by Mark Twain
A year or two later “Jim Wolf and the Cats” appeared in a Tennessee paper in a new dress—as to spelling; it was masquerading in a Southern dialect. The appropriator of the tale had a wide reputation in the West, and was exceedingly popular. Deservedly so, I think. He wrote some of the breeziest and funniest things I have ever read, and did his work with distinguished ease and fluency. His name has passed out of my memory.
A couple of years went by; then the original story—my own version—cropped up again and went floating around in the original spelling, and with my name to it. Soon first one paper and then another fell upon me vigorously for “stealing” Jim Wolf and the Cats from the Tennessee man. I got a merciless basting, but I did not mind it. It’s all in the game. Besides, I had learned, a good while before that, that it is not wise to keep the fire going under a slander unless you can get some large advantage out of keeping it alive. Few slanders can stand the wear of silence.
1873
1990
But I was not done with Jim and the Cats yet. In 1873 I was lecturing in London in the Queen’s Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, and living at the Langham hotel, Portland Place. I had no domestic household on that side of the water, and no official household except George Dolby, lecture-agent, and Charles Warren Stoddard, the Californian poet, now (1900) Professor of English literature in the Roman Catholic University, Washington. Ostensibly Stoddard was my private secretary; in reality he was merely my comrade—I hired him in order to have his company. As secretary there was nothing for him to do except to scrap-book the daily reports of the great trial of the Tichborne Claimant for perjury. But he made a sufficient job out of that, for the reports filled six columns a day and he usually postponed the scrap-booking until Sunday; then he had forty-two columns to cut out and paste in—a proper labor for Hercules. He did his work well, but if he had been older and feebler it would have killed him once a week. Without doubt he does his literary lectures well, but also without doubt he prepares them fifteen minutes before he is due on his platform and thus gets into them a freshness and sparkle which they might lack if they underwent the staling process of over-study.
He was good company when he was awake. He was refined, sensitive, charming, gentle, generous, honest himself and unsuspicious of other people’s honesty, and I think he was the purest male I have known, in mind and speech. George Dolby was something of a contrast to him, but the two were very friendly and sociable together, nevertheless. Dolby was large and ruddy, full of life and strength and spirits, a tireless and energetic talker, and always overflowing with good-nature and bursting with jollity. It was a choice and satisfactory menagerie, this pensive poet and this gladsome gorilla. An indelicate story was a sharp distress to Stoddard; Dolby told him twenty-five a day. Dolby always came home with us after the lecture, and entertained Stoddard till midnight. Me too. After he left, I walked the floor and talked, and Stoddard went to sleep on the sofa. I hired him for company.
Dolby had been agent for concerts, and theatres, and Charles Dickens and all sorts of shows and “attractions” for many years; he had known the human being in many aspects, and he didn’t much believe in him. But the poet did. The waifs and estrays found a friend in Stoddard; Dolby tried to persuade him that he was dispensing his charities unworthily, but he was never able to succeed. One night a young American got access to Stoddard at the Concert Rooms and told him a moving tale. He said he was living on the Surrey side, and for some strange reason his remittances had failed to arrive from home; he had no money, he was out of employment, and friendless; his girl-wife and his new baby were actually suffering for food; for the love of heaven could he lend him a sovereign until his remittances should resume? Stoddard was deeply touched, and gave him a sovereign on my account. Dolby scoffed, but Stoddard stood his ground. Each told me his story later in the evening, and I backed Stoddard’s judgment. Dolby said we were women in disguise, and not a sane kind of women, either.
The next week the young man came again. His wife was ill with the pleurisy, the baby had the botts, or something, I am not sure of the name of the disease; the doctor and the drugs had eaten up the money, the poor little family were starving. If Stoddard, “in the kindness of his heart could only spare him another sovereign,” etc., etc. Stoddard was much moved, and spared him a sovereign for me. Dolby was outraged. He spoke up and said to the customer—
“Now young man, you are going to the hotel with us and state your case to the other member of the family. If you don’t make him believe in you I shan’t honor this poet’s drafts in your interest any longer, for I don’t believe in you myself.”
