June 17 Sunday – In Dublin, N.H. Sam added to his June 16 to Charlotte Teller Johnson.
Sunday continued. I’ve come back to bed—there was no way to put in the time. It is still raining as hard as ever, & is reposeful & contenting. I finished both letters—oh, acres of MS!— make them kill time for me as long as I could. If by good luck Mr. Rogers says yes—but I know he will, & then I shall do as I’ve said.
And after all, it’s only 3 p.m. Read? No, there’s nothing I want to read. I think I will discuss with you the human race—as you & Howells phrase it. No—I think I will read. Roba di Roma; a good rainy-weather book.Good-bye, Du. /SLC [MTP]. Note: Roba di Roma (1863) by William Wetmore Story (1819-1895). Sam had read this book in Oct. 1878 in Florence. See Gribben p. 669.
Sam also replied to the June 11 from William Dean Howells.
It was wrong to bother you about the [Furness] story. I only needed to say: “This is Mr. Howell’s story, turned into fiction-form”—& then insert the tale “Was it Heaven?—or Hell?” I’ve done that. In fact that was the only right way.
The dictating goes lazily & pleasantly on. (With intervals.) I find that I’ve been at it, off & on, nearly two hours a day for 155 days, since Jan. 9. To be exact, I’ve dictated 75 hours in 80 days & loafed 75 days. I’ve added 60,000 words in the month that I’ve been here; which indicates that I’ve dictated during 20 days of that time—40 hours, at an average of 1,500 words an hour. It’s a plenty, & I am satisfied.
There’s a good deal of “fat.” I’ve dictated, (from Jan. 9) 210,000 words, & the “fat” adds about 50,000 more. The “fat” is old pigeon-holed things, of the years gone by, which I or editors didn’t das’t to print. For instance, I am dumping in the little old book which I read to you in Hartford about 30 years ago, & which you said “publish—& ask Dean Stanley to furnish an introduction; he’ll do it.” “(Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven.”) It reads quite to suit me, without altering a word, now that it isn’t to see print until I am dead.
To-morrow I mean to dictate a chapter which will get my heirs & assigns burnt alive if they venture to print it this side of 2006 A.D.—which I judge they won’t. There’ll be lots of such chapters if I live 3 or 4 years longer. The edition of A.D. 2006 will make a stir when it comes out. I shall be hovering around taking notice, along with other dead pals. You are invited. / Mark.
P.S.
I think Miss Lyon told you the reason we couldn’t send you the Autobiography—there’s only one typed copy, & we had to have it for reference, to guard against repetitions. The making of a second copy is now begun; & so, we can presently begin to mail batches of it to you. This book is already perfectly outrageous, in spots, but that’s nothing—it’s going to be worse by & by if I live beyond my appointed date. I don’t care for my other books, now, but I dote on this one as Adam used to dote on a fresh new deformed child after he was 900 years old & wasn’t expecting any more surprises. I’ve written a short Preface. I like the title of it: “Spoken from the Grave.” It will prepare the reader for the solemnities within.
I’m in the middle of a history of Bret Harte, but I’ll break into that with a newer & hotter interest tomorrow—according to the laws of this book: the newest & hottest interest takes precedence of anything I may be talking about. The rest of Bret will be postponed—like Orion. (You didn’t see the last of him; he got postponed & pushed ahead several times, by intruding, warmer interests of various kinds.)
Dialogue the other day, over the long-distance, between Miss Lyon & Clara (bad telephone):
Miss L. Your father wants an MS book which is unfinished. In drawer in his study. (Yells it 3 times.)
C. “Oh, an MS book? What’s the title? (Yells it 3 times.)
L. Has no title. First sentence is, “Tell him to go to hell!” (Yells it many times.)
C. Tell him to go…?”
L. Yes.
C. Go where?
L. Go to hell! (Several times)
C. I can’t get the last word.
L. Oh—hell!
C. Can’t get it. Spell it.
L. H—e—double—l! HELL! Get it now? Tell—him—to—go—to—HELL!
C. (Shouting.) Tell him to go to hell?
L. That’s it. Your father wants it.
[cross-written in the right margin:] You see we might have been hauled to Court by the telephone company [MTHL 2: 810-12]. Note: Sam thought “Was it Heaven?” should be inserted into his A.D. The source gives “Adam’s Monument” as the MS yelled for on the phone, DV 309 and 309a, MTP.
