On the Twain Trail

by Dennis Goza

It seems we're always bumping into Mark Twain. Well, that's really not too surprising, I guess. Anyone who does any traveling at all (and we do a heck of a lot) is bound to cross paths with the quintessential American writer sooner or later; he was quite the globetrotter himself. But it seems as if we've encountered him more than one might on the average - almost as if we were deliberately following in his footsteps.

We began our company and our family in San Francisco, where Twain (Samuel Clemens) began building his reputation as a writer, as a reporter for the long-defunct San Francisco Daily Morning Call, among other publications. Truth be told, I don't remember ever seeing a commemoration of the author in all my years in San Francisco - except of course for a few things being named after him. But moving there in the middle of June, I learned immediately what he meant when he allegedly said "The coldest winter I ever saw was a summer I spent in San Francisco." He departed the city rather hastily, by the way, after one of his columns provoked the ire of a local politician. He was constantly picking quarrels in print with politicians and even with other journalists.

We've also spent a fair amount of time in the gold country near Sacramento, where Clemens tried his luck at prospecting for a brief time. A bit of a sucker for get-rich-quick schemes, he repeatedly invested in risky business ventures that left a big hole in his pocket. These disasters ultimately led him to make the observation that "there are two times in a man's life when he should not speculate - -when he can't afford it, and when he can." Presumably before he learned the wisdom of his own aphorism, he holed up in an isolated cabin near the town of Angels Camp while chasing the gold. Like his other speculative quests, this one didn't pan out - at least not in the way he expected. He didn't leave Calaveras County with a pocketful of precious metal, but he did come away with a golden idea for a story about a jumping frog, a story that would become his first big break.

In the summer of 1999, we finally happened upon this cabin, on a country road named, appropriately, Jackass Trail. There's a fence surrounding the tiny shanty, but no effort has been made to restore it, or apparently even preserve it. Tourists are prevented from carrying away pieces of it as souvenirs, but Father Time is doing the same trick, and I wonder how much longer it will be standing at all. Anyway, I was inspired to write a poem (see sidebar) about my visit to this meager habitation of a writer I so much admire.

Continuing eastward, we come to the awe-inspiring Lake Tahoe, which Twain certainly was familiar with. "No foul disease can hope to live in the presence of such beauty as that", he noted., calling the lake a "beautiful relic of fairyland forgotten". He was strongly opposed, however, to the NAME Lake Tahoe, which he said was "repulsive", "hideous" and "discordant". He preferred the poetic grandeur of the lake's older name: Lake Bigler.

Just across the mountains and into Nevada is the historic city of Reno, where we've also spent a great deal of time. (See earlier story.) Again, I don't recall any evidence that Twain spent any amount of time there. But he definitely did visit Carson City, 30 miles south, at least a time or two. His brother, Orion Clemens, was Secretary of the Territory of Nevada, until Nevada became a state. (He narrowly missed being named Secretary of State.) And he made his home at that time in Carson City, which is still the state capital.

And up in the mountains (and I do mean UP -- -every drive up there is just about the end of your transmission) is the living ghost town of Virginia City, where Clemens became Mark Twain, and got his start in journalism at the Territorial Enterprise. You can tour the office where he worked, and everything appears pretty much as he might have left it -- -except that all the trappings are much older. One particular gruesome bit of history is the printing press, a cumbersome and apparently dangerous apparatus that claimed the lives of a couple of journalists in Twain's day. One of them evidently became entangled in the machinery and the other, coming to his rescue, was instead dragged into it himself, and both perished. Had things occurred just a little differently, it might have been America's great humorist who was lost, depriving future generations of many literary masterpieces. It's ironic that such a tragic event should occur in the newspaper office -- -where Twain and his cohorts sometimes concocted violent "news" stories to satisfy the appetites of their rough-and-tumble readership. And you thought only modern journalists were entertainers.

Anyway, the story of Sam Clemens really begins in Hannibal, Mo., which we have visited three times so far. (See earlier story.) Twain was born in the tiny town of Florida, Mo., but he spent most of his childhood in Hannibal, which provided him with much material for his stories. In 1902, when he paid a surprise visit to his old hometown, an admiring hotel clerk recognized him at once and gushed, "I've visited the house where you were born many times." Without missing a beat, Twain responded, "I wasn't born many times, just once."

