”His literature grew less and less, and his life more and more.”
William Dean Howells
In the twilight of his career, Twain was making visual what his friends had long accepted as factual — that he was one of a kind, an American original who would be talked about long after he was gone.
Millions of words have been written about Mark Twain’s life. He penned many of them himself. There is his posthumously published Autobiography, as well as all the memoir he scattered throughout various essays and books (Roughing It, Life on the Mississippi, etc.) To write a Mark Twain book that actually adds something to this remarkably well covered life is a major challenge. Michael Shelden was up to that challenge.
Mark Twain: Man In White: The Grand Adventure of His Final Years achieves its relevance by tightly focusing on Mark Twain’s last years — his final forty months to be exact. It opens with his dramatic appearance in the Senate Reading Room of the Library of Congress in December 1906 where he addressed a hearing about proposed new copyright legislation. This occasion marked the first appearance of his strikingly outrageous white suit, a sartorial choice carefully calculated for dramatic effect. Sheldon highlights that while this is the look that survives as the visual component of our Mark Twain legend, that it wasn’t until this late stage of his life that he debuted it.
Part of his satisfaction in wearing the white suit was knowing that it was a joke against himself — a whited sepulcher that concealed a heart with darker moods and a character that was far from spotless.
And that leads into one of Shelden’s main theses — that during the last years of Mark Twain’s life, with most of his major and memorable work already behind him, he was consciously creating his legacy. Taking to constantly wearing dramatically fashion-defying white suits is the visual proof. Working to secure changes in the copyright laws to preserve his literary legacy is another aspect. This was also the time when he was simultaneously dictating his Autobiography and working with Albert Bigelow Paine, his hand-picked biographer, to shape the way posterity would remember him. (Twain gave Paine extraordinary access to his papers, correspondence, and friends. He allowed him to sit in while he dictated his Autobiography, and gave permission to use anything he heard there. Paine wrote of the experience:
”We were watching one of the great, literary creators of his time in the very process of his architecture. We constituted about the most select audience in the world, enjoying what was, likely enough, its most remarkable entertainment.”)
Shelden had another important point to make with this biography — a sort of rebalancing of the historical scales. The common wisdom on Mark Twain’s final years after the death of his wife is that they were sad, lonely, and embittering. Shelden wrote to show a more complex story. He tells a tale of triumphs and frolic beside the litany of loss and heartbreak that marked Twain’s last days. His trip to Oxford to receive an honorary degree from that august institution was a dream fulfilled — a triumphant acknowledgment of his merit as a great writer, not just a mere humorist. Time spent in the company of his best friend, H.H. Rogers, Standard Oil tycoon, Robber Baron, and in Twain’s words, Pirate, allowed him escape almost back into the joyful days of boyhood. Even planning for his new home, Stormfield, a place where he could bring his surviving family back together to try to recreate a past happiness, was at least a temporary triumph, before ultimately falling apart. He was resilient, joking his way through solemn memorials for a friend (and making it work), and turning a serious armed burglary of his home that ended in a shootout into more humorous copy for the papers. Sure, it all went wrong in the end, everything slipped away from him, his losses were great, and then he died, but all of us have losses at the end of a long life, and none of us get out alive.
He was a cigar store angel come to life with a mischievous eye on this world and a curious one on the next. Such a figure furnished a spectacle that was both comic and tragic, a spirited celebration of life’s rewards, and a clown’s lament of his own mortality.