cut this part of the program out. You can read the Bible as much as you please so long as you don't read it to me.”
Cable retired courteously. He had a keen sense of humor, and most things that Mark Twain did, whether he approved or not, amused him. Cable did not smoke, but he seemed always to prefer the smoking compartment when they traveled, to the more respectable portions of the car. One day Clemens said to him:
“Cable, why do you sit in here? You don't smoke, and you know I always smoke, and sometimes swear.”
Cable said, “I know, Mark, I don't do these things, but I can't help admiring the way you do them.”
When Sunday came it was Mark Twain's great happiness to stay in bed all day, resting after his week of labor; but Cable would rise, bright and chipper, dress himself in neat and suitable attire, and visit the various churches and Sunday-schools in town, usually making a brief address at each, being always invited to do so.
It seems worth while to include one of the Clemens-Cable programs here—a most satisfactory one. They varied it on occasion, and when they were two nights in a place changed it completely, but the program here given was the one they were likely to use after they had proved its worth:
PROGRAMRichling's visit to Kate RileyGEO. W. CABLEKing SollermunMARK TWAIN(a) Kate Riley and Ristofolo(b) Narcisse in mourning for “Lady Byron”(c) Mary's Night RideGEO. W. CABLE(a) Tragic Tale of the Fishwife(b) A Trying Situation(c) A Ghost StoryMARK TWAIN
At a Mark Twain memorial meeting (November 30, 1910), where the few who were left of his old companions told over quaint and tender memories, George Cable recalled their reading days together and told of Mark Twain's conscientious effort to do his best, to be worthy of himself, regardless of all other concerns. He told how when they had been traveling for a while Clemens seemed to realize that he was only giving the audience nonsense; making them laugh at trivialities which they would forget before they had left the entertainment hall. Cable said that up to that time he had supposed Clemens's chief thought was the entertainment of the moment, and that if the audience laughed he was satisfied. He told how he had sat in the wings, waiting his turn, and heard the tides of laughter gather and roll forward and break against the footlights, time and time again, and how he had believed his colleague to be glorying in that triumph. What was his surprise, then, on the way to the hotel in the carriage, when Clemens groaned and seemed writhing in spirit and said:
“Oh, Cable, I am demeaning myself. I am allowing myself to be a mere buffoon. It's ghastly. I can't endure it any longer.”
Cable added that all that night and the next day Mark Twain devoted himself to the study and rehearsal of selections which were justified not only as humor, but as literature and art.
A good many interesting and amusing things would happen on such a tour. Many of these are entirely forgotten, of course, but of others certain memoranda have been preserved. Grover Cleveland had been elected when they set out on their travels, but was still holding his position in Albany as Governor of New York. When they reached Albany Cable and Clemens decided to call on him. They drove to the Capitol and were shown into the Governor's private office. Cleveland made them welcome, and, after greetings, said to Clemens:
“Mr. Clemens, I was a fellow-citizen of yours in Buffalo a good many months some years ago, but you never called on me then. How do you explain this?”
Clemens said: “Oh, that is very simple to answer, your Excellency. In Buffalo you were a sheriff. I kept away from the sheriff as much as possible, but you're Governor now, and on the way to the Presidency. It's worth while coming to see you.”
Clemens meantime had been resting, half sitting, on the corner of the Executive desk. He leaned back a little, and suddenly about a dozen young men opened various doors, filed in and stood at attention, as if waiting for orders.
No one spoke for a moment; then the Governor said to this collection of attendants:
“You are dismissed, young gentlemen. Your services are not required. Mr. Clemens is sitting on the bells.”
In Buffalo, when Clemens appeared on the stage, he leisurely considered the audience for a moment; then he said:
“I miss a good many faces. They have gone—gone to the tomb, to the gallows, or to the White House. All of us are entitled to at least one of these distinctions, and it behooves us to be wise and prepare for all.”