The Mississippi River, which runs by Hannibal, was also an important location in Twain's life and work. He spent some time as a riverboat pilot before becoming a writer. For three years, I lived in Memphis, a city on the Mississippi River. And the three of us have spent a good deal of time in St. Louis, as well as other cities on the Mississippi. But so far as I can remember, none of us ever had ridden on the river until we took a boat ride in Hannibal this year.

After his career as a novelist took off, Twain lived for a time in Buffalo, New York. We really haven't spent any time there, but we have driven through several times -- -mostly on our way to nearby Niagara Falls.

But after a visit to his publisher in Hartford, CT., he decided to make that city his home on a long-term basis. At that time, Hartford was the literary capital of America rather than the insurance capital. No doubt a bit weary from his perennial ramblings, the author decided to build a house (perhaps mansion is a more appropriate word) and settle in. Another factor in this decision was that he had married Olivia Langdon, the scion of a wealthy New York family. Begun in 1874, the 19-room structure caught the attention of a local newspaper (The Hartford Daily Times), which described it as "one of the oddest looking buildings in the State ever designed for a dwelling, if not in the whole country." But to Twain himself, "it had a heart and a soul. We were in its confidence and lived in its grace and the peace of its benediction. We could not enter unmoved". Having visited the house at last, I think I'd have to go with his version of the story.

We'd been through Hartford a couple of times before, but never had an opportunity to visit the house until this summer (2002), when we performed for a number of Connecticut libraries. The house itself was a library at one point, and later, it actually was slated for demolition! Strangely enough, it wasn't restored to its present state until 1960. The house is accessible only by guided tours, currently costing 9 dollars for adults and 7 for children. It's really worth the price to step back in time for a glimpse of elegance long vanished. Most of the furnishings are approximations of what the Clemenses owned, but a few are the real item. These include the Baroque carved bed, complete with cherubs, purchased in Venice (how could they ever get to sleep, for fear their tossing and turning might damage this work of art?), his beloved billiard table where he spent many an engrossed hour, a regal mirror, and a mantel carved in Scotland. Oh yes, and there's the telephone, which he seems to have regarded as more a newfangled annoyance than a convenience.

Several knick-knacks were kept on the mantel, and he would entertain his three daughters by making up stories on the spot that incorporated these objects -- -always using them in the order in which they were positioned. This, mind you, was just for fun.

The family lived in this home for approximately 17 years, during which time the author produced most of his masterpieces, including Tom Sawyer, Life on the Mississippi, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. His neighbors included some of the most noted citizens of Hartford. In fact, his closest neighbor was Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's Cabin. A rather blue-nosed religious fundamentalist, Stowe seems to have been offended by Twain's somewhat coarse behavior at times. Probably just to annoy her, he gave his dogs names like Satan and Beelzebub. Stowe's house is also a tourist attraction now. (Literary footnote: a few years after Twain moved away, a house down the street became the residence of Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Wallace Stevens, who lived in Hartford some 40 years, working for an insurance company while writing his poetry in his spare time.)

If you can't make it to Hartford yourself, you can take a virtual tour of the house at www.marktwainhouse.org. As you might gather from looking at the photos on their site, the house not only cost a fortune to build, but also a fortune to maintain. Upon suffering a number of financial reverses -- -including Twain's investment in yet another worthless business scheme, a printing innovation called the Paige Compositor -- -the family found it cheaper to live in Europe than in their own home! They took up permanent residence in Europe in 1891. In 1896, daughter Susy returned to Hartford alone, where she contracted spinal meningitis and died. Mrs. Clemens refused to set foot in the house again, and it was put up for sale.

In 1910, Mark Twain died in his cherished Venetian bed while making his residence in Redding, CT., which we have yet to visit. But we have seen his final resting place in Elmira, New York. Actually, Twain did much more in Elmira than just get himself buried. He made his summer home there for 20 years, and did some of his best writing there. A special study was built for him, an octagonal gazebo with windows on every side that was his favorite place to work. You still can see it on the campus of Elmira College, which has expanded considerably since Twain's day. Peek in the windows and you'll see the modest furniture just as it looked when he used it -- -along with some photos on the wall of him actually inside the study. After leaving the study, we made our way at last to the end of the line -- -the cemetery where Samuel Clemens, his wife and daughters, and his son-in-law (concert pianist Ossip Gabrilowitsch) all are interred. The headstones are really rather modest -- -not at all what you'd expect from a man who left such an indelible mark while living.

Sooner or later, we no doubt will bump into Sam Clemens of Hannibal again. And when we do, I'll let you know what he's been up to.