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These selected later writings of Samuel L. Clemens—Mark Twain—are here published for the first time, with but two exceptions: “The Great Dark” appeared in Letters from the Earth, as edited by Bernard DeVoto;1 and a 5,000-word excerpt from “Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes” was published by Albert Bigelow Paine in his biography.2

All of the selections in this volume were composed between 1896 and 1905. Mark Twain wrote them after the disasters of the early and middle nineties that had included the decline into bankruptcy of his publishing business, the failure of a typesetting machine in which he had invested heavily, and the death of his daughter Susy. Their principal fable is that of a man who has been long favored by luck while pursuing a dream of success that has seemed about to turn into reality. Sudden reverses occur and he experiences a nightmarish time of failure. He clutches at what may be a saving [begin page 2] thought: perhaps he is indeed living in a nightmare from which he will awaken to his former felicity. But there is also the possibility that what seems a dream of disaster may be the actuality of his life. The question is the one asked by the titles that he gave to two of his manuscripts: “Which Was the Dream?”3 and “Which Was It?”4 He had posed a similar question in 1893: “I dreamed I was born, and grew up, and was a pilot on the Mississippi, and a miner and journalist . . . and had a wife and children . . . and this dream goes on and on and on, and sometimes seems so real that I almost believe it is real. I wonder if it is?”5 Behind this naïve query was his strong interest in conscious and unconscious levels of mental experience, which were then being explored by the new psychology.6

Prominent among the dream-like events of Mark Twain's life were his experiences with the typesetter. He had first seen an early model in 1880 and had then met its gifted but eccentric inventor, James W. Paige. A few years later, after his imagination had become fired with the idea of developing and marketing the device, Paige offered him a substantial interest, and on 6 February 1886, he entered into a contract that he expected would make him one of the richest men in the world.7 But the typesetter was never perfected. Its failure must already have been apparent in 1891 when, summarizing his life, he wrote that he had “watched over one dear project . . . for years, spent a fortune on it, and failed to make it go” and that “the history of that would make a large book in which a million men would see themselves as in a mirror” and would “cast dust upon their heads, cursing and blaspheming.”8 Yet [begin page 3] even as late as 1894, the year in which his publishing firm, Webster & Company, went into bankruptcy, he lived from week to week in the hope that the machine was at last to be marketed and that he would quickly make a financial recovery. One of his notebook entries of the last week of January 1894 reads: “2 p.m., Mr. Rogers's offices. The great Paige Compositor Scheme consummated. At 2:15 cabled Livy, Paris: ‘A ship visible on the horizon coming down under a cloud of canvas.’ ”9 On 2 February, believing that his hopes were in fact realized, he sent his wife another cablegram, “to be put on her breakfast plate this morning (our 24th anniversary): ‘Wedding-news: Our ship is safe in port.’ ”10 But ten days later, still using the ship as the figure for his dream of a fortune to be made from the machine, he was sending her this rueful message: “Ships that Pass in the Night.”11 The scheme had miscarried. Late in that same year Henry H. Rogers, his able business advisor, made it clear that the typesetter had almost no commercial value. Mark Twain replied in a letter of 22 December 1894: “It hit me like a thunder-clap. . . . I went flying here and there . . ., only one clearly defined thought standing up visible and substantial out of the crazy storm-drift—that my dream of ten years was in desperate peril.”12 On the same day he wrote to Bram Stoker that there was in his “machine-enterprise” a “hitch so serious as to make it take to itself the aspect of a dissolved dream.”13 It was at this time that he wrote “The Derelict,” a set of verses that are purportedly the mutterings of a mindless almshouse inmate who thinks of himself as a storm-beaten hulk adrift on the sea, “friendless, forlorn, and forgotten.”14 The ship of fortune had become an abandoned wreck that would never make port.

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Probably it was at about this time that he first planned the dream-of-disaster story. On 2 January 1895, he wrote a most revealing letter to Rogers:

In the themes here touched upon—the man of great fortune whose luck deserts him, the dream extending over a period of years, the voyage of disaster—there are portents of much that is to be found in Mark Twain's writings of the following period. In all probability the book planned at just this time was to contain such elements. And apparently it was this “first rate subject for a book” that he confided to William Dean Howells after returning to the United States in the next month, and that he later identified in a letter to Howells of 16 August 1898: in that letter he spoke of being again at work on a version of the story that he had “mapped out in Paris three or four years ago” and had thereafter told him about “in New York under seal of confidence . . . the story to be called ‘Which [begin page 5] Was the Dream?’ ”17 It will be seen presently that he used this name in referring to several planned drafts of the tale of a calamitous voyage, which he thought of as variants of “Which Was the Dream?”

