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[89] === “In Old Bohemia” (1908) Charles Warren Stoddard During the winter of 1873–74, Charles Warren Stoddard, one of the so-called Golden State Trinity (along with Harte and Ina Coolbrith [1841–1928] in the late 1860s), worked as Twain’s private secretary. Stoddard later reminisced about these months. when i was with Mark Twain in London . . . Mark found the London fog indigestible and six lectures a week at the Queen’s Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, a burden. . . . About three o’clock of each afternoon—barring Sunday, which was a day of rest—Mark would begin to dread the approach of eight when he had to face a stolid British audience sitting up to its neck in the fog that had followed it into the hall. . . . As soon as Mark found himself before an audience he was absolutely at his ease; so were those who listened to him. Of course there was handshaking and albums to be written in after each lecture, but by the time Mark and I, and often Dolby,1 had returned to the Langham Hotel the lecturer was in his glory, for there was a night and a day between him and his next appearance on the rostrum. Our rooms were delightful; the fog was shut out of them; a cheerful English fireside is something never to be forgotten and I shall never forget that one. Perhaps just by way of opening the evening’s entertainment Mark would go to the piano and, to his own accompaniment, sing in a very rich and musical voice some old negro melody, such as “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” It was a joy to hear him and I did not have to be paid to listen. Presently Mark would wander with a careless or unconscious air over to a table in the large reception room and begin to rearrange certain glasses, spoons, etc., that were always waiting there. A diligent search through London had resulted in the collection of ingredients almost unknown in the England of that day and certainly not generally recognized by the natives of the country. twain in his own time [90] We gathered by the fireside, he and I—that sounds like the opening line of some half-forgotten melody—a song of good fellowship and the merry days of yore. Mark brought with him two dainty glasses brimming with a delicately-tinted liquid. The glasses were equally divided between us. We drank in silence and were supremely happy for some moments. Then Mark, arousing from a revery, would turn to me and say in that mellow, slowly-flowing voice of his: “Now you make one, Charlie.” With genuine embarrassment I would protest. I used to say: “Mark, you know that I cannot make one: I never could. It is not an art that can be acquired. It is a gift, a birthright, and there are not many who are so richly endowed as you. There is no recipe in the wide, wide world that even followed religiously would come within a thousand miles of that you lately offered me. Even if you were to stand over me with a club and tell me exactly what to do and I did just as you told me, the result would not be worthy of being mentioned in the same day with yours.” Then Mark—persuasively—“O! don’t be afraid: I’ll stand by you. If at first you don’t succeed try, try again. Come now—it’s your turn.” With fear and trembling I’d make an effort. Mark’s reverie was longer than usual after I had done my best. I watched him furtively out of the corner of my eye, for I loved him and coveted his respect. Presently, as if arousing from a bad dream, he’d spring from his chair and gathering our glasses murmur, “Your’s was so damned bad I’ll have to make another one to take the taste out of my mouth.” That was a happy thought of his: I needed a disinfectant as much as he did—but the end was not yet. He had hopes of me: he believed that eventually I might become the worthy apostle of a past master like himself. Again and again I’d try, but his verdict was ever the same. When my humiliation began to curdle my blood, and my depression of spirit was such that I could no longer disguise it, he would turn suddenly upon me and...

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