Chapter VII: Part 7

Longfellow brought an illegible scrawl in his hand which
Parsons had written from London to Lunt. He told me also of
having lately received a photograph from Virginia of a young
woman, and written under it were the words, “What fault can be
found with this?” He said he thought of replying, “The fault of
too great youth.” It certainly could not be agreeable to him
to sit in the eye of the audience as he did; but he was very
talkative and pleasant, expressed his disappointment at not
having us at his Nilsson dinner, but his family were too many
for him; said how he liked her for her frankness; told me of
the old impressario Garrett, the Jew, coming without invitation
and certainly without being wanted (as it sent “his children
upstairs to dine”); and then, as the play was about to begin,
he withdrew. He was much amused and disgusted by the platitudes
of the play. Returned to his own box, Jamie said he laughed
immoderately over the absurdities of it as it continued. He
tooted as the instruments tooted and spouted as the second-rate
actors spouted, all of which was highly amusing to Edith, who
was weeping over the unhappy lovers, utterly absorbed in the
play. Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Andrew, too, were full of tears, and
I found it no use attempting to say anything more during the
evening.

Fechter was indeed marvellous. He raised the play into
something human, something exquisite whenever he was upon the
stage. His terrible earnestness sweeps the audience utterly
away. But he is not the player for the million.

_Sunday evening, December 11, 1870._—Went to Mr. Bartol’s and
met Mr. Collyer. He was pleased to hear what Fechter said of
him Saturday night (by the by we met Fechter at Mrs. Dorr’s
dinner on Saturday), that he singled him out, found him a
capital audience, and played to him. It was a fine house on
Saturday and Fechter played “Don Cæsar.” It was never played
better. Curtis was there, and fine company. Fechter was
graceful and saucy too in talk at dinner—just right for the
occasion.

_Monday, December 19._—I have just returned from seeing Fechter
in “Ruy Blas.” The public has just received the news that he
is to leave the Globe Theatre and Boston in four weeks. The
result was an enormous house, and the most fashionable house I
have seen this season. He played with great fire and ease, but
he has a wretched cold and his pronunciation was so thick and
French (as it is apt to be when he is excited) that I could
often hardly catch a word. But his audience was determined to
be pleased and they caught and applauded all his good points.
I saw but one dissenting spirit, that was a spoiled queen of
fashion just returned from Europe, who saw nobody and nothing
but herself....

_Saturday, January 7, 1871_.—Dined at Mr. Longfellow’s with
Mr. Fechter. The poet welcomed us with a cordiality peculiar
to himself and his children, with a simple glad-to-see written
over their faces which is worth a world of talk. We had a
merry table-talk although Fechter was laboring under the
unnatural excitement of his position in having lost his season
at the Globe, broken with the proprietor Cheney who was his
friend, and finding himself without an engagement for the time.
Also, so mischance held the day, Miss Leclercq, his only fit
support, injured herself in the afternoon and their superb
audience went away disappointed. However, the dinner went off
beautifully, as it always must with Longfellow at the helm.
There was some talk of poetry and the drama and J. amused
them too with anecdotes. Then we adjourned to the room of
Charles the East-India man, where we saw many curiosities and
had a very pleasant hour before leaving. Passing through the
dressing-room of our dear Longfellow, I was struck with seeing
how like the house of a German student it was—a Goethean aspect
of simplicity and largeness everywhere—books too are put on all
the walls. It is surely a most attractive house.

_January 13, 1871._—Today Jamie lunched with Appleton. We
passed the evening at Mrs. Quincy’s. It is the great benefit to
Fechter, but in consequence of the tickets being sold unjustly
at auction, we shall not go. Unhappily there are rumors about
town that Fechter is to be insulted in the theatre. I wish I
could get word to him. I shall wait until J. gets home and then
ask him to drive up to put F. on his guard.

_January 23._—It proved an unnecessary alarm! The evening went
off well enough but unenthusiastically, and at last Fechter
gave all the money to the poor!

When Mrs. Fields first met that representative of the once alluring art of “elocution,” James E. Murdoch, he was already a veteran who had twice, at an interval of nearly twenty years, retired from the stage. Two notes about him recall his robust personality.

_January 13, 1867._—I never met James E. Murdoch, the actor,
to hear any talk until Sunday night. The knowledge of his
patriotism, of his son who died in the war, and of the weary
miles the father had travelled to comfort the soldiers by
reading to them, and afterwards the large sums of money he
had given to the country’s cause gathered up laboriously
night by night by public “readings”—all this I had known. Of
course no introduction could have been better, yet I liked
the man even more than I had fancied was possible. He was so
modest and talked in such a free generous way, purely for the
entertainment of others, I fancied, because we saw he had a
severe cold on his chest. The way too in which he recited
“Sheridan’s Ride” and anything else for the children which he
thought they would like was quite beautiful to see in a man
of his years, who must have had quite enough of that kind of
thing to do. His hobby is elocution. He is about to establish
a school or college or something of that description, whatever
its honorable title will be, at the West[30] (the money having
been granted in part by legislature, the other half to be
made by his own public efforts) for the purpose of educating
speakers and teaching men and women how to read. He has known
Grant and Sheridan well, lived in camp with them at the same
mess-table, and has the highest opinion of the patriotism and
probity of both of them. There is no mistake about one thing.
Mr. Murdoch made himself a power during the war, and now that
is over does not cease to work, nor does he allow himself to
presume upon the laurels he has won nor to brag of his own work.