Although he had intended to take up his planned story directly after finishing Joan of Arc, he found little opportunity for further composition after completing that book in the spring of 1895. He was ill much of the time and was also increasingly occupied with preparations for the lecture tour around the world by which he would earn the money to pay his debts.18 Yet he was gathering impressions that would later find a place in the dream tale. When business took him to Hartford on 19 March (Susy's birthday), he visited the great house that had been the Clemens residence during seventeen more prosperous years but had been closed since 1891.19 The place had lately been rented to John and Alice Day. His letter of 20 March to his wife Olivia, who was still in Paris, tells of the impression that he received upon entering the house:

This homecoming fantasy became the story frame for the tale of disaster, in which the husband living happily at home with his wife and children would have a dream, lasting only a moment but seemingly filled with the tragic events of many years, after which he would awaken to find himself still at home with his family. The [begin page 6] ending as he planned it in several groups of working notes was to feature such an incident as the one in which “Mrs. Alice” had figured—and significantly the narrator's wife is named Alice or Alison in several of the drafts. In “The Great Dark,” for example, the husband's narrative was to conclude, “It is midnight—Alice and the children come to say good-night. I think them dreams. Think I am back home in a dream.”21 The extent to which this fantasy had taken hold of his imagination is further indicated in the same letter of 20 March—which is headed “At Home, Hartford”: “I was siezed with a furious desire to have us all in this house again & right away, & never go outside the grounds any more forever—certainly never again to Europe.”22 His desire became a sustained resolve. In a postscript added on the next day he said, “I have made up my mind to one thing: if we go around the world we will move into our house when we get back.”23 “At Home” was, moreover, the title that he gave to the platform address that he was soon delivering again and again; he carried the dream of homecoming around the world with him. But when he had nearly completed the long tour—he had reached London and was planning to bring the family together there—he received word of the death of Susy, of meningitis, on 18 August 1896. She had died in the Hartford home, where she had remained with “Mrs. Alice.” Susy and he had been extremely close, and to lose her was a catastrophe. And it is worth noting in what terms he later spoke of what her death meant to him:

The 18th of August brought me the awful tidings.24

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Susy's death had meant a ruined home. And after that terrible August it must have seemed to him that the house itself was likely to be destroyed. On 23 September he sent his business agent F. G. Whitmore a postcard of seven words: “Keep house insured. My luck is down.”25 Such forebodings were to find their way into the story that he now more than ever had reason to write. It is with the burning of the family home that the nightmare of disaster begins in both “Which Was the Dream?” and “Which Was It?” Before writing those manuscripts, however, he wrote two story fragments in which a burning ship figures as an alternate symbol for the loss of fortune—and of family.

In “The Passenger's Story,” which was probably written in the fall of 1896, a vessel is becalmed on the Indian Ocean. On board is a splendid St. Bernard dog, “just a darling” and “the pet of the whole crew.” When the ship catches fire one night, the dog rouses the sleeping deck-watch just before the flames reach some powder kegs. The lifeboat is quickly manned and all hands are saved—but not the dog. The captain has tied him to the mainmast, saying, “He'd be more in the way than a family of children—and he can eat as much as a family of children, too.”26 In the other fragment, “The Enchanted Sea-Wilderness,” the same incident is given fuller development. Again the darling and almost humanly intelligent dog rescues the ship's company but is left by the captain to burn; again—copied verbatim from the earlier draft—there is the captain's statement that the dog would have been as much in the way and would have eaten as much as a family of children. Susy, who had died of brain fever during an August heat wave, had almost literally burned up in the Hartford house; in the incident of the abandoned dog, he may have been projecting his sense of guilt for having left her behind while he traveled. “The Enchanted Sea- [begin page 8] Wilderness” begins with the ship “becalmed, away down south, dead summer time, middle of December, 1853,” as a result of “a judgment on the captain” for letting the dog perish. The captain has “had an idea that he was born lucky,” and for a time he refuses to believe that his luck has changed—until the ship is caught “in the whirl and suck of the Devil's Race-Track” and carried farther southward into a kind of Sargasso sea of the Antarctic called “The Everlasting Sunday,” a graveyard for sailing vessels.27

“The Enchanted Sea-Wilderness” was written while Mark Twain was at an early stage of his composition of Following the Equator, which he began on 24 October 1896;28 it was, in fact, written as a part of Chapter Four of the first volume and afterward omitted. Since he worked rather steadily on the travel book, he probably reached this point well before the end of 1896. That he continued to hold in mind the situation of the derelict vessels as one of great personal significance is suggested by what he wrote to his friend Joseph H. Twichell on 19 January 1897: “You have seen our whole voyage. You have seen us go to sea, a cloud of sail, and the flag at the peak; and you see us now, chartless, adrift—derelicts; battered, water-logged, our sails a ruck of rags, our pride gone.”29 A notebook entry of March 1897 is also of interest: he planned to use in a “Dream-tale” an incident concerning a “man . . . in deep trouble, busted, breaking for Australia in despair,” who an hour after sailing would find that he had someone else's satchel, containing a fortune in banknotes.30