The young man was quite willing. I found no fault in him. On the contrary I believed in him at once, and was solicitous to heal the wounds inflicted by Dolby’s too frank incredulity; therefore I did everything I could think of to cheer him up and entertain him and make him feel at home and comfortable. I spun many yarns; among others the tale of Jim Wolf and the Cats. Learning that he had done something in a small way in literature, I offered to try to find a market for him in that line. His face lighted joyfully at that, and he said that if I could only sell a small manuscript to Tom Hood’s Annual for him it would be the happiest event of his sad life and he would hold me in grateful remembrance always. That was a most pleasant night for three of us, but Dolby was disgusted and sarcastic.
Next week the baby died. Meantime I had spoken to Tom Hood and gained his sympathy. The young man had sent his manuscript to him, and the very day the child died the money for the manuscript came—three guineas. The young man came with a poor little strip of crape around his arm and thanked me, and said that nothing could have been more timely than that money, and that his poor little wife was grateful beyond words for the service I had rendered. He wept, and in fact Stoddard and I wept with him, which was but natural. Also Dolby wept. At least he wiped his eyes and wrung out his handkerchief, and sobbed stertorously and made other exaggerated shows of grief. Stoddard and I were ashamed of Dolby, and tried to make the young man understand that he meant no harm, it was only his way. The young man said sadly that he was not minding it, his grief was too deep for other hurts; that he was only thinking of the funeral, and the heavy expenses which—
We cut that short and told him not to trouble about it, leave it all to us; send the bills to Mr. Dolby and—
“Yes,” said Dolby, with a mock tremor in his voice, “send them to me, and I will pay them. What, are you going? You must not go alone in your worn and broken condition; Mr. Stoddard and I will go with you. Come, Stoddard. We will comfort the bereaved mamma and get a lock of the baby’s hair.”
It was shocking. We were ashamed of him again, and said so. But he was not disturbed. He said—
“Oh, I know this kind, the woods are full of them. I’ll make this offer: if he will show me his family I will give him twenty pounds. Come!”
The young man said he would not remain to be insulted; and he said good-night and took his hat. But Dolby said he would go with him, and stay by him until he found the family. Stoddard went along to soothe the young man and modify Dolby. They drove across the river and all over Southwark, but did not find the family. At last the young man confessed that there wasn’t any.
The thing he sold to Tom Hood’s Annual for three guineas was “Jim Wolf and the Cats.” And he did not put my name to it.
So that small tale was sold three times. I am selling it again, now. It is one of the best properties I have come across.
“Scraps from My Autobiography. Private History of a Manuscript That Came to Grief” consists of a manuscript of thirty-six leaves, along with a typewritten section, extensively annotated by Clemens, of some forty pages. It survives in the Mark Twain Papers and previously has been published only in part. In it Clemens vented his very considerable irritation in a sarcastic letter (never sent) to one T. Douglas Murray, an acquaintance who had invited him in October 1899 to write an introduction to an English translation of the trial records for Joan of Arc. When Clemens
sent him his introduction, Murray had the temerity to “edit” it, far exceeding the sort of tinkering Clemens would tolerate from any editor. Paine included only the first and last sections (MTA, 1:175–89). He omitted the middle section, which was Clemens’s recreation of the “ ‘Edited’ Introduction,” a typed copy of the typescript he received back from Murray onto which he copied, in great detail, Murray’s proposed revisions. That section is published here for the first time.
Scraps from My Autobiography
Private History of a Manuscript That Came to Grief
It happened in London; not recently, and yet not very many years ago. An acquaintance had proposed to himself a certain labor of love, and when he told me about it I was interested. His idea was, to have a fine translation made of the evidence given in the Joan of Arc Trials and Rehabilitation, and placed before the English-speaking world. A translation had been made and published a great many years before, but had achieved no currency, and in fact was not entitled to any, for it was a piece of mere shoemaker-work. But we should have the proper thing, now; for this acquaintance of mine was manifestly a Joan-enthusiast, and as he had plenty of money and nothing to do but spend it, I took at par his remark that he had employed the most competent person in Great Britain to open this long-neglected mine and confer its riches upon the public. When he asked me to write an Introduction for the book, my pleasure was complete, my vanity satisfied.
