It’s
an odd work, this autobiography Mark Twain undertook in the last few years of
his life. And the
third and final volume published by the University of California Press only
compounds the oddity.
First,
and most obvious, it is anything but a chronological account of Twain’s life. To
be fair, Twain repeatedly says he is not writing the standard autobiography. He’s
writing what he might call a more personally pleasurable account – some recounting
of his life, observations about current events that may or may not have
anything to do with his life, the inclusion of stories he likes to tell and ones
told by others that he liked, notes of daily household activities, wholesale
inclusion of his speeches, and occasional frank (often brutal) observations of
some of his contemporaries and friends, coupled with an admonition that this
wasn’t to be published until sometime well after his death.
Second,
it resembles not so much an autobiography as it does one of Twain’s public
speeches or performances. He wanders and meanders; he surprises; he takes you
down a rabbit hole that may or may not have a point or a connection to a larger
story, but the hole is always entertaining. He wanders in his memories of a
lifetime, and issues and personalities of the time in which he is dictating
this story (roughly 1906-1909).
Third
is the ending. Long before he covers even the major events of his life, he
suddenly announces on Christmas Eve 1909 that the autobiography is finished; he
is done, And the reason is poignant. His adult daughter Jean, who had suffered
from epilepsy, dies in 1909. His sole surviving child Clara has married, and
his reason for the autobiography – to provide for his two remaining children –
has disappeared.
But
what stories he tells in the process!
Twain
had announced he was finished with international travel. Then he receives a
letter from Oxford University in 1907,
saying he is to receive an honorary degree. He throws his decision not to
travel out the window and hastens to England.
The
day before he receives the degree (along with such other luminaries as Rudyard
Kipling, Auguste Rodin and Camille Saint-Saens), he gives a speech in London,
where he characteristically notes what the newspaper placards are proclaiming: “Mark
Twain Arrives, Ascot Cup Stolen.” Tongue-in-cheek, he denies there’s any
connection – and brings down the house in laughter. While he’s in England, he
attends a garden party hosted by King Edward VII at Windsor Castle
– the small-town boy from Hannibal, Missouri, has come a long way, indeed.
 |
| A rare photograph of Twain in color |
He
also recalls being in New York City in 1867 (I warned you the account wasn’t chronological)
to visit with a former shipmate aboard the Quaker
City when he traveled to the Mideast to write stories for a newspaper. The
friend brings his sister with him, and together they attend a reading by Charles Dickens – the account
of Steerforth’s death in David
Copperfield. While the reading was dramatic (Dickens was famous for his
overwhelming readings), Twain has nothing but the fondest memories – because the
friend’s sister was Olivia Langdon, who would become his beloved wife of 34
years until her death in 1904.
He
notes meetings with well-known politicians and industrialists like Andrew Carnegie and
the deaths of close friends like Joel Chandler Harris.
He seems to be dictating with a sense of inevitability; he is reaching the end
of his life although Twain himself likely didn’t know how close it was, just a
few months after his daughter Jean, on April 21, 1910.
Toward
the end of this third volume, when he is closing down the work, he includes
this line: “Night is closing down; the rim of the sun barely shows above the sky
line of the hills.” It is a fitting sentiment for this uniquely American
writer.
Related:
Top photograph: Mark Twain walking to
receive his honorary degree at Oxford University.
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