ABROAD WITH
MARK TWAIN
and EUGENE FIELD

Tales They Told to a Fellow Correspondent

By

HENRY W. FISHER

NICHOLAS L. BROWN

NEW YORK MCMXXII

Copyright, 1922

by

Nicholas L. Brown

To

Marian Phelps

(Mrs. Phelps-Peters)

whose youth, beauty and cleverness
delighted Mark Twain in his
troubled Berlin days.

EDITOR’S NOTE

Along in 1909, Fisher and I were working for the same newspaper, Fisher as a special writer and I in the art department. We both subsequently escaped, but that is another story. Just then I happened to be working on the BIBLIOGRAPHY OF MARK TWAIN (Harper, 1910). Fisher told me that he was going to do some magazine stories on Mark and promised to let me have proofs, but a week or two later he went away on one of his periodical trips to Europe, and I lost track of him for several years.

Some time in 1921, I met him on Broadway, New York. “Hello, Fisher,” says I, “where have you been, what are you doing, and where are those flowing whiskers you used to sport?”

“Hello, Johnson,” replied Fisher, peering at me through his thick glasses, “I am just back from London, the air raids scared off my whiskers, and my eyesight has become so bad, I am only fit to be a ‘dictator’ now.”

“Well,” says I, continuing our conversation of many years ago, “where are those Mark Twain yarns you promised me?”

“In my head,” he said; “never had time to put them on paper.” “You know,” he added, “old Mark and I spent many weeks and months together in Berlin and Vienna and frequently met in London and Paris, not to mention more out-of-the-way places, and if I really put my mind to it, I can remember reams of Mark Twain’s sayings, while others are available in notebooks, diaries and such I kept off and on. And come to think of it, I can tell you about Eugene Field over there as well. I happened to occupy an editorial position in London, while Gene tried to set the Thames afire and—failed, poor chap.”

“Then,” says I, “come up to the studio any day, to-morrow if you like. I will have a stenographer there and you can start dictating your stories and we shall set the world laughing, putting them in a book.”

Fisher did, and here’s the book.

Twain and Field did not expatriate themselves to the extent of other gifted Americans—Henry James, Bret Harte, Whistler, Abbey and Sargent—yet Twain settled down for months, and even years, in various European countries, while Field tried, during a hundred days or more, to make a go of it in London, before capitulating to climate and home-hunger.

Previous glimpses of these two great American humorists during their several sojourns in Europe have come to us almost wholly through their letters to friends at home. Of course, a man reveals himself to a great extent in his private correspondence and diaries, but, even so, the picture is never complete; he cannot quite see himself as others see him. How Twain and Field appeared to another American in their strange environment is here set down for the first time.

Fisher was in a unique position for contact with these men, both of whom he had met previously in the United States. He was one of the most widely known American correspondents in foreign parts; he had written for the Dalziel News Company (then a sort of United Press, dealing with the European continent) letters from Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Copenhagen, Belgrade, Vienna, Budapest, etc., that were telegraphed all over the world. He had acted as correspondent for the New York Telegram, the New York World, the New York Sun, the London Evening News, the Paris Messenger and the St. James Gazette; he had written special articles for Harper’s Weekly, printed alongside of Mark Twain’s contributions. He knew, or at least had a smattering knowledge of, all European languages; he knew every European capital or resort by eyesight and insight; he had met the great personages of Europe. So it was quite in the nature of things that Mark and Field ran across Fisher at the common meeting places in foreign parts, the U. S. Embassies and Legations; likewise that these American writers accepted his guidance in the strange world they found themselves in.

Paine, Twain’s great biographer, speaks of Fisher’s contact with the famous author (vol. II, p. 935, “Mark Twain: A Biography”). Fisher’s memory, trained by years of interviewing, when no notes could be taken in the presence of the interviewed, has retained the substance and the manner, if not always the exact language, used and exchanged.

Some writers reveal themselves only in their written, carefully edited works, but Twain’s unique personality was as eminent, as inspiring and as lasting in his daily walks and talks as in his books and lectures. In so far as Fisher reproduces the meaning of Twain’s observations on persons and things abroad, these anecdotes are of value to all friends and admirers of the great humorist. The same applies to Eugene Field, though, of course, in a more limited degree.

MERLE JOHNSON.

New York,
January, 1922.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

To begin with, of course, I don’t claim that all these stories are absolutely first hand. I sometimes jotted down what I heard Mark say, or stored his talk in some compartment of memory, only to hear him repeat the yarn, after a space, in quite different fashion.

“You remind me of Charles II,” I said to him once, referring to that confusing habit of his, and was going to “substantiate” when he interrupted.

“I can guess what you mean, but never mind, for all you know I may be Charlie’s reincarnation. Charles, you wanted to say, had only three stories up his sleeve and these he told over and over again for new ones to Nell and the rest of the bunch. And varied them so cleverly and disguised them so well, that his audience never got on to the fact that His Majesty had been chestnutting. As for me, I can only hope that I will succeed as well as Charlie did.”

In Berlin I once heard Susie Clemens—ill-fated, talented girl, who died so young—say to her father: “Grouchy again! They do say that you can be funny when company is around—too bad that you don’t consider Henry Fisher company.”

“Out of the mouth of sucklings,” quoth Clemens and gave Susie the twenty marks she was after, and he kissed her: “Good-by, little blackmailer, and don’t tell your mamma how you worked that fool papa of yours.”

Indeed, Mark was not always the humorist the public mind pictures him. Very often, for long hours at a time, in our intercourse extending over thirty years, he was decidedly serious, while at other times he grumbled at everything and everybody. His initial object in choosing me for his “bear-leader” was to add to his stock of knowledge on foreign affairs and to correct erroneous ideas he might have acquired from books. Since I had resided many years on the Continent, and had command of the languages he lacked, he asked me to pilot him around Berlin, Paris, and Vienna, and on such occasions his talk was more often deep and learned than laughter-provoking. In an afternoon or morning’s work—getting atmosphere, i. e., “the hang of things” German or Austrian, as Mark called it—he sometimes dropped two or three memorable witticisms, but familiar intercourse in the long run left no doubt of the fact that a very serious vein bordering on melancholy underlay his mask of bonhomie. On the other hand a closer or more intelligent student of life never lived. He was as conscientious, as true, and as simple as Washington Irving.

Those occasional lapses into dejection notwithstanding, it struck me that Mark extracted his humor out of the bounty and abundance of his own nature. Hence his tinkling grotesquerie, unconventionality, whimsicality, play of satire, and shrieking irony, between touches of deep seriousness.

Really much of Mark’s wisdom began and ended in humor and vice versa. There was originality and penetration in everything he said. Howells has said of Mark: “If a trust of his own was betrayed—Clemens was ruthlessly, implacably resentful.” For my part, in thirty years, I never heard him speak ill of any living person, except one or two self-appointed editors.

I first met him in Chicago during the Grant celebration, November, 1879, when I heard him give the toast on babies, but I do not remember a word of his speech, for while it lasted I was sitting next to Grant and Grant kept me busy watching and attending his immutable and eloquent silence.

