Autobiography of Mark Twain

by Mark Twain

  Ever since then, when I have been writing a book I have pigeon-holed it without misgivings when its tank ran dry, well knowing that it would fill up again without any of my help within the next two or three years, and that then the work of completing it would be simple and easy. “The Prince and the Pauper” struck work in the middle, because the tank was dry, and I did not touch it again for two years. A dry interval of two years occurred in “The Connecticut Yankee at the Court of King Arthur.” A like interval has occurred in the middle of other books of mine. Two similar intervals have occurred in a story of mine called “Which Was It?” In fact, the second interval has gone considerably over time, for it is now four years since that second one intruded itself. I am sure that the tank is full again now, and that I could take up that book and write the other half of it without a break or any lapse of interest—but I shan’t do it. The pen is irksome to me. I was born lazy, and dictating has spoiled me. I am quite sure I shall never touch a pen again; therefore that book will remain unfinished—a pity, too, for the idea of it is (actually) new and would spring a handsome surprise upon the reader, at the end.

  There is another unfinished book, which I should probably entitle “The Refuge of the Derelicts.” It is half finished, and will remain so. There is still another one, entitled “The Adventures of a Microbe During Three Thousand Years—by a Microbe.” It is half finished and will remain so. There is yet another—“The Mysterious Stranger.” It is more than half finished. I would dearly like to finish it, and it causes me a real pang to reflect that it is not to be. These several tanks are full now, and those books would go gaily along and complete themselves if I would hold the pen, but I am tired of the pen.

  There was another of these half-finished stories. I carried it as far as thirty-eight thousand words four years ago, then destroyed it for fear I might some day finish it. Huck Finn was the teller of the story, and of course Tom Sawyer and Jim were the heroes of it. But I believed that that trio had done work enough in this world and were entitled to a permanent rest.

  In Rouen, in ’93, I destroyed fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of manuscript, and in Paris, in the beginning of ’94, I destroyed ten thousand dollars’ worth—I mean, estimated as magazine stuff. I was afraid to keep those piles of manuscript on hand, lest I be tempted to sell them, for I was fairly well persuaded that they were not up to standard. Ordinarily there would have been no temptation present, and I would not think of publishing doubtful stuff—but I was heavily in debt then, and the temptation to mend my condition was so strong that I burnt the manuscripts to get rid of it. My wife not only made no objection, but encouraged me to do it, for she cared more for my reputation than for any other concern of ours. About that time she helped me put another temptation behind me. This was an offer of sixteen thousand dollars a year, for five years, to let my name be used as editor of a humorous periodical. I praise her for furnishing her help in resisting that temptation, for it is her due. There was no temptation about it, in fact, but she would have offered her help, just the same, if there had been one. I can conceive of many wild and extravagant things when my imagination is in good repair, but I can conceive of nothing quite so wild and extravagant as the idea of my accepting the editorship of a humorous periodical. I should regard that as the saddest (for me) of all occupations. If I should undertake it I should have to add to it the occupation of undertaker, to relieve it in some degree of its cheerlessness. I could edit a serious periodical with relish and a strong interest, but I have never cared enough about humor to qualify me to edit it or sit in judgment upon it.

  There are some books that refuse to be written. They stand their ground, year after year, and will not be persuaded. It isn’t because the book is not there and worth being written—it is only because the right form for the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for a story, and if you fail to find that form the story will not tell itself. You may try a dozen wrong forms, but in each case you will not get very far before you discover that you have not found the right one—then that story will always stop and decline to go any further. In the story of “Joan of Arc” I made six wrong starts, and each time that I offered the result to Mrs. Clemens she responded with the same deadly criticism—silence. She didn’t say a word, but her silence spoke with the voice of thunder. When at last I found the right form I recognized at once that it was the right one, and I knew what she would say. She said it, without doubt or hesitation.

  In the course of twelve years I made six attempts to tell a simple little story which I knew would tell itself in four hours if I could ever find the right starting-point. I scored six failures; then one day in London I offered the text of the story to Robert McClure, and proposed that he publish that text in the magazine and offer a prize to the person who should tell it best. I became greatly interested and went on talking upon the text for half an hour; then he said,

  “You have told the story yourself. You have nothing to do but put it on paper just as you have told it.”

  I recognized that this was true. At the end of four hours it was finished, and quite to my satisfaction. So it took twelve years and four hours to produce that little bit of a story, which I have called “The Death-Wafer.”

  To start right is certainly an essential. I have proved this too many times to doubt it. Twenty-five or thirty years ago I began a story which was to turn upon the marvels of mental telegraphy. A man was to invent a scheme whereby he could synchronize two minds, thousands of miles apart, and enable them to freely converse together through the air without the aid of a wire. Four times I started it in the wrong way, and it wouldn’t go. Three times I discovered my mistake after writing about a hundred pages. I discovered it the fourth time when I had written four hundred pages—then I gave it up and put the whole thing in the fire.