On Thanksgiving Eve the readers were in Morristown, New Jersey, where they were entertained by Thomas Nast. The cartoonist prepared a quiet supper for them and they remained overnight in the Nast home. They were to leave next morning by an early train, and Mrs. Nast had agreed to see that they were up in due season. When she woke next morning there seemed a strange silence in the house and she grew suspicious. Going to the servants' room, she found them sleeping soundly. The alarm-clock in the back hall had stopped at about the hour the guests retired. The studio clock was also found stopped; in fact, every timepiece on the premises had retired from business. Clemens had found that the clocks interfered with his getting to sleep, and he had quieted them regardless of early trains and reading engagements. On being accused of duplicity he said:
“Well, those clocks were all overworked, anyway. They will feel much better for a night's rest.”
A few days later Nast sent him a caricature drawing—a picture which showed Mark Twain getting rid of the offending clocks.
At Christmas-time they took a fortnight's holiday and Clemens went home to Hartford. A surprise was awaiting him there. Mrs. Clemens had made an adaptation of 'The Prince and the Pauper' play, and the children of the neighborhood had prepared a presentation of it for his special delectation. He knew, on his arrival home, that something mysterious was in progress, for certain rooms were forbidden him; but he had no inkling of their plan until just before the performance—when he was led across the grounds to George Warner's home, into the large room there where it was to be given, and placed in a seat directly in front of the stage.
Gerhardt had painted the drop-curtain, and assisted in the general construction of scenery and effects. The result was really imposing; but presently, when the curtain rose and the guest of honor realized what it was all about, and what they had undertaken for his pleasure, he was deeply moved and supremely gratified.
There was but one hitch in the performance. There is a place where the Prince says, “Fathers be alike, mayhap; mine hath not a doll's temper.”
This was Susy's part, and as she said it the audience did not fail to remember its literal appropriateness. There was a moment's silence, then a titter, followed by a roar of laughter, in which everybody but the little actors joined. They did not see the humor and were disturbed and grieved. Curiously enough, Mrs Clemens herself, in arranging and casting the play, had not considered the possibility of this effect. The parts were all daintily played. The children wore their assumed personalities as if native to them. Daisy Warner played the part of Tom Canty, Clara Clemens was Lady Jane Grey.
It was only the beginning of The Prince and the Pauper productions. The play was repeated, Clemens assisting, adding to the parts, and himself playing the role of Miles Hendon. In her childish biography Susy says:
Papa had only three days to learn the part in, but still we were allsure that he could do it. The scene that he acted in was the scenebetween Miles Hendon and the Prince, the “Prithee, pour the water”scene. I was the Prince and papa and I rehearsed together two orthree times a day for the three days before the appointed evening.Papa acted his part beautifully, and he added to the scene, makingit a good deal longer. He was inexpressibly funny, with his greatslouch hat and gait——oh such a gait! Papa made the Miles Hendonscene a splendid success and every one was delighted with the scene,and papa too. We had great fun with our “Prince and Pauper,” and Ithink we none of us shall forget how immensely funny papa was in it.He certainly could have been an actor as well as an author.
The holidays over, Cable and Clemens were off on the circuit again. At Rochester an incident happened which led to the writing of one of Mark Twain's important books, 'A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court'. Clemens and Cable had wandered into a book-store for the purpose of finding something to read. Pulling over some volumes on one of the tables, Clemens happened to pick up a little green, cloth-bound book, and after looking at the title turned the pages rather curiously and with increasing interest.
“Cable,” he said, “do you know anything about this book, the Arthurian legends of Sir Thomas Malory, Morte Arthure?”
Cable answered: “Mark, that is one of the most beautiful books in the world. Let me buy it for you. You will love it more than any book you ever read.”