When Mark and I were fellow correspondents in Berlin, I met his wife and family frequently at their home, at the Hotel Royal, and on public occasions. The three girls, Jean, Susie, and Clara, were in their teens, and both lovely and lively. At that time the late William Walter Phelps of New Jersey was American minister in Berlin. We had been friends in America and Phelps had also known Mr. Clemens in the States socially. Like everybody else, he delighted in Mark’s stimulating company. Among other distinguished Americans in Berlin, in 1891, was Ward Hill Lamon, Abraham Lincoln’s Springfield law partner, later his private secretary, and Marshal of the District of Columbia during Lincoln’s administration. Lamon was the author of “The Life of Abraham Lincoln” and “Recollections of Abraham Lincoln.” These books the Lincoln family did not enjoy.

When the Clemenses went to live in Vienna, six years later, I happened to be correspondent at the Austrian capital for Dalziel’s News, London, and Galignani’s Messenger, Paris, and as Mark, used to the Berlin dialect, found it difficult “to acclimatize his German, making it chime in with the Vienna variety” (his own description), I was again much in demand as interpreter, pathfinder, and general cicerone.

In later years I met Mark repeatedly during his several London seasons, for, liking his society, I called at Brown’s or his apartment whenever he came to England, myself being engaged in literary work there. We were never on terms of particular intimacy—hail-fellows-well-met, yes! “Hello, Mark”—“Hello Henry W.—you here again?” We stuck verbally to the formula of the old Chicago days, and I was glad to be of use to him when it suited his fancy. Moreover, I was vastly interested in Mark’s books, short stories, and essays, but found him rarely inclined to talk shop unless it was the other fellow’s.

Rudyard Kipling he used to designate “the militant spokesman of the Anglo-Saxon races,” and he sometimes spoke with near-admiration of Bernard Shaw, “whose plays are popular from London to St. Petersburg, from Christiania to Madrid, from Havre to Frisco, and from Frisco to the Antipodes, while mine are nowhere.”

After I visited Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana he said to me: “Lucky dog, you have broken bread with the man who commands, and almost monopolizes, the thought of the world.”

That the universality of his humor and its humanity made him the peer of these great writers, of all his contemporaries in fact, seemed to be far from his thoughts. His verbal humor, like his fancy, was as simple in form and as direct in application as were the army orders of the great Napoleon. He liked to hear me say that, for he knew that some of my forbears had been individually attached to the person of the Emperor. But the most he ever said concerning his authorship and other writers in his own line was this:

“I pity the fellow who has to create a dialect or paraphrase the dictionary to get laughs. Like you and Susie” (referring to his oldest daughter) “I can’t spell, but I have never stooped to spell cat with a ‘k’ to get at your funny bone. I love a drink, but I never encouraged drunkenness by harping on its alleged funny side.”

One more of his sayings: At the unveiling of a bronze tablet to Eugene Field, Mark uttered these words:

“By his life he made bright the lives of all who knew him and by his books he cheered the thoughts of thousands who didn’t know him.”

Substitute “millions” for thousands and you have Mark Twain the Man and Mark Twain the Writer.

^*_*^*

One afternoon, having laughed our fill with the “Belle of New York” and rejoiced in the London success of the piece (Mark, who while alive enjoyed scant luck as a playwright, yet loved to see others “win out”), our friend and the present writer happened to cross Bedford Square. Seeing the name at a street corner, Mark pulled out his notebook. “Eugene Field lived somewhere around here in 1889,” he said. I showed him the house, No. 20 Alfred Street.

“A dark and dismal hole,” said Mark, ruefully shaking his head; “no wonder he couldn’t find his ‘righteous stomach’ there, even in the absence of Chicago pies.”

“And coffee,” I interpolated. “Yours truly, too, would have died of dyspepsia if he had stayed in Chicago and continued at Henrici’s coffee and pie counter, as Gene did.”

Mark remained silent for a block or two. “I’ve got it,” he said at last, “God gave Gene a good enough stomach, and English hospitality completely paralyzed what was left of his digestive powers after the Cook County coffee and pie diet. Did you see much of Gene while he was in London?”

I told Mark all I knew about Field’s social and literary doings. “Bennett was right when he refused him a job on the London Herald,” said Clemens. “For one thing, the Herald didn’t last long, and the English climate would have cut poor Gene’s life still shorter by two or three winters and falls.”

Just the same, the desire for a London success, then common among American writers and artists, killed Eugene Field, the genial and lovable poet of childhood and man-about-literature’s-highways-and-byways.

HENRY W. FISHER.

In the last days of
December, 1921.

ABROAD WITH MARK TWAIN

HOW MARK WOULD SAFEGUARD ENGLAND.[A]

“Not on your life,” said Mark Twain, in pajamas and dressing gown, lolling in his big armchair at Brown’s (“the only subdued and homelike inn left in London,” he used to call it)—“not if you bring the Bath Club (and tub) right into this suite so I don’t have to shock my good English friends by painting the town blue skipping across Dover Street in my dressing gown. By the way,” he added, winking an eye at Bram Stoker, “my daughter Clara bought me this—” (he held up the skirts of his bathrobe with both hands) “a most refined girl! If she wasn’t, would she have sent me a wire like this?

“‘Much worried by newspapers. Remember proprieties.’”

“And what did you answer?” asked Bram.

“None of your business! You are getting as fresh as a reporter,” snapped Twain, with mock severity, while looking at me.

In the meanwhile I consulted my notebook. “It’s sixteen years since the Kaiser—” I reopened the case—

“Oh, I have a notebook too. Wait a minute,” interrupted Twain. He gave his secretary directions, and presently read from an old, much worn diary, sustaining my date-line as it were—

“... since this democratic lamb and the Imperial lion laid down together, a little General providing grub—”

“Sixteen years is a long time, and if the Kaiser imposed silence upon you then and there, the lid is certainly off now,” I insisted. “Besides, at present, he’s got Nietzsche on the brain.”

“I don’t care whether Annie Besant and William Jennings Bryan occupy lofts in his upper story,” said Twain. “I had promised Von Versen” (the General and Mark’s relation) “not to talk about that jamboree, and the worms, if interested, will have to turn burglars and jimmy my brain cells, where memories of the banquet are stored, for I swear I’ll leave no skeleton key.”

“Pshaw! You are still sore because Willie wouldn’t let you get in a word edgewise,” said Stoker.

“Man alive!” cried Twain, “his talk was selling books for me. I was in rotten bad shape then financially, doing syndicate work for ‘The Sun’ and ‘McClure’s’. Could I afford to say, ‘Can your talk, Willie’?—like poverty, they have you with them always—but I am here for a short time only—my turn to stir up the animals.”

We agreed that if an emperor climbs the dizzy heights of bookmongerdom he ought to have all the rope he wants.

“And did you like the British better than the Berlin brand of king?” was asked.

