Autobiography of Mark Twain

by Mark Twain

  “That is my scheme. I hope to get classes. I shall charge a high rate, because the pupil will need but one lesson. By grace of a single lesson I will make it possible for the novice who has never faced an audience in his life to rise to his feet, upon call, without trepidation or embarrassment and make an impromptu speech upon any subject that can be mentioned, without preparation of any kind, and also without even any knowledge of the subject which may be chosen for him. He shall always be ready, for he shall always have his three anecdotes in his pocket, written on a card, and thus equipped he shall never fail. I beg you to give me a text and let me prove what I have been saying—any text, any subject will do—all subjects are alike under my system. Give me a text.”

  There was a good deal of buzzing among the membership—then somebody spoke up and said,

  “There is a nigger in this woodpile somewhere. There is collusion. This is a put-up hand. He’s got a confederate here who will furnish him a text that has already been agreed upon. We want to beat that game.”

  Somebody else spoke up and said,

  “There is only one way to beat it. Let every man present choose a text and write it on a piece of paper, not allowing any one else to see it—then pass a hat and collect the texts. The hat shall be held so high, when it reaches Gilder, that he can’t look into it and make a selection; he must reach up and take out the first slip of paper his fingers touch—and that shall be this fraud’s text, and will beat his game.”

  So the hat was passed, and everybody dropped a text into it. When it got to Gilder he reached up, took out a slip of paper and read from it “Portrait Painting.”

  The house was delighted, and shouted with a happy unanimity,

  “Now then go ahead and let us see where you will come out with your scheme.” I said,

  “It is a good enough text. I want no better. I’ve already told you that all texts are alike, under this noble system. All that I need to do now is to talk a straight and uninterrupted stream of irrelevancies which shall ostensibly deal learnedly and instructively with the subject of portrait painting. The stream must not break anywhere; I must never hesitate for a word, because under this scheme the orator that hesitates is lost; it can give the house a chance to collect its reasoning faculties, and that is a thing which must not happen.”

  I began with the earliest known example of the art of portrait painting—that picture in outline of the extinct mammoth which primeval man carved upon the bone of a deer’s horn, and which is treasured in a French museum. After elaborating that a little I passed to the distemper portraits, six thousand years old, furnished us by an Egyptian cemetery; then to the figures carved at a later date upon the monoliths and tombs of Egypt; then said, with enthusiasm “How felicitously what I have just been saying is illustrated in the case of the man who reached his home at two o’clock in the morning and his wife said plaintively ‘Oh John, when you’ve had whisky enough why don’t you ask for sarsaparilla?’—and he said ‘Why, Maria, when I have had whisky enough I can’t say sarsaparilla.’”

  I did not wait for the full results, but plunged into my speech again and brought it along down, step by step, enlarging upon the results of the several stages, and when I got to Daguerre’s monumental invention I discoursed upon it with a violence of enthusiasm that was startling to hear—notwithstanding it was about destitute of sense and coherence—then had one of those sudden inspirations, and exclaimed with feeling,

  “How felicitously what I have just been saying is illustrated in the case of the man who arrived at his house at that usual unfortunate hour in the super-early morning, and stood there and watched his portico rising and sinking and swaying and reeling, and at last, when it swung around into his neighborhood he made a plunge and scrambled up the steps and got safely onto the portico, stood there watching his dim house rise and fall and swing and sway, until the front door came his way and he made a plunge and got in, and scrambled up the long flight of stairs, but at the topmost step instead of planting his foot upon it he only caught it with his toe, and down he tumbled, and rolled and thundered all the way down the stairs, fetched up in a sitting posture on the bottom step with his arm braced around the friendly newel-post and said ‘God pity the poor sailors out at sea on such a night as this.’”

  Then I went warbling along on my portrait painting and presently introduced my third and finest anecdote, using the same set form of introduction as before, and sat down triumphant, my great system proved and established.

  But sorrow followed, and disaster. The first man called upon to speak was the brand-new district attorney, a man glib enough before judges and juries, but it was mainly a literary crowd that he was confronting now, and he showed timidity. He talked along hesitatingly, uncomfortably, unhappily; and presently it was plain that he was trying to lead up to an anecdote and didn’t know how to manage it. Then the house broke out, from one end to the other, with encouragements. They said,

  “Fetch it out! fetch it out! How felicitously what you have just been saying is illustrated in the case of the man who— Let her fly!”

