The $30,000 Bequest, and Other Stories Page 23

  A HELPLESS SITUATION

  Once or twice a year I get a letter of a certain pattern, a pattern thatnever materially changes, in form and substance, yet I cannot get usedto that letter--it always astonishes me. It affects me as the locomotivealways affects me: I say to myself, "I have seen you a thousand times,you always look the same way, yet you are always a wonder, and you arealways impossible; to contrive you is clearly beyond human genius--youcan't exist, you don't exist, yet here you are!"

  I have a letter of that kind by me, a very old one. I yearn to print it,and where is the harm? The writer of it is dead years ago, no doubt, andif I conceal her name and address--her this-world address--I am sureher shade will not mind. And with it I wish to print the answer whichI wrote at the time but probably did not send. If it went--which is notlikely--it went in the form of a copy, for I find the original stillhere, pigeonholed with the said letter. To that kind of letters we allwrite answers which we do not send, fearing to hurt where we have nodesire to hurt; I have done it many a time, and this is doubtless a caseof the sort.

  THE LETTER

  X------, California, JUNE 3, 1879.

  Mr. S. L. Clemens, HARTFORD, CONN.:

  Dear Sir,--You will doubtless be surprised to know who has presumed towrite and ask a favor of you. Let your memory go back to your days inthe Humboldt mines--'62-'63. You will remember, you and Clagett andOliver and the old blacksmith Tillou lived in a lean-to which washalf-way up the gulch, and there were six log cabins in the camp--strungpretty well separated up the gulch from its mouth at the desert to wherethe last claim was, at the divide. The lean-to you lived in was the onewith a canvas roof that the cow fell down through one night, as toldabout by you in _Roughing It_--my uncle Simmons remembers it very well.He lived in the principal cabin, half-way up the divide, along withDixon and Parker and Smith. It had two rooms, one for kitchen and theother for bunks, and was the only one that had. You and your partywere there on the great night, the time they had dried-apple-pie, UncleSimmons often speaks of it. It seems curious that dried-apple-pieshould have seemed such a great thing, but it was, and it shows how farHumboldt was out of the world and difficult to get to, and how slim theregular bill of fare was. Sixteen years ago--it is a long time. I was alittle girl then, only fourteen. I never saw you, I lived in Washoe. ButUncle Simmons ran across you every now and then, all during those weeksthat you and party were there working your claim which was like therest. The camp played out long and long ago, there wasn't silver enoughin it to make a button. You never saw my husband, but he was there afteryou left, _and lived in that very lean-to_, a bachelor then but marriedto me now. He often wishes there had been a photographer there inthose days, he would have taken the lean-to. He got hurt in the old HalClayton claim that was abandoned like the others, putting in a blast andnot climbing out quick enough, though he scrambled the best he could.It landed him clear down on the train and hit a Piute. For weeks theythought he would not get over it but he did, and is all right, now. Hasbeen ever since. This is a long introduction but it is the only wayI can make myself known. The favor I ask I feel assured your generousheart will grant: Give me some advice about a book I have written. I donot claim anything for it only it is mostly true and as interesting asmost of the books of the times. I am unknown in the literary world andyou know what that means unless one has some one of influence (likeyourself) to help you by speaking a good word for you. I would like toplace the book on royalty basis plan with any one you would suggest.

  This is a secret from my husband and family. I intend it as a surprisein case I get it published.

  Feeling you will take an interest in this and if possible write me aletter to some publisher, or, better still, if you could see them for meand then let me hear.

  I appeal to you to grant me this favor. With deepest gratitude I thinkyou for your attention.

  One knows, without inquiring, that the twin of that embarrassing letteris forever and ever flying in this and that and the other directionacross the continent in the mails, daily, nightly, hourly, unceasingly,unrestingly. It goes to every well-known merchant, and railway official,and manufacturer, and capitalist, and Mayor, and Congressman, andGovernor, and editor, and publisher, and author, and broker, andbanker--in a word, to every person who is supposed to have "influence."It always follows the one pattern: "You do not know me, _but you onceknew a relative of mine,_" etc., etc. We should all like to help theapplicants, we should all be glad to do it, we should all like to returnthe sort of answer that is desired, but--Well, there is not a thing wecan do that would be a help, for not in any instance does that latterever come from anyone who _can _be helped. The struggler whom you _could_help does his own helping; it would not occur to him to apply to you,stranger. He has talent and knows it, and he goes into his fight eagerlyand with energy and determination--all alone, preferring to be alone.That pathetic letter which comes to you from the incapable, theunhelpable--how do you who are familiar with it answer it? What do youfind to say? You do not want to inflict a wound; you hunt ways to avoidthat. What do you find? How do you get out of your hard place with acontent conscience? Do you try to explain? The old reply of mine to sucha letter shows that I tried that once. Was I satisfied with the result?Possibly; and possibly not; probably not; almost certainly not. I havelong ago forgotten all about it. But, anyway, I append my effort:

  THE REPLY

  I know Mr. H., and I will go to him, dear madam, if upon reflection youfind you still desire it. There will be a conversation. I know the formit will take. It will be like this:

  MR. H. How do her books strike you?