After he had at last finished the writing of Following the Equator on 18 May, he made within the next five days some notes for the long-postponed story. He first sketched the beginning and ending frame:

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1853

1870

The story was to conclude with the homecoming fantasy that he had held in mind since his visit to the Hartford house in March 1895; however, the narrator's terrible dream, which he would believe to have lasted for seventeen years, was to make him a stranger in his own household at the moment of awakening. Other notes following those for the story frame gave the marriage date of the man and wife as 1846 and listed birth years for several children: two designated as “S” and “C” (suggesting Mark Twain's daughters Susy and Clara), born in 1847 and 1849; a third for whom the date was “ostensibly 1855.” The latter child was to be only imaginary, a part of the husband's fifteen-second dream. Further notes were for the sea-voyage portion of the dream: “Steve and little Ward, sailors”; “Paige Captain”; “Whitmore, supercargo (should be captain's equal, is snubbed and insulted by him).” F. G. Whitmore had warned at the time of the contract with Paige that its terms regarding the typesetter could bankrupt Mark Twain. Presumably the story as planned at this time was to include a voyage that would symbolically represent the experiences of his illstarred business venture.

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Immediately following these notes Mark Twain recorded, “May 23/97. Wrote first chapter of above story today.”32 What he had begun was almost certainly the manuscript which bears his title “Which Was the Dream?”33 The part that he then wrote may be found in the existing manuscript, in which it was incorporated, with some revisions, when he continued his composition several months later.34 Under the heading “1853,” as he had also begun his notebook entry, he started with the narrative of the husband, who had decided to please his wife Alice—“short for Alison”—by writing in shorthand the simple events of their lives. After recalling the time when they had been childhood sweethearts, aged five and eleven, he closed his chapter with the remark that their love “had stayed until this day and date, March 1, 1854. . . .” He took up the story again after locating for the summer at Weggis, beside Lake Lucerne in the Swiss Alps. At this time he preceded the husband's beginning with a statement “From Mrs. Alison X'.s Diary,” starting with the date to which the tale had already been carried: “March 1, 1854, morning.—It will be a busy day.” After showing the family at home, with preparations going forward for fancy dances and for a play to be presented by the children, he brought in the incident planned in the notes of 18–23 May. The wife, watching her husband at work with the pen, observed that “he fell asleep for a second and his nodding head drooped gradually down till his nose was right over the ascending film of cigar smoke. It woke him with a violent start and a sneeze, and he went straight on with his work again.”35 The first several chapters of the narrative of “Major General X” are to be understood as having [begin page 11] been written by him before his nodding and his dream of the fire and other disasters. He tells of happy years at West Point and of distinction in war, followed by still further “favors of fortune”: election to the Senate; the friendship of famous men; the clear prospect of being elected to the Presidency. Again his happy home life is stressed as he writes of his daughters, now called Jessie and Bessie. Most of his reminiscences are of the gifted Bessie; in effect, this part of the manuscript is a barely fictional memorial to Susy, one that parallels Mark Twain's eulogy in his Autobiography.36 Thereafter the dream begins; the house is found to be burning. Other disasters follow. It is discovered that the house was not insured and is a total loss. A trusted associate has been systematically robbing “X,” who is forced into bankruptcy. When “X” is charged with forgery, the shock of the experience causes him to lose consciousness. He afterward finds himself living with his family in an “unimaginably inexpensive log house” that has a huge fireplace; this dwelling was described in part from Mark Twain's remembrances of the farm home of his Uncle John Quarles near Hannibal, Missouri.37 “X” learns that he has been in a coma for a year and a half. He hears of the hardships met by his family during that time—and then the manuscript ends, incomplete.

The draft was thus abandoned before the dream-voyage part had been reached. However, extensive notes made on 22 August 1897 represent further planning of such a part of Which Was the Dream? They are phrased as the further narration of the fallen general, who is a passenger on a “new sailing vessel laden with imperishable provisions for Australia.” He is believed by the others to have committed crimes, which are ignored because of his rank, making him feel secretly ashamed: “Thus my disgrace soon passes from the children's memories . . . (Bessie in delirium is proud that certain distinctions are shown to ‘the General's daughter’).” But at least he is in a position of superior knowledge: of those aboard, only he and his family are no longer pursuing some vain dream of success. “Everybody but us is full to the lips of this world's ambitions (and the best and holiest of them are sordid and mean).” [begin page 12] The plan was still to have the ship get into the Devil's Race-Track, as in “The Enchanted Sea-Wilderness,” and be led into the trap of the Everlasting Sunday. One note reads, “Ballet troupe, pretty girls—manager wildly enthusiastic—going to storm Australia—practices them in full costume even after they get in the Race, so hard it is for him to give up his splendid dream.”38 The hopes of all were at length to give way to despair, followed by madness and finally by death: “The usual death in this ship is suicide. And they hunt up new and insane ways to do it.”39