“They let me do a lot of talking at Windsor,” evaded honest Mark. “I like these folks immensely. Ed is a manly fellow, despite his Hoboken accent—no wonder he fought with his ma, who wore the pants while Albert was alive, and tried to impose her German policies on her successor-to-be. Ed recalled an indigestion which we both entertained at Homburg, at the Elizabeth Spa there, which is more kinds of pure salt than Kissingen even. The blonde Fräulein who had sold us the liquid caviar advised walking it off, and as stomachache inclines to democracy the same as toothache, I didn’t mind tramping with Ed, though I fancied that I would hear more about royal inner works than was decent for a minister’s son.”

“Did you tell the King any yarns?”

“Well, he referred to my giving out that interview about the news of my death being greatly exaggerated, and was pleased to call it funny. When I said that everybody more or less was given to overstatement, Ed commented, dryly, ‘Especially my nephew of Germany.’ So I told the story of the Russian Jew who claimed to have been chased by 47 wolves.

“‘You probably were so frightened you saw double,’ suggested the magistrate.

“‘There were 12 at least,’ insisted Isaac.

“‘Won’t half a dozen do?’

“‘As I live, there were seven.’

“‘Now tell the truth, Isaac. There was one wolf—one is enough to frighten a little Israelite like you.’

“Isaac, glad of saving one out of 47, nodded.

“‘But maybe the creature wasn’t a wolf at all!’

“‘No wolf!’ cried Isaac, ‘what else could he be? Didn’t he have four legs, and didn’t he wag his tail?’

“After that Ed turned me over to the Queen and a tribe of Princes and Princesses, who all seemed much relieved when I solemnly informed them that I had no intention of buying Windsor Castle this trip. Then we talked commonplaces until Alexandra commanded me to put on my hat lest I catch cold, which gave me a chance to tell about Will Penn. Penn, you’ll remember, insisted on wearing his hat everywhere. When he saw King Charles, the second of his name, doff his chapeau at a court function, the future Philadelphian inquired:

“‘Friend Charles, why dost thou take off thy lid?’

“‘Because,’ answered Charles, ‘it is customary at court that only one may remain covered in the King’s presence.’

“I was ashamed, cracking that chestnut,” said Mark, “but Alexandra and the youngsters seemed to think it a real side-splitter to judge by the noise they made.”

“Nice people,” said Bram.

“You bet,” spoke Mark emphatically, “and that’s why I’ll have a word or two with the War Office of this here realm before I quit. I have been thinking, you know. When we got through with the grub at General Versen’s and retired to the smoking room, that Kaiser, in the meantime reinforced by a lot of his officers that came in for beer, pretzels and cigars—that Kaiser worked himself up into a fine frenzy about his U-boats. His Germania Shipyards at Kiel (they were really Krupps, but he was the principal stockholder) would turn out better and bigger U-boats, he said, than the French and English could ever hope to build. And when he had enough of them, with all the improvements science and technique could provide—then beware, proud Albion!

“Invasion was the least he threatened unless England helped him exterminate France.

“‘It was the easiest thing in the world,’ boasted William, ‘a hundred U-boats operating against England, Scotland and Ireland simultaneously could pull off the trick in a day or two.’”

Mark lit a fresh cigar, tilted his feet as high as the chiffonier allowed and developed what he was pleased to call his “strategy.”

“You see,” he said, “the waters ’round these islands are charted to the last half pint. The British Admiralty knows the bottom as well as the surface and the coast. Now suppose Willie or any other divinely Appointed One (I don’t think, though, there is another as foolish and reckless as he) should attempt to carry out that invasion threat. Mind, its possibilities are not denied by British strategists; I have made inquiries. Now, to meet invasion in the old orthodox way would cost a million lives, a thousand millions in treasure, and, after all, the result would be problematical.

“To make defeat of the invasion plans certain, we must forestall execution. And the only way to do that is to stew those U-boats in their own electric fat—juice, I mean. See my point?”

Bram and I said we did, “but—” and Twain, knowing that we were lying like thieves, explained:

“In time of peace, et cetera.... In this case (I will have the device patented, of course) we will build a steel fence all around the three kingdoms, height to be determined by local conditions. In all cases it will be so graduated as to allow the biggest ocean liner to pass over, yet high enough to bar the biggest and the smallest U-boat pirate. Are you on?” asked Mark.

Bram said he was, but I couldn’t tell another lie before luncheon.

“Well, it’s this way, you duffer,” said Mark, “somewhere, everywhere on the English, Scottish and Irish coasts, immense dynamos will be established—these with no fancy brushes, mark you—to connect with certain points of my steel fence by naked cables.

“The British Admiralty will know, of course, when the U-boat armada sets out, and will turn on the current when and where it will do the most harm. Now the moment a U-boat touches my fence, out of business it goes, goes for good, but at the same time its agony will start. For my fence will be magnetized as well as electrified, and though the U-boat is momentarily repulsed, it is held, at the same time, captive by a giant magnet.

“Think of the fine time the enemy crew will have,” chuckled Twain, “with ten thousands of volts pumped into their vessel at the bottom of the sea, the magnet preventing its getaway.

“Boys,” he continued, “I would like to sit on top of Big Ben” (in the tower of Parliament House, London) “and direct the electric strokes myself.”

“And this epoch-making invention of yours, will you present it to Great Britain as a free gift?”

“Not I,” said Twain. “I have a family to look after. I intend to get a round million sterling from the War Office here. And if the British refuse to pay, why, when you come to think of it, we have quite a long coast line in the United States—”

While Mark was speaking, Sir Thomas Lipton came in with a newspaper poster, four days old, that read:

Mark Twain Arrives
Ascot Cup Stolen

And that turned the conversation into other channels.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] London, June 24th or 25th, 1907, a few days after the famous Royal Garden Party at Windsor, where Mark had been lionized. Persons present, Mark Twain and secretary, Bram Stoker, and author.

MARK PHILOSOPHIZED ON WILLIE

Mark had attended a masked ball at the Berlin Palace and was asked what he thought of William Hohenzollern dressed up as Frederick the Great. “He reminded me of the little speech addressed by a Cossack Chief to Orloff, the lover of Catharine of Russia. Orloff visited the chief wearing a French court costume. The Cossack began to laugh.

“‘What is there to laugh at?’ demanded Orloff in a rage.

“‘I laugh because you shaved your face to look young and put flour in your hair to look old—both things at the same time,’ replied the Barbarian.

“As to William, he reminded me of still another thing; namely, the thigh-bone of a Saint I was introduced to in Italy and which, they said, belonged to a famous preacher of old. I turned the bone, which was encased in glass, gold and precious stones, over and over, yet could get no notion of the quality of its original owner’s sermons.”

MARK—REGICIDE

“I have been reading up on the laws dealing with regicide,” I heard Mark Twain tell Minister Phelps one morning in dead seriousness, “and do you know what they are going to do with me? Three or four things.