_Saturday morning, November 13, 1875._—After a western
journey, left for home. Sunday met James E. Murdoch in the
cars at Springfield. It was about six o’clock A.M., but he was
bound for Newton. He came in therefore with us, and talked
delightfully until we parted. He is an old man but as full of
nerve, vigor, and ripened intellect as anyone whom I have seen.
His talk of the stage, of his disgust for Macready’s book, his
disgust at the manner in which Forrest treated his wife, his
account of his own experiences, when he was glad to play for
$35 a week, were deeply interesting. The better side of Forrest
he understood and appreciated thoroughly.

The hospitalities of Charles Street were by no means confined to the men of the theatrical and kindred professions. In later years Miss Ellen Terry, Lady Gregory, and those other ladies associated with the stage who so surely found their way to Mrs. Fields’s door when they visited Boston, were but carrying on the traditions of the earlier decades. As the visitors came and went, the diary in the sixties and seventies recorded their exits and their entrances. A few passages are typical of many.

A portion of the notes relating to Charlotte Cushman will be the better understood for a preliminary remark upon a Boston event of huge local moment in the autumn of 1863. This was the dedication of the Great Organ, that wonder of the age, in Music Hall. The first public performance on the organ, at the ceremonies on the evening of November 2, were preceded by Charlotte Cushman’s reading of a dedicatory ode, contributed, according to the “Advertiser” of the next day, by an “anonymous lady of this city.” The secret of Mrs. Fields’s authorship of this poem, which the “Advertiser” found somewhat too long in spite of its merits, must have been shared by some of her friends, though it was temporarily kept from the public.

_Sunday, September 20, 1863._—In the evening Charlotte Cushman
and her niece, Dr. Dewey and Miss McGregor, Miss Mears and Mr.
W. R. Emerson, passed a few hours with us. Charlotte, always
of athletic but prejudiced mind, talked busily of people and
events. She is a Seward-ite in politics and called Dr. Howe
and Judge Conway “ass-sy” because they said Charles Sumner
had prevented thus far a war with England. She has made money
during the war, but believes apparently not at all in the
patriotism of the people. She is to give one performance for
“the Sanitary” in each of the four northern seacoast cities,
also for fun and fame. She can’t endure to give up the stage.
She is a woman of effects. She lives for effect, and yet doing
always good things and possessed of most admirable qualities.
She has warm friends. Mrs. Carlyle is extremely fond of her,
gives her presents and says flattering things to her. “Cleverer
than her husband,” says Miss Cushman. I put this quietly into
my German pipe and puff peacefully.

_Saturday Evening, September 26, 1863._—Charlotte Cushman
played Lady Macbeth for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission
to a large audience. Her reading of the letter when she first
appears is one of her finest points. She moves her feet
execrably and succeeds in developing all the devilish nature
in the part, but discovers no beauty. Yet it is delightful
to hear the wondrous poetry of the play intelligently and
clearly rendered. It would be impossible to say this of the
man who played Macbeth, who talked of “encarnardine,” and
“heat-oppre_st_ brain,” for “oppressèd,” besides innumerable
other faults and failures, which he mouthed too much for me
to discover. Charlotte in the sleeping scene was fine—that
deep-drawn breath of sleep is thrilling....

There has been an ode written to be spoken at the organ
opening. No one is to know who wrote it. Miss Cushman will
speak it if they are speedy enough in their finishing. This
is of interest to many. I trust they will be ready for Miss
Cushman.

_Monday, November 2, 1863._—Miss Dodge and Una Hawthorne
came to dine. At 7 o’clock we all started for the Music Hall.
Miss Cushman read my ode in a most perfect manner. She was
very nervous about it and skipped something, but what she did
read was perfect. Her dress and manner too were dignified and
beautiful. It was a night never to be forgotten. Afterward we
had a little supper. Dr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Ogden of New
York, Dr. Upham[31] and Judge Putnam and Mrs. Howe were added
to our other guests. Charlotte Cushman left early the next day
and Gail Hamilton and I sat down and took a long delicious
draught of talk.

_April 27, 1871._—Charlotte Cushman came to see us yesterday.
Her full brain was brimming over, and her rich sympathetic
voice is ringing now in my ears. She does not overestimate
herself, that woman, which is part of her greatness, for the
word _does_ apply to her in a certain way because she grows
nearer to it every day. J. de Maistre refused the epithet
“grand” to Napoleon because he lacked more stature—but this
hand-to-hand fight with death over herself (loving life clearly
as she does) has strengthened her hold upon her affection for
life, insensibly. She grows daily wiser and nobler.

_November 13, 1871._—We all went together to Charlotte
Cushman’s début in Queen Katherine at the Globe Theatre. A
house filled with her friends and a noble piece of acting. She
spoke to every woman’s heart there; by this I felt the high art
and the noble sympathetic nature far above art which was in
the woman and radiates from her. Much of the play beside was
poor, but Mrs. Hunt was very amusing and we laughed and laughed
at her sallies until I was quite ashamed. J. went behind the
scenes and talked with C. C. She was in first-rate condition.

For other contacts with the stage, three brief passages may speak:—

_November 8, 1866._—Went to see Ristori’s “Pia dei Tolomei” in
the evening. It was pure and beautiful. Being R.’s benefit,
she made a short speech, and exquisitely simple as it was, her
fine voice and the slight difficulty of enunciating the English
words made her speech one of the most touching features of the
time.

