January 6 Saturday – Clara Clemens continued to suffer a throat affliction. On this day she returned to the Norfolk sanitarium; she would return on Jan. 9, then go to Atlantic City [IVL TS 4; Hill 121].
Albert Bigelow Paine called on Sam at 21 Fifth Ave., N.Y. about the possibility of writing Mark Twain’s biography. Paine writes of the meeting:
I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue and was shown into that long library and drawing-room combined, and found a curious and deep interest in the books and ornaments along the shelves as I waited. Then I was summoned, and I remember ascending the stairs, wondering why I had come on so futile an errand, and trying to think of an excuse to offer for having come at all.
He was propped up in bed—in that stately bed-sitting, as was his habit, with his pillows placed at the foot, so that he might have always before him the rich, carved beauty of its headboard.
He was delving through a copy of Huckleberry Finn, in search of a paragraph concerning which some random correspondent had asked explanation. He was commenting unfavorably on this correspondent and on miscellaneous letter-writing in general. He pushed the cigars toward me, and the talk of these matters ran along and blended into others more or less personal. By and by I told him what so many thousands had told him before: what he had meant to me, recalling the childhood impressions of that large, black-and-gilt-covered book with its wonderful pictures and adventures—the Mediterranean pilgrimage. Very likely it bored him—he had heard it so often—and he was willing enough, I dare say, to let me change the subject and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro had brought. I do not remember what he said then, but I suddenly found myself suggesting that out of his encouragement had grown a hope—though certainly it was something less—that I might some day undertake a book about himself. I expected the chapter to end at this point, and his silence which followed seemed long and ominous.
He said, at last, that at various times through his life he had been preparing some autobiographical matter, but that he had tired of the undertaking, and had put it aside. He added that he had hoped his daughters would one day collect his letters; but that a biography— a detailed story of personality and performance, of success and failure— was of course another matter, and that for such a work no arrangement had been made. He may have added one or two other general remarks; then, turning those piercing agate-blue eyes directly upon me, he said:
“When would you like to begin?”
There was a dresser with a large mirror behind him. I happened to catch my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to it mentally: “This is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams.” But even in a dream one must answer, and I said:
“Whenever you like. I can begin now.”
He was always eager in any new undertaking.
“Very good,” he said. “The sooner, then, the better. Let’s begin while we are in the humor. The longer you postpone a thing of this kind the less likely you are ever to get at it.”
This was on Saturday, as I have stated. I mentioned that my family was still in the country, and that it would require a day or two to get established in the city. I asked if Tuesday, January 9th, would be too soon to begin. He agreed that Tuesday would do, and inquired something about my plan of work. Of course I had formed nothing definite, but I said that in similar undertakings a part of the work had been done with a stenographer, who had made the notes while I prompted the subject to recall a procession of incidents and episodes, to be supplemented with every variety of material obtainable—letters and other documentary accumulations. Then he said:
“I think I should enjoy dictating to a stenographer, with some one to prompt me and to act as audience. The room adjoining this was fitted up for my study. My manuscripts and notes and private books and many of my letters are there, and there are a trunkful or two of such things in the attic. I seldom use the room myself. I do my writing and reading in bed. I will turn that room over to you for this work. Whatever you need will be brought to you. We can have the dictation here in the morning, and you can put in the rest of the day to suit yourself. You can have a key and come and go as you please.”
That was always his way. He did nothing by halves; nothing without unquestioning confidence and prodigality. He got up and showed me the lovely luxury of the study, with its treasures of material. I did not believe it true yet. It had all the atmosphere of a dream, and I have no distinct recollection of how I came away. When I returned to The Players and found Charles Harvey Genung there, and told him about it, it is quite certain that he perjured himself when he professed to believe it true and pretended that he was not surprised [MTB 1262-65]. Note: see Tuesday Jan. 9 entry.