“First, they will cut my right hand off, and then hit me on the mouth with it, by way of reproof, I suppose. Second, they’ll hari-kari me and build a little fire to do my insides brown—all the time keeping me alive for the rest of the show. That will take some stimulants, I reckon.

“Third, they’ll hang me by the neck until I am stone dead. Whether I will get my inards and my hand back before they send me to wormland, I don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?” queried Mr. Phelps.

“Why, you made me admit yesterday to Count Seckendorff that the judge who sent Charles the First to the block was a near relative of mine. Now, as soon as Willie hears about that, he will have my hands, my inards or anything else he craves of my anatomy.”

Of course, everybody roared, and Mr. Phelps had to explain that at dinner the night before, one of the guests, the nobleman mentioned, who was the favorite of the Empress Frederick, had boasted a lot of his ancestry; grandfathers and uncles of his had been present at every great battle the world over and had, of course, always fought on the winning side. Later, when the company was looking at some engravings, Mr. Phelps, in a joke, pointed to the figure of a Puritan, saying, with a merry twinkle in his eye:

“Ancestor of mine.”

The picture happened to illustrate the trial of Charles the First of England. Now, not to be outdone, Twain pointed to the Lord Judge on the woolsack, and matched Phelps’ lie.

“My ancestor, if you please.” He made the statement at the very moment when Count Seckendorff looked at the picture. Hence, Mark’s awful apprehensions.

“Regicide,” he told us, “is never outlawed by the lapse of time. When Charles the First’s son was restored to the throne, hundreds of dead regicides were pulled out of their graves by the ears and hanged and quartered. As to the living, they were treated as I described, and I am afraid that if Seckendorff reports me (Willie being half English) I will be punished just as if I had made Charles a head shorter myself, yesterday afternoon.”

THE FUNNIEST SPEECH MARK EVER HEARD

“The funniest thing I ever heard was chirped right here in this neighborhood,” said Mark Twain, snuggling down in his big armchair before the fire, which wasn’t blazing, and “didn’t mean to—without kerosene” (he told the maid, warning her not to let the “Missus” know).

The “neighborhood” was Tedworth Square, London, “quite the other side of Mayfair,” and leading to some queer streetlets and lanes.

“London’s Fifth Avenues,” mused Mark, “remind me of a sable coat (such as Pauline Bonaparte used to wear) edged with cat-skin: There are always Hell-kitchens within hailing distance.

“Well, at that time my girls had a friend living in Clapham, and nightly she walked me ten or more blocks to her bus through one of those Hell-kitchens lined with fried-fish shops and other ill-smelling emporiums for acquisitioning lucre.”

He turned to an English friend:

“Maybe ‘lined’ isn’t correct, for the fish shops were all on one side of the lane, and naturally I ambled along the other. I thought I was safe there, but of course I wasn’t, for the smells zigzagged across the pavement and followed me like a rotten conscience. My haven of safety, or comparative safety, from the rancid oil compost was an undertaker’s shop at the lane’s extreme end. When I got there, I used to hoist up my coat-tails and skip across the street right into the Public ’Ouse opposite for a Scotch. Naturally I took more or less interest in that cemetery-correspondence school. From a notice posted, I learned that it was under ‘new management’—I call that an ingenious appeal for corpses, don’t you?

“Well, it wasn’t merely an office, the carpentry was right at the tail of the roll topper; there, night after night, an old, sad-faced man sat, looking for customers. Now, the English metropolis is reputed the healthiest city in the world, which proves that the legend about cleanliness being nearest to godliness is blooming rot, for London is ten times dirtier than Berlin, seven and a half times dirtier than New York and six times dirtier than the best parts of Paris. Anyhow, that man-hyena, hungry for worm-food, didn’t enjoy the low rate of mortality one single bit. I could see that every time I eyed him, and I lamped him regularly before I waltzed into the gin-mill to drown the fried-fish smell.”

“And did one Scotch suffice for the operation?” asked Mr. Bell.

Mark looked at Mrs. Clemens and lied brazenly: “Yes, of course.” But as she had risen to go out and was walking toward the door, he added in an undertone: “One Scotch was like taking a bottle of perfume from the ten-cent store into a glue factory to paralyze the Cologne smell of a four-acre establishment of that sort.”

“To resume,” resumed Mark, “seeing each other nightly for a week or a week and a half, that undertaker chap and this here yellow journalist of literature got on famously, and our acquaintance, though by eyesight only, gradually blossomed into real brotherhood. Whenever I clapped eyes on the poor devil, I used to think: ‘I do wish some one would have the heart to die. Why don’t the Gloomy Dean or His Grace of Canterbury oblige the poor shark?’

“And no doubt, observing my gray locks and general decrepitude, he calculated: ‘Time for him to kick the bucket—hope his wife will give me a chance to measure him for a ten-guinea wooden coat—yes, he looks good for ten guineas.’

“Anyhow,” said Mark, “I felt in my heart of hearts that I was worth more dead than alive to this person—rotten grammar, I know, but don’t let that muss up your tempers, gents—and while the idea of suicide was repugnant (I was making big money then, that is, I expected to rake in $100.00 or more next week) still I cudgeled my brain for ways and means to improve his business. It’s easy enough to promote a grocer’s or butcher’s trade; all you have to do is to get rid of your sour stomach at some Appetite Cure Factory, and pitch in anew with dill pickles and strong coffee and frankfurters and sweetbreads and deep-dish pies. But an undertaker’s! Really, I had no desire to pose for Madame Toussaud’s dead-uns. At the same time, no doggone friend of mine would die, giving me the chance to bury him at my expense. Running away from that fried-fish smell, I always felt like Henry the Eighth, when one of his half-dozen queens wouldn’t be introduced to the axe-man. Indeed, if that starving undertaker had been my own best enemy, I couldn’t have felt more sorry for him. But lo!—the silver lining to the cloud! One evening, as I approached the carcassery, my startled ears were assailed by that quaint ditty:

For we are the drunkenest lot

Of the drunken Irish crew—

and, leaping forward like oiled lightning, I saw the undertaker at work in the rear of the shop.

“‘Bless me, if the ban isn’t broke,’ I thought, ‘and with this dent in the armor, Fate will waltz up plenty more diseased ones. It’s always thus.’

“Suiting my action to the classic monologue—‘thus’ is a beautiful word, isn’t it?—I peered through the side window, expecting the janitor of tenements-of-clay to be at work on a nine-foot coffin or thereabout—”

All the merriment fled from Mark Twain’s face and manner when he added: “Damme, if that God-forsaken corpse-slinger was not planing a baby coffin!

“That night I took three Scotch, and” (looking around) “I don’t care if Livy knows.”

“I thought you were going to tell a funny one,” said one of us, after a while. Clemens had got rid of his emotion by that time. “Correct,” he drawled, “It happened a few days later, when I was working the fried-fish side of the lane. The street was quite deserted on account of the lateness of the hour and owing to the burial of herrings and crab-meat in innumerable stomachs, big and little. As I put on extra steam to reach the gin-mill before closing time, this pretty legend wafted across the moonbeams:

“‘I say, my little female doggie’ (as a matter of fact, the shorter and uglier word was used, but it isn’t good form, though one may mention ‘bull pups’ at Mrs. Van Astorbilt’s tea) ‘I say, my little female doggie, tell Mother if she has another litter by that crossing sweeper of hers, to take care to drown ’em before they grow up as big as you.’

