Mark Twain and The Viking Outlaw : Chapter 2

I love Samuel Clemens, a.k.a, Mark Twain, partly because his was very funny for his time, and partly because he was a flawed man. The thing about Twain is that you are never sure if he's telling the truth, or just telling a stretcher just for the hell of it. I have read pretty much everything he has written, but I've learned not to take much of it seriously. Even in Life on the Mississippi, he tells the story with some many degrees of honesty that when he reports that his boat comes to the rescuse of another boat that has had its boiler explode and then reports that one of the victims of the explosion was his own brother, my reaction was that I couldn't see where the humor was. In fact, he brother was killed in a ship's explosion, but he's so flippant about everything, it's just hard to take him serious.

Twain's 5000 page autobiography is soon to be published. He indicated that he did not wish it to be published until 100 years after his death, so here it is. I am going to indicate that the Legend of Sven Svenson was part of the writings that Twain left unpublish...after he withdrew it from its original publication.

Mark Twain (I'll call him by his pen name) was his own worst enemy. Having acheived moderate success through the monies he earned from his first book Innocence Abroad (a book about American's sailing to Europe on one of the first tour boats), Mark started rubbing elbows with the rich and famous of his day, the Rockefellers, the Canegies, and Henry "Hell Hound" Rogers. Soon he made a killing in publishing the memoirs of President U. S. Grant, (who was dying of throat cancer and wished to avoid leaving his family in destitution). This led Twain to becoming a rabid capitalist, investing his money unwisely in the Paige typesetter (which allowed the operator to set type by pressing keys) which basically stripped him of his fortune when a simpler, alternative typesetting system was created (the type was melted into a roll of lead which later was remelted). See the book Ignorance, Confidence & Filthy Rich Friends: The Business Adventures of Mark Twain, Chronic Speculator and Entrepreneur by Peter Krass.

In our story Mark meets with an old editor friend of his who wishes him to do a story on the Western outlaw, something that is becoming more and more interesting to the paper's readership in the East. He wants Mark to interview Jesse James and other outlaws that he finds, but Mark tells him that he's not that desparate for money. But after he receives a letter from the inventor of the Paige typesetter, he is.

Copyright, 2010 by Jael Turner

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely.

How I Got Involved

Now there are some people who when they read the Legend of Sven Svenson are truly amazed at Sven's origins in the Minnesota woods as the last surviving Viking on this continent; of his constant pursuit by the rich rancher Hagardty and the law, because of his killing of Hagardty's son; of Sven's involvement with the James Gang; of his downfall, at the hands of an angel; and of Sven's subsequent hanging. I assumed that these same people would have been awed and enamoured of the high quality of the writing of the Legend. But when these same people find out that I had written down the Legend based on personal interviews with the major characters of these historical proceedings, they tend to discount the whole book as just a pack of lies…obfuscations. For example, I was recently strolling the aisles of a major bookstore in New York City between book signings when I happened to eavesdrop (by sheer chance) on someone of the fairer sex who had just purchased the Legend and appeared to be eager to read it. While I crouched behind the low bookselves on my knees so that the party under observation could not see me, and I could see her with better clarity, this person, quite a lovely young blond nymph, bumped into a friend, an even more engaging brunette, and the conversation went something like this: (Brunette with some disgust in her tone) “Oh, I see you have that new book The Legend of Sven Svenson.” (Blonde responding innocently, but becoming aware of a possible faux pas) “Yes, I hear it’s really quite enjoyable …I’ll lend it to you when I’m done.” (Brunette smirking a lovely smirk) “Well, don’t bother. The whole thing is some hoax concocted by that humorist fellow, Mark Twain. It's obvious that he manufactured the whole legend of a modern day Viking on a rapacious rampage in the Wild West from thin air.” (Blonde narrowing her eyes) “But it says it’s written by Samuel L. Clemens.” (Brunette in an arrogant, knowing tone) “Don’t let that fool you. That’s some pen name of Mark Twain’s. I think he’s trying to sell the Legend of Sven Sigerson as God’s truth, but no one’s biting. Everyone knows that rascal’s tricks by now.” (Blonde showing enormous outrage) “The gall of that fellow Twain…humor should labeled as humor and kept in restricted areas in certain parts of the store…and history should labeled as history. They shouldn’t try to mix them up; there’s certainly nothing funny about history. In any case, I’m returning my copy immediately. Thank you so very much…” and so on. Needless to say, when the store owner came over and asked me why I was groveling on the floor crying, I told him that I thought I had lost a watch fob given to me by a much beloved and deceased aunt, and I was eagerly pursuing it. He even got down on his knees and helped me look for it for full half an hour before I told him to give up; that I would just get another from yet another equally beloved aunt.

Given the deleterious effects and disasterous consequences that plagued me because of my association with the Legend of Sven Svenson project, you might asked how it was that I, the intelligent dodger of all that might be labled as work, had got myself entangled in such a dangerous and unrewarding project. The answer is greed...blatant, stupid, blinding greed.

