Who Is Mark Twain? (3 page)

C
elebrities of the time who couldn’t come (explain why) and who could. (Boss Tweed. He was there.)

Although I was utterly unknown, every one of the most celebrated men of that day, was invited to come. It has always been my pride that that distinction was shown me. I hope it will not be regarded as immodest in me if I name some of these. First in the list by every right is Grant—scene-photograph—anecdote (grand description of his services). General Grant—he was not able to come. Sheridan—scene-photograph—had just finished his great Indian campaign, and was tired—of disturbances—and—he was not present.

Sherman—scene-photo—Lt. Gen—was head of the Army and was reforming the rest of it—he did not need reforming himself—and was obliged to be absent.

Gen. Thomas—he couldn’t come.

Gen. Logan wanted to come, but was not well and could not sleep where there was noise.

Admiral Farragut—just at that time a child was born to—not to
him,
and I don’t remember now who it was born to, and now I come to think, I believe it was not born that year—but anyway he couldn’t come.

General Lee was delayed—so was Longstreet

Commodore Vanderbilt engagement Peter Cooper, Depew (
very
young) engagement Horace Greeley

P. of Wales (26 or 27) photo. tried to send regrets but was overcome by his feelings.

Gladstone and Disraeli

The present Kaiser (about 3 yrs old) sent regrets—was overworked and frail in health—trying to learn German.

Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell Cleveland, mayor of Buffalo.

Andrew Johnson

Every one of these illustrious men was sorry, and sent regrets;—even——lamentations. But it is
some
thing that they
wanted
to come.

Boss Tweed, Heenan,—and have a number of photos from Sing Sing,—or a group—in penitentiary costume. These came. I do not know their names, but they were all public men and served the State.

My
photo—Fuller’s—both young.

F’s conscience—take a shovel and dig for it.

As soon as a man recognizes that he has drifted into age, he gets reminiscent. He wants to talk and talk; and not about the present or the future, but about his old times. For there is where the pathos of his life lies—and the charm of it. The pathos of it is there because it was opulent with treasures that are gone, and the charm of it is in casting them up from the musty ledgers and remembering how rich and gracious they were.

Yes, and when a man gets old he wants to
explain
his past. He calls it that; but as a rule what he really wants to do is to whitewash it. I don’t want to whitewash mine, for it doesn’t need it. I have kept it in that kind of repair all the time. But I do want to explain one circumstance which has been a burden to me for 30 years; and that is, how I came to intrude upon this city—a city which had never done me any harm—and invite it to come 3,000 strong and hear me lecture in Cooper Institute, when nobody knew who I was, or had ever heard of me. It must have seemed a strange impertinence, and indeed it was.

But it was not my fault. I was entirely without blame in the matter, and have always felt that in fairness I ought to be allowed to clear myself. I do not mean as a matter of right, but as a favor, an indulgence, a privilege. None but the old can ask a grace like this without indelicacy, and so long as I was young I bore my pain as I might, and waited for the compassions due to age to privilege me to speak.

No, it was not my fault. It was the fault of an old and particular friend of mine—a man who is still my old and particular friend—a friend who, for brevity’s sake—concealment’s sake—I will call Fuller—Frank Fuller. It was a great mistake that he committed—that he innocently committed. There are two private versions of the matter—his and mine. One of them is not true. I have always had more confidence in mine, because although he was older than I, he had not had as much practice in telling the truth.

He always
means
to speak the truth—no one who knows him will deny him that credit—he always
means
to speak the truth—and then forgets. He was—and is—an excellent man: fine, generous, cordial, unselfish, a man of fine and original mind, of lovable nature, of blemishless character, a sterling and steadfast friend through all weathers, a man of gracious dreams, of radiant visions, of splendid enthusiasms, colossal enthusiasms, an optimist in the zenith of whose soul the sun always shines, a magnified and ennobled Col. Sellers, a charming man—indeed, a perfect man—with that one defect. Just that one defect: that he can imitate the truth so that the Recording Angel himself would set it down in his book—and just as like as not reject statements of mine. Edit them, anyway. It is a wonderful and beautiful gift. I wish I had it. I have often tried to imitate the truth—oh, not latterly, but when I was younger—but it was not for me. It is a gift—it cannot be acquired.