So Clemens came to know the old chronicler's version of the rare Round Table legends, and from that first acquaintance with them to the last days of his life seldom let the book go far from him. He read and reread those quaint, stately tales and reverenced their beauty, while fairly reveling in the absurdities of that ancient day. Sir Ector's lament he regarded as one of the most simply beautiful pieces of writing in the English tongue, and some of the combats and quests as the most ridiculous absurdities in romance. Presently he conceived the idea of linking that day, with its customs, costumes, and abuses, with the progress of the present, or carrying back into that age of magicians and armor and superstition and cruelties a brisk American of progressive ideas who would institute reforms. His note-book began to be filled with memoranda of situations and possibilities for the tale he had in mind. These were vague, unformed fancies as yet, and it would be a long time before the story would become a fact. This was the first entry:
Dream of being a knight-errant in armor in the Middle Ages. Havethe notions and habits, though, of the present day mixed with thenecessities of that. No pockets in the armor. No way to managecertain requirements of nature. Can't scratch. Cold in the headand can't blow. Can't get a handkerchief; can't use iron sleeve;iron gets red-hot in the sun; leaks in the rain; gets white withfrost and freezes me solid in winter; makes disagreeable clatterwhen I enter church. Can't dress or undress myself. Always gettingstruck by lightning. Fall down and can't get up.
Twenty-one years later, discussing the genesis of the story, he said:
“As I read those quaint and curious old legends I suppose I naturally contrasted those days with ours, and it made me curious to fancy what might be the picturesque result if we could dump the nineteenth century down into the sixth century and observe the consequences.”
The reading tour continued during the first two months of the new year and carried them as far west as Chicago. They read in Hannibal and Keokuk, and Clemens spent a day in the latter place with his mother, now living with Orion, brisk and active for her years and with her old-time force of character. Mark Twain, arranging for her Keokuk residence, had written:
Ma wants to board with you, and pay her board. She will pay you $20a month (she wouldn't pay a cent more in heaven; she is obstinate onthis point), and as long as she remains with you and is content Iwill add $25 a month to the sum Perkins already sends you.
Jane Clemens attended the Keokuk reading, and later, at home, when her children asked her if she could still dance, she rose, and at eighty-one tripped as lightly as a girl. It was the last time that Mark Twain ever saw his mother in the health and vigor which had been always so much a part of her personality.
Clemens saw another relative on that trip; in St. Louis, James Lampton, the original of Colonel Sellers, called.
“He was become old and white-headed, but he entered to me in the same old breezy way of his earlier life, and he was all there, yet—not a detail wanting: the happy light in his eye, the abounding hope in his heart, the persuasive tongue, the miracle-breeding imagination—they were all there; and before I could turn around he was polishing up his Aladdin's lamp and flashing the secret riches of the world before me. I said to myself: “I did not overdraw him by a shade, I set him down as he was; and he is the same man to-day. Cable will recognize him.”
Clemens opened the door into Cable's room and allowed the golden dream-talk to float in. It was of a “small venture” which the caller had undertaken through his son.
“Only a little thing—a mere trifle—a bagatelle. I suppose there's a couple of millions in it, possibly three, but not more, I think; still, for a boy, you know——”
It was the same old Cousin Jim. Later, when he had royally accepted some tickets for the reading and bowed his exit, Cable put his head in at the door.
“That was Colonel Sellers,” he said.
In the December Century (1884) appeared a chapter from 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn', “The Grangerford-Shepherdson Feud,” a piece of writing which Edmund Clarence Stederian, Brander Matthews, and others promptly ranked as among Mark Twain's very best; when this was followed, in the January number, by “King Sollermun,” a chapter which in its way delighted quite as many readers, the success of the new book was accounted certain.—[Stedman, writing to Clemens of this instalment, said: “To my mind it is not only the most finished and condensed thing you have done but as dramatic and powerful an episode as I know in modern literature.”]
'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' was officially published in England and America in December, 1884, but the book was not in the canvassers' hands for delivery until February. By this time the orders were approximately for forty thousand copies, a number which had increased to fifty thousand a few weeks later. Webster's first publication venture was in the nature of a triumph. Clemens wrote to him March 16th:
“Your news is splendid. Huck certainly is a success.”
He felt that he had demonstrated his capacity as a general director and Webster had proved his efficiency as an executive. He had no further need of an outside publisher.
