Letters Vol. 5 [35]
have had a lovely dream. Livy, dressed in black, was sitting up in my bed (here) at my right and looking as young and sweet as she used to do when she was in health. She said: "what is the name of your sweet sister?" I said, "Pamela." "Oh, yes, that is it, I thought it was--(naming a name which has escaped me) "Won't you write it down for me?" I reached eagerly for a pen and pad--laid my hands upon both--then said to myself, " It is only a dream," and turned back sorrowfully and there she was, still. The conviction flamed through me that our lamented disaster was a dream, and this a reality. I said, "How blessed it is, how blessed it is, it was all a dream, only a dream!" She only smiled and did not ask what dream I meant, which surprised me. She leaned her head against mine and I kept saying, "I was perfectly sure it was a dream, I never would have believed it wasn't."
I think she said several things, but if so they are gone from my memory. I woke and did not know I had been dreaming. She was gone. I wondered how she could go without my knowing it, but I did not spend any thought upon that, I was too busy thinking of how vivid and real was the dream that we had lost her and how unspeakably blessed it was to find that it was not true and that she was still ours and with us. S. L. C.
One day that summer Mark Twain received a letter from the actress, Minnie Maddern Fiske, asking him to write something that would aid her in her crusade against bull-fighting. The idea appealed to him; he replied at once.
To Mrs. Fiske:
DEAR MRS. FISKE,--I shall certainly write the story. But I may not get it to suit me, in which case it will go in the fire. Later I will try again--and yet again--and again. I am used to this. It has taken me twelve years to write a short story--the shortest one I ever wrote, I think. --[Probably "The Death Disk."]-- So do not be discouraged; I will stick to this one in the same way. Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS.
He did not delay in his beginning, and a few weeks later was sending word to his publisher about it.
To Frederick A. Duneka, in New York:
Oct. 2, '05. DEAR MR. DUNEKA,--I have just finished a short story which I "greatly admire," and so will you--"A Horse's Tale"--about 15,000 words, at a rough guess. It has good fun in it, and several characters, and is lively. I shall finish revising it in a few days or more, then Jean will type it.
Don't you think you can get it into the Jan. and Feb. numbers and issue it as a dollar booklet just after the middle of Jan. when you issue the Feb. number?
It ought to be ably illustrated.
Why not sell simultaneous rights, for this once, to the Ladies' Home Journal or Collier's, or both, and recoup yourself?--for I would like to get it to classes that can't afford Harper's. Although it doesn't preach, there's a sermon concealed in it. Yr sincerely, MARK.
Five days later he added some rather interesting facts concerning the new story.
To F. A. Duneka, in New York:
Oct. 7, 1906. ['05] DEAR MR. DUNEKA,--..... I've made a poor guess as to number of words. I think there must be 20,000. My usual page of MS. contains about 130 words; but when I am deeply interested in my work and dead to everything else, my hand-writing shrinks and shrinks until there's a great deal more than 130 on a page--oh, yes, a deal more. Well, I discover, this morning, that this tale is written in that small hand.
This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my daughter, Susy, whom we lost. It was not intentional--it was a good while before I found it out.
So I am sending you her picture to use--and to reproduce with photographic exactness the unsurpassable expression
I think she said several things, but if so they are gone from my memory. I woke and did not know I had been dreaming. She was gone. I wondered how she could go without my knowing it, but I did not spend any thought upon that, I was too busy thinking of how vivid and real was the dream that we had lost her and how unspeakably blessed it was to find that it was not true and that she was still ours and with us. S. L. C.
One day that summer Mark Twain received a letter from the actress, Minnie Maddern Fiske, asking him to write something that would aid her in her crusade against bull-fighting. The idea appealed to him; he replied at once.
To Mrs. Fiske:
DEAR MRS. FISKE,--I shall certainly write the story. But I may not get it to suit me, in which case it will go in the fire. Later I will try again--and yet again--and again. I am used to this. It has taken me twelve years to write a short story--the shortest one I ever wrote, I think. --[Probably "The Death Disk."]-- So do not be discouraged; I will stick to this one in the same way. Sincerely yours, S. L. CLEMENS.
He did not delay in his beginning, and a few weeks later was sending word to his publisher about it.
To Frederick A. Duneka, in New York:
Oct. 2, '05. DEAR MR. DUNEKA,--I have just finished a short story which I "greatly admire," and so will you--"A Horse's Tale"--about 15,000 words, at a rough guess. It has good fun in it, and several characters, and is lively. I shall finish revising it in a few days or more, then Jean will type it.
Don't you think you can get it into the Jan. and Feb. numbers and issue it as a dollar booklet just after the middle of Jan. when you issue the Feb. number?
It ought to be ably illustrated.
Why not sell simultaneous rights, for this once, to the Ladies' Home Journal or Collier's, or both, and recoup yourself?--for I would like to get it to classes that can't afford Harper's. Although it doesn't preach, there's a sermon concealed in it. Yr sincerely, MARK.
Five days later he added some rather interesting facts concerning the new story.
To F. A. Duneka, in New York:
Oct. 7, 1906. ['05] DEAR MR. DUNEKA,--..... I've made a poor guess as to number of words. I think there must be 20,000. My usual page of MS. contains about 130 words; but when I am deeply interested in my work and dead to everything else, my hand-writing shrinks and shrinks until there's a great deal more than 130 on a page--oh, yes, a deal more. Well, I discover, this morning, that this tale is written in that small hand.
This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my daughter, Susy, whom we lost. It was not intentional--it was a good while before I found it out.
So I am sending you her picture to use--and to reproduce with photographic exactness the unsurpassable expression