H.H. Rogers spent a large part of the day on the witness stand in the Missouri suit to oust Standard Oil from the state. The Kansas City Star (Mo.) ran “Made Rogers Wince” on the front page, which mentioned Mark Twain:
Mr. Rogers had an engagement to play billiards with Mark Twain this afternoon, but the easy way with which Herman S. Hadley rushed it aside was more characteristic of his Kansas antecedents than even of the Missourians whom he represents. …
Mr. Rogers went on the stand at 12 o’clock and again at 2. The first time he was under fire for an hour. The second time he was on the stand nearly three hours. …
Rogers is almost a type of man to himself. The West does not develop exactly his type. Socially he has a few intimates with whom he is very pleasant. Mark Twain is his pet and his guest at luncheon in the Standard Oil building as often as the humorist will accept an invitation to be there. His efforts [Rogers’] as a humorist to-day showed that in one fold at least he does not rank up with his friend.
B. (not further identified) wrote to Sam. “As plate etchings can be so very cheaply procured now-a days a publication such as is proposed is perfectly feasible. There is not a Sunday paper n the U.S. Canada England Australia and South Africa that will not be glad to help to give the notes of dear old [Felix] Pace to the world and they will be translated into French and German as sure as the sun shines.” B. urged Sam to “get a syndicate or a publisher onto this matter,” and wanted “a reasonable royalty on sales.” [MTP]. Note: Felix Pace not further identified.
Isabel Lyon’s journal:
Albert Bigelow Paine came this morning to talk over the matter of writing Mr. Clemens’s Biography. Mr. Clemens has consented to have some shorthander come and take down the chat that is to flow from Mr. Clemens’s lips. I hope it may prove inspirational. The commercial machine (Columbia Graphophonic) that Mr. Clemens was looking upon as a boon hasn’t proved so. He dictated his birthday speech into it, and a few letters, but that is all. There is something infinitely sad in the voice as it is reproduced from the cylinders, and how strickening it would be to hear the voice of one gone. Santa C. when to Norfolk, Katie, too. Mr. Clemens and I went to see “The Lion and the Mouse.” A clean little play, but so stupid [MTP TS 6].
The Lion and the Mouse (play) by Charles Klein (1867-1915) at the Lyceum Theatre in N.Y.C. See also Gribben 384. See insert ad Harper’s Weekly published a full-page drawing of Twain receiving a laurel wreath from a girl dressed as Joan of Arc at the Dec. 21, 1905 dinner of the Society of Illustrators [Tenney 42].
Albert Bigelow Paine called on Sam at 21 Fifth Ave., N.Y. about the possibility of writing Mark Twain’s biography. Paine writes of the meeting:
I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue and was shown into that long library and drawing-room combined, and found a curious and deep interest in the books and ornaments along the shelves as I waited. Then I was summoned, and I remember ascending the stairs, wondering why I had come on so futile an errand, and trying to think of an excuse to offer for having come at all.
He was propped up in bed—in that stately bed-sitting, as was his habit, with his pillows placed at the foot, so that he might have always before him the rich, carved beauty of its headboard.
He was delving through a copy of Huckleberry Finn, in search of a paragraph concerning which some random correspondent had asked explanation. He was commenting unfavorably on this correspondent and on miscellaneous letter-writing in general. He pushed the cigars toward me, and the talk of these matters ran along and blended into others more or less personal. By and by I told him what so many thousands had told him before: what he had meant to me, recalling the childhood impressions of that large, black-and-gilt-covered book with its wonderful pictures and adventures—the Mediterranean pilgrimage. Very likely it bored him—he had heard it so often—and he was willing enough, I dare say, to let me change the subject and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro had brought. I do not remember what he said then, but I suddenly found myself suggesting that out of his encouragement had grown a hope—though certainly it was something less—that I might some day undertake a book about himself. I expected the chapter to end at this point, and his silence which followed seemed long and ominous.
He said, at last, that at various times through his life he had been preparing some autobiographical matter, but that he had tired of the undertaking, and had put it aside. He added that he had hoped his daughters would one day collect his letters; but that a biography— a detailed story of personality and performance, of success and failure— was of course another matter, and that for such a work no arrangement had been made. He may have added one or two other general remarks; then, turning those piercing agate-blue eyes directly upon me, he said:
“When would you like to begin?”
There was a dresser with a large mirror behind him. I happened to catch my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to it mentally: “This is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams.” But even in a dream one must answer, and I said:
“Whenever you like. I can begin now.”
