by Mark Twain
To sum up, I was now an author; I was an author with some little trifle of reputation; I was an author who had published a book; I was an author who had not become rich through that publication; I was an author whose first book had cost him twelve hundred dollars in unreceived royalties, eight hundred dollars in blood money, and three dollars and sixty cents smouched from old type-metal. I was resolved, from that moment, that I would not publish with Webb any more—unless I could borrow money enough to support the luxury.
By and by, when I became notorious through the publication of “The Innocents Abroad,” Webb was able to satisfy the public—first, that he had discovered me; later, that he had created me. It was quite generally conceded that I was a valuable asset to the American nation and to the great ranks of literature; also that for the acquisition of this asset a deep debt of gratitude was due from the nation and the ranks—to Webb.
By and by Webb and his high service were forgotten. Then Bliss, and the American Publishing Company, came forward and established the fact that they had discovered me; later, that they had created me; therefore that some more gratitude was due. In the course of time there were still other claimants for these great services. They sprang up in California, Nevada, and around generally, and I came at last to believe that I had been more multitudinously discovered and created than any other animal that had ever issued from the Deity’s hands.
Webb believed that he was a literary person. He might have gotten this superstition accepted by the world if he had not extinguished it by publishing his things. They gave him away. His prose was enchantingly puerile; his poetry was not any better; yet he kept on grinding out his commonplaces at intervals until he died, two years ago, of over-cerebration. He was a poor sort of a creature, and by nature and training a fraud. As a liar he was well enough, and had some success but no distinction, because he was a contemporary of Elisha Bliss and when it came to lying Bliss could overshadow and blot out a whole continent of Webbs, like a total eclipse.
About 1872 I wrote another book, “Roughing It.” I had published “The Innocents” on a 5 per cent royalty, which would amount to about twenty-two cents per volume. Proposals were coming in now from several other good houses. One offered 15 per cent royalty; another offered to give me all of the profits and be content with the advertisement which the book would furnish the house. I sent for Bliss, and he came to Elmira. If I had known as much about book publishing then as I know now, I would have required of Bliss 75 or 80 per cent of the profits above cost of manufacture, and this would have been fair and just. But I knew nothing about the business and had been too indolent to try to learn anything about it. I told Bliss I did not wish to leave his corporation, and that I did not want extravagant terms. I said I thought I ought to have half the profit above cost of manufacture, and he said with enthusiasm that that was exactly right, exactly right. He went to his hotel and drew the contract and brought it to the house in the afternoon. I found a difficulty in it. It did not name “half profits,” but named a 7½ per cent royalty instead. I asked him to explain that. I said that that was not the understanding. He said “No, it wasn’t,” but that he had put in a royalty to simplify the matter—that 7½ per cent royalty represented fully half the profit and a little more, up to a sale of a hundred thousand copies; that after that, the Publishing Company’s half would be a shade superior to mine.
I was a little doubtful, a little suspicious, and asked him if he could swear to that. He promptly put up his hand and made oath to it, exactly repeating the words which he had just used.
It took me nine or ten years to find out that that was a false oath, and that 7½ per cent did not represent one-fourth of the profits. But in the meantime I had published several books with Bliss on 7½ and 10 per cent royalties, and of course had been handsomely swindled on all of them.
In 1879 I came home from Europe with a book ready for the press—“A Tramp Abroad.” I sent for Bliss and he came out to the house to discuss the book. I said that I was not satisfied about those royalties, and that I did not believe in their “half profit” pretenses; that this time he must put the “half profit” in the contract and make no mention of royalties—otherwise I would take the book elsewhere. He said he was perfectly willing to put it in, for it was right and just, and that if his directors opposed it and found fault with it he would withdraw from the concern and publish the book himself—fine talk, but I knew that he was master in that concern and that it would have to accept any contract that had been signed by him. This contract lay there on the billiard table with his signature attached to it. He had ridden his directors rough-shod ever since the days of “The Innocents Abroad,” and more than once he had told me that he had made his directors do things which they hadn’t wanted to do, with the threat that if they did not comply he would leave the Company’s service and take me along with him.