The story of Huck Finn will probably stand as the best of Mark Twain's purely fictional writings. A sequel to Tom Sawyer, it is greater than its predecessor; greater artistically, though perhaps with less immediate interest for the juvenile reader. In fact, the books are so different that they are not to be compared—wherein lies the success of the later one. Sequels are dangerous things when the story is continuous, but in Huckleberry Finn the story is a new one, wholly different in environment, atmosphere, purpose, character, everything. The tale of Huck and Nigger Jim drifting down the mighty river on a raft, cross-secting the various primitive aspects of human existence, constitutes one of the most impressive examples of picaresque fiction in any language. It has been ranked greater than Gil Blas, greater even than Don Quixote; certainly it is more convincing, more human, than either of these tales. Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, “It is a book I have read four times, and am quite ready to begin again to-morrow.”
It is by no means a flawless book, though its defects are trivial enough. The illusion of Huck as narrator fails the least bit here and there; the “four dialects” are not always maintained; the occasional touch of broad burlesque detracts from the tale's reality. We are inclined to resent this. We never wish to feel that Huck is anything but a real character. We want him always the Huck who was willing to go to hell if necessary, rather than sacrifice Nigger Jim; the Huck who watched the river through long nights, and, without caring to explain why, felt his soul go out to the sunrise.
Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swumby, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the waywe put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there—sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights and laid up and hiddaytimes; soon as the night was most gone we stopped navigating andtied up—nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and thencut young cottonwoods and willows and hid the raft with them. Thenwe set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim,so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandybottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylightcome. Not a sound anywheres—perfectly still—just like the wholeworld was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe.The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind ofdull line—that was the woods on t'other side, you couldn't makenothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness,spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and warn'tblack anymore, but gray; you could see little dark spots driftingalong, ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and longblack streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; orjumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by-and-by you could see a streak on the water which you know by thelook of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift currentwhich breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you seethe mist curl up off the water, and the east reddens up, and theriver, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, awayon the bank on t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely,and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through itanywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning youover there, so cool and fresh, and sweet to smell, on account of thewoods and the flowers.... And next you've got the full day, andeverything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!
This is the Huck we want, and this is the Huck we usually have, and that the world has long been thankful for.
Take the story as a whole, it is a succession of startling and unique pictures. The cabin in the swamp which Huck and his father used together in their weird, ghastly relationship; the night adventure with Jim on the wrecked steamboat; Huck's night among the towheads; the Grangerford-Shepherdson battle; the killing of Boggs—to name a few of the many vivid presentations—these are of no time or literary fashion and will never lose their flavor nor their freshness so long as humanity itself does not change. The terse, unadorned Grangerford-Shepherdson episode—built out of the Darnell—Watson feuds—[See Life on the Mississippi, chap. xxvi. Mark Twain himself, as a cub pilot, came near witnessing the battle he describes.]—is simply classic in its vivid casualness, and the same may be said of almost every incident on that long river-drift; but this is the strength, the very essence of picaresque narrative. It is the way things happen in reality; and the quiet, unexcited frame of mind in which Huck is prompted to set them down would seem to be the last word in literary art. To Huck, apparently, the killing of Boggs and Colonel Sherburn's defiance of the mob are of about the same historical importance as any other incidents of the day's travel. When Colonel Sherburn threw his shotgun across his arm and bade the crowd disperse Huck says:
The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart and wenttearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it afterthem, looking tolerable cheap. I could a staid if I'd a wanted to,but I didn't want to.I went to the circus, and loafed around the back side till thewatchman went by, and then dived in under the tent.
That is all. No reflections, no hysterics; a murder and a mob dispersed, all without a single moral comment. And when the Shepherdsons had got done killing the Grangerfords, and Huck had tugged the two bodies ashore and covered Buck Grangerford's face with a handkerchief, crying a little because Buck had been good to him, he spent no time in sentimental reflection or sermonizing, but promptly hunted up Jim and the raft and sat down to a meal of corn-dodgers, buttermilk, pork and cabbage, and greens: