The Autobiography of Mark Twain by Mark Twain (good book recommendations .TXT) 📕

thing, now; for this acquaintance of mine was manifestly a Joan enthusiast, and as he had plenty of money and nothing to do but spend it, I took at par his remark that he had employed the most competent person in Great Britain to open this long-neglected mine and confer its riches upon the public. When he asked me to write an Introduction for the book, my pleasure was complete, my vanity satisfied.

At this moment, by good fortune, there chanced to fall into my hands a biographical sketch of me of so just and laudatory a character⁠—particularly as concerned one detail⁠—that it gave my spirit great contentment; and also set my head to swelling⁠—I will not deny it. For it contained praises of the very thing which I most loved to hear praised⁠—the good quality of my English; moreover, they were uttered by four English and American literary experts of high authority.

I am as fond of compliments as another, and as hard to satisfy as the average; but these satisfied me. I was as pleased as you would have been if they had been paid to you.

It was under the inspiration of that great several-voiced verdict that I set about that Introduction for Mr. X’s book; and I said to myself that I would put a quality of English into it which would establish the righteousness of that judgment. I said I would treat the subject with the reverence and dignity due it; and would use plain, simple English words, and a phrasing undefiled by meretricious artificialities and affectations.

I did the work on those lines; and when it was finished I said to myself very privately⁠ ⁠…

But never mind. I delivered the MS. to Mr. X, and went home to wait for the praises. On the way I met a friend. Being in a happy glow over this pleasant matter, I could not keep my secret. I wanted to tell somebody, and I told him. For a moment he stood curiously measuring me up and down with his eye, without saying anything; then he burst into a rude, coarse laugh, which hurt me very much. He followed this up by saying:

“He is going to edit the translations of the Trials when it is finished? He?”

“He said he would.”

“Why, what does he know about editing?”

“I don’t know; but that is what he said. Do you think he isn’t competent?”

“Competent? He is innocent, vain, ignorant, good-hearted, redheaded, and all that⁠—there isn’t a better-meaning man; but he doesn’t know anything about literature and has had no literary training or experience; he can’t edit anything.”

“Well, all I know is, he is going to try.”

“Indeed he will! He is quite unconscious of his incapacities; he would undertake to edit Shakespeare, if invited⁠—and improve him, too. The world cannot furnish his match for guileless self-complacency; yet I give you my word he doesn’t know enough to come in when it rains.”

This gentleman’s ability to judge was not to be questioned. Therefore, by the time I reached home I had concluded to ask Mr. X not to edit the translation, but to turn that work over to some expert whose name on the title page would be valuable.

Three days later Mr. X brought my Introduction to me, neatly typecopied. He was in a state of considerable enthusiasm, and said:

“Really I find it quite good⁠—quite, I assure you.”

There was an airy and patronizing complacency about this damp compliment which affected my head and healthfully checked the swelling which was going on there.

I said, with cold dignity, that I was glad the work had earned his approval.

“Oh, it has, I assure you!” he answered, with large cheerfulness. “I assure you it quite has. I have gone over it very thoroughly, yesterday and last night and today, and I find it quite creditable⁠—quite. I have made a few corrections⁠—that is, suggestions, and⁠—”

“Do you mean to say that you have been ed⁠—”

“Oh, nothing of consequence, nothing of consequence, I assure you,” he said, patting me on the shoulder and genially smiling; “only a few little things that needed just a mere polishing touch⁠—nothing of consequence, I assure you. Let me have it back as soon as you can, so that I can pass it on to the printers and let them get to work on it while I am editing the translation.”

I sat idle and alone, a time, thinking grieved thoughts, with the edited Introduction unopened in my hand. I could not look at it yet awhile. I had no heart for it, for my pride was deeply wounded. It was the only time I had been edited in thirty-two years, except by Mr. Howells, and he did not intrude his help, but furnished it at my request. “And now here is a half-stranger, obscure, destitute of literary training, destitute of literary experience, destitute of⁠—”

But I checked myself there; for that way lay madness. I must seek calm; for my self-respect’s sake I must not descend to unrefined personalities. I must keep in mind that this person was innocent of injurious intent and was honorably trying to do me a service. To feel harshly toward him, speak harshly of him⁠—this was not the right Christian spirit. These just thoughts tranquillized me and restored to me my better self, and I opened the Introduction at the middle.

I will not deny it, my feelings rose to 104 in the shade:

“The idea! That this long-eared animal⁠—this literary kangaroo⁠—this illiterate hostler, with his skull full of axle grease⁠—this⁠ ⁠…”

But I stopped there, for this was not the right Christian spirit.

I subjected myself to an hour of calming meditation, then carried the raped Introduction to that friend whom I have mentioned above and showed it to him. He fluttered the leaves over, then broke into another of those ill-bred laughs which are such a mar to him.

“I knew he would!” he said⁠—as if gratified. “Didn’t I tell you he would edit Shakespeare?”

“Yes, I know; but I did not suppose he would edit me.”

“Oh, you didn’t! Well, now you see that he is