Cleveland, Jan. 22.
Oh, Livy darling, I could just worship that picture, it is so beautiful. I am a hundred thousand times obliged to you for it.1 I think I would perish before I would part with it. But its beauty startles me Livy—it somehow makes me [afraid. — It ] makes ‸me‸ feel a sort of awe—it affects me like a superstition. For it is more than human, Livy—it an is an angel beauty—something not of earth—something above the earth & its grossness. There is that deep spiritual look in the eyes—that far-away look that I have noted before when I wondered in my secret heart if you were not communing with the inhabitants of another sphere, a grander, a nobler world than ours. This is when I look at the picture a little way off. And it makes me so [ said sad ] & so down-hearted, too, because I seem to see in the placid face the signs of a world of unspoken distress, of hidden sorrow, patiently borne, but wearing and exhausting—pain that I have caused you, & which you are keeping from me because you would not have me suffer also. And it instantly recalls a remark of yours which [ troubled ] ‸struck‸ me when you wrote it—that you had determined when I was there last m not to write me of your troubles, ‸thenceforward,‸ but to say only cheerful things. Now my fears are aroused for you, & I exclaim against this, Livy. What I want is, that you should not experience doubts & misgivings, & distressful thoughts—but [ Oh, ] Livy, when you do experience them, I charge you, I beg of you, to let me share them with [you. What! ] you suffer alone, to save me sorrow! No, no, Livy, I could never ‸not‸ me be so selfish, [ no so ] unmanly, as to wish that. And in my heedlessness I have allowed you to think me capable of such a thing. Oh, no, Livy—tell me of every grief, of every disturbing thought that comes to trouble you. Shared with another, these things are [ a ] easier to bear—& there is no one to whom you can unbosom yourself so entirely as to me—for there can be no one in such close & such direct sympathy with you in these particular griefs as I. Give me all [your trust, ] Livy, all your confidence—tell me everything, & let me help to give you rest & peace. If I could only pillow your dear head upon my shoulder, now, & put my sheltering arms about you, I know I could so talk to you, & so reason with you that these harassing thoughts that are eating away your peace of mind would vanish away & leave you happy & at rest. Oh, it breaks my very heart to think of you suffering, even for an hour. You see I am wrought up, Livy—in fact I am in more distress than words can easily tell—& I find myself fettered hand-&-foot by this lingering eternity of engagements. If I thought this letter would find you still harassed & troubled, I would cancel these engagements & go t by telegraph & go to you. What a driveling idiot I was that I did not go straight to Elmira from Chicago, & let “surprises” & the fatigue of travel take care of themselves. Be sure & tell me, [if you are ] still troubled & ill at ease, Livy—& if you are not, I’ll buy myself free of these engagements & go to you—for I know I can explain away every haunting spectre that distresses your thoughts.
But when I hold the picture close, Livy, & look at it, most of the sadness disappears, & in its place is a tranquil sweetness, & [ thoughtful ] ‸a dreamy‸ repose that are as ‸so‸ enchanting that it seems strange that only a human being sat for the picture. I do think it is the loveliest thing in the whole world—it & it is just exactly like you, Livy. It is precisely like you, as I saw you last. I am so sorry you had to sit so many times & have so much trouble with the ferrotypes. You must have thought I was a selfish, exacting sort of lunatic—but upon my word, Livy, I was so busy clattering around the country that I did not think seriously of how much trouble I was putting you to. This picture pleases me entirely—& when you send me a kiss I can take it right from these exquisite features.
