1910: Lahore

As I knew him in the many summers he lived on estates joining ours in Elmira, N.Y., U.S.A., his wife’s birth place; the wonder of Mark Twain’s real personality increased. He reminded one of one of the many definitions of genius, a constant capacity for growth. The reproach of age is that it is “stale, flat and unprofitable.” Mr. Clemens’ age was always youthful, not in the way of amusement or of seeking amusement, for he seemed never to require them in an artificial sense. He found amusement and intense interest in everyday things about us, and in every-day people which those very people themselves were incapable of finding. I said once.

“Mr. Clemens, you have been guest of Emperors and Princes and Presidents and Magnates and Artists and—

“Yes,” he broke in with a quizzical smile “and of boarding house keepers!” “And” I resumed, “what is the best, the very best time you ever had or have, in your life?”

“The best time I ever had or can have is when I feel a new idea, one I have never had before, coming into my mind. Then I want to share it with other people.”

He had the intense hatred of being interrupted that all authors and artists have, yet a gentle humility, touched with sadness or quaint jests, was to me most prominent in his character. His way of serving others was very characteristic. A hunch backed old negro by great courage had saved the lives of Mrs. Clemens’ two daughters when, as children with their aunt, they were driving down the steep hill from the place he summered in. To see Mr. Clemens sighting this old man, as he walked up the steep hill beside his team of poor old horses, and see him in his ever spotless white suit, run down the road to help the old negro block the wheel, and rest the horses, or walk beside him talking and telling him stories to make him laugh was a pleasant sight. He used to say “A man must be either a genius or a fool to be interesting; God spare me the average.” He often said a farmer with whom he talked one evening paid him the greatest compliment he ever received. As he was parting from his chance acquaintance he remarked, “I must go home now.” “Where do you live?” asked the farmer. “Over there,” said Mr. Clemens pointing to the house, “Lord! be you him?” was the man’s amazed response. 

He remarked often: “There are so many things that I can’t do, that there is no use trying to the few there are left. I can’t even pick black berries, because I didn’t try the black-berry bush!”

The birth of each of his children was celebrated by a thank offering, in the form of a well cut stone trough placed at the roadside for the use of the horses as they toiled up the steep hillside. His helpful goodness, his shrewd insight, his peculiar way of helping people just in the nick of time, made the difference between success and failure; hope or despair, to many hundred people during his life time.

He would neither hide nor exhibit his charities. If he met an old doctor or clergyman, whom he knew and trusted, at dinner or in an afternoon of relaxation, he would sidle up to him or her and extend a few bills in a tight ball with the peculiar awkward twist of his left arm, and say, “Here take this. I feel about that much, but I don’t know who it ought to go to.” Mr. J. K. Beecher, half brother of Henry Ward, the great orator, was Mr. Clemens’ closest friend in Elmira after the death of his wife’s father, to whom he was intensely attached. If he and Beecher could be got to the same dinner table or billiard table a war of wit would ensue that would almost wake the dead. 

In his never failing devotion to his wife there was an element of anxious humility most touching to see. The fact that she wanted anything, or that he had displeased her in any way, was more absorbing to him than any honour or success in life. His wife’s last request was that he should stay with Jean, and he husbanded his failing strength in every way after her death to fulfil this request. The picture of their playing chess together shows her head as classic in its beauty as Portia’s might have been. It will be the treasure of some art gallery. The tragic—or shall we say, beautiful—death of this daughter must have left him with little motive for this life.

Many of his friends were grateful to the Emperor of Germany for saying, “Mr. Clemens’ unique and charming, in fact, irresistible humour has obscured the fact that he is really a great thinker, a deep philosopher, and a true prophet. His judgment of men and things worthy of a Chancellor. [”] His Prince and Pauper and Life of Joan of Arc would be read as remarkable books, full of power and philosophy if the modern public had not such a taste for the mental indulgence in fun. His ode to his daughter Susan on her death deserves a high place as literature.  

By a technicality he might have avoided sacrificing his fortune to the creditors of Webster and Co’s Book Co., but he simply remarked, “I am Livy’s husband and I can’t dodge!”

“He who giveth a fresh jest, a new verse, or a fair melody, hath enriched the world.” Mr. Clemens left it richer by many a jest, and wise saying but he left his friends richer in another way by adding a noble life. His carelessness of practical things caused him to be cheated and defrauded frequently, to the indignation of his wife especially; but the gentleness of his forgiveness of a wrong was trying sometimes. But noble and generous he always was. His wife’s interest in India was very great, her letters from this country remarkable. He said to us: “India demands a new life,” then with a half given sigh “I want to live it but I can’t.” He often said that India made him long for a renewal of that wide power of thought and study which the feebleness of age deprived him. He had no cheap things to say of India, but a real reverence for her half sleeping powers yet to be aroused. 

Every country holds some of his personal friends who will never forget Samuel L. Clemens.