“The lady speaking, or rather shrieking, repeated this admonition three or four times, and followed it up with a succession of oaths that I frankly envied her. Yes, indeed, her ‘female doggie,’ her ‘crossing sweeper,’ her ‘litter,’ and her brand of blasphemy filled me with obscene delight, and I chuckled over them for a week.”

After the laughter had subsided, Richard Harding Davis asked: “And what is a crossing sweeper, pray?”

“A compound of rags and dirt, fitted with a face and feet and a broom, who mops up the dirty pavement to save your spats, and curses you for a curmudgeon if you give him less than a ha’penny for his trouble.”

MONARCHICAL ATAVISM

One day in Berlin, speaking of General Grant, Mark said, “I did not admire him so much for winning the war as for ending the war. Peace—happiness—brotherhood—that is what we want in this world.”

“Here comes the Kaiser,” he continued, “and sends me tickets for his September review. Of course I will go. But I don’t care for military spectacles, or for militarism. Tolstoy was right in calling army life ‘a school for murder.’ In Germany to-day there are ten million men drilled to look upon the Kaiser as a god. And if the Kaiser says ‘kill’—they kill. And if he says ‘die for me’—they go out and get themselves shot. The blame and shame rest with the big and little war lords. As to the German people, mere subjects, they have eighteen or twenty centuries of monarchical atavism in their blood.”

DEMOCRATIC MARK AND THE AUSTRIAN ARISTOCRACY

Mark Twain was essentially a democrat, and the nobles he met in Berlin and other parts of Germany never cured him of that fine habit. But in Vienna he grew less exclusive and in the end actually liked to mix with high aristocrats. “The Prussian noble,” he once explained at the Metropole, “walks and acts as if he had swallowed the stick they used to beat him with when a youngster—I stole the simile somewhere, but never mind—however, the Vienna brand of aristocrat is different. Maybe Austrian nobles are just as stuck-up on account of their ancestry, but they have the good sense not to let their pride be seen. They all treat me cordially, talk agreeably and seem to possess at least a stock of superficial information. The Princess Pauline Metternich, in particular, is a bully old girl. If she were to write her memoirs, the world would gain a book as bright as Mme. de Sévigné’s Letters. For one thing I would like to have seen her husband’s face when he learned that she made him sign his own death warrant.

“Prince Metternich, as Austrian ambassador in Paris, used to sign any and every paper his secretaries put before him, as he was much too indolent to read them. To cure him of this habit, Pauline one fine day laid a document on his desk, ordering that he, the Prince, be taken out and shot at sunrise. Metternich promptly put his name to it without reading a line. Next morning at five, several male friends of His Highness rang the bell at the Palace and demanded to be taken up to the bedroom. They wore Austrian uniforms and made an awful racket with their swords. Metternich stormed from his bed to see what the row was and then and there the death warrant was read to him. He fainted. Indeed they had a big time snatching him from the brink of the grave, for he was near frightened to death.

“Some jocular wife, eh?” chuckled Mark.

PHIL SHERIDAN’S FRIEND

“Jenny Stubel,” mused Mark over the “Berliner Tageblatt” at the Cafe Bauer, “Jenny Stu—, there is a yarn about that girl in the back of my head, but what it is I cannot for the life of me make out.”

“What has she done now?” I queried. “Marriage or divorce, set a theatre afire, or made away with one of those stupid archdukes flourishing in Vienna?”

“Half-correct,” said Twain, “an archduke abducted Jenny. But how did you come so near guessing it?”

“I was Jenny’s manager in the early eighties when she and her sister Lori headed the Vienna operetta company. In fact, I introduced her to Grover Cleveland—”

“And Phil Sheridan?” demanded Twain.

“Sheridan, Joaquin Miller, Henry Watterson and the rest.”

“We’ll get this story pat first,” said Mark, shoving the paper over to me. “Chances are I have it upside down. Let me have the facts and keep the trimmings for some other day.”

The “facts” told the now well-nigh forgotten story that (some time in October, 1891) the archduke John Salvator of Austria had renounced his title and dignities, had assumed the name of John Orth, bought a four-masted schooner and, as her captain, went sailing the Atlantic and Pacific in company with Jenny Stubel, the operetta star.

“‘Tall, yellow-haired, lots of quicksilver in her system,’ that’s how Sheridan sized up Jenny. Right, you say? Well, then, her archduke wasn’t so very foolish, after all, particularly as she was a sweet singer, a nimble dancer and all that. Did you say you introduced her to Grover Cleveland?”

“Sure, at one of the public afternoon receptions, when everybody went to shake hands with the President.”

“General Sheridan was quite taken with Jenny,” continued Twain. “He told me he went to the show night after night and didn’t care how much he applauded her young beauty and fascinating voice. Yes, Phil was really smitten with Jenny. And now the admired of the most famous General of Horse defies the world to become an acknowledged royal mistress, and her sprig of royalty the black sheep of a crowned family by no means lily-white at that. She reminds me of old Field Marshal Prince de Ligne, making love to a very young girl and succeeding, or nearly succeeding, before he had time to reflect.

“‘A million,’ cried the Field Marshal, ‘if I was a lieutenant now.’”

“ELIZABETH WAS A HE,” SAID MARK

“Mark my word, Elizabeth was a he,” said Clemens, when I was starting for London the end of June, 1894, leaving the Clemenses at the Normandie, Paris, “and when you have a little time in England, I wish you would look up all that pesky question for me.”

“Not in Westminster Abbey?” I cried in alarm.

“Now, don’t you try to be gay,” said Mark. “It’s bad enough if I got that reputation when I want to be taken seriously. I know they haven’t got through ascertaining for the ’teenth time whether Charles I really lost his head when his overbearing noddle dropped into the basket on the scaffold opposite the Horse-Guards—you showed me the spot yourself. I don’t want any ghoulish work done. Just go to the British Museum and every other library and nose up everything appertaining to Queen Elizabeth’s manly character. You get the authorities (for a consideration, of course) and I’ll do the rest. Then you go down Surrey-way and find a place or castle or summer house called Overcourt, or something. That’s where Elizabeth lived in her teens, and metamorphosed into a boy.”

“But the editor will never allow you to write on such a subject. Better let me do it.”

“Not on your life,” said Mark. “It’s my discovery, and I’m paying you for the work you do, just as the New York ‘World’ and the ‘Sun’ do. When you come down to hard tacks you will find that there are no questionable proceedings whatever, just an exchange of babies, as in the old-time operas, Troubadour and the rest. The Editor will have no kick coming.”