_Saturday._—Morning at home. Went to see Ristori for the last
time, as Elizabeth, perhaps her finest characterization.
Longfellow and Whittier had both promised to go with us, but
the courage of both failed at the last moment. The house was
crowded. Mr. Grau asked Mr. Fields to go and speak with the
great actress, but he excused himself.

Whittier had never been inside of a theatre and could not quite
feel like breaking the bonds now—besides he said it would cost
him many nights of sleep. Longfellow does not face high tragedy
before a crowd.

_The photograph of Mrs. Kemble was taken in Philadelphia in 1863_]

_January 16, 1868._—Fanny Kemble read “The Merchant of Venice”
in Boston last night—the old way of losing her breath when she
appeared, as if totally overcome by the audience. We could
not doubt that she felt her return deeply and sincerely,
but—however, the feeling was undoubtedly real if short-lived,
and we will give her credit for it. Her voice is sadly faded
since the brilliant readings of ten years ago; she has had much
sorrow since then and shows the marks of it. It is interesting
to compare her work with Mr. Dickens’s; he is so much the
greater artist! You can never mistake one of his characters for
another, nor lose a syllable of his perfectly enunciated words.
She speaks much more slowly usually, and there is a grand
intonation as the verses sway from her lips, but one cannot
be sure always if Jessica or Nerissa be speaking, Antonio or
Bassanio. Her face is marvellous in tender passages, a serenity
falls upon it born of immortal youth. It is beautiful enough
for tears. She enjoys the wit too herself thoroughly, and
brought out Launcelot Gobbo with great unction. An enormous and
enthusiastic audience gave her hearty welcome. Longfellow could
not come. His wife in the old days enjoyed this play too well
when they used to go together for him to trust himself to hear
it again.

_Monday, May 18, 1868._—Raining like all possessed again
today. I was to have done my gardening today but there is
no chance yet. Walked over to Roxbury with J. yesterday and
found everything gay with the coming loveliness. It has
scarcely come, however. Jamie was much entertained by tales
Mrs. Kemble’s agent told him of that lady: how she watched an
Irish scrubbing woman dawdle over her work, who was paid by
the hour, and finally called her to her (she was sitting at
her own reading-desk in the hall), and said in her stately
fashion, “I fear, madam, if you exert yourself so much over
your work you will make yourself ill. Your health is seriously
endangered by your severe efforts.” The woman, not seeing
the sarcasm, replied in the strongest possible brogue to the
effect that nothing short of the direst necessity would compel
such dreadful labor. Whereat Mrs. Kemble, with a look not to
be reproduced, and a wink to Mr. Pugh, withdrew. She read
“Midsummer Night’s Dream” on Saturday P.M. We went, but found
the place entirely without air and left after the first part.
She did not begin with much spirit, but her voice was exquisite
and her fun also, and her dress was an æsthetic pleasure, as a
lady’s dress should always be, but alas! so seldom is, in this
country.

_Wednesday, November 9, 1870._—We have had a reception today
for Miss Nilsson. Longfellow and Henry Ward Beecher were
here, beside Perabo and many excellent or talented people,
nearly sixty in all. It was a curious fact to give out seventy
invitations and have sixty (or nearly that) present.

Miss Nilsson, Mrs. Richardson (her attendant), Alice
Longfellow, and ourselves sat down to lunch afterward, when she
sang snatches of her loveliest songs and talked and laughed and
was as graceful and merry and sweet as ever a beautiful woman
knows how to be. She is now twenty-seven years old. Her light
hair, deep blue eyes, full glorious eyes, are of the Northern
type, but her broad intellectual brow, her beautiful teeth,
and strong character, belong only to the type of genius and
beauty. She is not only brave but almost imperious, I fancy,
at times; a manner quite necessary, I say, to protect her from
vulgar animosity and audacity. We heard her last night sing
“Auld Robin Gray” not only with exquisite feeling, but with
a pronunciation of the Scottish dialect that appeared to us
very remarkable. When we spoke to her of it she said, “Yes,
but there is much like that too in the Swedish dialect. When I
first came up a peasant to Stockholm to learn to sing, I had
the dialect very bad indeed, and it was a long time before I
lost it. Then I went to school in France, and now my accent
and dialect are French. When I went back home and talked with
the French dialect, they said to me, ‘Now Christine, don’t be
absurd,’ but I could not help it. I catch everything. I have
never studied English in my life. I am learning American fast.
I have learned ‘I guess,’ and I shall soon say ‘I reckon’ by
the time I come back from the West.”

Vieuxtemps, the violinist, she appreciates and enjoys highly
as an artist. Of Ole Bull she says, “He is a charlatan. Ah,
you will excuse me, but it is true.” Of Viardot-Garcia she has
the highest admiration. Nothing ever gave her higher delight
than Viardot’s compliment after hearing her “Mignon.” It was
uncalled for, unexpected, and from the heart. She rehearsed
what we recall so well, Viardot’s plain face, poor figure—and
great genius triumphant over all. Well, we hear poor Viardot
has lost her fortune by this sad French war.

I have set down nothing which can recall the strong sweet
beauty of Nilsson. She is a power to command success—fine and
strong and sweet. Her face glowed and responded and originated
in a swift yet gentle way, as one person after another was
presented, that was a study and a lesson. She neither looked
nor seemed tired until the presentation was over, when she said
she was hungry. “We have had no breakfast yet, nothing to eat
all day; ah, I shall know again what it means when Mrs. Fields
asks me to lunch at one o’clock!” with an arch look at me. I
was extremely penitent and hurried the lunch, but the people
could not go out of the dining-room. However, all was cleaned
at last and we had a quiet cosy talk and sit-down, which was
delightful.

