Sold – Twain Short Story With a Character Modeled on Huck Finn

Humorist author whose most influential book was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, published in 1885. Set in his native Midwest on the Mississippi River, it tells the tale of a backwoods boy and his journeys with an escaped slave, Jim.

In an “explanatory” paragraph, the author reveals that in the book’s production, he has used a number of dialects, including the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect. He adds that the shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, but painstakingly and with the trustworthy guidance of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. Twain offers an example of this in the very first paragraph, in which he has Huck say, in his dialect, “You don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the name of “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly…”

In 1886, Twain turned from literature to history, working with U.S. Grant on his memoirs. For the next two years, he wrote some short works, not publishing his next major novel until 1889. In 1887, Twain wrote a short story wryly commenting on his own celebrity; and still under the influence of his most recent memorable character, Huckleberry Finn, used a Huck-type character, complete with dialect, to make his points. In the story, Twain himself is the narrator, and he confronts a boy with a gun, who appears to be one of the few people who does not recognize him. They first speak of such interests as cats and hunting, but eventually the boy realizes he is in the presence of someone so important that it doesn’t matter whether he can shoot or not.

Autograph Manuscript in Twain’s hand, 7 pages, September, 1887. An exerpt follows. “An Incident” “Sunday morning, Sept. 11, 1887, I got the longest & most gratefulest compliment that was ever paid me. I walked down to State Street at 9:30 with the idea of getting shaved. I was strolling along in the middle of Church Street, musing, dreaming: I was in a silent Sabbath solitude. Just as I turned into State, looked up and saw a mighty fine boy ten or twelve steps in front of me, creeping warily in my direction, with intent eye…I understood him to say he was out hunting cats. He added ÔThere they are, yonder;’ & turned & pointed. I saw four sorry-looking cats crossing the street in procession some forty steps away. I forgot my own troubles for a moment to venture a plea for the cats; but before I could get it out, he interrupted with the remark that those were Ôengine-house cats,’ & went on to say that they were not afraid of dogs or any other creature, & followed him around every morning while he shot their breakfast — English sparrows. He called, ÔCome, Dick!’ and Dick came, & so did the rest. Aha! – so far from being a madman, he was saner, you see, than the average of our race; for he had a warm spot in him for cats. When a man loves cats, I am his friend & comrade, without further introduction. So I dropped the barber shop scheme, & Hercules & I went promenading up & down the Sunday stillnesses, talking…I made so many intelligent observations about cats, that I grew in the estimation of Hercules, right along – that was plain to see…Hercules came to a sudden stop…& began to inspect me with a face all kindled with interest. He said: ÔDo you live up on the East Hill with Mr. Crane summers?’ ÔYes.’ ÔNo! But is – is it you?’ I said yes, & he broke all out into welcoming smiles, & put out his hand & said heartily: ÔWell, here I’ve been poking round & round with you…’ What an immense compliment it was! – that ‘Is it you?’ No need to mention names – there aren’t two of you in the world! It was as if he had said, ‘In my heedlessness I took you for a child’s toy-balloon drifting past my face – & Great Scott, it’s the moon!’ A consciously exaggerated compliment is an offense; but no amount of exaggeration can hurt a compliment if the payer of it doesn’t know he is exaggerating. In fact, if he can superbly seem unconscious, he may depend upon it that even that will answer. There is the instance of that minister of Napoleon’s who arrived late at the council board at a time when six kings were idling around Paris, waiting for a chance to solicit concessions… The emperor’s brow darkened & he delivered a thunder-blast at the procrastinating minister; who replied with apparently unstudied simplicity – “Sire, at any other Court I had not been late. I hurried as I could, but my way was obstructed by the concourse of tributory kings!’ The brow of the master of the world unclouded. I know how good he felt.”

This is an extremely rare opportunity to own a complete Mark Twain short story.