The date of these entries marks a time of major planning for the group of intended books that Mark Twain was to work upon intermittently during the next few years. The first anniversary of Susy's death had come on 18 August, and his thoughts were full of that tragedy when on the morning of 22 August he wrote to Wayne MacVeagh, “Four days ago the anniversary of our unspeakable disaster came, and trailed its black shadow over us”; the calamity, he said, still seemed “not a reality, but a dream, which will pass,—must pass.” He reported that he had just finished correcting proof for Following the Equator and was ready for other work: “I have mapped out four books this morning, and will begin an emancipated life this afternoon, and shift back and forth among them.”40 Another letter of the same day is even more explicit: “I have begun four books; and by shifting from one to another of them according to the impulse of the day, I shall expect them to keep me entertained and recreated for the next three or four years. I don't mean to finish more than one per twelvemonth. There are five of them, in fact, but two of them are not for publication in my lifetime.”41 The two works then intended for posthumous publica- [begin page 13] tion were probably The Mysterious Stranger and What Is Man? One of the other books was obviously the dream-of-disaster tale for which he made notes on the same day. Either at that time or shortly afterward he also noted, “The Microscope and the Diatom”; “The Whale and the Infusoria”; “The General and the Cholera microbes.”42 Although these memoranda are without predication, they suggest that he may then have thought of using a microcosmic setting for the dream voyage. They look toward “The Great Dark,” written in the following year, which features a whaling ship and crew of microscopic proportions, sailing in a drop of water that is their ocean. The reference to cholera microbes may also be one hint of some early planning of “Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes,” in which the narrator is a cholera germ. Another entry made soon after the ones of 22 August 1897 more directly anticipates the story situation of that book: “The globe is a living creature, and the little stinking human race and the other animals are the vermin that infest it—the microbes.”43

As he had announced that he would do, he shifted back and forth in working upon his planned writings, as well as upon other incidental literary projects. He was still planning to write the dream-voyage story, for on 26 November 1897 he added to his notebook, “Remember the case of the bridegroom . . . leaning over the taffrail a black and stormy night (friends present) when the bowsprit of a passing vessel picked him off and he disappeared in the dark with a shriek? . . . Add it to ‘Which Was the Dream?’ ”44 On that same day, he was witnessing the historic uprising on the floor of the Austrian parliament, the Reichsrath, and recording impressions which afterward influenced the writing of The Mysterious Stranger. Near the end of 1897 he composed the first four and one-half chapters of the “Eseldorf” draft of The Mysterious Stranger, presenting the boy-angel Philip Traum, an unfallen nephew of Satan, as the sardonic observer of the crimes and follies of mankind. He thus began The Mysterious Stranger as [begin page 14] his first major creative effort after the book plannings of 22 August. After carrying the “Eseldorf” version to a length of some 12,000 words, he put it aside at about the time that he reported making “a shift into dramatic work”—in the middle of January 1898.45

A close comparison of the papers and inks that he was using for various manuscripts during the rest of the year indicates that it was probably late in the spring that he was again at work upon a version of the sea-voyage tale—this time one that he called “An Adventure in Remote Seas.”46 Again the ship was carried far south, into forbidding Antarctic seas; again there was a dream of fortune that was to turn into a nightmare of disaster: after finding a great treasure of gold coins upon a barren island, the crew were to learn that their ship had been carried away in a storm; that they were trapped on the island with no hope of escape; that their gold had no more real value than a phantom hoard. Mark Twain did not carry the manuscript very far, but in what he wrote one can find, in addition to some now outdated arguments for free silver coinage, elements of the conventional sea romance: a remote, treasure-laden island; a marooned crew. Probably it was after dropping work upon “An Adventure in Remote Seas” that he planned a draft of “Which Was the Dream?” that would have brought such elements into that story: “In Which Was the Dream? they find an island all of virgin gold. It is illegible yds long and 100 feet high. Many dead . . . [begin page 15] preserved by the cold and purity—had quarreled and fought before they knew they were prisoners for life. . . .”47