At this moment, by good fortune, there chanced to fall into my hands a biographical sketch of me of so just and laudatory a character—particularly as concerned one detail—that it gave my spirit great contentment; and also set my head to swelling—I will not deny it. For it contained praises of the very thing which I most loved to hear praised—the good quality of my English; moreover, they were uttered by four English and American literary experts of high authority.
I am as fond of compliments as another, and as hard to satisfy as the average; but these satisfied me. I was as pleased as you would have been if they had been paid to you.
It was under the inspiration of that great several-voiced verdict that I set about that Introduction for Mr. X’s book; and I said to myself that I would put a quality of English into it which would establish the righteousness of that judgment. I said I would treat the subject with the reverence and dignity due it; and would use plain, simple English words, and a phrasing undefiled by meretricious artificialities and affectations.
I did the work on those lines; and when it was finished I said to myself very privately, . . . . . .
But never mind. I delivered the manuscript to Mr. X, and went home to wait for the praises. On the way, I met a friend. Being in a happy glow over this pleasant matter, I could not keep my secret: I wanted to tell somebody, and I told him. For a moment he stood curiously measuring me up and down with his eye, without saying anything; then he burst into a rude, coarse laugh, which hurt me very much. He followed this up by saying—
“He is going to edit the Translation of the Trials when it is finished? He?”
“He said he would.”
“Why, what does he know about editing?”
“I don’t know; but that is what he said. Do you think he isn’t competent?”
“Competent? He is innocent, vain, ignorant, good-hearted, red-headed, and all that—there isn’t a better-meaning man; but he doesn’t know anything about literature and has had no literary training or experience: he can’t edit anything.”
“Well, all I know is, he is going to try.”
“Indeed he will. He is quite unconscious of his incapacities; he would undertake to edit Shakspeare, if invited—and improve him, too. The world cannot furnish his match for guileless self-complacency; yet I give you my word he doesn’t know enough to come in when it rains.”
This gentleman’s ability to judge was not to be questioned. Therefore, by the time I reached home I had concluded to ask Mr. X not to edit the Translation, but to turn that work over to some expert whose name on the title page would be valuable.
Three days later Mr. X brought my Introduction to me, neatly type-copied. He was in a state of considerable enthusiasm, and said:
“Really I find it quite good—quite, I assure you.”
There was an airy and patronizing complacency about this damp compliment which affected my head, and healthfully checked the swelling which was going on there.
I said, with cold dignity, that I was glad the work had earned his approval.
“Oh it has, I assure you,” he answered with large cheerfulness, “I assure you it quite has. I have gone over it very thoroughly, yesterday and last night and today, and I find it quite creditable—quite. I have made a few corrections—that is, suggestions, and—”
“Do you mean to say that you have been ed—”
“Oh, nothing of consequence, nothing of consequence, I assure you,” he said, patting me on the shoulder and genially smiling; “only a few little things that needed just a mere polishing touch—nothing of consequence, I assure you. Let me have it back as soon as you can, so that I can pass it on to the printers and let them get to work on it while I am editing the Translation.”
I sat idle and alone, a time, thinking grieved thoughts, with the edited Introduction unopened in my hand. I could not look at it yet awhile—I had no heart for it, for my pride was deeply wounded. It was the only time I had been edited in thirty-two years; except by Mr. Howells, and he did not intrude his help but furnished it at my request. “And now here is a half-stranger, obscure, destitute of literary training, destitute of literary experience, destitute of—”
But I checked myself there; for that way lay madness. I must seek calm; for my self-respect’s sake I must not descend to unrefined personalities. I must keep in mind that this person was innocent of injurious intent, and was honorably trying to do me a service. To feel harshly toward him, speak harshly of him—this was not the right Christian spirit. These just thoughts tranquilised me and restored to me my better self, and I opened the Introduction at the middle.