  He tried to work up to his anecdote, but the encouragements always broke out in time to scare him and shut him off, so he never got to his anecdote at all. He surrendered, and sat down.

  The same thing happened to the next man, the new postmaster of Brooklyn. He struggled manfully along and approached his anecdote from four or five different directions, but always the house helped him along so enthusiastically that they frightened him off and he never reached his goal. He sat down defeated. Five other men were called upon, in turn, and each in turn declined to take a chance in that insurrection. Finally General Horace Porter was called up, and he got away with the honors of the evening. Let the house encourage and storm as they would, he stood to his guns, serene and unafraid. He told seven anecdotes, and introduced every one of them with the proper formula—“How felicitously,” etc.

  At Bar Harbor we invited half a dozen charming young ladies and as many charming young gentlemen to come aboard and take luncheon with us. On the evening preceding the luncheon our young people discussed the matter, on the quarter-deck aft, and devised ways and means to make the luncheon go off in a lively way. My ancient oratorical scheme came into my head and we concluded to try it. Next day, at the end of the luncheon, I got up and asked for a text, and those young rascals invited me to talk upon “Marriage Engagements.” I recognized the villainy of it, for there were two engaged couples present, but I had to stick to my contract, and I did it.

  It was plenty good enough fun—at least it was good enough fun for the others, though the couples and I could have enjoyed another text more. However, I took it out of one of the criminals—a lovely young creature who sat at my right, and with whom I was upon terms which permitted a considerable degree of latitude. I said that I hoped to have the young gentlemen in my oratorical class, and that I also had a scheme of instruction in a beautiful and neglected art which I hoped would appeal to the young ladies and persuade them to make up a class for me and cultivate their powers in that gracious art. I said that my scheme was to teach what I called the Classified Blush—the Graduated Blush. I said that there was hardly a young lady in the land who knew how to blush in anything like an expert way—they blushed carelessly, ignorantly, thoughtlessly; they over-blushed, they under-blushed; they seldom exhibited a blush which was exactly proportioned to the dimensions of the compliment which called it forth. I was sure that after a young lady had taken a dozen lessons from me she could blush accurately every time; that she would cease from furnishing a mild and almost colorless No. 1 blush when the compliment was of so handsome a nature that it properly called for a No. 6, or possibly a rich and radiant and crimson No. 14. I said,

  “Now here at my side sits a young lady to whom I have given nineteen lessons, and I will prove to you that she is an expert. When I call for a No. 1 she’ll not make the mistake of furnishing a No. 4, which would be overdoing it. When I call for No. 10, No. 14, and so on, you will
see the exactly proper and requisite sunset-flush rise in these beautiful cheeks—there, just that casual little remark, you see, brings a No. 2. Now if you will look into her lovely blue eyes, if you will examine her charming features, her satin skin, her tawny hair, the fine intelligence which beams in her face—there now, look at that! Here where I touch her cheek with my finger an inch in front of her dainty ear, is the meridian which marks the degrees reaching from 1 to 5. See the color steal toward 5. Now it crosses it. Keep your eye on it. I move my finger forward toward her delicate nostril—see the rich blood follow it! When I tell you that hers is the loveliest form, the loveliest spirit that perhaps exists in the world to-day, that she is a darling of the darlings——but I need go no further. The blush has reached her nostril and her collar, and is a No. 16—the most engaging blush, the most charming blush, the most beautiful blush that can adorn the face of any earthly angel, save and except No. 31, which is the last and final possibility, and is called the ‘San Francisco, or the Combined Earthquake and Conflagration.’ I will now produce that blush.”

  But I didn’t. It isn’t right, and it isn’t fair to carry vengeance too far. It seemed to me that that little witch and I were about even, and so I elected to be just and stand pat.

  Wednesday, August 29, 1906

  Letter from lady in regard to story, “A Horse’s Tale,” and Mr. Clemens’s reply—Project for composite story—Two letters from lady who tried to aid San Francisco sufferers by contributing her brother’s wife’s “oll woole” suit—Reminiscences of Captain Ned Wakeman, and extract from his letter to Mr. Twichell.