Ah, I wish I knew what was in the Sparta letter. It may come tomorrow—they enclosed a business letter to me from there to-day, & I wonder yours did not come. Somehow I cannot help dreading that letter—& yet when I take out your Toledo letter & read it I feel consoled & satisfied, for that was written after the Sparta letter, & you say in it that you are feeling more at rest, & that things look brighter to you. God grant they may continue to grow brighter! There is no use in my trying to be cheerful to-night—for I am [ down-hearted ] & distressed, & even the worshipped picture is hardly able to lift me up. For myself I care nothing about the California letters,—being conscious that if they have said any permanent or important blemish rests upon either my private character or public sh reputation they have simply stated that which is false—but the thought of their causing you distress, will not let me rest—& I have no peace. It is the first thing I think of in the morning, & the last that tortures me when the ni long day’s fatigues & vexations are [over. I ] have sinned, in the dead past—& now my punishment is come—but you should not suffer, [ my idol ]—that is what drives me frantic.
It blesses me to see by your letter that you think of me & are sorry I must undergo so many tiresome journeys—& in turn I bless you, Livy, for this. When you say “I was sorry,” it means all I could say with my [overflowing ] adjectives, I think.
But Oh, Livy dear, how little you appreciate yourself! You are a living, breathing sermon; a blessing delivered straight from the hand of God; a messenger, that, speaking or silent, carries refreshment to the weary, hope to the despondent, sunshine to the darkened way of all that come & go about you. I feel this, in every fibre of my being. And the sound, real good conferred upon the world by the model & example of such a woman as you, is not to be estimated at all. It makes no fuss, no show, but if the good deeds of men are recorded in Heaven, your name is in that book, & set as high as any there, according to your sphere of action. Don’t grieve, Livy, that you cannot march a up & down the troubled ways of life fighting wrong & unfettering right, with strong fierce words & dazzling actions, for that work is set apart for women of a different formation to do, & being designed for that work, God, who always knows hi His affairs & how to appoint His instruments, has qualified them for the work—& He has qualified you for your work, & nobly are you performing it. Therefore, be content. Do that which God has given you to do, & do not seek to improve upon His judgment. You cannot do Anna Dickinson’s work, & I can freely stake my life upon it, she cannot do [yours. Livy, ] you might as well reproach yourself with for not being able to win bloody victories in battle, like Joan of Arc. In your sphere you are as great, & as noble, & as efficient as any Joan of Arc as ‸that‸ ever lived. Be content with the strength that God has given you, & the station He has given into your charge—& don’t be discouraged & unsettled by Anna Dickinson’s incendiary words. I like Anna Dickinson, & admire her grand character, & have often & over again made her detractors feel ashamed of themselves; but I am thankful that you are not the sort of woman that is her ideal, & grateful that you never can be, Livy, darling.2
Livy, the lady you speak of—can it be possible that she gives her husband her full confidence? , & that he [ Can Could ] he, then, see her laden with unrest & not hasten to soothe her & drive away her troubles? Why I could be just as guilty as he is—thoughtlessly, you know—but the faintest whisper from you would set me in a fever to undo the wrong. Livy, dear, don’t measure me with all the mean husbands in the world; for I’m not mean, & heartless & unloving—I am not, indeed, Livy—as truly as I live, I am not the counterpart of that man you speak of. Oh, I wish I could think of something that would cheer you up, Livy, & make you feel glad & happy, but somehow it seems that tonight I cannot. Something weighs upon me—a vague foreboding that the illness I have been struggling against for a week is about to come upon me at last. If it is to come, I hope it will strike me before I leave this safe haven of mine to-morrow.
Now that is cheerful, isn’t it? But Livy, I don’t write you many saddening letters, & so you must giv forgive me this time. Everything seems against me [to-night. ] I believe I should be completely & perfectly miserable if I hadn’t the picture. But every now & then I look at it, & then for a time I forget all discordant thoughts & am satisfied & happy—& so unspeakably grateful to God for bringing our paths together. The manifest hand of Providence was in it.