“The Editor,” of course, was Mrs. Clemens, who as a rule censored Mark’s manuscript—“tooth-combed it,” as he called it, cutting out such gems as “the affairs of the Cat who had a family in every Port.”

Mark told me that when he got through with “Joan of Arc” he would tackle “this here Elizabeth proposition”—“a person full of placid egotism and obsessed with self-importance,” he called her. “If I do Elizabeth half as well as I intend to do ‘Joan’ and did ‘The Prince and Pauper,’ I will have three serious books to my credit, and after that I will be damned—‘thrice damned,’ Elizabeth would have said—if I allow anybody to take me for a mere funmaker.”

He gave me some more instructions, talking at random mostly, and paid me in advance for the work I was to do. Twenty-four hours later I landed at Victoria Station, London, for, having business in Antwerp, I had travelled via Holland.

A foreign correspondent (that was my trade then) is shifted merrily from one place to another; so it happened that I went back to France after a fortnight in England, or even sooner. The Clemenses were packing, and I had Mark all to myself for an hour or so.

“What made you first doubt the Virgin Queen’s sex?” I asked.

“Never mind—her gorgeous swearing maybe. What did you find out in Surrey?”

I duly reported that I had gone to Overcourt with a friend, had explored the Queen Elizabeth chambers, the woods and countryside, and had interviewed a lot of old and some young gossips, with this result:

Elizabeth, I was told, came to Overcourt when a child of four or five, and a young person supposed to be Elizabeth—that is, the daughter of Ann Boleyn and Henry the Eighth—left there some ten years later. When the Princess was seven or eight, King Henry, who was attending Parliament, had promised to come and see his little girl two weeks hence (Overcourt is within easy riding distance of London). But even as they were preparing to give Hal—(“Ought to be Hell,” interpolated Mark)—a rousing reception; to feed the brute in particular, Elizabeth was suddenly attacked by malignant fever and died. There was only one “in the know,” her Grace’s governess—I gave her name to Mark, but have quite forgotten it. I remember, though, that she remained in the royal service for some forty years afterwards, in fact, that she and “Elizabeth” never separated while both lived.

“I can imagine how that poor woman felt,” commented Mark—“went through all the horrors of having her hair bobbed behind, and her neck shaved—what else was there in store for her but a beheading party if Hal found his daughter dead? And when, in your mind’s eye, you see the executioner try the edge of his axe on his thumb nail, life’s delicatessen—considerations for truth, politics, and common everyday decency—lose their appeal. The axe-man was coming and that governess didn’t want to be the chicken.”

“That’s what the gossips told me, and they had it from their great-great-great-grandmothers, a blessed heritage.”

“Go on,” said Mark.

“Well, that governess knew that her life depended upon finding a substitute for Elizabeth, and the substitute couldn’t materialize quickly enough. Briefly, it did materialize in the person of the late Princess’ boy playmate—here are his name and affiliations, as Overcourt neighborhood has it.”

“Fine,” said Mark, “the rest I know or can imagine. She dressed up that kid in Elizabeth’s petticoats and togs and frightened the life out of him not to betray her or himself with the King or any one else.”

“Quite right,” mused Mark, “for the eighth Henry was an ogre—the very unborn children of England knew it. Besides, reading up the official history of Elizabeth, I find that Hal hadn’t seen his daughter for three or four years previous to his visit in Overcourt. The deception, then, worked easily enough. I could have done it at a pinch.”

Mark next went into the life history of the great Queen, or supposed Queen. “She was a male character all over—a thousand acts of hers prove it,” he insisted. “Now tell me what were the conspicuous Tudor traits—”

“But you said she wasn’t a Tudor,” I interrupted.

“Precisely, but she had to copy the Tudors as our stage impersonators imitate Bernhardt and Henry Dixie. Now what were those Tudor traits: remorselessness, cunning, lying till the cows come home, murder, robbery, despoliation! All of them Elizabeth, or the man who impersonated the Queen, practiced to the dotlet on the i. Think of the letters she wrote to Francis Drake, the inventor of fried potatoes, and to the second Philip of Spain. Wasn’t that a man’s game? Could woman ever get up anything so misleading and contraband?

“And the way she fooled her English, Spanish, Austrian, German and French admirers, setting each against the other, never neglecting to threaten Spain’s flank, and, at the last, throwing them the head of Mary of Scots as a gage of battle—regular male strumpet’s chicanery, I tell you.”

From a drawer Mark pulled a highly decorated volume, and turned the leaves quickly. “Elizabeth’s official lovers,” he explained. “Lord Seymour, second husband of her stepmother, Queen Catherine Parr. Catherine, I gather, was in the secret; otherwise she wouldn’t have allowed Seymour to carry on with ‘Elizabeth’ as he did. And he had about a yard of whiskers on his face at that. There was Leicester, this big chap here with the goatee. She had him beheaded, not because he knew anything against her, or about her real sex, but because he had the reputation of knowing things. The Virgin Queen made her alleged lover a head shorter, just to show that she didn’t care what she did. Henry and Francis, the French Valois brothers, Dukes of something or other, were likewise large, sinister looking fellows. These, too, she used, man fashion, like boobs, and as no other crowned harridan ever used a lover. Think of Catharine (of Russia) and of Josephine and Marie Louise—to be loved by those ladies was real fun, a treat.” Mark lowered his voice to add: “I read somewhere that Catharine allowed the brothers Orloff no less than fifty thousand roubles pajama money—fifty thousand! One can buy a powerful lot of nighties for that much money, even at the Louvre, across the way.”

“There’s the Britannica,” continued Mark, jumping up. He found a paragraph under the caption of “Elizabeth” that tickled him immensely. “Read this, and call me a liar if you dare.”

The paragraph states that there was “some physical defect” in Elizabeth’s make-up, that she was “masculine in mind and temperament,” likewise, that no man ever lost his head over her as they did over Mary of Scots.

“’Nuff said on the score of love-making and lying,” concluded Mark. “’Nuff for the present, I mean; but here is another thing. We all know there is only one Hetty Green, that there never was another. Yet this here Elizabeth, so called—i. e., the man who impersonated her—was as clever a financier as John D. Rockefeller. As John D. gobbled up all the oil in creation, or out of it, so Elizabeth, so called, lapped up all the gold, minted and otherwise. Up to the sixties and seventies (of the sixteenth century) Spain had an absolute monopoly of the yellow and white metals, you know. When the person called Elizabeth died, all the gold of the world was in English hands, and, besides, England dominated all the ocean trade routes, where formerly the Spanish flag had been unchallenged.”

“As circumstantial evidence, can’t be beat,” I suggested timidly, “but—”

“You remind me of the cat that bolted a whole box of Seidlitz powders and then had no more judgment than to lie under the open hydrant,” exploded Mark. “Why don’t you ask me to trot out Elizabeth in an Andy Carnegie Highland costume, kilts and all? There will be missing links, plenty of them, after all these years, that goes without saying, but it’s a great story, nevertheless. Needs a hunk of brain, though, to puzzle it out to its logical conclusion.”