I don’t know how a grown person could ever be so simple and innocent as I was in those days. It ought to have occurred to me that a man who could talk like that must either be a fool or convinced that I was one. However, I was the one. And so, even very simple and rudimentary wisdoms were not likely to find their way into my head.
I reminded him that his Company would not be likely to make any trouble about a contract which had been signed by him. Then, with one of his toothless smiles, he pointed out a detail which I had overlooked, to wit: the contract was with Elisha Bliss, as a private individual, and the American Publishing Company was not mentioned in it.
He told me afterward that he took the contract to the directors and said that he would turn it over to the Company for one-fourth of the profits of the book together with an increase of salary for himself and for Frank, his son, and that if these terms were not satisfactory he would leave the Company and publish the book himself—whereupon the directors granted his demands and took the contract. The fact that Bliss told me these things with his own mouth is unassailable evidence that they were not true. Six weeks before the book issued from the press Bliss told the truth once, to see how it would taste, but it overstrained him and he died.
When the book had been out three months there was an annual meeting of the stockholders of the Company and I was present, as a half-partner in the book. The meeting was held in the house of a neighbor of mine, Newton Case, a director in the Company from the beginning. A statement of the Company’s business was read, and to me it was a revelation. Sixty-four thousand copies of the book had been sold, and my half of the profit was thirty-two thousand dollars. In 1872 Bliss had made out to me that 7½ per cent royalty—some trifle over twenty cents a copy—represented one-half of the profits, whereas at that earlier day it hardly represented a sixth of the profits. Times were not so good now, yet it took all of fifty cents a copy to represent half.
Well, Bliss was dead and I couldn’t settle with him for his ten years of swindlings. He has been dead a quarter of a century now. My bitterness against him has faded away and disappeared. I feel only compassion for him, and if I could send him a fan I would.
When the balance sheets exposed to me the rascalities which I had been suffering at the hands of the American Publishing Company I stood up and delivered a lecture to Newton Case and the rest of the conspirators——
Thursday, May 24, 1906
Mr. Clemens tries to buy his contracts from the American Publishing Company and finally takes his next book, “Old Times on the Mississippi,” to James R. Osgood, who published it by subscription and made a failure of it—Osgood next published “The Prince and Pauper”—Mr. Clemens buys numerous patents, losing on all of them; also stock in Hartford Accident Insurance Company—Description of Senator Jones—Mr. Clemens refuses to buy telephone stock.
—meaning the rest of the directors.
My opportunity was now come to right myself and level up matters with the Publishing Company, but I didn’t see it, of course. I was seldom able to see an opportunity until it had ceased to be one. I knew all about that house now, and I ought to have remained
with it. I ought to have put a tax upon its profits for my personal benefit, the tax to continue until the difference between royalties and half profits should in time return from the Company’s pocket to mine, and the Company’s robbery of me be thus wiped off the slate. But of course I couldn’t think of anything so sane as that, and I didn’t. I only thought of ways and means to remove my respectability from that tainted atmosphere. I wanted to get my books out of the Company’s hands and carry them elsewhere. After a time I went to Newton Case—in his house as before—and proposed that the Company cancel the contracts and restore my books to me free and unencumbered, the Company retaining as a consideration the money it had swindled me out of on “Roughing It,” “The Gilded Age,” “Sketches Old and New,” and “Tom Sawyer.”
Mr. Case demurred at my language, but I told him I was not able to modify it; that I was perfectly satisfied that he and the rest of the Bible Class were aware of the fraud practised on me in 1872 by Bliss—aware of it when it happened, and consenting to it by silence. He objected to my calling the Board of Directors a Bible Class. And I said then it ought to stop opening its meetings with prayer—particularly when it was getting ready to swindle an author. I was expecting that Mr. Case would deny the charge of guilty knowledge and resent it, but he didn’t do it. That convinced me that my charge was well founded; therefore I repeated it, and proceeded to say unkind things about his theological seminary. I said,
“You have put seventy-five thousand dollars into that factory and are getting a great deal of praise for it, whereas my share in that benefaction goes unmentioned—yet I have a share in it, for of every dollar that you put into it, a portion was stolen out of my pocket.”