When Mark Twain used romantic themes, the urge to burlesque them was usually not far behind. He knew the books of W. Clark Russell, then one of the most successful writers of romantic sea novels. Several years earlier, in a fragmentary essay styled “Studies in Literary Criticism, Lecture IV, The Wreck of the Grosvenor,” he had touched upon the melodramatic aspects of Russell's fiction: “The crew rise and kill the captain and mate and take possession of the ship. Their leader is the carpenter, a treacherous and malignant rascal.”48 Such a carpenter leads an attempted mutiny in “The Great Dark.” And it appears that Mark Twain was led into the writing of that story by way of attempts to burlesque Russell's writings. Parodying the latter's Sailor's Language,49 he composed a comic “Glossary of Sea Terms,” containing such ludicrous definitions as “Stuns'l boom. Sound made by the stuns'l when it is functioning in rough weather.” All the listings had, he claimed, been “carefully examined by Mr. W. Clark Russell the best living expert in sea terminology.”50 Another fragment, written in the summer of 1898, presents a young mate who spews burlesque sea language in telling a tale that seems “taken detail by detail from one of Russell's enchanting descriptions.”51 In still another abortive draft, “Statement of Captain Murchison,” one Samuel L. Clemens ships aboard a sailing vessel as mate and promptly astonishes the [begin page 16] captain with his sea talk. He doesn't know a binnacle from a booby hatch but fancies himself an expert on nautical terminology and reveals that he is preparing a dictionary of it; he provides examples, taken from the glossary.52 “The Great Dark,”53 which presents the “Statement of Mr. Edwards” and includes much comic sea language, was probably begun not long after the writing of “Statement of Captain Murchison.”

The experience that most immediately prompted Mark Twain to begin “The Great Dark” was—if a notebook entry of 10 August 1898 can be taken literally—his own dream during the preceding night “of a whaling cruise in a drop of water.”54 The already mentioned letter of 16 August 1898 to Howells reveals that he had lately reread the story “mapped out in Paris . . . to be called ‘Which Was the Dream?’ ” and had then hit upon a better plan; also, that he had been at work upon the new version for about a week—or from about the time that he had had his dream:

After using a story frame similar to the one for “Which Was the Dream?” he did play for humorous effects in “The Great Dark.” His narrator speaks of the “mizzen foretop halyards” (rather like referring to a basement penthouse), describes one sailor as “asleep on the binnacle” and another as “bending on a scuttle-butt,” confuses “Top-sail haul” with “Topsails all,” and commits numerous other blunders. Then there is the mate's story of the captain [begin page 17] who took the pledge just before a long, cold voyage and was thereby restrained from the use of warming spirits, even though his mouth watered for them so much that his “every cuss word come out damp, and froze solid as it fell.” There is also the episode in which the mate Turner is a butt for the practical jokes of the invisible Superintendent of Dreams, who keeps drinking his coffee.

After writing these comic episodes, Mark Twain then turned to the question of the role and function of the dream mind. In writing to Howells of the new version that was to be half or three-fourths comedy, he had also commented, “If you should see a little short story in a magazine in the autumn called ‘My Platonic Sweetheart’ (written 3 weeks ago), that is not this one. It may have been a suggester, though.” No doubt it was, for the “story” was in part a layman's treatise on the psychology of dreams; he later decided to withhold it from publication because it was “neither fish, flesh nor fowl.”56 He was particularly interested in the relationship of the conscious and the unconscious levels of the mind, which he personified as the waking self and the dream self. His reading on the subject had included William James's The Principles of Psychology, Sir John Adams's Herbartian Psychology,57 and Georg Christoph Lichtenberg's writings on dreams. The views of Lichtenberg must especially have interested him, for that eighteenth-century mathematician and psychologist believed that a dream of a moment's duration might appear to last for many years; he also regarded dream experiences as real events, in the sense of their being “also a life and a world.”58 Moreover, he held that “a man can really never know whether he isn't sitting in a madhouse.”59 In his working notes Mark Twain planned to have his narrator quote Lichtenberg to convince his wife of the possibility of confusing dream and reality. Conceivably, the ideas of Lichtenberg also [begin page 18] prompted him to introduce a character called “The Mad Passenger” a few pages before the end of Book I; he wrote twenty-five manuscript pages concerning him but later cut them out of the story (see “The Mad Passenger” in the Appendix).

To account for the Mad Passenger's presence, he made use of the incident of the man snatched from the taffrail of his ship by the bowsprit of another vessel, which he had noted during November 1897 as material to be added to “Which Was the Dream?” Its appearance in a variant of “The Great Dark” confirms that he thought of this later narrative as another draft of the earlier one. And another of the notes, one on page 74 verso of the holograph, indicates that he thought of “The Passenger's Story” and “The Enchanted Sea-Wilderness” also as precursors of the same story: there is a reference to the time “2 years ago when the Dog-Tale Man had his accident” and a remark that “he and 2 or 3 others are still of this crew, but believed to be a shingle off.” The Dog-Tale Man presumably was the sailor who had told of the heroic dog left on the burning ship. Probably Mark Twain regarded all of the drafts of the voyage-of-disaster tale as his successive attempts to bring to completion one literary work.

After cutting out the Mad Passenger episode, he made revisions in the earlier part of “The Great Dark,” working out the inversion of dream and reality in terms of the narrator's own mental processes rather than those of another character. By the new plan Edwards's remembrances of life on earth were to be fading impressions of dream visits to an unreal place, whereas the recollections of his shipboard life were to remain strong and convincing. Some further changes were made to work out a way of having his wife share his dream memories. The Superintendent of Dreams was to have taken her to the dream place of earth on many occasions. As the story stands with these revisions, Alice remembers their home in Springport, the story equivalent of the Hartford residence, but only as a dream home; before revision, she had not remembered it at all. Apparently Mark Twain decided to make such changes when he was about at the point of finishing Book I.