I first knew Judge Fuller in Great Salt Lake City, in the summer of ’61. He has always had titles. He was Archbishop Fuller then. He was not connected with any Church. It was only a decoration. It was an office which did not exist. There was no Church there but the Mormon Church, and it had only Bishops, and the Bishoprics were all full. So Fuller took the title of Archbishop because he wanted to be something, and there was no other vacancy. And he was entitled to some such reward, on account of religious services which he had rendered the Church in keeping a broker’s office where wives and children and such things could be exchanged for the necessaries of life.

Next I knew him in Nevada Territory. He was ex-Governor then; not ex-Governor of any particular commonwealth, but just ex-Governor at large. He wanted to be something, and there was no other vacancy. He was always bright, energetic, sanguine, useful. There, the public finances being low, he tried to get legalized prize-fighting introduced to save the treasury’s life, but it failed—the people were not advanced enough yet.

Next, I knew him in San Francisco. He was General then. It was a brevet. He was learning the military business, and getting ready.

Later, in Arizona, he was Admiral; then he came on to New York and became Judge—and waited for a vacancy. That was nearly 30 years ago. I came on, myself, the next year. It was then that this thing happened, which I spoke of a while ago. He wanted me to lecture. I was afraid of it. I said I was not known. He said that that was merely my modesty; that I was
too
modest; much too modest; abnormally modest; morbidly modest, indecently modest. He said it was a disease and must not be allowed to run on or it would get worse. He said that so far from being unknown, I was the best known man in America except Gen. Grant, and the most popular. He went on talking like that until he made me believe that New York was in distress to hear me. He even frightened me; for he made me believe that if I stood out and refused to lecture, there would be riots. He was at white heat with one of his splendid enthusiasms, and so I was carried away by it and believed it all. For I was only a young thing—callow, trustful, ignorant of the world—hardly 33 years old, and easily persuaded to my hurt by any person with plausible ways and an eloquent tongue—and he had these.

So at last I consented, but begged him to get a small hall—a hall which would not seat more than 500—so as to cover accidents; and then if it should be overpacked we could take a large hall next time. But he would not hear of it. He said it was diffident foolishness—insanity. He said he was not acting upon guesswork, he knew what he was about. He knew it was going to be the most colossal success that New York had seen since Jenny Lind—and it was going to beat Jenny Lind, too. He was so sure of it that he was going to foot all the bills himself and if it didn’t turn out as he said it wouldn’t cost
my
pocket anything.

The more he talked about it the more enthusiastic he got and the more uncontrollable. First, he went off and hired the large hall of Cooper Institute; and came back distressed and mourning, because it would seat only 3,000. Why of course I was aghast. I said it was rank lunacy—that
we
couldn’t have the least use for such a gigantic place like that; the audience would get lost in it, and we’d have to offer a reward. I implored him, I supplicated him to get rid of Cooper Institute; and if he couldn’t, I offered to go and burn it down.

It had no effect—none in the world; he didn’t even listen to me—only walked the floor and said what a pity it was that we got to talk in a little coop like that. Then he brightened up and said he knew how to fix it now—he would go and hire it for 3 weeks. I couldn’t get my voice for terror—and he just marched the floor in a rapture of happiness—and finally flung out of the place, jamming his hat on his head as he went, and said he would go and hire it for 3 months. There’s a time to die.
My
time. Missed fire.

So I sat down and cried. I was a young thing, and all this dreadful peril was so new to me. But he came back raging, and said the hall was engaged for months ahead, and only his one night was vacant; and moreover those people showed no proper pride or exultation in what we were going to do for them. And he had told them to their faces that we wouldn’t ever lecture in their shop again.