He returned no thanks for these compliments. He was a dull man and unappreciative.
Finally I tried to buy my contracts, but he said it would be impossible for the Board to entertain a proposition to sell, for the reason that nine-tenths of the Company’s livelihood was drawn from my books and therefore its business would be worth nothing if they were taken away. At a later time Judge What’s-his-name, a director, told me I was right; that the Board did know all about the swindle which Bliss had practised upon me at the time that the fraud was committed.
As I have remarked, I ought to have remained with the Company and leveled up the account. But I didn’t. I removed my purity from that mephitic atmosphere and carried my next book to James R. Osgood of Boston, formerly of the firm of Fields, Osgood and Company. That book was “Old Times on the Mississippi.” Osgood was to manufacture the book at my expense; publish it by subscription, and charge me a royalty for his services. Osgood was one of the dearest and sweetest and loveliest human beings to be found on the planet anywhere, but he knew nothing about subscription publishing, and he made a mighty botch of it. He was a sociable creature, and we played much billiards, and daily and nightly had a good time. And in the meantime his clerks ran our business for us and I think that neither of us inquired into their methods or knew what they were doing. That book was a long time getting built; and when at last the final draft was made upon my purse I realized that I had paid out fifty-six thousand dollars upon that structure. Bliss could have built a library for that money. It took a year to get the fifty-six thousand back into my pocket, and not very many dollars followed it. So this first effort of mine to transact that kind of business on my own hook was a failure.
Osgood tried again. He published “The Prince and Pauper.” He made a beautiful book of it, but all the profit I got out of it was seventeen thousand dollars.
Next, Osgood thought he could make a success with a book in the trade. He had been trained to trade-publishing. He was a little sore over his subscription attempts, and wanted to try. I gave him “The White Elephant,” which was a collection of rubbishy sketches, mainly. I offered to bet he couldn’t sell ten thousand copies in six months, and he took me up—stakes five dollars. He won the money, but it was something of a squeeze. However, I think I am wrong in putting that book last. I think that that was Osgood’s first effort, not his third. I should have continued with Osgood after his failure with “The Prince and the Pauper,” because I liked him so well, but he failed, and I had to go elsewhere.
Meantime I had been having an adventure on the outside. An old and particular friend of mine unloaded a patent on me, price fifteen thousand dollars. It was worthless, and he had been losing money on it a year or two, but I did not know those particulars, because he neglected to mention them. He said that if I would buy the patent he would do the manufacturing and selling for me. So I took him up. Then began a cash outgo of five hundred dollars a month. That raven flew out of the ark regularly every thirty days, but it never got back with anything, and the dove didn’t report for duty. After a time, and half a time, and another time, I relieved my friend and put the patent into the hands of Charles L. Webster, who had married a niece of mine and seemed a capable and energetic young fellow. At a salary of fifteen hundred a year he continued to send the raven out monthly, with the same old result to a penny.
At last, when I had lost forty-two thousand dollars on that patent I gave it away to a man whom I had long detested and whose family I desired to ruin. Then I looked around for other adventures. That same friend was ready with another patent. I spent ten thousand dollars on it in eight months. Then I tried to give that patent to the man whose family I was after. He was very grateful, but he was also experienced by this time, and was getting suspicious of benefactors. He wouldn’t take it, and I had to let it lapse.
Meantime, another old friend arrived with a wonderful invention. It was an engine, or a furnace, or something of the kind, which would get out 99 per cent of all the steam that was in a pound of coal. I went to Mr. Richards of the Colt Arms Factory and told him about it. He was a specialist and knew all about coal and steam. He seemed to be doubtful about this machine, and I asked him why. He said because the amount of steam concealed in a pound of coal was known to a fraction, and that my inventor was mistaken about his 99 per cent. He showed me a printed book of solid pages of figures; figures that made me drunk and dizzy. He showed me that my man’s machine couldn’t come within 90 per cent of doing what it proposed to do. I went away a little discouraged. But I thought that maybe the book was mistaken, and so I hired the inventor to build the machine on a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, I to pay all expenses. It took him a good many weeks to build it. He visited me every few days to report progress, and I early noticed by his breath and gait that he was spending thirty-six dollars a week on whisky, and I couldn’t ever find out where he got the other dollar.