In Book II he began to move toward the intended tragic outcome. But although he had a horrendous kraken-like monster [begin page 19] attack the ship and so frighten the crew that they became ready to mutiny, he never actually wrote the tragedy that he had planned in his notes. At the time of the most determined attempt of the mutineers to take over the ship, the captain, who in Book I has been a rather weak man, suddenly becomes a forceful leader of the type of Captain Ned Wakeman—Mark Twain's Captain Stormfield.60 After subduing the rebellious crewmen, he makes a moving speech to them, ending on a note of high courage:

With this Odyssean speech (which has also an echoing of Huckleberry Finn's strong “All right, then, I'll go to hell!”62), the manuscript breaks off. The last part of “The Great Dark,” as written, expresses strength and hope, rather than futility and despair.

His latest intention for a tragic finale is probably represented in a notebook passage of 21–22 September 1898, which is discussed in another section of this volume—in a note on the text of “The Great Dark.” After a series of disasters, including the death of two of the Edwards children, the concluding part of the narrative frame was to be used at the time of the husband's awakening: “Looks up—is at home—his wife and the children coming to say goodnight. His hair is white.”63 There is no indication that he ever did any more work upon the story after making these notes. About two months later he was at work upon another draft of The Mysterious [begin page 20] Stranger. In the earlier “Eseldorf” version he had used an Austrian locale; he now laid the scene in Hannibal. This attempt too he abandoned, after writing about 15,000 words.64

Thereafter, probably in the spring of the following year, he started a new version of the dream-of-disaster story in which the dream events were to take place not on a voyage but in a village resembling Hannibal. It will be recalled that before dropping work upon “Which Was the Dream?” he had introduced such a setting. This time the locale was to be a midwestern hamlet named Indiantown. The writing of the long manuscript “Which Was It?” —a loosely constructed, partly finished novel that used the Indian-town setting—occupied him from time to time between 1899 and 1903. He wrote much of the first 215 pages while staying in Sanna, Sweden, where his daughter Jean was in 1899 undergoing osteopathic therapy for epilepsy. The family went to Sanna in July of that year. Mark Twain made occasional business trips to London, and it is possible to identify parts of the manuscript that he very likely wrote at those times—on a kind of paper used for other writing done in London but quite different from what he was regularly using at Sanna. A preliminary sketch of the setting and characters for “Which Was It?” is on the London paper and was probably written there (it refers to conditions “in London to-day” and also mentions the Thames). This manuscript, “Indiantown,” includes some pages of an earlier pencil draft and also some penciled notes that read, “Fairfax. He saves and protects Pomp”; “Boy-quarrel (?) with George”; “Fight with Ferguson.”65 An incident involving Fairfax and Ferguson is described in the Autobiography: the aristocratic Lord Fairfax, a friend of the Clemenses of the southern branch of the family, had one day been insulted by a “pestilent creature named Ferguson” and had knocked him down:

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The pencil draft shows that he was beginning to make fiction of this incident. And in “Which Was It?” Squire Fairfax horsewhips the surly, revenge-minded Jake Bleeker after the latter has accosted him on the street in an insolent manner. The episode initiates the main sequence of actions, leading to the murder of Bleeker by the highly respected George Harrison—under circumstances that make the squire appear guilty of the crime. Harrison, having robbed and then killed in attempting to get money to save the family estate, maintains an anguished silence when Fairfax is accused. As the narrator, he tells the story of his own cowardice. Mark Twain had long intended writing such a story. In 1879 he jotted in his notebook this idea: “The Autobiography of a Coward. Make him hideously but unconsciously base and pitiful and contemptible.”67 And in a letter to his brother Orion Clemens written on 26 February 1880 he spoke of two books he had long intended to write, “The Autobiography of a Coward” and “Confessions of a Life That Was a Failure.” One plan, he said, would be to “tell the story of an abject coward who is unconscious that he is a coward.”68 Significantly, in an early set of working notes for “Which Was It?” he wrote, “George is always unconsciously illustrating Selfishness.”69 A weak man tempted beyond his limit, Harrison furnishes by his evasions and rationalizations an extended exemplum for a [begin page 22] text on cowardly selfishness: his story is in part a fictional analogue of What Is Man?