On Saturday she sang from “Hamlet,” the mad scene of Ophelia.
As usual, her dress and whole appearance were of the most
refined and perfect beauty, and her singing we appreciated even
more deeply than ever. She has not the remote _exalté_ nature
of highest genius, but she is the great singer of this new
time, and her realism is in marked sympathy with her period.

It has already been suggested that, when Thomas Bailey Aldrich made his migration to Boston as editor of “Every Saturday,” he brought into the circle of the Fieldses many fresh breezes from the outer world. In the diary of Mrs. Fields there are frequent notes revealing a friendship which lasted, indeed, long after the diary ceased, and up to the end of Aldrich’s life, in 1907. Two entries—the first relating to the meteoric author of “The Diamond Lens,” regarded in its day as a bright portent in the literary heavens, the second to the Aldriches themselves at the country place with the name which Aldrich embalmed in his excellent title, “From Ponkapog to Pesth”—warrant conversion from manuscript into print.

_November 9, 1865._—Aldrich told us the story of Fitz-James
O’Brien, the able author of “The Diamond Lens.” He was a
handsome fellow, and began his career by running away with
the wife of an English officer. The officer was in India, and
Fitz-James and the guilty woman had fled to one of the seaports
on the south of England in order to take passage for America,
when the arrival of the woman’s husband was announced to them
and O’Brien fled. He concealed himself on board a ship bound
for New York. There he ran a career of dissipation, landing
with only sixty dollars. He went to a first-rate hotel, ordered
wines, and left a large bill behind when the time came to run
away. Then he wrote for Harpers, and one publisher and another,
writing little and over-drawing funds on a large scale. He
came and lived six weeks upon Aldrich in his uncle’s house one
summer when the family were away. One day he tried to borrow
money of Harpers, and being refused he went into the bindery
department, borrowed a board, printed on it, “I am starving,”
bored holes through the ends, put in a string, hung it round
his neck, allowed his fawn-colored gloves to depend over each
end, and stood in the doorway where the firm should see him
when they went to dinner. A great laugh and more money was
the result of this escapade. Finally, when the war broke out,
he enlisted, and this was the last A. heard of him for some
time; but, being himself called to take a position on General
Lander’s staff, he was on his way to Richmond and had reached
Petersburg, when someone told him Fitz-James O’Brien had been
shot dead. Then he went to the hospital and saw him lying there
dead.

Shortly after this, when Bayard Taylor and his wife were dining
in a hotel restaurant at Dover, I believe,—it was one of the
south of England towns,—they saw themselves closely observed by
a lady and gentleman sitting near them. Finally the gentleman
arose and came to speak to Taylor, said he observed they were
Americans, and asked if he had ever heard of F. J. O’Brien.
“Oh, yes,” said Taylor, “I knew him very well. He was killed
in our war.” Then the lady burst into tears and the gentleman
said, “She is his mother!”

I forgot to say in the course of the story that he borrowed
once sixty-five dollars for which A. became responsible,
and when it was not paid he sent a letter to O’B. saying he
must pay it. In return O’Brien sent him a challenge for a
duel, which A. accepted, in the meantime discovering that an
honorable fight could not be between a debtor and a creditor.
However, when the time appointed arrived, O’Brien had
absconded. We could not repress a smile at the idea of A.’s
_fighting_, for he is a painfully small gentleman.

_May 31, 1876._—Passed the day with the Aldriches at Ponkapog.
Aldrich maintained at dinner that the horse railroad injured
Charles Street. His wife and J. T. F. took the opposite ground.
Finally J. said, “Well, the Philadelphians don’t agree with
you; they have learned the value of horse railroads in their
streets.” “Oh, that’s because they are such Christians,” said
A. “They know whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.”

He is a queer, witty creature. When the railroad dropped us
at Green Lodge station, a tiny place surrounded by wild green
woods and bog, we found him sitting on a corner of the platform
where he said he had been “listening to the bullfrog tune
his violin. He had been twanging at one string a long time!”
Aldrich was in an ecstasy of delight, and in truth it was a day
to put the most untuned spirit into tune. In the afternoon we
floated on the beautiful pond. The whole day gave us a series
of pictures—only thirteen miles from town, yet the beechwoods
can be no more retired. Mr. Pierce owns 500 acres, and it
must be a pleasure to him, while he is away in Washington, to
feel that someone is using and enjoying his beautiful domain;
and how could it be half so well used and enjoyed as by the
family of a struggling literary man! The house they live in,
which was going to decay, may really be considered a creation
of Lilian’s. Altogether she is very clever and Aldrich most
fortunate and our Washington senator is doubtless most content
to think of the enjoyment of others in his domain.

Still more exotic a figure in Boston than Aldrich was William Morris Hunt—in spite of his temporary association with Harvard College and his Boston marriage. Both he and his wife are constantly to be met in the pages of Mrs. Fields’s journals, from which they emerged with some frequency into her published “Biographical Notes,” even as they have reappeared, with others, on earlier pages of this book.

In other places than Charles Street, Fields and Hunt were often meeting. One brief record of an encounter, at the end of a Saturday Club meeting, should surely be preserved, for all that it suggests of Hunt in amused rebellion against his surroundings.