Soon after this conversation, the Clemenses went to Italy, and for some little time I expected to hear from Mark further on the Elizabeth legend. But the yarn seems to have slipped his memory, and as I found him engrossed in matters of the moment, I didn’t try to revive his interest in one so remote.

But I have often wondered whether, or not, his many unpublished writings show that he brought “his hunk of brains” to work on unsexing Elizabeth.

MARK—THE SLEIGHT-OF-HAND MAN

Minister William Walter Phelps gave a dinner to the Clemenses in Frankfort, when Mark Twain and Livy were staying at a nearby watering place, but Mrs. Clemens was not well enough to attend—or, as Mark whispered to Mr. Phelps—was unwilling to go, being afraid that he might disgrace the family by some practical joke. So Mark had it all his own way and enjoyed his freedom hugely, keeping all in a roar.

Finally, Dr. Von Something-or-Other tried to get in a word edgewise and abruptly asked Mark what he thought of the European equilibrium.

(Mark said afterwards: “Knowing my political incompetence, the Doctor probably tried to inveigle me into making an ass of myself.”)

The Herr Von’s question having been delivered in no sotto voce style, everybody pricked up ears to hear Mark’s answer.

“I can’t explain in a few words,” he said, “but I’ll demonstrate.” And turning to Mr. Phelps: “Hand me the Doctor’s plate, please.”

The Doctor looked up “disgusted,” because he had only just commenced to eat and was “as hungry as a dog.” Plate in hand, Mark stepped to a space between the window and the table and asked the Doctor to join him, bringing his knife. “Now,” he said, “I will throw the plate up to the ceiling and you will catch it, on the end of your knife, but don’t you spill anything. After catching it, you will please keep it spinning upon the end of your steel for five minutes, balancing it so as not to lose a drop of sauce, a chop, or fried murphy. And when you have performed all these stunts without mishap, you will have gained a correct idea of what I think of the balance of European power.”

MARK AND THE IMPERIAL MISTRESS

At Vienna, in the late nineties, Clemens one fine day intoxicated himself with the idea that there would be millions in writing a play with Kathi Schratt, Emperor Francis Joseph’s acknowledged mistress, as heroine. He had in mind a collaborator among native playwrights, and the piece was to be translated into all living tongues. Mark actually started on the thing, adding to his knowledge of German as he went along. Matters having gone so far, I persuaded him to go and see Frau Schratt for local color.

“Bully,” he said. “But you must come along. I would never trust myself alone with a royal mistress, not I.”

Well, we went, saw, and—wondered at Francis Joseph’s taste. In speech and manner, though, the Schratt was a fine old girl. Showed us a big houseful of presents, all gifts from his Majesty, and elaborately so marked.

We had duly admired the silver bed, the silver folding stool and the ditto cabinet, likewise other chamber paraphernalia of white metal, when the Schratt said: “There is one thing more the like of which you haven’t in America.”

“You don’t say so!” ejaculated Mark, in blasphemous German.

The Schratt pushed a button, a wall panel shot sideways, and the handsomest silver-gilt bathtub ever came waltzing in, or rather roller-skated in.

In our homeward bound fiacre, Mark remained silent for fully ten minutes; then he delivered himself sadly but firmly:

“No, it’s all off with that mellerdrammer. For if I let Schratt ride down to the footlights in that golden tub, people will want to see the Empress in it, too; next they will holler for Kaiser Bill, Sarah Bernhardt, Loie Fuller, and William Jennings Bryan. It won’t work—people are such hogs!”

And the drama was never proceeded with.

MARK ON LYNCH LAW

They were talking lynch law in Professor Krafft-Ebing’s library in Vienna—some horrible nightmare that had come in the latest cable—and as a matter of course Clemens was asked his opinion as an American and observer of human nature.

“Lynch law means mob-lawlessness, doesn’t it?” he drawled. “Well, what does it argue? To my mind it argues that men in a crowd do not act as they would as individuals. In a crowd they don’t think for themselves, but become impregnated by the contagious sentiment uppermost in the minds of all who happen to be en masse. While in Paris last, the family and I toured all the places of horror, made odious during the White Terror—we followed pretty closely the scent of the ‘Tale of Two Cities,’ Michelet, Dumas, and others. I was particularly interested in the ‘Official Gazette’ of the guillotine, ‘The Moniteur,’ and my girls helped me read and digest many tell-tale pages yellow with age and tattered by usage. Among other interesting items, I found recorded that on a certain date the Nobles had voted to forego their feudal privileges.

“Now, their previous failure to renounce these same rights had been one of the prime causes of the Revolution. Yet when they acquiesced, they were put to the knife just the same, for mob-law ruled then. Another case in the ‘Moniteur’: I read of a deputy named Monge, the same whom Napoleon in his Saint Helena talks pronounced a most lovable character, so kind-hearted that he would never eat any fowl if he had to kill it first. Yet in the Convention, in the midst of the mob of his fellows, this same Monge vociferated for unlimited bloodshed, for ‘war to the knife.’ He had caught the contagion and, intoxicated with bloodthirstiness, acted the madman.

“‘I love my children,’ he cried, ‘but if the Convention decrees war on the enemies of the Republic, I will give my two daughters to the first two of our countrymen wounded in battle.’ Would he have said that seated quietly at his fireside? Certainly not. It was the mob that was talking through his mouth.”

The Terror

Mark returned to the subject on another occasion. He said:

“You know I have always been a great admirer of Dickens, and his ‘Tale of Two Cities’ I read at least every two years. Dickens witnessed my first holding hands with Livy when I took her to one of his lectures in New York. Now that I have finished ‘The Two Cities’ for the ’steenth time, I have come to this conclusion:

“Terror is an efficacious agent only when it doesn’t last. In the long run there is more terror in threats than in execution, for when you get used to terror your emotions get dulled. The incarnation of the White Terror, Robespierre, wasn’t awe-inspiring at all to the general public. Mention of his name did not send the children to bed, or make them crawl under the blankets. On the days when he made his great speeches, the galleries and the aisles of the Convention Hall were thronged with women, old and young—that does not look as if Robespierre had been an object of general fear or abomination—does it?”

RECOLLECTIONS OF KING CHARLES AND GRANT

“Now show me the place where that ancestor of mine had King Charlie beheaded.”

We had been sitting on some chairs which the great Napoleon had used in Saint Helena—the heaviest sort of mahogany, “and not a rat bite to be seen,” Mark pointed out, as we went exploring the Army Museum at Whitehall, London.

Agreeable to his demand, I took Mark by the arm and led him to a window looking out on the “Horse-Guards,” the famous old barracks, gazed at so much by American visitors.

“Outside of this window,” I explained, “the Commonwealth built a platform, and on this platform stood the block where Charles lost his silly bean.”