  I have mentioned an unfinished book which might be entitled “The Refuge of the Derelicts.” In the manuscript the story has no title, but begins with a pretty brusque remark by an ancient admiral, who is Captain Ned Wakeman under a borrowed name. This reminds me of something.

  Four or five months ago, in the New York home, I learned by accident that we had been having a good deal of trouble with our telephones. The family get more or less peace and comfort out of concealing vexations from me on account of the infirmities of my temper, and it would be only by accident that I could find out that the telephones were making trouble. Upon inquiry I discovered that my tribe had been following the world’s usual custom—they had applied for relief to the Telephone Company’s subordinates. This is always a mistake. The only right way is to apply to the President of a corporation; your complaint receives immediate and courteous attention then. I called up the headquarters and asked the President to send some one to my house to listen to a complaint. One of the chief superintendents came—Mr. Scovel. The complaint occupied but a minute of our time. Then he sat by the bed and we smoked and chatted half an hour very pleasantly. I remarked that often and often I would dearly like to use the telephone myself, but didn’t dare to do it because when the connection was imperfect I was sure to lose my temper and swear—and while I would like to do that, and would get a good deal of satisfaction out of it, I couldn’t venture it because I was aware that by telephone law the Company can remove your telephone if you indulge yourself in that way.

  Mr. Scovel gladdened me by informing me that I could allow myself that indulgence without fear of injurious results, for there wouldn’t be any, there being a clause in the law which allowed me that valuable privilege. Then he quoted that clause and made me happy.

  Two or three months ago I wanted that nameless manuscript heretofore mentioned, and I asked my secretary to call up my New York home on the long-distance and tell my daughter Clara to find that manuscript and send it to me. The line was not in good order, and Miss Lyon found great difficulty in making Clara understand what was wanted. After a deal of shouting back and forth Clara gathered that it was a manuscript that was wanted, and that she would find
it among the manuscriptural riffraff in my study somewhere. Then she wanted to know by what sign she would recognize it. She asked for the title of it.

  Miss Lyon—using a volume of voice which should have carried to New York without the telephone’s help, said—

  “It has no title. It begins with a remark.”

  It took some time to make Clara understand that. Then she said,

  “What is the remark?”

  Miss Lyon shouted—

  “Tell him to go to hell.”

  Clara. “Tell him to go—where?”

  Miss Lyon. “To hell.”

  Clara. “I can’t get it. Spell it.”

  Miss Lyon. “H-E-L-L.”

  Clara. “Oh, hell.”

  I was troubled, not by the ear-splitting shouting, which I didn’t mind, but by the character of the words that were going over that wire and being listened to in every office on it, and for a moment I was scared and said,

  “Now they’ll take our telephone out, on account of this kind of talk.”

  But the next moment I was comfortable again, because I remembered that blessed clause in the telephone law which Mr. Scovel had quoted to me, and which said:

  “In employing our telephones no subscriber shall be debarred from using his native language.”

  Friday, August 31, 1906

  Mr. Clemens appoints two pupils and tries his scheme for Spontaneous Oratory at the Dublin club house—Tells of his second lecture and the repetition of the Horace Greeley story—Tells the same thing later at Chickering Hall—The series of seven photographs of Mr. Clemens—Letter from his long-vanished sweetheart, Laura Wright—Reminiscences of her; of Youngblood, the pilot; and of Davis, the mate—Letter offering tour in vaudeville.

  Around about here, in the New Hampshire woods and hills, are scattered a couple of dozen summer resorters, who own their houses and who come here every summer, some of them from as far away as Chicago and St. Louis. They have a modest and pretty club house for dances and other diversions, and two or three times a month they meet there and are entertained with music, lectures, and so on, furnished by the home talent. The home talent consists of distinguished artists, college professors, historians, and so on—and I am a part of it myself. My turn having arrived now, I mean to exploit my system of “Spontaneous Oratory” to-morrow afternoon, and see how it will go. Yesterday I appointed a couple of pupils—Messrs. Brush and Smith—explained the game to them, and required them to be on hand to-morrow with three good anecdotes apiece. I shall ask the audience for a subject, and we three will debate it in accordance with the principles of my system. I believe the performance will be elevating and instructive. I know it will if my pupils bring good anecdotes, and if they shall always remember to introduce each anecdote with one and the same set formula monotonously—without changing a word. I will furnish the formula; repetition of it will do the rest.

