September 3 Sunday – In Dublin, N.H. Sam wrote to daughter Clara in Norfolk, Conn. mentioning the $2,600 Orchestrelle, which had been disassembled in New York and shipped to Dublin some time before.
P.S. / Sept. 3.
Clärchen dear, in my rush for the wedding yesterday I was estopped from congratulating you upon the restoration of your great privilege; so I do it now, & out of my heart. I can guess at the joy it must give you to get back the right to resume the training of your noble voice, & I join my joy to yours, child. You will not be depressed & lonesome any more, now, with such a comrade as that for your cheer.
I think Jean plays some of her pieces with good taste & expression. I find myself moved to ask her to play her favorites, the Wedding March & the Lorelei, over & over & over again—but I don’t because she doesn’t like to. But Miss Lyon doesn’t mind. Sometimes she repeats the Largo, The Intermezzo, & long batches from Tchaikowski, Mendelsohn & those others three times running for me. And certainly she knows the subtle art of getting at the expression. I was always ashamed of having a hand-organ in the house, & loath to have you find it out, but now that you know it I am reconciled. My musical taste is vulgar & untrained, & is about up to the level of machine-music & ballads & Jubilee hymns—& to confess the truth I always had a passion for the common street-hurdygurdy. Without a doubt this machine has raised my level a little. It hasn’t raised it to where I can like the vacuous plunkety-plunk of the piano-pianola, but I shall not grieve about that. I am satisfied that the machine & the sixty pieces of music which we bought with it are worth the twenty-six hundred dollars they cost. That is, if Miss Lyon survives. She plays for me every night—sometimes two & three hours on a stretch. However, as she would do as much anyway if she were alone, my conscience remains atrophied.
I’ve really got something to write you about, but I cannot find it. It was in my mind 5 minutes ago, but escaped again.
Yesterday when the new pair were being photographed on the parental lawn in presence of 60 guests, I came running (not perceiving what was going on) & the new wife threw up her hand in welcome—an eloquent attitude, I hope the camera caught it.
[a missing page here]:
…dear Margaret” again. It is a desolation to have this inbornly good & bright & beautiful creature go away. I recognize it; & yet I have seen her only two or three times—mere casual glimpses & chats. Her poor old father—well, he was a pathetic figure to see, after that star had sunk below his horizon. A wedding is an awful disaster to a family. Good-bye, you dear thing, I can not think what it was I began this letter to say to you.
[enclosure:]
The last fad is “ghost-autographs.” You write your name down the crease, then fold & press the paper while the ink is still wet & will blot. It generally makes something resembling a skeleton. [below, Clemens made his own ghost autograph] [MTP].
Isabel Lyon’s journal: I feel so mentally ill over the harsh statement, the false statement that Dr. [G.W.] Kirch [Florence] has sent to a Mr. [William] Barbour who has sent it to Dr. [Moses Allen] Starr. Mr. Clemens told me to read it. Oh, he mustn’t be troubled by the hideousness of How the pulpits are roaring and crackling today with the hot words of praise for President Roosevelt and the peace… [MTP TS 92].
A.W. Carson wrote from Joplin, Mo. to ask for Sam’s definition of a gentleman. “You may remember me by the shocking letter that my friend Capt C.J. Lewis slipped into your pocket at Hannibal, a few years ago” [MTP]. Note: possibly in 1902—Sam could not recall it.
Anna G. de Mille, daughter of Henry George, wrote from NYC to Sam. She asked for a copy of his signature she might paste in a copy of CY which Sam had given her father [MTP]. Note: see Sept. 25.
P.S. / Sept. 3.
Clärchen dear, in my rush for the wedding yesterday I was estopped from congratulating you upon the restoration of your great privilege; so I do it now, & out of my heart. I can guess at the joy it must give you to get back the right to resume the training of your noble voice, & I join my joy to yours, child. You will not be depressed & lonesome any more, now, with such a comrade as that for your cheer.
I think Jean plays some of her pieces with good taste & expression. I find myself moved to ask her to play her favorites, the Wedding March & the Lorelei, over & over & over again—but I don’t because she doesn’t like to. But Miss Lyon doesn’t mind. Sometimes she repeats the Largo, The Intermezzo, & long batches from Tchaikowski, Mendelsohn & those others three times running for me. And certainly she knows the subtle art of getting at the expression. I was always ashamed of having a hand-organ in the house, & loath to have you find it out, but now that you know it I am reconciled. My musical taste is vulgar & untrained, & is about up to the level of machine-music & ballads & Jubilee hymns—& to confess the truth I always had a passion for the common street-hurdygurdy. Without a doubt this machine has raised my level a little. It hasn’t raised it to where I can like the vacuous plunkety-plunk of the piano-pianola, but I shall not grieve about that. I am satisfied that the machine & the sixty pieces of music which we bought with it are worth the twenty-six hundred dollars they cost. That is, if Miss Lyon survives. She plays for me every night—sometimes two & three hours on a stretch. However, as she would do as much anyway if she were alone, my conscience remains atrophied.
I’ve really got something to write you about, but I cannot find it. It was in my mind 5 minutes ago, but escaped again.
Yesterday when the new pair were being photographed on the parental lawn in presence of 60 guests, I came running (not perceiving what was going on) & the new wife threw up her hand in welcome—an eloquent attitude, I hope the camera caught it.
[a missing page here]:
…dear Margaret” again. It is a desolation to have this inbornly good & bright & beautiful creature go away. I recognize it; & yet I have seen her only two or three times—mere casual glimpses & chats. Her poor old father—well, he was a pathetic figure to see, after that star had sunk below his horizon. A wedding is an awful disaster to a family. Good-bye, you dear thing, I can not think what it was I began this letter to say to you.
[enclosure:]
The last fad is “ghost-autographs.” You write your name down the crease, then fold & press the paper while the ink is still wet & will blot. It generally makes something resembling a skeleton. [below, Clemens made his own ghost autograph] [MTP].
Isabel Lyon’s journal: I feel so mentally ill over the harsh statement, the false statement that Dr. [G.W.] Kirch [Florence] has sent to a Mr. [William] Barbour who has sent it to Dr. [Moses Allen] Starr. Mr. Clemens told me to read it. Oh, he mustn’t be troubled by the hideousness of How the pulpits are roaring and crackling today with the hot words of praise for President Roosevelt and the peace… [MTP TS 92].
A.W. Carson wrote from Joplin, Mo. to ask for Sam’s definition of a gentleman. “You may remember me by the shocking letter that my friend Capt C.J. Lewis slipped into your pocket at Hannibal, a few years ago” [MTP]. Note: possibly in 1902—Sam could not recall it.
Anna G. de Mille, daughter of Henry George, wrote from NYC to Sam. She asked for a copy of his signature she might paste in a copy of CY which Sam had given her father [MTP]. Note: see Sept. 25.
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