I asked him what our date was, and he said ten days hence. Ten days! Only 10 days to advertise in? Couldn’t pull a house together for Adam in 10 days. Oh, dear, I said, we haven’t a show in the world. I begged him to get to work straight off with his advertising; and I offered to sit up all night and every night and help. He looked astonished; and said there was a much more serious thing than that to be looked after and thought about, and that was, what to do with 30,000 people in a house that would seat only a tenth of it.

But he said he would advertise, and he did. He spent his money as freely as if it had been somebody else’s, and maybe it was—I dono where he got it. And he worked, too—worked like a steam engine. It was inspiring to see him at it. He performed prodigies. Well, you can’t be in the company of forces like that and remain dead. His splendid confidence, his volcanic enthusiasm carried me out of myself again. I got to believing, once more.

The plans that that man made! He was going to have all the horse-cars in the city put on the line that ran by the hall;—bridge of cars from one end of New York to the other—couldn’t
move
. He said
that
didn’t make any difference, people just pay their fare and walk through and go
in
. He was going to have the neighboring streets walled by policemen to preserve order in the multitudes; he was going to have ambulances all along, to carry away people wounded in the crush—and some hearses, and undertakers; all there were in town; he was going to have cavalry and artillery to put down the riots—amongst the people that couldn’t get in. And he sent out invitations to all the celebrated people in America, and said he was going to seat them on the platform—when they came. He was going to have Senator Nye introduce me.

During three days I led the most exciting life I had ever known—and the happiest and proudest. Then I began to sober a little. It seemed to me that the excitement was too local—it didn’t seem to be spreading outside of our quarters. I said so to Fuller. He said, Sho, the town is just boiling, underneath. Vesuvius! he said; that’s what it is; and there’s going to be an irruption—the biggest since Pompeii was buried. Don’t fret—it’s all right.

But the next three days were no better. The city was still calm; awfully calm; ominously calm, I feared. But Fuller was not troubled. He said there’s always that kind of a calm before a storm. He said he was working the newspapers—keeping them quiet, so’t they would begin to talk presently. Which they didn’t. And he said they would talk after the lecture, too. I was afraid of that myself.

On the eighth day I was in a panic—for that deadly calm held on as solidly as ever. I couldn’t hear a whisper anywhere about my lecture. Fuller said, don’t worry—look at these; you’ll see what these will do. They were little handbills the size of your hand, all display headings full of extravagant laudations of my celebrity and my lecture, and names of the illustrious people who were going to be there. He didn’t say how many of them he had had printed, but there were 13 barrels of them. They were tied together in bunches of 50, with a string that had a loop to it. He had them hung up in the omnibuses and horse-cars, and also on all the door-knobs in town. I could not rest, I was too miserable, too distressed, too sad, too hopeless. I rode in omnibuses all that day, up and down Broadway, and watched those bunches of lies dangling from the cleats, crick in back of my neck from looking up, all day. But nobody ever took one; and gradually my heart broke. At least nobody took one till late in the afternoon. Then a man pulled one down and read it, and made me happy. His friend spoke up and asked Who is Mark Twain? and he said God knows—I don’t.

These things seem funny, now, after 30 years; much funnier than they did then. But then the development of the humor of a thing is a pretty slow growth sometimes.

I did not ride any more. I went to Fuller and said the case is absolutely desperate. There isn’t going to be a soul at the lecture—you must paper the house—you must load up every bench in it with dead-head tickets.

It made him sad to hear me talk so. He said “there
was
going to be $3,000 in it and $40,000 outside trying to get in—but your comfort is the first thing to be considered, and it shall be as you say. And I will give you the very best and brainiest dead-head audience that ever sat down under a roof in
this
world—both sexes, and every last one of them a school-teacher.” And straightway he began to send out market-baskets loaded with dead-head tickets. He fairly snowed the public schools under with them, north, south and west for 30 miles around New York. Then I felt better.