  For repetition is a mighty power in the domain of humor. If frequently used, nearly any precisely worded and unchanging formula will eventually compel laughter if it be gravely and earnestly repeated, at intervals, five or six times. I undertook to prove the truth of this, forty years ago, in San Francisco, on the occasion of my second attempt at lecturing. My first lecture had succeeded to my satisfaction. Then I prepared another one, but was afraid of it because the first fifteen minutes of it was not humorous. I felt the necessity of preceding it with something which would break up the house with a laugh and get me on pleasant and friendly terms with it at the start, instead of allowing it leisure to congeal into a critical mood, since that could be disastrous. With this idea in mind, I prepared a scheme of so daring a nature that I wonder now that I ever had the courage to carry it through. San Francisco had been persecuted for five or six years with a silly and pointless and unkillable anecdote which everybody had long ago grown weary of—weary unto death. It was as much as a man’s life was worth to tell that mouldy anecdote to a citizen. I resolved to begin my lecture with it, and keep on repeating it until the mere repetition should conquer the house and make it laugh. That anecdote is in one of my books.

  There were fifteen hundred people present, and as I had been a reporter on one of the papers for a good while I knew several hundred of them. They loved me, they couldn’t help it; they admired me; and I knew it would grieve them, disappoint them, and make them sick at heart to hear me fetch out that odious anecdote with the air of a person who thought it new and good. I began with a description of my first day in the overland coach; then I said,

  “At a little ’dobie station out on the plains, next day, a man got in and after chatting along pleasantly for a while he said ‘I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to listen to it. Horace Greeley went over this road once. When he was leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through quick. Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace. The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the buttons all off of Horace’s coat and finally shot his head clean through the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to go easier—said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was a while ago. But Hank Monk said “Keep your seat, Horace, I’ll get you there on time!”—and you bet he did, too, what was left of him!’”

  I told it in a level voice, in a colorless and monotonous way, without emphasizing any word in it, and succeeded in making it dreary and stupid to the limit. Then I paused and looked very much pleased with myself, and as if I expected a burst of laughter. Of course there was no laughter, nor anything resembling it. There was a dead silence. As far as the eye could reach that sea of faces was a sorrow to look upon; some bore an insulted look; some exhibited resentment, my friends and acquaintances looked ashamed, and the house, as a body, looked as if it had taken an emetic.

  I tried to look embarrassed, and did it very well. For a while I said nothing, but stood fumbling with my hands in a sort of mute appeal to the audience for compassion. Many did pity me—I could see it. But I could also see that the rest were thirsting for blood. I presently began again, and stammered awkwardly along with some more details of the overland trip. Then I began to work up toward my anecdote again with the air of a person who thinks he did not tell it well the first time, and who feels that the house will like it the next time, if told with a better art. The house perceived that I was working up toward the anecdote again, and its indignation was very apparent. Then I said,

  “Just after we left Julesburg, on the Platte, I was sitting with the driver and he said ‘I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed if you would like to listen to it. Horace Greeley went over this road once. When he was leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through quick. Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace. The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the buttons all off of Horace’s coat and finally shot his head clean through the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to go easier—said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was a while ago. But Hank Monk said “Keep your seat, Horace, I’ll get you there on time!”—and you bet he did, too, what was left of him!’”

  I stopped again, and looked gratified and expectant, but there wasn’t a sound. The house was as still as the tomb. I looked embarrassed again. I fumbled again. I tried to seem ready to cry, and once more, after a considerable silence, I took up the overland trip again, and once more I stumbled and hesitated along—then presently began again to work up toward the anecdote. The house exhibited distinct impatience, but I worked along up, trying all the while to look like a person who was sure that there was some mysterious reason why these people didn’t see how funny the anecdote was, and that they must see it if I could ever manage to tell it right, therefore I must make another effort. I said,

  “A day or two after that we picked up a Denver man at the cross-
roads and he chatted along very pleasantly for a while. Then he said ‘I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to listen to it. Horace Greeley went over this road once. When he was leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through quick. Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace. The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the buttons all off of Horace’s coat and finally shot his head clean through the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to go easier—said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was a while ago. But Hank Monk said “Keep your seat, Horace, I’ll get you there on time!”—and you bet he did, too, what was left of him!’”

  All of a sudden the front ranks recognized the sell, and broke into a laugh. It spread back, and back, and back, to the furthest verge of the place; then swept forward again, and then back again, and at the end of a minute the laughter was as universal and as thunderously noisy as a tempest.

  It was a heavenly sound to me, for I was nearly exhausted with weakness and apprehension, and was becoming almost convinced that I should have to stand there and keep on telling that anecdote all night, before I could make those people understand that I was working a delicate piece of satire. I am sure I should have stood my ground and gone on favoring them with that tale until I broke them down, for I had the unconquerable conviction that the monotonous repetition of it would infallibly fetch them some time or other.