  In this morning’s mail comes a letter from a stranger, which carries me back to what I was saying a couple of days ago when we were discussing Higbie’s letter. Higbie’s letter came from his heart, and I suggested that when the heart has something to say the product is literature, no matter whether the phrasing loyally follows accepted literary forms or splendidly ignores them, as the freshet ignores the dam. This lady’s letter is from the heart, and it is in good English—educated English—but her heart would have delivered its message with as sure and moving a touch if she had never had a day’s schooling in her life. We have seen this exemplified in Chapter XXXI, where we quoted an ignorant and eloquent letter written by a wronged and grieving western girl twenty-seven years ago.

  I wish to insert here several letters of this kind, and in this way lead up to an occurrence of a week or two ago. We will begin with this morning’s letter.

  Sound Beach, Conn.

  August 25, 1906.

  Dear “Mark Twain”—

  Please dont write any more such heart-breaking stories. I have just been reading Soldier Boy’s story in Harpers. I dont think I would have read it had I known what was to come to Soldier Boy.

  You used to write so differently. The note of pathos, of tragedy, of helpless pain creeps in now, more and more insistent. I fancy life must have taken on its more somber colours for you, and what you feel is reflected in what you write

  You belong to all of us—we of America—and we all love you and are proud of you, but you make our hearts ache sometimes.

  When your story of the poor dog was published in Harpers I read it and I cant tell you what I felt. I have never re-read it and I try not to remember it, but I cant help it. And now this story of Soldier Boy. It sinks into my heart. I feel like stretching out my hand to you and saying “I, too, feel these things, the dumb helpless pain of all the poor animals, and my soul protests against it, mightily but impotently, like yours.”

  I hope there is a heaven for animals somewhere, where they wont have to be with men, and you hope so too, dont you?

  Dont think I am hysterical, notoriety seeking, or a crank. I am neither, only just poor and common-place—and—no longer young, but I feel all these things.

  I beg to subscribe myself,

  Most respectfully yours

  (Mrs) Lillian R. Beardsley.

  To

  Mr. Samuel L. Clemens.

  By, Harper and Bros.

  New York City.

  I have explained my case to the lady as follows:

  Dublin, New Hampshire.

  Aug. 28.

  Dear Madam:

  I know it is a pity to wring the poor human heart, and it grieves me to do it; but it is the only way to move some people to reflect.

  The “Horse’s Tale” has a righteous purpose. It was not written for publication here, but in Spain. I was asked to write it to assist a band of generous ladies and gentlemen of Spain who have set themselves the gracious task of persuading the children of that country to renounce and forsake the cruel bull-fight. This in the hope that these children will carry on the work when they grow up. It is a great and fine cause, and if this story, distributed abroad in Spain in translation can in any degree aid it, I shall not be sorry that I complied with the request with which I was honored.

  Sincerely yours,

  S. L. Clemens.

  Let us go on with our argument.

  Several weeks ago the editor of Harper’s Bazar projected a scheme for a composite story. A family was to tell the story. The father was to begin it, and, in turn, each member of the family was to furnish a chapter of it. There was to be a boy in the family, and I was invited to write his chapter. I was afraid of the scheme because I could not tell, beforehand, whether the boy would take an interest in it or not. Experience has taught me, long ago, that if I tell a boy’s story—or anybody else’s—it is never worth printing; it comes from the head, not the heart, and always goes into the waste-basket. To be successful, and worth printing, the imagined boy would have to tell his story himself, and let me act merely as his amanuensis. I did not tell the “Horse’s Tale,” the horse told it himself, through me. If he hadn’t done that it wouldn’t have been told at all. When a tale tells itself there is no trouble about it; there are no hesitancies, no delays, no cogitations, no attempts at invention; there is nothing to do but hold the pen and let the story talk through it and say, after its own fashion, what it desires to say.

  Mr. Howells began the composite tale. He held the pen, and through it the father delivered his chapter—therefore it was well done. A lady followed Howells, and furnished the old-maid sister’s chapter. This lady is of high literary distinction; she is nobly gifted; she has the ear of the nation, and her novels and stories are among the best that the country has produced; but she did not tell those tales, she merely held the pen and they told themselves—of this I am convinced. I am also convinced of another thing—that she did not act as amanuensis for the old-maid sister, but wrote the old-maid sister’s chapter out of her own head, without any help from the old maid. The result is a failure. It is a piece of pure literary manufacture, and has the shop-marks all over it.