June 6 Saturday – At 21 Fifth Ave, N.Y. Sam wrote to Frances Nunnally.
You are a very dear & sweet Francesca to answer so promptly, & you so heavy-laden with work, you poor little chap! But soon you’ll be at sea, & that will be fine & restful. I wish I could go with you.
I go away Monday the 8th, but shall plan to return Thursday forenoon so as to be on deck & listening for your telephone message that afternoon. You & your parents must spare us a little of your time at our feed-trough, either at dinner that evening or at luncheon or dinner next day. I’m going to count on that, dear heart. / With love, … [MTP; MTAq 169].
Sam and Isabel Lyon went to the Savoy Theatre to see Charles Rann Kennedy’s play, The Servant in the House. Sam would meet Kennedy at a dinner given by Miss Elizabeth Jordan on June 7 [June 7 to Sturgis; NY Times, June 8, p.7 “Dinner to Charles Rann Kennedy”]. Note: the Henry Miller Associate Players.
The New York Times, June 14, p. C3, ran a special story datelined London, June 6:
TWAIN’S DAUGHTER TALKS ABOUT HIM
——— ——— ——— ———
Miss Clara Clemens Says It Is Hard to Have a Genius for a Father.
TAKEN FOR BUFFALO BILL
“Father Wears White Suit to Remind Him of Bed,” Says Miss Clara.
Special Correspondence THE NEW YORK TIMES.
LONDON, June 6.—Miss Clara Clemens, daughter of Mark Twain, who is the possessor of a rich contralto voice, has made her debut in this country as a concert singer at the Queen’s Hall. She will give a recital, with Miss Marie Nichols, violinist, and Mr. Wark, pianist, at the Bechstein Hall on June 16.
Miss Clemens inherits her father’s sense of humor, and in an article published in the London Express she tells of the tribulations which face the daughter of a celebrity.
Miss Clemens writes as follows:
“I have just come to the conclusion that things want readjusting in this old world of ours.
“Need I mention the fact that I refer to the glaring injustice of having to go about labeled ‘Mark Twain’s daughter’ when I am doing my best to pursue a musical career?
“Father, is, of course, a genius—and that is what makes me so tired. My fatigue is directly caused by the incessant strain—prolonged over some years and induced by trying to find a secret hiding place when I can shroud my identity and be sure of a really comfortable bed.
“I have a mind to scour Europe for such a place, and when I have found it to take to bed for, say, a couple of years, and arise—a genius. For the bed habit is the recipe of father’s success.
“While I have been tiring myself out in an endeavor to rise to the heights as anybody else’s daughter he has just lain in bed and thought things and got out of bed now and then to loaf around on a lecture tour or tramp lazily through Europe. That’s why I’m looking for a really comfortable bed. Genius is the art of taking—to bed.
“Father called me a genius once when I was about 15, and, although I guess he was just fooling me, I am not likely to forget the occasion. He had gone on a lecture tour with Mr. George W. Cable, the Southern writer, and during his absence we girls—my two sisters and myself— arranged some theatricals as a surprise for him on his return to our home at Hartford, Conn.
“The piece we selected was ‘The Prince and the Pauper,’ and father pretended to enjoy it just as much as we did, and, as I said before, he informed me that I was a genius. Shortly after that memorable night I came over to Europe.
“Then my troubles began. They began in Berlin, where father, thanks to no violent physical efforts on his part, is wonderfully popular. When I was not studying hard at my music I would go out occasionally to little functions, where I would sit in a corner and be completely ignored by all assembled until some foolish person whispered to another: ‘I believe that’s Mark Twain’s daughter in the corner.’
“Then the guests would arise as one man and swoop down upon me, and expect me to be ‘bright’ and amusing after a hard day’s work. These, of course, were the occasions when my august parent was not present. At social gatherings graced by his presence my existence was on the level of a footstool—always unnecessary object in a crowded room. Father, fresh from bed, would completely flood the place with his talk. And yet the secret of his popularity never occurred to me at the time.
