SERIALIZATION OF “REBEL WITH A CAUSE: MARK TWAIN’S HIDDEN MEMOIRS” -- CHAPTER 40 (of 78)
Courtship of Livy (1867-1869)
Chapter 40
Courtship of Livy (1867-1869)
It is hard to imagine that it has been over forty years ago now since the time I heard Charles Dickens read in Steinway Hall, in New York. It was December 1867, and it made the fortune of my life—not in dollars, I am not thinking of dollars; it made the real fortune of my life in that it made the happiness of my life; on that day I called at the St. Nicholas Hotel to see my Quaker City excursion shipmate, Charley Langdon, and was introduced to a sweet and timid and lovely young girl, his sister—the same one whose ivory miniature I had seen in his stateroom during our trip abroad.
The entire Langdon family went to the Dickens reading and I accompanied them; from that day to this that sister and daughter has never been out of my mind or heart.
As for my part, it was love at first sight. The works in Livy’s heart were calibrated differently; they were set at a different speed. Livy was “above” me, socially. The society of which the Langdon family were a part was rarefied air for me. Who was I, a rough and uncouth product of the West and the backwoods of Missouri, to aspire to such an atmosphere and such company?
Then Burlingame’s advice to me—to always strive to climb—came to mind. And I admit that at the bottom of my heart I felt I was as good as any other potential suitor for Livy’s hand, but my trepidation in the matter arose from whether the others whose opinions could trump mine—Livy and her parents, particularly—would feel the same way I did about that.
My boldness in pursuing Livy as a marriage partner did not stem from a thought on my part that I really felt myself deserving of such a woman as Livy, but I was not going to deprive myself of the best I could get—whether I really deserved such a prize or not. I would never marry a lesser one just to “settle.” If not for Livy eventually accepting my suit, I probably would never have married at all. It was the best or nothing for me.
After visiting the Langdon family on whatever occasions I could contrive and invitations I could coerce from Charley, I proposed to Livy in September of 1868, but she declined, with thanks. Later in the year I tried again, and this time she at least confessed her love for me, but continued hesitant as to agreeing to marry me.
I could not blame her for her reluctance. Livy indeed had more to contribute to the union than I had—she was young, refined, cultured, innocent, and financially secure. Ten years her senior, I was approaching middle age—thirty-three—and was unrefined, uncouth, rough around the edges as a result of my upbringing in a country town and from my years in the west, and my future was at that point in my life by no means secure.
I had some notoriety and prospects, but would it all evaporate and vanish? I had not even written a book yet—disregarding the hastily-assembled and poorly-packaged collection featuring my villainous backwoods sketch about the jumping frog and other odds and ends.
To prove worthy of Livy—to her, her family, and to myself—I must show that I could support her in a manner appropriate to her upbringing. So, while I saw Livy as much as I could, I had to spend most of my time advancing my career as a writer and lecturer.
As I tramped about the country giving these lectures, I would send to Livy the review notices — that is, when they were flattering ones. I wanted to appear to her and the entire Langdon family as one who was on the rise, following an ascendant trajectory.
When Miss Langdon finally agreed to accept me—after hundreds of love letters, which I wrote to her every chance I got—I went to her father, and applied for the position of son-in-law. Mr. Langdon requested of me references. But I have already written of this in my autobiography. I refer you there for the details. Suffice it to say that the Langdons ultimately accepted me in spite of what my references had to say about me.
EDITOR’S NOTES: Twain’s “hastily-assembled and poorly-packaged collection” (The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County: And Other Sketches) was, in actuality, his first book, but he didn’t consider it as such because he thought it sloppily put together and poorly edited, and because the publisher—an ostensible friend—had bilked him of the proceeds he was due. He was so dissatisfied with the book that he asked Livy not to read it.
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As for Twain’s opinion that he was not good enough for Livy, he had written the following in a letter to “Mother” Mary Mason Fairbanks, a fellow passenger on the Quaker City, in late 1867:
“I want a good wife—I want a couple of them if they are particularly good. … But seriously again, if I were settled I would quit all nonsense & swindle some girl into marrying me. But I wouldn’t expect to be ‘worthy’ of her. I wouldn’t have a girl that I was worthy of. She wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t be respectable enough.”
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As for Livy’s initial rejection of Twain’s proposal, it was only to be expected at the time. Victorian ladies always declined a man’s first proposal of marriage, especially if her admirer had not yet cleared the matter with her parents.
Twain wrote more than 180 love letters to Livy (this is without counting those that he wrote to her after they married, during his frequent absences on lecture tours and attending to other business). Far from unimpressed with this attention, Livy kept and carefully numbered each one of these missives.
Here is an excerpt from one of them:
And to think that with all this exquisite comeliness should be joined such rare and beautiful qualities of mind and heart, is a thing that is utterly incomprehensible. Livy, you are as kind and good and sweet and unselfish and just, and truthful, and sensible and intellectual as the homeliest woman I ever saw (for you know that these qualities belong peculiarly to homely women.) I have so longed for these qualities in my wife, and have so grieved because she would have to be necessarily a marvel of ugliness—I who do so worship beauty.
But with a good fortune which is a very miracle, I have secured all these things in my little wife to be—and beauty—beauty beyond any beauty that I ever saw in a face before.
...
Why doesn’t John go to Emma anyhow, in defiance of her edict of banishment? I would. I would override a hundred thousand edicts of banishment. I would go to you over stacks of such edicts as high as the moon. I would go to you through hunger and thirst, disease, insult, death—everything. I would not stop for all the edicts that ever were penned. I would find you even though you hid in the caves of the earth and I would have you, though the Arch Fiend himself stood watch over you.
In another letter to Livy, Twain wrote:
Today I haven’t a thing to report, except that I love you; that I love you and think of you all the time, and do immensely admire you—your mind as much as your person; your character and spirit far and away above these qualities as existent in any other person whom I have ever known. I am notorious, but you are great—that is the difference between us. . . . With all my heart,
Yours, Sam’l
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Blackbird Crow Raven’s “Rebel With A Cause: Mark Twain’s Hidden Memoirs” is being serialized in this space on substack every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; it is also available in its entirety from here.