I will not deny it, my feelings rose to 104 in the shade:
“The idea! That this long-eared animal—this literary kangaroo—this bastard of the Muses—this illiterate hostler, with his skull full of axle-grease—this . . . .”
But I stopped there, for this was not the right Christian spirit.
I subjected myself to an hour of calming meditation, then carried the raped Introduction to that friend whom I have mentioned above, and showed it to him. He fluttered the leaves over, then broke into another of those ill-bred laughs which are such a mar to him.
“I knew he would!” he said—as if gratified. “Didn’t I tell you he would edit Shakspeare?”
“Yes, I know; but I did not suppose he would edit me.”
“Oh, you didn’t. Well now you see that he is even equal to that. I tell you there are simply no bounds to that man’s irreverence.”
“I realize it, now,” I said.
“Well, what are you going to do? Let him put it in his book—either edited or unedited?”
“Of course not.”
“That is well. You are becoming rational again. But what are your plans? You are not going to stop where you are, are you? You will write him a letter, and give him Hark from the Tomb?”
“No. I shall write him a letter, but not in that spirit, I trust.”
“Why shan’t you?”
“Because he has meant me a kindness, and I hope I am not the man to reward him for it in that way.”
The friend looked me over, a while, pensively, then said—
“Mark, I am ashamed of you. This is mere school-girl sentimentality. You ought to baste him—you know it yourself.”
I said I had no such feeling in my heart, and should put nothing of the kind in my letter.
“I shall point out his errors to him in gentleness, and in the unwounding language of persuasion. Many a literary beginner has been disheartened and defeated by the uncharitable word, wantonly uttered: this one shal
l get none such from me. It is more Christian-like to do a good turn than an ill one; and you ought to encourage me in my attitude, not scoff at it. This man shall not be my enemy; I will make him my lasting and grateful friend.”
I felt that I was in the right; and I went home and began the letter, and found pleasure and contentment in the labor, for I had the encouragement and support of an approving conscience.
The letter will be found in its proper place in this chapter of my Autobiography.
The “Edited” Introduction
JOAN OF ^Jeanne d’^ ARC.
I.
1. The evidence furnished at the ^in her^ Trial and Rehabilitation has given us Joan of ^Jeanne d’^ Arc’s history in clear and minute detail. Among^st^all the multitude of biographies that freight the shelves of the world’s libraries, this is the only one whose ^the^ validity ^of which^ is confirmed to us by oath. It gives us a vivid picture of a career and ^of^ a personality of so extraordinary a character that we are helped to accept them ^both^ as actualities by the very fact that both ^they^ are ^quite^ beyond the inventive reach of fiction. The public part of the ^Her public^ career occupied only a mere breath of time—it covered but ^only^ two years; but what a career it was! The personality which made it possible is one to be reverently studied, loved, and marvelled at, but not to be wholly understood and accounted for by even the most searching analysis.
2. In Joan of ^Jeanne d’ ^Arc at the age of sixteen there was ^gave^ no promise of a romance. She lived in a dull little village on the frontiers of civilization; she had been nowhere and had seen nothing; she knew none but simple shepherd folk; she had never seen a person of note; she hardly knew what a soldier looked like; she had never ridden a horse, nor had a warlike weapon in her hand; she could neither read nor write;she could spin and sew, she knew her catechismand her prayers and the ^some^ fabulous histories of the Saints, and this was all her learning. That was Joan at sixteen. What did she know of law? of evidence? of courts? of the Attorney’s trade? of legal procedure? Nothing. Less than nothing. Thus exhaustively equipped with ignorance she went before the court at Toul to contest a false charge of breach of promise of marriage; she conducted her cause herself, without any one’s help or advice or ^without^ any one’s friendly sympathy, and won it. She called no witnesses of her own, but vanquished the prosecution by using with deadly effectiveness its own testimony. The astonished judge threw the case out of court, and spoke of her as “this marvellous child.”