The greater part of the manuscript was written between 1900 and 1902. The paper of this part of over 400 pages is that of the “Par Value” tablet stock Clemens used from the time of his return to the United States in the fall of 1900 until about the middle of 1904. The initial story frame, which again is similar to the one he had devised for “Which Was the Dream?,” is on this paper and probably was not added to the manuscript until he took it up again —after having written the first 215 pages. By 1902 he had carried the book far enough to be thinking of marketing it. In August of that year he noted “Which Was It?” as a work “to be serialized in a weekly”70 and then brought out as a book. But he did not go on to complete the story. Had he done so, the outcome would have been much as he had planned it for the dream tale in earlier versions. When he was far along in his composition, he noted regarding Harrison and his wife Alison (who had been together in their beautiful mansion before his momentary dream and his narrative):

He did not reach this ending, in which the husband would have found himself “at home.” He probably did a little more work on the manuscript in 1903; at least, his notation of 30 May 1903 on a typescript copy shows that he looked over what he had thus far written.

It was also in the spring of 1903 that the Hartford home, which had been the focus of Mark Twain's homecoming fantasy, was [begin page 23] sold. The dream of living there again as a family could never be realized—and perhaps could not be written. Yet even in 1904, in the final weeks and days and moments of Olivia's life, the dream of home was in their thoughts and on their lips. Her death came on June 5, in Florence, where they had located for her health in the preceding fall. Three days later he wrote to Twichell that, at Olivia's urging, they had been “hunting for a villa,” and “always with an option to buy,” for “she wanted a home—a home of her own; . . . was tired and wanted rest, and could not rest and be in comfort and peace while she was homeless.”72 Later in the year he recalled the last moments spent with his wife:

After a “glad half-hour,” he said, there came “the most perfect expression of her love for me within my whole knowledge of her.”74 The dream of homecoming must have seemed almost a reality to Mark Twain as well as to Livy at that moment, but it was, of course, a fantasy. The homelessness was the reality. About two weeks later, on 19 June, he described himself as “a man without a country,” explaining, “Wherever Livy was, that was my country. And now she is gone.”75

It was at about this time that he composed the concluding chapter for The Mysterious Stranger, in which the narrator finds at the last that he is but “a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!”76 In this conclusion there is a negation of the idea of homecoming that he had been associating with the dream tale, for there is to be no awakening from the dream. The dream, for all of its nightmarish content, is all there is: “Life itself is only a vision, a dream.”77 What could now offer [begin page 24] solace was not the thought of an awakening from the fantasy of disaster to the reality of family joys, but the idea that there were no realities. On 28 July 1904 he wrote to Twichell, who had, he remembered, been asking how “life and the world—the past and the future” were looking to him; he replied:

In 1905, having returned to America after Livy's death, he spent a lonely spring and summer at Dublin, New Hampshire, filling the days by dictating his autobiography and by writing. The book that he began shortly after reaching Dublin on 20 May was “Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes,” in which he presented a satirical view of the human situation that had been in his thoughts for many years. In August 1884 he had written, “I think we are only the microscopic trichina concealed in the blood of some vast creature's veins, and it is that vast creature whom God concerns Himself about and not us.”79 Some twelve years later, he expressed a similar concept in Following the Equator:

It has been mentioned that in the summer of 1897 he made some memoranda relevant to the “microbe story” that he had probably begun to plan. Similarly, in the fall of 1898, following the notebook entries of 21–22 September for the ending of “The Great Dark,” he wrote, “The Microbe-God,” and, after that phrase, “bacillus dream.”81 At that time he perhaps considered adapting such matter to his dream tale, in which—as he had recently been writing it —things were already on a microscopic scale. When he finally came to the writing of “Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes,” however, he did not present it as the narrator's dream, from which he was later to awaken. Rather, the narrator has at the beginning awakened into another existence. Although he sometimes dreams of his human past, he knows that outside of dreams there can be no return to his former life. It is, as Mark Twain's biographer Albert Bigelow Paine described it, a “fantastic tale . . . , the autobiography of a microbe that had been once a man, and through a failure in a biological experiment transformed into a cholera germ when the experimenter was trying to turn him into a bird. His habitat was the person of a disreputable tramp named Blitzowski, a human continent of vast areas, with seething microbic nations. . . .”82

In this bizarre narrative Mark Twain was still attempting to use his early recollections of Hannibal which had for so long served as the matrix of his creative work. But these Hannibalesque aspects are in some instances curiously disguised or transformed. For example, the narrator, whose microbic name is Bkshp, eventually becomes known by the nickname “Huck”; this “buried” identification is made only after the story is well in progress.83 And there is a further, hidden tie between the names “Huck” and Bkshp. The [begin page 26] latter name is represented to be the narrator's earthly name rendered into “microbic orthography.” Actually, Bkshp appears to be a coding of “Blankenship,” the name of the Hannibal boy who was a childhood acquaintance of Samuel Clemens and who later served as the real-life model for Huckleberry Finn: “In Huckleberry Finn I have drawn Tom Blankenship exactly as he was,”84 Mark Twain has stated in the Autobiography. That Bkshp indeed signifies “Blankenship” appears the more probable when the name as spelled in the text is collated with the variant form that appears in a preliminary draft of the title page: “Blkshp.” Moreover, the drunken tramp who is the planet of the microbes contains “rivers (veins and arteries)” that “make the Mississippi . . . trifling . . . by comparison.”85 “Huck” Bkshp, who exists within Blitzowski, is in circumstances like those described in the note of August 1884: he is a germ “concealed in the blood of some vast creature's veins.”86 That note, incidentally, was made during the time that Mark Twain was preparing Huckleberry Finn for publication.87 It is interesting to find this hint that a character such as Blitzowski, the cosmic Pap Finn in whose Mississippi-like veins a Huckian germ would one day be hidden, had in effect been conceived at that time.