At the insistence of several of my very wealthy friends (let me refer to them here and in the future only as "the filthy rich") I had invested a great deal of my monetary resources in a technology of which I had much personal experience. It was a typesetting machine, something whose need of which I was intimately familar, given that I had, as a youth, been an apprentice typesetter in my brother's printing shop. Typesetting is an enormously tedious and error prone task in which each letter of type is individually set along with the correct spacing between words and leading between lines. The Paige typesetter is which I wish to invest my soul would alleviate the curse of Gutenberg and the suffering of countless typesetting apprentices; and, at the same time, make the process of composing error free. The project was already underway, and when I saw how close the mechansim was to being commercialized, I almost wept out loud. In those days I was seldom able to see an opportunity until it had ceased to be one. I was desperate to invest my money on what I saw and what the filthy rich assured me was a "sure thing." I noticed that the filthy divested themselves of this ideal machine as I was increasing my investments...which I thought at the time was odd. In hindsight I would have been better served to have taken my money to the race track and invested, what became, huge stacks of federal notes on the lamest and blindest of the race horses...in the later case, I would have at least had some modicum of a chance of holding on to some of my meagre wealth.

So I found myself sitting at Delmonico's in New York City, tugging at my tie nervously, waiting for my old friend Jack Brady of the New York Herald (Horace's Greeley's paper) who had indicated in a letter that he might have some "piecework" for me. It was a humbling experience after having risen so high with my novels and my speaking tours. I had some possibilities of publishing President Grant's memoirs, but that was still on the back burner.

"Samual Langhorne Clemens, as I live and breathe," Jack said as he spotted me.

"Hello, Jack, long time since I had the honor of viewing your handsome visage," I replied, trying to act the Southern gentlemen, to which I had shaped my personna. I could have said, "Long time, no see, but Jack expected something more elegant and long winded from me.

"A friend of mine, Thomas Alva Edison, an inventor of sorts said to me the other day and I quote, 'An American loves his family. If he has any love left over for some other person he generally selects Mark Twain.'"

"Well, that's quite flatterin' and I do 'preciate the fella's perspicacity, but I don't think that we wish to spent the rest of this pleasant evening and I hope pleasant meal bullshiting each other...do we Jack?" I replied, trying to steer the conversation to the work at hand.

"Why, of course not, Sam...or shall I call you Mark?" he replied.

"You can call me whatever you wish, my friend, as long as you do not call me your benefactor, for I fear my purse has far too few ducats to pay for the air that they are supplying in this palacial Xanadu, let alone the food that I assume that we will eventually be consuming."

"Sam, Sam, of course, I'm paying. Let's order." So well we were ordering Jack filled me in on the details of the "piecework". "Sam, things have really started to move lately in the states, now that the war between the North and South is over and we're rapidly approaching the next millenium. Journalism is changing...things are getting exciting. There's a man name Peary who's planning an expedition to the North Pole...imagine that. There's a woman, Nelly Bly, who's writing full time at the Pittsburg Dispatch, and she keeps talking about having her paper send her around the world like in Vernes's novel, Around the World in Eighty Days to confirm it can be done. We're thinking of offering her contract with us. Everything is percolating like your morning coffee."

"So you want to send me to the North Pole to buy coffee," I said, slighting grinning as I bit into a steak that was so tender and good tasting that I was tempted to save a piece for Livy. Then it was gone. I had not eaten so well in a long time.

"No, of course not," Jack replied, "That's not up your alley."

"So, what is 'up my alley', if I may be so bold as to request this vital piece of edification?"

"The Wild West, Sam," Jack replied enthusiastically, "Missouri, Nevada, California, your old stomping grounds. "People are dying to read about the Wild West...the dance hall girls who bare their legs...and whatever else, the cowboys with their duels...what is it...shoot outs, train robbers and their code of the West, Jesse James, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday and the Gunfight at the OK corral, Billy the Kid (did you know that he was born in New York City) and his assassination by Pat Garrett, his friend. People eat that up. It sells papers like hot cakes."

"Jack, Jack...I think I prefer syrup with my hots cakes," I said holding my hand up to slow him down, "I am an author. I write novels. I haven't been a newspaper reporter in years..."

"Well, Sam, just think of this as doing research for your next book. I'm sure the paper will give you rights to all the articles you write, just like we did for Innocents Abroad."

"Jack, Jack..." I said drawling a bit for effect, "I am a gentlemen of means; I don't need that kin' o' work anymore. I thank you kindly for your steady concern for my livelihood. Livy thanks you kindly for your offer...and that fact that you're still thinking of me is a proper thing to do, but...my answer has got to be..."

"Don't say no," Jack said, grabbing my wrist desperately, "Sam I have sold this idea to the hilt to my boss. He's is going to be so angry with me if you turn me down. Just think of this 'Mark Twain meets Jesse James'. That would be the headline of the century in itself. I'll give you week to decide...I'll give you a month...I'll give you a lucrative contract...I'll take a cut in pay just to make this happen."

I smiled, and then we talked about our respective families, which I do not feel warrants any coverage in this record. I took a cab to my hotel room in New York, where Livy and I were staying for a weekend of shopping. When I got back to the hotel, Livy was all smiles about her recent, somewhat costly purchases, and then remembering something, she said, "I think you've got another telegram from your investment company. I hope things are going well."

I tore open the telegram rather nervously, and grimaced ever so slightly so that Livy would not notice my anxiety as I read the contents. More money was needed. More money. What was this typesetting machine...a spoiled child sent to college. I immediately summoned a bellboy to write a reply...and to send a second one to Jack Brady.

"Livy, darling, love of my life," I said, "it appears that the cruel Fates have decided to send me on a little business trip to my 'old stomping grounds' where apparently I will be...stomping."

This and all future chapters can be found at http://sites.google.com/site/ememjaelturnerbooks/