Sam also wrote to H.H. Rogers.
Dear Uncle Henry: / Certainly I retain you; and—as you suggest—I mean to go to you & begin operations at the source. First, I want M Clure to see you & explain his scheme—I think he clearly understands that no scheme can be arranged with me until it has secured your approval first. He wants 50,000 words of my Autobiography for his syndicate, for $50,000 cash, or for 80% of the gross receipts. I have now about 250,000 words for him to choose from.
I’d like to see a lot of this stuff in print before I die—but not the bulk of it, oh no! I am not desiring to be crucified yet. Howells thinks the Auto will outlive the Innocents Abroad a thousand years, & I know it will. I would like the literary world to see (as Howells says) that the form of this book is one of the most memorable literary inventions of the ages. And so it is. It ranks with the steam engine, the printing press & the electric telegraph. I’m the only person who has ever found out the right way to build an autobiography.
I’ve had a secret enemy at Harpers from the very beginning. I suppose it is Duneka, that Jesuit. With a sleeping partner, Major Leigh. Duneka has defeated several legitimate projects of mine. Unless he is a fool, he knows there’s more advertising for Harper & my books in M Clure’s project than we could buy for the whole Harper income; but if Duneka can defeat it he’ll do it. His conduct in the “Library of Humor” matter convicts him of being not merely a thief, but a particularly low-down sneak-thief. I desire his scalp.
My project is this: go to New York a couple of weeks from now or a shade later, & have some talks with you & Lauterbach, & perhaps a talk with Duneka. Then I propose to get out the yacht & take you up to Fairhaven & play billiards until you have to return to New York; then take you down in the yacht & look over the ground again. Then back to Dublin via Boston.
How does it strike you? / This is the Sabbath day. Try to keep it holy. Ys ever… [MTHHR 611- 12]. Note: Frederick T. Leigh, treasurer of Harpers. Edward Lauterbach, Sam’s attorney at this time. See June 23 entry of Lyon’s journal.
Isabel Lyon’s journal: “Jean, 8:30. Petit mal all day / Today I lunched with the Danas. It was like a dream to see them again & to see them so little changed. / Mr. Pearmain brought Mr. Ireland over this afternoon” [MTP TS 85].
Sunday continued. I’ve come back to bed—there was no way to put in the time. It is still raining as hard as ever, & is reposeful & contenting. I finished both letters—oh, acres of MS!— make them kill time for me as long as I could. If by good luck Mr. Rogers says yes—but I know he will, & then I shall do as I’ve said.
And after all, it’s only 3 p.m. Read? No, there’s nothing I want to read. I think I will discuss with you the human race—as you & Howells phrase it. No—I think I will read. Roba di Roma; a good rainy-weather book.Good-bye, Du. /SLC [MTP]. Note: Roba di Roma (1863) by William Wetmore Story (1819-1895). Sam had read this book in Oct. 1878 in Florence. See Gribben p. 669.
Sam also replied to the June 11 from William Dean Howells.
It was wrong to bother you about the [Furness] story. I only needed to say: “This is Mr. Howell’s story, turned into fiction-form”—& then insert the tale “Was it Heaven?—or Hell?” I’ve done that. In fact that was the only right way.
The dictating goes lazily & pleasantly on. (With intervals.) I find that I’ve been at it, off & on, nearly two hours a day for 155 days, since Jan. 9. To be exact, I’ve dictated 75 hours in 80 days & loafed 75 days. I’ve added 60,000 words in the month that I’ve been here; which indicates that I’ve dictated during 20 days of that time—40 hours, at an average of 1,500 words an hour. It’s a plenty, & I am satisfied.
There’s a good deal of “fat.” I’ve dictated, (from Jan. 9) 210,000 words, & the “fat” adds about 50,000 more. The “fat” is old pigeon-holed things, of the years gone by, which I or editors didn’t das’t to print. For instance, I am dumping in the little old book which I read to you in Hartford about 30 years ago, & which you said “publish—& ask Dean Stanley to furnish an introduction; he’ll do it.” “(Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven.”) It reads quite to suit me, without altering a word, now that it isn’t to see print until I am dead.
To-morrow I mean to dictate a chapter which will get my heirs & assigns burnt alive if they venture to print it this side of 2006 A.D.—which I judge they won’t. There’ll be lots of such chapters if I live 3 or 4 years longer. The edition of A.D. 2006 will make a stir when it comes out. I shall be hovering around taking notice, along with other dead pals. You are invited. / Mark.