_Sunday, August 26, 1874._—Hunt came to Jamie when the
afternoon was nearly ended and asked him to go up to his
studio. As they went along, he said, “I’ve made a poem! First
time I ever wrote anything in my life. ’Tisn’t long, only four
lines, but I’ve got it written down.” Whereat then and there he
pulled out his pocketbook and read:

“Boston is a hilly place;
People all are brothers-in-law.
If you or I want something done
They treat us then like mothers-in-law.

“This goes to the tune of Yankee Doodle,” Whereat he sang
it out on the public highway. He looked very handsome, was
beautifully dressed in brown velvet with a gold chain about
his neck, but swore like a trooper and was in one of his most
lawless moods.

He gave J. for me a photograph of a marvellous picture which
he calls his Persian Sybil, Anahita. I see his wife in it as
in so many of his best works. “I don’t mean to do any more
portraits,” he said. “When I remember how I have wasted time on
an eyebrow because somebody’s 14th cousin thought it ought to
turn up a little more—it makes me mad!”

When the English painter, Lowes Dickinson, the father of G. Lowes Dickinson, was visiting the Fieldses in Boston, a photograph of Hunt’s portrait of Chief Justice Lemuel Shaw so impressed him that he asked to be taken to the painter’s studio. In Miss Helen M. Knowlton’s “Art Life of William Morris Hunt” this circumstance is related, together with its sequel, which was the publication of Hunt’s “Talks on Art” from notes made by Miss Knowlton herself. It is a surmise but slightly hazardous that a characteristic note found among the Fields papers was written apropos of Dickinson’s visit to Hunt: “Send ’em along—I mean Painters,” he wrote to Fields. “I have had a delightful day with your friend—and I know he is a painter—why? because he likes what I do well and _hates_ what I do that ain’t worth....”

It has been seen that, as early as November, 1868, James Parton suggested that “a writer named Mark Twain” be engaged to contribute to the “Atlantic.”[32] In October, 1868, “F. Bret Harte” wrote to the editor of the “Atlantic” from San Francisco: “As the author of ‘The Luck of Roaring Camp,’ I have to thank you for an invitation to contribute to the ‘Atlantic Monthly,’ but as editor of ‘The Overland,’ my duties claim most of my spare time outside of the Government office in which I am employed.... But I am glad of this opportunity to thank someone connected with the ‘Atlantic’ for its very gracious good-will toward me and my writings, particularly the book which G. W. Carleton of New York malformed in its birth. There was an extra kindness in your taking the deformed brat by the hand, and trying to recognize some traces of a parent so far away.”

It was in the discharge of his work as editor of the “Atlantic” that Fields, hospitable to practitioners of all the arts, entered especially into relations with writers whose paths might not otherwise have crossed his, and his wife’s. Of all the young Lochinvars of the pen who came out of the West while Mrs. Fields was keeping her diary, Bret Harte and Mark Twain were the daring and dauntless gallants who most captured the imagination and have longest held it. To each of them Mrs. Fields devoted a number of pages in her diary. We shall see first what she had to say about Bret Harte.

_Friday, March 10, 1871._—Too many days full of interest have
passed unrecorded. Chiefly I should record what I can recall
of Francis Bret Harte, who has made his first visit to the
East just now, since he went to San Francisco in his early
youth. He is now apparently about 35 years old. His mind is
full of the grand landscape of the West, and filled also with
sympathetic interest in the half-developed natives who are
to be seen there, nearer to the surface than in our Eastern
cities. He told me of a gambler who had a friend lying dead in
the upper room of a gambling house. The man went out to see
about having services performed. “Better have it at the grave,”
said the parson to whom he applied. Jim shook his head as if
he feared the proper honors would not be paid his friend. The
other then suggested they should find the minister and leave
it to him. “Well,” said Jim, “yes, I wish you’d do just that,
for I ain’t much of a funeral ‘sharp’ myself.” He told me also,
as a sign of the wonderful recklessness which had pervaded San
Francisco, that at one time there was a glut of tobacco in the
market and, a block of houses going up at the same period, _the
foundations of those houses were laid of boxes of tobacco_.
Bret Harte, as the world calls him, is natural, warm-hearted,
with a keen relish for fun, disposed to give just value to the
strong language of the West, which he is by no means inclined
to dispense with; at ease in every society, quick of sense
and sight. Jamie, who saw him more than I, finds him lovable
above all. We liked his wife too,—not handsome but with good
honest sense, appreciative of him,—and two children. She is
said to sing well, but poor woman! the fatigues of that most
distressing journey across the continent, the fêtes, the heat
(for the weather is unusually warm), have been almost too much
for her and she is not certainly at her best. They dined and
took tea here last Friday.

_Tuesday, September 5, 1871._—J. went to Boston. I wrote in the
pastures and walked all the morning. Coming home, after dinner,
came a telegram for me to meet J. and Bret Harte at Beverly
station with the pony carriage. I drove hard to catch the
train, but arrived in season, glad to take up the two good boys
and show them Beverly shore. Stopped at Mrs. Cabot’s returning
to see Mrs. ——, etc. They were all glad to have a glimpse of
Bret Harte. The talk turned a little upon Hawthorne, and I was
much amused to hear Mrs. —— say, drawing herself up, “Yes, he
was born in Salem, but we never knew anything about him.” (The
truth was, Mrs. —— was the last person to appreciate him.) ...
Fortunately Miss Howes was present, whose father was one of
Hawthorne’s best friends; so matters were made clear there. We
left soon and came on to Manchester, where, after showing him
the shore, we sat and talked during the evening.

