Hartford, March 13.
Dear Mother—
What a time of it you do have with your fires! It was too bad—too bad that after all your pains, all your hard work refitting & furnishing the house after the other [calamity ], this new one should come [and ] spoil it all. Still, you do [not ] seem cast down by it, & I hope cheerfulness will [continue ] to abide with you. [ Only ] Six o’clock in the morning! Only to think—if I [had been ] there, I would have been so drenched with water, & so vexed with smoke, & so annoyed with the rushing & shouting of the firemen all about me, that I would have had to cover up my head with the bedclothes, & ‸even then‸ I doubt if I could [have ] slept at all. By George, I would have had to got up mighty early. It is dreadful to think of.1
No—I would have got up at the first alarm, & helped—that is what I would have done—& you know it.
I sent your whole letter to Livy, just as it was.2 Formerly, I would have had to cut it, but now she takes an interest in everything that I do. Wonderful girl—I just like her. She is just counting the minutes till I come again, I expect. {Well, she is—you needn’t laugh.} I shall be there next Wednesday evening, & stay till she & I read 500 or 600 pages of proof together—two or three weeks. Think of it! Splendid girl. She’ll take to you, easy enough. Don’t be afraid about that.3 So you see I am publishing a book—but don’t ask any more dog-goned questions about it! You ought to see the pictures—they are very gay—& they are ingeniously drawn & daintily engraved, too. I have examined proofs of eighty of them, so far, and like them all. I would have sent you some if your letter had come two hours sooner—but I only could keep a dozen (cut them out of the pages while reading proof,)—mailed them to Livy at noon. The others I cannot get yet. They want to put [a ] stell steel portrait of me in, for a frontispiece, but I refused—I hate the effrontery of shoving the pictures of nobodies under people’s noses in that way, after the fashion of [ paten ] quacks & negro minstrels. Told them to make a handsome wood engraving of the Quaker City in a storm, instead. We’ll [have ] Dan in (copied neatly from his photo.)—& Jack with his buckskin patch—& [far-fetched ] imaginary cuts portraits of old Andrews, Cutter & Greer., the “Interrogation Point.” There are some imaginary “Old Masters” that are good.—rich, I should [ sh say ]. Because I am down on them fellers.4 What shall I call the book? I want a name that is striking, comprehensive, & out of the common order—something not worn & hackneyed, & not commonplace. I had chosen “The New Pilgrims’ Progress,” but it is thought that many dull people will shudder at that, as at least taking the name of a consecrated book in vain, & perhaps burlesquing it, within. I have thought of [ t ] “The Irruption of the Jonathans—Or, the Modern Pilgrim’s Progress”—you see the second [title ] can remain, if I only precede it with something that will let it down easy. Give me a name, please.5
Nasby called on me the other night, & we sat up talking all night. Like him first rate—liked his lecture, too—think it is a lecture to be proud [of. I ] go to Boston to-night to have a bit of a time with him & the literary nobs—he promises a good time. But shall be in Elmira Wednesday.
No, ma’ am—I won’t make Cleveland only a way station for Elmira—I mean [to come ] there & stay just as [long ] as I can, when I start to [California. Because ] I want to see you, the worst kind.
What do you think of Livy? Makes me feel awful to think of that first letter she wrote me—remember it?6 And that poem in the Atlantic—representing her out of reach—
“And all my life shall lift its hands
In earnest longing toward thy face”7—
I wasn’t going to regard her at that distance.
I send my love to all the good old household.
Good-bye
Dutifully & Lovingly
Mark.
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Owing to the secluded position of the fire a hole had to be cut through the roof before the water could be
brought to bear upon it, but once when this was done the firemen made short work with their natural enemy. Everything was
admirably managed, not an article was removed from the house or lost, though the furniture and ceiling suffered a good deal
from the water. ... The loss cannot yet be estimate[d], though it is considerable. The building and its contents
were fully insured. This is the second fire at the same place within a few weeks. (“Fire,” 3) The previous fire occurred on 1 February (see 5 Feb 69 to Fairbanks, n. 3).
Bliss said that the fault was not his; that he wanted to publish the book but the directors of his Company
were staid old fossils and were afraid of it. They had examined the book, and the majority of them were of the opinion that
there were places in it of a humorous character. Bliss said the house had never published a book that had a suspicion like
that attaching to it, and that the directors were afraid that a departure of this kind could seriously injure the
house’s reputation; that he was tied hand and foot, and was not permitted to carry out his contract. One of the
directors, a Mr. Drake—at least he was the remains of what had once been a Mr. Drake—invited me to
take a ride with him in his buggy, and I went along. He was a pathetic old relic, and his ways and his talk were also
pathetic. He had a delicate purpose in view and it took him some time to hearten himself sufficiently to carry it out, but
at last he accomplished it. He explained the house’s difficulty and distress, as Bliss had already explained it.
Then he frankly threw himself and the house upon my mercy and begged me to take away “The Innocents
Abroad” and release the concern from the contract. I said I wouldn’t—and so ended the
interview and the buggy excursion. Then I warned Bliss that he must get to work or I should make trouble. He acted upon the
warning, and set up the book and I read the proofs. (AD, 21 May 1906, CU-MARK, in MTE, 147, and AMT, 158–59) Charles Dudley Warner, later Clemens’s Hartford neighbor and his collaborator on The Gilded Age, recalled that Bliss secured permission to proceed only after addressing the company’s board
of directors, as follows: “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you have all had an opportunity to
express your opinion as to whether or not our company should publish this work, and your collective decision, based upon
your individual views, seems to be decidedly against the publication of it. Now that you have had your opportunity to
publish this book, and have rejected it, I want to say to you that I shall immediately enter into negotiations with Mark
Twain for the purpose of publishing the book on my own personal account. The humor of it is new, I’ll admit, but
I am positive that it will be cordially welcomed by the American people for this reason, if for no other. To me the reading
of the manuscript has been a delight. I am willing to risk a considerable amount of my personal means to publish it, for I
am satisfied that it will prove a most profitable venture for me. That is all, gentlemen.” (E. J. Edwards, 8)
But all my life shall reach its hands Of lofty longing toward thy face. (22:475)
The poem’s speaker expressed enraptured contentment with his loved one’s sun-like inaccessibility.
Source text(s):Previous publication:
L3, 168–171; MTMF, 83–86.
Provenance:see Huntington Library, pp. 582–83.
Emendations and textual notes:
calamity •
calam[i
]
[torn]
and • an[d] [torn]
not •
n[]
[torn]
continue •
con[]
|tinue
Only • O [n] ly [torn]
had been • had beemn
have • have have
a • a a
have •
[a]ve [torn]
far-fetched • far-|fetched
sh say • shay [‘h’ partly formed, possibly ‘t’]
t • [partly formed]
title • titlle [miswritten]
of. I • of.— |I
to come • [t]o come [torn]
long • [l]ong [torn]
California. Because • California.— |Because