I suppose I ought to go to bed, now, since I have neglected the fire & let the room cool down too much. But Livy, I didn’t really expect ‸you‸ to take my request that you would write daily, into very serious consideration. I am too thankful for the three or four letters a week, not to feel satisfied & happy. I suppose, though, that I urged you with consuming fervency to write every day—it would be just like me to do it3—but if any thoughtful person had said, “Now have you really the heart to place such a burden as that upon her, when you know that her time & her energies are already taxed five times as much as they ought to be, & that she hardly gets any really quieting, comforting rest at all?”—I would have said “No!”—& would have felt injured by the insinuation, perhaps. No, no, Livy, every two days is a boon, & a noble one; I thank you & bless you for it, & will not be ungrateful enough to ask you to do more.
I like Mr. Lewis’s letter—I couldn’t well help that—& I thank him right cordially. I noted your interlineations, Livy—& they told the truth, too. I liked Mr. Lewis.4
No. N no, Livy, you need not write Mrs. Fairbanks of the postponement of the re-union5—I will tell her. Oh, when shall I get to see you! In yesterday’s letter I gave a guess about it—but alas! more invitations to lecture have come to-day. I am sorry enough to see them.
How I love you, [Livy! I ] kiss the beautiful picture, & send another winging its way down the night wind to seek you out & set you wondering in your dreams who touched your lips—& now, Good-night, my loved & honored Livy, & may the peace of God descend upon you, & His love soothe your good heart to rest.
Always, Devotedly,
Samℓ. L. C.
[on back of page 1:] They all think the picture is marvellously beautiful, & just like you, Livy.
Miss Olivia L. Langdon
Present.
——
Care of Charlie.
[docketed by OLL:] 32ndExplanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Porcelaintype of Olivia L. Langdon, 1869. Mark Twain Papers,
The Bancroft Library (CU-MARK). See note 1.
Her sarcasm bites. I do not know but that it is
her best card. She will make a right venomous old maid some day, I
am afraid. She said that she was arguing upon her favorite subject
with a self-sufficient youth one day, and she silenced his guns one
after another till at last he staked his all upon one powerful
proposition: “Would you have all
women strong-minded?”
“No!” she thundered, “God forbid
that the millions of men of your calibre that cumber the earth
should be doomed to travel its weary ways unmated!”
(SLC 1867) That experience perhaps accounts for Clemens’s gingerly
ambivalence toward Dickinson, which was more than matched by her private
opinion of him. In an 1873 letter to her sister, she noted that every
time she saw the Langdons she wondered again how the flower of their house, Olivia, as frail in body as she is
clear of mind & lovely of soul ever married the vulgar
boor to whom she gave herself.—I hear of him all about
the country at wine suppers, & late
orgies,—dirty, smoking, drinking—with brains
no doubt, but— Which is another cause of offence to
me.—Just think that John Hay’s beautiful
“Castilian Days” never paid him but
$350,—that Charlie Warner made, all told, from
his jolly “Summer in a Garden” less than
$1000,—that Whittier for years scarcely earned
enough to keep him in bread & butter, & that
this man’s stuff, “Innocents
Abroad” & “Roughing It,”
have paid him not short of $200.000.— ’Tis enough to disgust one with
one’s kind.— (Dickinson to Mary E. Dickinson,
14 Mar 73, Dickinson Papers, DLC)
Source text(s):Previous publication:
L3, 61–66; MFMT, 19–20, brief excerpt; LLMT, 58, 357, brief excerpts and paraphrase.
Provenance:see Samossoud Collection, p. 586.
Emendations and textual notes:
afraid. — It • afraid. — |It
said sad • said
troubled • [false ascenders/descenders]
Oh, • [heavily canceled; false ascenders/descenders]
you. What • you.—|What
no so • n so
a • [partly formed]
your trust • your|your trust
if you are • if you if you are
thoughtful • [false ascenders/descenders]
down-hearted • down-|hearted
over. I • over.—|I
my idol • [false ascenders/descenders]
overflowing • over-|flowing
yours. Livy • yours.—|Livy
Can Could • Canould [underscored after revision]
to-night • to-|night
Livy! I • Livy!—|I