Mr. Harte had much to say of the beautiful flowers of
California, roses being in bloom about his own house there
every month in the year. He found the cloudless skies and
continued drought of California very hard to bear. For the
first time in my life I considered how terrible perpetual
cloudlessness would be! He thinks there is no beauty in the
mountains of California, hard, bare, snowless peaks. Neither
are there trees, nor any green grass.

He is delighted with the fragrant lawns of Newport and has, I
believe, put into verse a delightful ghost story which he told
us.[33] He has taken a house of some antiquity in Newport,
connected with which is the story of a lady who formerly lived
there and who was very fond of the odor of mignonette. The
flower was always growing in her house, and after her death,
at two o’clock every night, a strong odor has always been
perceived passing through the house as if wafted along by the
garments of a woman. One night at the appointed hour, but
entirely unconnected in his thought with the story Mr. Harte
had long ago heard, he was arrested in his work by a strong
perfume of mignonette which appeared to sweep by him. He looked
about, thinking his wife might have placed a vase of flowers
in the room, but finding nothing he began to follow the odor,
which seemed to flit before him. Then he recalled, for the
first time, the story he had heard. He opened the door; the
odor was in the hall; he opened the room where the lady died,
but there was no odor there; until returning, after making a
circuit of the house, he found a faint perfume as if she had
passed but not stayed there also. At last, somewhat oppressed
perhaps by the ghostliness of the place and hour, he went out
and stood upon the porch. There his dream vanished. The sweet
lawn and tree flowers were emitting an odor, as is common at
the hour when dews congeal, more sweet than at any other time
of day or night, and the air was redolent of sweets which might
easily be construed into mignonette. The story was well told
and I shall be glad to see his poem.

Many good stories came off during the evening, some very
characteristic of California; ones such as that of an uproar in
a theatre and a man about to be killed, when someone shouts,
“Don’t waste him, but kill a fiddler with him.” Also one of the
opening nights at the California theatre, the place packed,
when a man who has taken too much whiskey wishes a noise;
immediately the manager, a strong executive man, catches him
up with the help of a policeman, and before anybody knows the
thing is done or the disturber what is the matter, he finds
himself set down on the sidewalk outside in the street. “Well,”
said he with an oath, “is this the way you do business here;
raise a fellow before he has a chance to draw?” (referring to
the game of poker).

Mr. Harte is a very sensitive and nervous man. He struggles
against himself all the time. He sat on the piazza with J. and
talked till a late hour. This morning at breakfast I found him
most interesting. He talked of his early and best-loved books.
It appears that at the age of nine he was a lover and reader of
Montaigne. Certain writers, he says, seem to him to stand out
as friends and brothers side by side in literature. Now Horace
and Montaigne are so associated in his mind. Mr. Emerson, he
thinks, never in the least approaches a comprehension of the
character of the man. With an admiration for his great sayings,
he has never guessed at the subtle springs from which they
come. The pleasant acceding to both sides in politics, and
other traits of like nature, gives him affinity with Hawthorne.
By the way, he is a true appreciator of Hawthorne. He was moved
to much merriment yesterday by remembering a passage in the
notes, where he slyly remarks, “Margaret Fuller’s cows hooked
the other cows.” Speaking of Dr. Bartol, he said, “What a dear
old man he is! A venerable baby, nothing more!” But Harte is
most kindly and tender. His wife has been very ill and has
given him cause for terrible anxiety. This accounts for much
left undone, but he is an oblivious man oftentimes to his
surroundings—leaves things behind!!

_January 12, 1872._—Bret Harte was here at breakfast. It is
curious to see his feeling with regard to society. For purely
literary society, with its affectations and contempts, he has
no sympathy. He has at length chosen New York as his residence,
and among the Schuylers, Sherwoods, and their friends he
appears to find what he enjoys. There is evidently a _gêne_
about people and life here, and provincialisms which he found
would hurt him. He is very sensitive and keen, with a love and
reverence for Dickens almost peculiar in this coldly critical
age. Bryant he finds very cold and totally unwilling to lead
the conversation, as he should do when they are together, as
he justly remarks, he being so much younger—but never a word
without cart and horses to fetch it.

Bret Harte has a queer absent-minded way of spending his time,
letting the hours slip by as if he had not altogether learned
their value yet. It is a miracle to us how he lives, for he
writes very little. Thus far I suppose he has had money from J.
R. O. & Co., but I fancy they have done with giving out money
save for a _quid pro quo_.

_February, 1872_ [during a visit to New York].—We had promised
to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Harte early and go to the theatre
afterward, therefore four o’clock found us at their door. He
welcomed us by opening it himself and only this reassured
Jamie. We had driven up in a “Crystal,” much to my amusement,
in which J. had insisted I should sit until he discovered if
that was the house. The scene was altogether comic. I shortened
the ludicrousness as much as possible by jumping out and
running quickly up the steps. Mrs. Harte was not ready to see
me, but I found Mr. Barrett the actor with Mr. Harte in the
parlor, and soon being invited upstairs, found Mrs. Barrett and
Mrs. Harte together. We had a merry dinner together, the young
actor evidently quite nervous with respect to the evening’s
performance. He went an hour before us to the play. We sat in
the stage box; the play was “Julius Cæsar.” It is useless to
deny Edwin Booth great talent, exquisite grace and feeling.
Both the young men, the first, Barrett, a man of intellect, and
Booth, a man of inherited grace and feeling as well as good
mind, have the advantage moreover of being born to the stage.
Their stage habits fit them more perfectly than those of the
drawing-room and they walk the stage with the ease that most
men do their own parlors. During the performance Booth invited
us into his drawing-room; a short carpeted way led from the box
into the small room where he was sitting in Roman costume, pipe
in mouth; he rose and called “Mary,” as we approached, when the
tiniest woman ever called wife made her appearance. She is an
ardent little spark of human flame and he really looks large
beside her.