Finally, when I had spent five thousand on this enterprise, the machine was finished, but it wouldn’t go. It did save 1 per cent of the steam that was in a pound of coal, but that was nothing. You could do it with a tea-kettle. I offered the machine to the man whose family I was pursuing, but without success. So I threw the thing away and looked around for something fresh. But I had become an enthusiast on steam, and I took some stock in a Hartford company which proposed to make and sell and revolutionize everything with a new kind of steam pulley. The steam pulley pulled thirty-two thousand dollars out of my pocket in sixteen months, then went to pieces and I was alone in the world again, without an occupation.
But I found one. I invented a scrap-book—and if I do say it myself, it was the only rational scrap-book the world has ever seen. I patented it and put it in the hands of that old particular friend of mine who had originally interested me in patents, and he made a good deal of money out of it. But by and by, just when I was about to begin to receive a share of the money myself, his firm failed. I didn’t know his firm was going to fail—he didn’t say anything about it. One day he asked me to lend the firm five thousand dollars and said he was willing to pay 7 per cent. As security he offered the firm’s note. I asked for an endorser. He was much surprised, and said that if endorsers were handy and easy to get at, he wouldn’t have to come to me for the money, he could get it anywhere. That seemed reasonabl
e, and so I gave him the five thousand dollars. They failed inside of three days—and at the end of two or three years I got back two thousand dollars of the money.
That five thousand dollars had a history. Early in 1872 Joe Goodman wrote me from California that his friend Senator John P. Jones was going to start a rival, in Hartford, to the Travelers Accident Insurance Company, and that Jones wanted Joe to take twelve thousand of the stock and had said he would see that he did not lose the money. Joe now proposed to transfer this opportunity to me, and said that if I would make the venture he was sure Jones would protect me from loss. So I took the stock and became a director. Jones’s brother-in-law, Lester, had been for a long time actuary in the Travelers Company. He was now transferred to our Company and we began business. There were five directors. Three of us attended every Board meeting for a year and a half. At the end of eighteen months the Company went to pieces and I was out of pocket twenty-three thousand dollars. Jones was in New York tarrying for a while at a hotel which he had bought, (the St. James), and I sent Lester down there to see if he could get the twenty-three thousand dollars. But he came back and reported that Jones had been putting money into so many things that he was a good deal straitened and would be glad if I would wait a while. I did not suspect that Lester was drawing upon his fancy, but it was so. He hadn’t said anything to Jones about it. But his tale seemed reasonable, because I knew that Jones had built a line of artificial-ice factories clear across the Southern States—nothing like it this side of the great Wall of China. I knew that the factories had cost him a million dollars or so, and that the people down there hadn’t been trained to admire ice and didn’t want any and wouldn’t buy any—that therefore the Chinese Wall was an entire loss and failure. I also knew that Jones’s St. James Hotel had ceased to be a profitable house because Jones, who was a big-hearted man with ninety-nine parts of him pure generosity—and that is the case to this day—had filled his hotel from roof to cellar with poor relations gathered from the four corners of the earth—plumbers, bricklayers, unsuccessful clergymen, and, in fact, all the different kinds of people that knew nothing about the hotel business. I was also aware that there was no room in the hotel for the public, because all its rooms were occupied by a multitude of other poor relations gathered from the four corners of the earth, at Jones’s invitation, and waiting for Jones to find lucrative occupations for them. I was also aware that Jones had bought a piece of the State of California with some spacious city sites on it; with room for railroads, and with a very fine and spacious and valuable harbor on its city front, and that Jones was in debt for these properties. Therefore I was content to wait a while. Among other things, I also knew this: that whereas Jones had promised to save Joe Goodman from loss, he was under no such promise to me.