“But father has had much to endure, too. The last time he was in London he was assailed in Regent Street by a venerable old lady, who shook him cordially by the hand and repeated fervently: ‘I have always wanted to shake hands with you.’ My father, who was feeling particularly brilliant after a long day’s rest, was much moved, and responded gratefully: ‘So you know who I am, madam?’ ‘Of course I do,’ answered the old lady with enthusiasm, “You’re Buffalo Bill!’
“Father’s white suit is another of my trials. I have always believed that the reason he took to wearing it is that it soothed him and reminded him of bed. His white hair, too, can be explained scientifically. The explanation can be found in any well-equipped natural history museum. The hares and the bird and the foxes in the arctic regions are of a dazzling whiteness when the snow covers their haunts. Father is, therefore, a striking example of what is known as sympathetic coloration. His hair has gradually assumed the color of his pillow.
“But I must do father bare justice. In spite of his lying-in-bed habit he can be impetuous both in speech and action. When he gets too impetuous in speech I rise to the occasion and answer him back.
“Last Winter I was to sing at an important evening concert on the other side, and the entire family had been invited to attend a function in the afternoon, Father, being unmusical, could not understand that I should have been unfit to sing if I had chattered after his own fashion all the afternoon. And so I coaxed him to go and represent the family. At first he objected strongly, but finally, in a burst of impetuosity, he said: ‘Yes, Clara, I’ll go to that reception. I’d go to _____ for you.’
“To which I thoughtfully replied: ‘If ever, father, you should be called upon to go there, please go labeled “I’m for Clara.’ ”
[Note: Sam approved of this article: in his June 14 to daughter Jean he wrote, “Clara has been writing something for a London paper, & doing it very well. I will try to remember to enclose it.”]
Harper’s Weekly published an excerpt from Sam’s speech at the eighth annual banquet of the American Booksellers Assoc. on May 20: “Mark Twain, His Books, and the Booksellers,” p. 32 [Tenney, ALR Third Annual Supplement to the Reference Guide (Autumn, 1979) 192].
Leopold Godfrey-Turner wrote from England for “Life’s Pictorial Comedy” to ask Clemens to write an answer to the question, “What is the greatest mistake” of his life [MTP] Note: IVL: “Contract prohibits,” meaning his contract with Harper’s prohibited him from submitting elsewhere.
June 6? Saturday – At 21 Fifth Ave, N.Y. Sam wrote to Jennie A. Eustace.
Dear Miss Eustace:
I wish to contribute the inclosed $10 to that $1,000 which you propose to raise among our profession. I think I have fairly earned the right to say “our,” for I have been monologuing before the footlights for forty years & I am on the free list of all the righteously conducted theatres in the country. / Sincerely yours, / S. L. Clemens [MTP: NY Times, June 9, 1908 p.7]. Note: the following from the Times article explains:
To Miss Eustace’s Fund for Feeding Needy School Children.
Jennie Eustace, leading woman of the “Witching Hour” company at the Hackett Theatre, who has undertaken to raise $1,000 for the fund to aid the indigent school children of New York, yesterday received a letter from Mark Twain inclosing a check for $10. The letter, which was written from 21 Fifth Avenue, said:
[Sam’s above letter appeared here].
Though Miss Eustace announced her intention of collecting funds only three days ago, she has already received nearly $200. The subscriptions have been from “professional” friends and also from friends and acquaintances in no manner connected with the stage.
Note: Just after this letter from Sam, Jennie A. Eustace replied: “You are very kind. I thank you sincerely. Your cheque will do a great deal of good. But you will do a great deal more. I cannot tell you how I appreciate your subscribing to my fund. Would you object to my using your charming letter” [MTP]. Note: This is catalogued as simply 1908 but it is clearly in response to Sam’s above.