But his grace, his grace! His dress too, was as usual
perfect—more, far more than all, both the actors had such
feeling for Shakespeare and for their parts with which they
are filling the stage nightly, that they were deeply and truly
enthusiastic. It was a sight to warm Shakespeare.

_From early photographs_]

_Saturday, September 18, 1875._—Bret Harte came on the ½ past
12 train. He came in good health, save a headache which ripened
as the day went on; but he was bubbling over with fun, full of
the most natural and unexpected sallies. He wished to know if
I was acquainted with the Cochin China hen. They had one at
Cohasset. They had named him Benventuro (after a certain gay
Italian singer of strong self-appreciation who came formerly
to America). He said this hen’s state of mind on finding a
half-exploded firecracker and her depressed condition since
its explosion was something extraordinary. His description was
so vivid that I still see this hen perambulating about the
house, first with pride, second with precipitation, fallen into
disgrace among her fellows.

He said Cohasset was not the place to live in the summer if
one wanted sea-breezes. They all came straight from Chicago!!
He fancied the place, thinking it an old fishing village, not
unlike Yarmouth. Instead of which they prided themselves upon
never having “any of your sea-smells,” and, being five miles
from the doctor, could not be considered a cheerful place to
live in with sick children. He said he was surprised to find J.
T. F. without a sailor’s jacket and collar. The actors among
whom he had been living rather overdid the business; their
collars were wider, their shirts fuller, and their trousers
more bulgy than those of any real sailor he had ever observed,
and the manner of hitching up the trousers was entirely
peculiar to themselves and to the stage.

We went to call upon the Burlingames. In describing Harrisburg,
Virginia, where he had lectured, he said a committee-man came
to invite him to take a walk, and he was so afflicted with a
headache that he was ready to take or give away his life at
any moment; so he accepted the invitation and walked out with
him. The man observed that Harrisburg was a very healthy place;
only one man a day died in that vicinity. “Oh!” said Harte,
remembering the dangerous state of his own mind, “has that
man died yet today?” The man shook his head gravely, never
suspecting a joke, and said he didn’t know, but he would try to
find out. Whereat Harte, to keep up the joke, said he wished
he would. He went to the lecture forgetting all about it and
saw this man hanging around without getting a chance to speak.
The next morning very early, he managed to get an opportunity
to speak to him. “I couldn’t find out exactly about that man
yesterday,” he said. “What man?” said H. “Why, the one we were
speaking of; the Coroner said he couldn’t say precisely who it
was, but the one man would average all right.”

Harte said in speaking of Longfellow that no one had yet
overpraised him. The delicate quality of humor, the exquisite
fineness in the choice of words, the breadth and sweetness of
his nature were something he could hardly help worshipping. One
day after a dinner at Mr. Lowell’s he said, “I think I will
not have a carriage to return to town. I will walk down to the
Square.” “I will walk with you,” said Longfellow. When they
arrived at his gate, he said, he was so beautiful that he could
only think of the light and whiteness of the moon, and if he
had stayed a moment longer he should have put his arms around
him and made a fool of himself then and there. Whereat he said
good night abruptly and turned away.

He brought his novel and play[34] with him which are just now
finished, for us to read. He has evidently enjoyed the play,
and he enjoys the fame and the money they both bring him.

He is a dramatic, lovable creature with his blue silk
pocket-handkerchief and red dressing slippers and his quick
feelings. I could hate the man who could help loving him—or the
woman either.

In the passages touching upon Mark Twain now to be copied from the journals, he is seen, not in Boston, but in Hartford. If Mrs. Fields had continued her diary until 1879, there would doubtless have been a faithful contemporaneous account of the humorist’s unhappy attempt to be funny both in the presence and at the expense of the “Augustans” assembled in honor of Whittier’s seventieth birthday.[35] But Mrs. Fields’s reports of talk and observations under his own roof, in the days when his fame rested entirely upon a handful of his earlier books, should take their place in the authentic annals of an extraordinary personality. On the first of the two occasions recorded, Fields went alone to deliver a lecture in Hartford, and in answer to a post-card invitation signed “Mark,” stayed in the new house of the Clemenses. On the second occasion, three weeks later, Mrs. Fields accompanied him. After her husband’s return from the first visit she wrote:—

_April 6, 1876._—He found Mrs. Clemens quite ill. They had been
in New York where he had given four lectures hoping to get
money for Dr. Brown. He had never lectured there before without
making a great deal of money. This time he barely covered
his expenses. He was very interesting and told J. the whole
story of his life. They sat until midnight after the lecture,
Mark drinking ale to make him sleepy. He says he can’t sleep
as other people do; his kind of sleep is the only sort for
him—three or four hours of good solid comfort—more than that
makes him ill; he can’t afford to sleep all his thoughts away.
He described the hunger of his childhood for books, how the
“Fortunes of Nigel” was one of the first stories which came to
him while he was learning to be a pilot on a Mississippi boat.
He hid himself with it behind a barrel where he was found by
the master, who read him a lecture upon the ruinous effects
of reading. “I’ve seen it over and over agin,” he said. “You
needn’t tell me anythin’ about it; if ye’re going to be a pilot
on this river yer needn’t ever think of reading, for it just
spiles all. Yer can’t remember how high the tides was in Can’s
Gut three trips before the last now, I’ll wager.” “Why no,”
said Mark, “that was six months ago.” “I don’t care if’t was,”
said the man. “If you hadn’t been spiling yer mind by readin’
ye’d have remembered.” So he was never allowed to read any
more after that. “And now,” says Mark, “not being able to have
it when I was hungry for it, I can only read the Encyclopedia
nowadays.” Which is not true—he reads everything.