“Huck” has, like Huckleberry Finn, the imagination of disaster: reflecting that “D. T. will fetch Blitzy” before long, bringing about the destruction of the microbes' world and of its inhabitants, he asks, “My molecules would scatter all around and take up new quarters . . . , but where should I be?” Facing the prospect of his own dissolution, he muses upon what it will be like to lie helplessly watching his “faculties decay and depart, one by one, like lights which burn low, and flicker, and perish,” then exclaims, “oh, away, away with these horrors, and let me think of something wholesomer!”88 This fantasy of disaster is, however, but one part of [begin page 27] a very loosely plotted story that is a vehicle for Mark Twain's views on many subjects.

His letters reveal that by June 11 he had reached page 240 of the manuscript and that he continued his writing until about 23 June.89 Soon afterward he shifted to further work upon the “Print Shop” version of The Mysterious Stranger, and there is no indication that he ever did any further work on the microbe story.

During the summer of 1906 he was again at Dublin but did much less work with the pen. In his autobiographical dictation of 30 August 1906 he spoke of the books which he had left incomplete. It had, he said, been four years since he had last taken up work upon “Which Was It?”; he could, he felt sure, “take up that book and write the other half of it without a break or any lapse of interest,” but he would not do so: “The pen is irksome to me. . . . I am quite sure I shall never touch a pen again; therefore that book will remain unfinished—a pity, too, for the idea of it is (actually) new and would spring a handsome surprise upon the reader at the end.”90 He did not describe the surprise that he had in mind, but went on to speak of his other incomplete manuscripts:

[begin page 28]

“The Refuge of the Derelicts” was probably the title that he would have given to the voyage-of-disaster book if he had completed it. The other books are clearly identified, and it is evident that he was losing his intention of completing them. His last available word upon the matter may be his memorandum of 30 April 1909: referring to “four or five novels on hand at present in a half-finished condition,” he said, “It is more than three years since I have looked at any of them. I have no intention of finishing them.”92

It should not be assumed that he regarded the work upon these unfinished drafts as wasted effort. During his world tour, he had told a reporter for the Bombay Gazette, “I like literary work for its own sake, and I am sorry that I did not make time to write, and not to publish. I should like to have half-a-dozen works in manuscript just for the pleasure of writing them.”93 He made these comments in January 1896. Within the next ten years, or for as long as he still enjoyed work with the pen, he did find time “to write, and not to publish.” The books that he left incomplete represent a substantial fulfillment of one of his latest literary aspirations. He wrote them to please, first of all, himself, but they will also be of interest to both the scholar and the general reader. Although they were dreamed in the wake of disaster, they were written by a Mark Twain who even in a time of declining powers had, as Howells knew, almost the best talk in the world still in him.

The texts here presented have been transcribed from the holographs which are in the Mark Twain Papers at the General Library of the University of California at Berkeley. The aim has been to provide a reliable and readable text which represents Mark Twain's final intention insofar as it can be determined. For several of the selections there are typescripts which were revised by him in whole or in part; these have been taken into consideration. Further discussion of the times of composition of the manuscripts, sources [begin page 29] used by Mark Twain, and other relevant matters will be found in the editor's headnotes for the selections. Major variants have been presented in an Appendix. Important cancellations and insertions are discussed in the notes; in keeping with the editorial policy for the Mark Twain Papers series, there has been no attempt to record all minor changes, which would have clogged the volume with matter of little value even to specialists. Misspellings have been corrected, except when they are intentional, as in representing dialectal speech. Idiosyncratic spellings such as “to-day” and British spellings such as “centre” have, if consistently used, been retained. Ampersands have been spelled out as “and.” Because Mark Twain's handwriting sometimes makes no clear distinction between capital and small letters, the normal usage of his period has been followed. A few indecisive punctuation marks—for example, dashes at the ends of sentences—have been regularized. Otherwise, his punctuation has been closely followed, for he expected as much. He once wrote of a proofreader who had taken the liberty of changing many of his marks, “Conceive of this tumble-bug interesting himself in my punctuation.”94 Although Mark Twain may not now be among the living, his editors can afford to be careful.