  MR. CLEMENS. I am not acquainted with them.

  H. Who has been her publisher?

  C. I don't know.

  H. She _has _one, I suppose?

  C. I--I think not.

  H. Ah. You think this is her first book?

  C. Yes--I suppose so. I think so.

  H. What is it about? What is the character of it?

  C. I believe I do not know.

  H. Have you seen it?

  C. Well--no, I haven't.

  H. Ah-h. How long have you known her?

  C. I don't know her.

  H. Don't know her?

  C. No.

  H. Ah-h. How did you come to be interested in her book, then?

  C. Well, she--she wrote and asked me to find a publisher for her, andmentioned you.

  H. Why should she apply to you instead of me?

  C. She wished me to use my influence.

  H. Dear me, what has _influence _to do with such a matter?

  C. Well, I think she thought you would be more likely to examine herbook if you were influenced.

  H. Why, what we are here _for _is to examine books--anybody's bookthat comes along. It's our _business_. Why should we turn away a bookunexamined because it's a stranger's? It would be foolish. No publisherdoes it. On what ground did she request your influence, since you do notknow her? She must have thought you knew her literature and could speakfor it. Is that it?

  C. No; she knew I didn't.

  H. Well, what then? She had a reason of _some _sort for believing youcompetent to recommend her literature, and also under obligations to doit?

  C. Yes, I--I knew her uncle.

  H. Knew her _uncle_?

  C. Yes.

  H. Upon my word! So, you knew her uncle; her uncle knows her literature;he endorses it to you; the chain is complete, nothing further needed;you are satisfied, and therefore--

  C._ No_, that isn't all, there are other ties. I know the cabin heruncle lived in, in the mines; I knew his partners, too; also I camenear knowing her husband before she married him, and I _did _know theabandoned shaft where a premature blast went off and he went flyingthrough the air and clear down to the trail and hit an Indian in theback with almost fatal consequences.

  H. To _him_, or to the Indian?

  C. She didn't say which it was.

  H. (_With a sigh_). It certainly beats the band! You don't know _her_,you d
on't know her literature, you don't know who got hurt when theblast went off, you don't know a single thing for us to build anestimate of her book upon, so far as I--

  C. I knew her uncle. You are forgetting her uncle.

  H. Oh, what use is_ he_? Did you know him long? How long was it?

  C. Well, I don't know that I really knew him, but I must have met him,anyway. I think it was that way; you can't tell about these things, youknow, except when they are recent.

  H. Recent? When was all this?

  C. Sixteen years ago.

  H. What a basis to judge a book upon! As first you said you knew him,and now you don't know whether you did or not.

  C. Oh yes, I know him; anyway, I think I thought I did; I'm perfectlycertain of it.

  H. What makes you think you thought you knew him?

  C. Why, she says I did, herself.

  H._ She_ says so!

  C. Yes, she does, and I _did _know him, too, though I don't remember itnow.

  H. Come--how can you know it when you don't remember it.

  C. _I_ don't know. That is, I don't know the process, but I_ do_ knowlots of things that I don't remember, and remember lots of things that Idon't know. It's so with every educated person.

  H. (_After a pause_). Is your time valuable?

  C. No--well, not very.

  H. Mine is.

  So I came away then, because he was looking tired. Overwork, I reckon; Inever do that; I have seen the evil effects of it. My mother was alwaysafraid I would overwork myself, but I never did.

  Dear madam, you see how it would happen if I went there. He would askme those questions, and I would try to answer them to suit him, and hewould hunt me here and there and yonder and get me embarrassed moreand more all the time, and at last he would look tired on account ofoverwork, and there it would end and nothing done. I wish I could beuseful to you, but, you see, they do not care for uncles or any of thosethings; it doesn't move them, it doesn't have the least effect, theydon't care for anything but the literature itself, and they as good asdespise influence. But they do care for books, and are eager to get themand examine them, no matter whence they come, nor from whose pen. If youwill send yours to a publisher--any publisher--he will certainly examineit, I can assure you of that.