He was always eager in any new undertaking.
“Very good,” he said. “The sooner, then, the better. Let’s begin while we are in the humor. The longer you postpone a thing of this kind the less likely you are ever to get at it.”
This was on Saturday, as I have stated. I mentioned that my family was still in the country, and that it would require a day or two to get established in the city. I asked if Tuesday, January 9th, would be too soon to begin. He agreed that Tuesday would do, and inquired something about my plan of work. Of course I had formed nothing definite, but I said that in similar undertakings a part of the work had been done with a stenographer, who had made the notes while I prompted the subject to recall a procession of incidents and episodes, to be supplemented with every variety of material obtainable—letters and other documentary accumulations. Then he said:
“I think I should enjoy dictating to a stenographer, with some one to prompt me and to act as audience. The room adjoining this was fitted up for my study. My manuscripts and notes and private books and many of my letters are there, and there are a trunkful or two of such things in the attic. I seldom use the room myself. I do my writing and reading in bed. I will turn that room over to you for this work. Whatever you need will be brought to you. We can have the dictation here in the morning, and you can put in the rest of the day to suit yourself. You can have a key and come and go as you please.”
That was always his way. He did nothing by halves; nothing without unquestioning confidence and prodigality. He got up and showed me the lovely luxury of the study, with its treasures of material. I did not believe it true yet. It had all the atmosphere of a dream, and I have no distinct recollection of how I came away. When I returned to The Players and found Charles Harvey Genung there, and told him about it, it is quite certain that he perjured himself when he professed to believe it true and pretended that he was not surprised [MTB 1262-65]. Note: see Tuesday Jan. 9 entry.
H.H. Rogers spent a large part of the day on the witness stand in the Missouri suit to oust Standard Oil from the state. The Kansas City Star (Mo.) ran “Made Rogers Wince” on the front page, which mentioned Mark Twain:
Mr. Rogers had an engagement to play billiards with Mark Twain this afternoon, but the easy way with which Herman S. Hadley rushed it aside was more characteristic of his Kansas antecedents than even of the Missourians whom he represents. …
Mr. Rogers went on the stand at 12 o’clock and again at 2. The first time he was under fire for an hour. The second time he was on the stand nearly three hours. …
Rogers is almost a type of man to himself. The West does not develop exactly his type. Socially he has a few intimates with whom he is very pleasant. Mark Twain is his pet and his guest at luncheon in the Standard Oil building as often as the humorist will accept an invitation to be there. His efforts [Rogers’] as a humorist to-day showed that in one fold at least he does not rank up with his friend.
B. (not further identified) wrote to Sam. “As plate etchings can be so very cheaply procured now-a days a publication such as is proposed is perfectly feasible. There is not a Sunday paper n the U.S. Canada England Australia and South Africa that will not be glad to help to give the notes of dear old [Felix] Pace to the world and they will be translated into French and German as sure as the sun shines.” B. urged Sam to “get a syndicate or a publisher onto this matter,” and wanted “a reasonable royalty on sales.” [MTP]. Note: Felix Pace not further identified.
Isabel Lyon’s journal:
Albert Bigelow Paine came this morning to talk over the matter of writing Mr. Clemens’s Biography. Mr. Clemens has consented to have some shorthander come and take down the chat that is to flow from Mr. Clemens’s lips. I hope it may prove inspirational. The commercial machine (Columbia Graphophonic) that Mr. Clemens was looking upon as a boon hasn’t proved so. He dictated his birthday speech into it, and a few letters, but that is all. There is something infinitely sad in the voice as it is reproduced from the cylinders, and how strickening it would be to hear the voice of one gone. Santa C. when to Norfolk, Katie, too. Mr. Clemens and I went to see “The Lion and the Mouse.” A clean little play, but so stupid [MTP TS 6].
The Lion and the Mouse (play) by Charles Klein (1867-1915) at the Lyceum Theatre in N.Y.C. See also Gribben 384. See insert ad Harper’s Weekly published a full-page drawing of Twain receiving a laurel wreath from a girl dressed as Joan of Arc at the Dec. 21, 1905 dinner of the Society of Illustrators [Tenney 42].
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