Letters, 1886-87. Jane Clemens’s
romance. Unmailed letters, etc.
When Clemens had been platforming with
Cable and returned to Hartford for his Christmas
vacation, the Warner and Clemens families had
joined in preparing for him a surprise performance
of The Prince and the Pauper. The Clemens
household was always given to theatricals, and
it was about this time that scenery and a stage were
prepared—mainly by the sculptor Gerhardt—for
these home performances, after which productions
of The Prince and the Pauper were given with
considerable regularity to audiences consisting of
parents and invited friends. The subject
is a fascinating one, but it has been dwelt upon
elsewhere.—[In Mark Twain: A Biography,
chaps. cliii and clx.]—We get a glimpse
of one of these occasions as well as of Mark
Twain’s financial progress in the next brief
note.
To W. D. Howells;
in Boston:
Jan.
3, ’86. My dear Howells,—The
date set for the Prince and Pauper play is ten days
hence—Jan. 13. I hope you and Pilla
can take a train that arrives here during the day;
the one that leaves Boston toward the end of the afternoon
would be a trifle late; the performance would have
already begun when you reached the house.
I’m out of the woods. On the last day
of the year I had paid out
$182,000 on the Grant book and it was totally free
from debt.
Yrs
ever
mark.
Mark Twain’s mother was a woman
of sturdy character and with a keen sense of
humor and tender sympathies. Her husband, John
Marshall Clemens, had been a man of high moral
character, honored by all who knew him, respected
and apparently loved by his wife. No one would
ever have supposed that during all her years of
marriage, and almost to her death, she carried
a secret romance that would only be told at last
in the weary disappointment of old age. It is
a curious story, and it came to light in this
curious way:
To W. D. Howells,
in Boston:
Hartford, May 19, ’86.
My dear Howells,--..... Here’s a secret. A most curious and pathetic
romance, which has just come to light. Read these things, but don’t
mention them. Last fall, my old mother—then 82—took a notion to attend
a convention of old settlers of the Mississippi Valley in an Iowa town.
My brother’s wife was astonished; and represented to her the hardships
and fatigues of such a trip, and said my mother might possibly not even
survive them; and said there could be no possible interest for her in
such a meeting and such a crowd. But my mother insisted, and persisted;
and finally gained her point. They started; and all the way my mother
was young again with excitement, interest, eagerness, anticipation. They
reached the town and the hotel. My mother strode with the same eagerness
in her eye and her step, to the counter, and said:
“Is Dr. Barrett of St. Louis, here?”
