Hartford, Mch. 28.
My Dear David:
Gra Mrs. Gray’s brave letter excited our admiration of her character as much as it grieved us that she should need to make the sacrifice which is the testimony of her fortitude. To have to give up your home is only next in hardship to having to give up your babies.1 Ten days ago I had a great tree cut down, which stood within five steps of the house, because I thought it was dead; & it turned out that it was all perfectly sound except one big branch near the top. A stranger would not think we had not trees enough, still; but I find myself keeping away from the windows on that side because that stump is such a reproach to me. That maple was part of our home, you see; & it is gone. How one can abide parting with all of his home So I comprehend & realize one little fraction of what it is to part with all of one’s home.
But we must & we will hope that some happy turn will enable you to take that sign from off your [door-post ] & keep your home. We will not consent to think of a stranger sheltering himself in that nest. There is only one harder thing than being homeless, & that is, being in debt. So it is some little comfort to know that if you lose the home you will save at least save yourself from that other distress—a distress so exquisite, so respiteless, so relentless, that it stands out by itself, among tortures of the mind, like cancer among the tortures of the body. I suffered it once, ten years ago, & I think I have forgotten all the circumstances of that time but that one.2 It remains St. Peter’s still, strong & black, after Rome has melted into the level Campagna, & even the mountains are become vague & hazy.
Mr. s. & Mrs. Howells were here the other day, & the only pang about their visit was that it was too short.3 What a perfectly delightful multitude those two people are! They fill the whole house & all the region round about with a mighty comfortable pleasantness. But you know what they are; at least you know Howells; I forgo et whether he said she was at your house or not. In the spring, if you can only come here, & Mrs. Clemens’s strength continues to improve as it does now, Howells will come down, & Mrs. H., too, if she can, & we shall have a restful good time—& you will see the Twichells. (I speak of the Spring as if it were not already here—& it is, but only in the almanac.)4
Day before yesterday the most notable feature of the furniture for my study came at last, & the place looked almost complete. But alas for human hopes & plans, I had to move out yesterday & write in a bedroom; & tomorrow I shall move my inkstand permanently [into ] a corner of the billiard room. If ever the babies get beyond fretting & crying (the nursery adjoins the study), then I shall move back again.
Yesterday I began a novel. I suppose I am a fool, but I simply couldn’t help it. The characters & incidents have been galloping through my head for three months, & there seems to be no way to get them out but to write them out. My conscience is easy, for few people would have fought against this thing as long as I have done. I certainly won’t finish it, though, until I shall have completed one of my other books.5
Mrs. Clemens sends her love to you two, & will write soon. She is threatened with [dipththeria ] to-day & can’t go into the nursery—she don’t enjoy that.
Yours Ever
Mark.
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Source text(s):Previous publication:
L6, 429–430.
Provenance:The David Gray Papers—donated to NHyF by David Gray, Jr.—include several dozen letters
written to his father and mother. Among these are nine letters from Clemens,
one from Clemens and Olivia, and one from Olivia alone.
Emendations and textual notes:
door-post • door-|post
into • into into [corrected miswriting; canceled ‘o’ partly formed]
dipththeria • [sic]