“Served the traitor right,” said Mark, “but that reminds me of——”

He thought a while, then repeated:

“Why it reminds me of (let’s see, we are in the second story, are we not?)—the grandstand in front of the Palmer House, Chicago, for that was also entered from the windows of the second story. I am speaking of the Chicago of 1879, welcoming General Grant after his triumphal journey around the world. What a sight the Windy City was, and what a grand sight he looked when he stepped upon the platform to review the Army of the Tennessee.”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “and I saw you on that very platform shake hands with Grant.”

But Mark Twain could not be tempted to go into his personal history when General Grant was being discussed.

“Did you ever see a city so magnificently and so patriotically bedecked?” he cried. “There was not a monument, palace, rookery, saloon or telegraph pole that was not gay with streamers and bunting, pictures, garlands, colored lanterns and placards of all sorts.”

“Yes there was,” said one of our friends.

Mark stretched out his hand and grabbed the speaker’s arm.

“No nonsense now.”

“I am as serious as you, and I say that the German Consul, with offices opposite the Court House, did not have a flag out on the day of Grant’s entry and reception.”

“Are you sure?” demanded Clemens.

“As sure as you are standing there. And I am proud to-day that I wrote up the story in the Chicago ‘Times’ and that Guy Magee, the city editor, headed it: ‘The German Son of a B——.’

“Well done. I could not have written a more accurate head myself.”

MARK MISSED GALLOWS-LAND

“Every time I went to Italy,” Mark Twain once said, “I felt like crossing over into Monaco.”

“To gamble?”

“Guess again, when billiards and solitaire are the only games I indulge in. Indeed, I am so ignorant, I would not know a roulette from another baby circus. I was and I am still crazy to go to Monaco to see a gallows, or, preferably, a hundred of them.” Mark eyed his audience curiously. After an impressive pause, he continued:

“Once upon a time, in the days of Louis XV and Mme. du Barry, there was a Prince of Monaco who was blessed with a very beautiful wife. Well, evil-minded people said of this prince that he smelled like a dead horse, and Madame the Princess simply could not endure defunct ‘gee-gee.’ So she decided that she had a perfect right to look for a soul-mate elsewhere, and be sure she got them by the score. Of course not in Monaco, as it is such a small country. She went to France, and particularly to Paris, for her amusements. And every time the Prince learned of a new lover worshipping at his wife’s shrine, he set up a gallows and hung the favored one in effigy with frightful ceremonies.

“The country, as remarked, being rather Lilliputian, his Highness had to go to the frontiers for his gallows planting, and as Madame the Princess was of a very changeable nature the principality, in the course of several years, became enclosed in a regular fence of gallows trees. When Paris heard of this, it laughed boisterously at the Prince’s strange humor and Madame the Princess’s latest lover swore that he would go to Monaco, rob the gallows of their manikins and carry them off to the future Champs Elysées for a marionette show.

“He tried—with a band of companions, but got pinched and was hanged by the neck in person, and not in effigy. Now, I wondered whether these gallows are still standing,” concluded Mark, “and if not, I wanted to find their habitat anyhow—make a map of gallows-land, so to speak.”

Too bad Mark missed writing a book on so promising a subject.

THINK OF HER SORROWS

He read to several friends in Vienna what he had written about the murdered Empress Elizabeth. “I know it is full of exaggeration,” he admitted. “I did gown her with virtues she never thought of possessing and I have denied all her frailties. As I learn now, she was just an ordinary woman, and her surpassing vanity was the only extraordinary thing about her. But think how much she suffered and think of the man she was married to. Re-read, too, that story about the murdered Rudolph. When Count Something approached her to break the news, she ran to him wringing her hands and cried: ‘My Rudy is dead. Oh, my Rudy!’ What told this Niobe among royal women that her son had been destroyed—killed in a low debauch? When I reflect how she maintained her self-respect in a life of constant disappointment and tragedy, I think I did well making her out a noble soul.”

BREAKING THE NEWS GENTLY

Returning to Vienna from a flying trip to Budapest, Mark was full of “a yarn that would illustrate like a circus and run for five years, every Sunday a page.” He said he heard the story at the archduke Joseph’s country place, the same Joseph who, towards the end of the war, tried to make himself King of Hungary and failed, but the probabilities are that the story was Mark’s own, with Magyar trimmings. It ran as follows:

A great landowner, after a business trip of several months, returned to Budapest, and was met at the station by his carriage and pair that was to take him to his estate in the country.

“Everything well at home?” he asked the coachman.

“Excellently well,” replied the driver, cracking his whip.

After a while the Baron ventured another question:

“Why didn’t you bring my dogs along?” he asked.

“Dogs are sick, your Excellency.”

“My dogs sick? How did that happen?”

“Ate too much fried horse.”

“Fried horse? Where did they get that?”

“Stable burned down.”

“My stable burned down, cattle and all? Awful! What about the castle?”

“Oh, the castle is all right.”

The Baron thought it over for the space of a mile, then said:

“You are sure the castle was not hurt by the fire?”

“Sure, only the two wings burned down.”

“But the family is safe?”

“Yes, the family is all right.”

When the horses entered upon their tenth mile, the Baron resumed his examination:

“Children all well?”

“All well and happy, except János and Maritzka, who were burned.”

“Burned, oh Lord! And the Baroness, my wife?”

“Oh, she is better off than any of us. God has her in His holy keeping. She was burned to death. Yes, indeed, she died with her mother and in her arms.”

“This is what I call breaking the news gently,” said Mark.

DUKES AND UNBORN CAR HORSES

I told Mark Twain of the Princes and Dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, “in meeting assembled” at London, who had protested against the expulsion of their kinsman, Dom Pedro, from the throne of Brazil.

“Just as efficacious as if the car horses that remain unbred since the arrival of the trolley sued the Brooklyn Rapid Transit, or the Third Avenue electric line, for murder,” snapped Mark.

“PA USED TO BE A TERRIBLE MAN”

With Mark’s daughter Susie, I was walking in the Berlin Thiergarten one afternoon when we encountered a very rough specimen of the genus tramp.

“Look at him,” said Susie. “You know, Pa, too, was an awful man before Mamma took him in hand and married him.” And with added seriousness, she continued: “He used to swear and swear, and then swear again, and the only thing that he didn’t do that was bad was to let cards and liquor alone—some kinds of liquor.”

It is too bad that I forget Mark’s comment on the above when I told him.

MARK ON THE BERLIN COPS

You know, of course, that Mark Twain at one time had a flat in Berlin and kept it going for a whole month. “I am tired of hotels,” he said, “and hereafter I am going to take my comfort in my apartment as Dr. Johnson took his in his inn.” After that he entertained the habitués of the embassy for a week or longer with stories of the beauties of home life, until we voted “Koernerstrasse Nr. 7 the jewel.”

But one fine evening I found a note from him at the Hotel de Rome, asking me to call at the Royal at 8:00. I met him in the lobby with several sympathizing friends, and he said:

“It’s all up with Koernerstrasse; too much police.”

“Did you have burglars, or the bailiffs, in?” was asked.

“Neither; just social calls from policemen—ten per day. The cops weren’t exactly unkind, but they annoyed me.”

“What did they do to you?”