P.S.
I think Miss Lyon told you the reason we couldn’t send you the Autobiography—there’s only one typed copy, & we had to have it for reference, to guard against repetitions. The making of a second copy is now begun; & so, we can presently begin to mail batches of it to you. This book is already perfectly outrageous, in spots, but that’s nothing—it’s going to be worse by & by if I live beyond my appointed date. I don’t care for my other books, now, but I dote on this one as Adam used to dote on a fresh new deformed child after he was 900 years old & wasn’t expecting any more surprises. I’ve written a short Preface. I like the title of it: “Spoken from the Grave.” It will prepare the reader for the solemnities within.
I’m in the middle of a history of Bret Harte, but I’ll break into that with a newer & hotter interest tomorrow—according to the laws of this book: the newest & hottest interest takes precedence of anything I may be talking about. The rest of Bret will be postponed—like Orion. (You didn’t see the last of him; he got postponed & pushed ahead several times, by intruding, warmer interests of various kinds.)
Dialogue the other day, over the long-distance, between Miss Lyon & Clara (bad telephone):
Miss L. Your father wants an MS book which is unfinished. In drawer in his study. (Yells it 3 times.)
C. “Oh, an MS book? What’s the title? (Yells it 3 times.)
L. Has no title. First sentence is, “Tell him to go to hell!” (Yells it many times.)
C. Tell him to go…?”
L. Yes.
C. Go where?
L. Go to hell! (Several times)
C. I can’t get the last word.
L. Oh—hell!
C. Can’t get it. Spell it.
L. H—e—double—l! HELL! Get it now? Tell—him—to—go—to—HELL!
C. (Shouting.) Tell him to go to hell?
L. That’s it. Your father wants it.
[cross-written in the right margin:] You see we might have been hauled to Court by the telephone company [MTHL 2: 810-12]. Note: Sam thought “Was it Heaven?” should be inserted into his A.D. The source gives “Adam’s Monument” as the MS yelled for on the phone, DV 309 and 309a, MTP.
Sam also wrote to H.H. Rogers.
Dear Uncle Henry: / Certainly I retain you; and—as you suggest—I mean to go to you & begin operations at the source. First, I want M Clure to see you & explain his scheme—I think he clearly understands that no scheme can be arranged with me until it has secured your approval first. He wants 50,000 words of my Autobiography for his syndicate, for $50,000 cash, or for 80% of the gross receipts. I have now about 250,000 words for him to choose from.
I’d like to see a lot of this stuff in print before I die—but not the bulk of it, oh no! I am not desiring to be crucified yet. Howells thinks the Auto will outlive the Innocents Abroad a thousand years, & I know it will. I would like the literary world to see (as Howells says) that the form of this book is one of the most memorable literary inventions of the ages. And so it is. It ranks with the steam engine, the printing press & the electric telegraph. I’m the only person who has ever found out the right way to build an autobiography.
I’ve had a secret enemy at Harpers from the very beginning. I suppose it is Duneka, that Jesuit. With a sleeping partner, Major Leigh. Duneka has defeated several legitimate projects of mine. Unless he is a fool, he knows there’s more advertising for Harper & my books in M Clure’s project than we could buy for the whole Harper income; but if Duneka can defeat it he’ll do it. His conduct in the “Library of Humor” matter convicts him of being not merely a thief, but a particularly low-down sneak-thief. I desire his scalp.
My project is this: go to New York a couple of weeks from now or a shade later, & have some talks with you & Lauterbach, & perhaps a talk with Duneka. Then I propose to get out the yacht & take you up to Fairhaven & play billiards until you have to return to New York; then take you down in the yacht & look over the ground again. Then back to Dublin via Boston.
How does it strike you? / This is the Sabbath day. Try to keep it holy. Ys ever… [MTHHR 611- 12]. Note: Frederick T. Leigh, treasurer of Harpers. Edward Lauterbach, Sam’s attorney at this time. See June 23 entry of Lyon’s journal.
Isabel Lyon’s journal: “Jean, 8:30. Petit mal all day / Today I lunched with the Danas. It was like a dream to see them again & to see them so little changed. / Mr. Pearmain brought Mr. Ireland over this afternoon” [MTP TS 85].
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