The story of his courtship and marriage, too, was very strange
and interesting. A portion of this has, however, leaked into
the daily papers, so I will not repeat it here. One point
interested me greatly, however, as showing the strength of
character and rightness of vision in the man. He said he had
not been married many months when his wife’s father came to
him one evening and said, “My son, wouldn’t you like to go to
Europe with your wife?” “Why yes, sir,” he said, “if I could
afford it.” “Well then,” said he, “if you will leave off
smoking and drinking ale you shall have ten thousand dollars
this next year and go to Europe beside.” “Thank you, sir,”
said Mark, “this is very good of you, and I appreciate it,
but I can’t sell myself. I will do anything I can for you or
any of your family, but I can’t sell myself.” The result was,
said Mark, “I never smoked a cigar all that year nor drank a
glass of ale; but when the next year came I found I must write
a book, and when I sat down to write I found it wasn’t worth
anything. I must have a cigar to steady my nerves. I began
to smoke, and I wrote my book; but then I couldn’t sleep and
I had to drink ale to go to sleep. Now if I had sold myself,
I couldn’t have written my book, or I couldn’t have gone to
sleep, but now everything works perfectly well.”

He and his wife have wretched health, poor things! And in spite
of their beautiful home must often have rather a hard time. He
is very eccentric, disturbed by every noise, and it cannot be
altogether easy to have care of such a man. It is a very loving
household though Mrs. Clemens’s mother, Mrs. Langdon, hardly
knows what to make of him sometimes, it is quite evident.

_Thursday, April 27, 1876_.—We lunched and at 3 P.M. were
en route for Hartford. I slept, and read Mr. Tom Appleton’s
journal on the Nile, and looked out at the sunset and the
torches of spring in the hollows, each in turn, doing more
sleeping than either of the others, I fear, because I seem for
some unexplained reason to be tired, as Mrs. Hawthorne used
to say, far into the future. By giving up to it, however, I
felt quite fresh when we arrived, at half-past seven o’clock,
Mr. Clemens’ (Mark Twain’s) carriage waiting for us to take
us to the hall where he was to perform for the second night
in succession Peter Spyle in the “Loan of a Lover.” It is a
pretty play, and the girl’s part, Gertrude, was well done by
Miss Helen Smith; but Mr. Clemens’ part was a creation. I see
no reason why, if he chose to adopt the profession of actor,
he should not be as successful as Jefferson in whatever he
might conclude to undertake. It is really amazing to see what
a man of genius can do beside what is usually considered his
legitimate sphere.

Afterward we went with Mr. Hammersley to the Club for a bit
of supper—this I did not wish to do, but I was overruled of
course by the decision of our host. We met at supper one of
the clever actors who played in a little operetta called “The
Artful Mendicants.” It was after twelve o’clock when we finally
reached Mr. Clemens’ house. He believed his wife would have
retired, as she is very delicate in health; but there she was
expecting us, with a pretty supper table laid. When her husband
discovered this, he fell down on his knees in mock desire for
forgiveness. His mind was so full of the play, and with the
poor figure he felt he had made in it, that he had entirely
forgotten all her directions and injunctions. She is a very
small, sweet-looking, simple, finished creature, charming in
her ways and evidently deeply beloved by him. The house is a
brick villa, designed by one of the first New York architects,
standing in a lovely lawn which slopes down to a small stream
or river at the side. In this spring season the blackbirds are
busy in the trees and the air is sweet and vocal. Inside there
is great luxury. Especially I delight in a lovely conservatory
opening out of the drawing-room.

Although we had already eaten supper, the gentlemen took a
glass of lager beer to keep Mrs. Clemens company while she ate
a bit of bread after her long anxiety and waiting. Meantime Mr.
Clemens talked. The quiet earnest manner of his speech would
be impossible to reproduce, but there is a drawl in his tone
peculiar to himself. Also he is much interested in actors and
the art of acting just now, and seriously talks of going to
Boston next week to the début of Anna Dickinson.

We were a tired company and went soon to bed and to sleep. I
slept late, but I found Mr. Clemens had been re-reading Dana’s
“Two Years before the Mast” in bed early and revolving subjects
for his “Autobiography.” Their two beautiful baby girls came
to pass an hour with us after breakfast—exquisite affectionate
children, the very fountain of joy to their interesting
parents....

Returning to lunch, I found our host and hostess and eldest
little girl in the drawing-room. We fell into talk of the
mishaps of the stage and the disadvantage of an amateur under
such circumstances. “For instance, on the first night of our
little play,” said Mr. Clemens, “the trousers of one of the
actors suddenly gave way entirely behind, which was very
distressing to him, though we did not observe it at all.”