[ note: from age 18 to 23 I lived in Hartford, CT, studying music at the Hartt School. On my 21st birthday, my wife and I toured the Mark Twain House on Farmington Avenue. The whimsical house has inspired me ever since, as has the man, though I tend to be as inclined to argue with Twain as enjoy him. --- Eric Seddon]
IN
THE MARK TWAIN HOUSE
by ERIC SEDDON
For
five years I shared Hartford with your ghost,
The
curmudgeon in the white suit, cigar chomping,
Vetting
Charles Ives before he wedded Harmony.
I
too sought your council, your strange mixture
Of
satire, narrative, and melodrama always
Flirting,
sometimes indulging, in the tar pit of self-pity.
Like
anyone from Hartford, it’s hard not to consider
The
house itself your masterpiece. Perched
Above
a field, reflective to this day
Of
the whimsical genius too strong with native
Fiber
to descend into pastiche. Your
First
floor fireplaces, the Cat in the Ruff,
The
stories to your children, unrecorded,
The
drawing room, the dining hall another place
Where
guests could watch the snow descend to flame.
And
then there was the guest room, where I fantasized
Of
sneaking in, past hours, staying the night
Not
to speak with your ghostly shade, but mine:
A
bit like yours: Divided, wounded, humorous
And
sullen, equal parts romanticist
And
sober modern critic of this town—
The
Colt factory,
Yankee pride and commerce
Ingenuity
bridled, eccentric ambitions
Boiling
over the brims of decency—
If
you had been my Virgil we’d both become
A
meal for the lion or wolf or leopard,
Or
maybe we’d still be there in that forest
Surrounded
by chain link fences built
Of
quips and comebacks, one-line wisdom
Slamming
the door in the faces of pedantry.
The
second floor landing where your wife heard
Enough
of your foul language to unload,
Calmly,
her sweet and savvy cavalcade of filth—
You
marked, listened, inwardly digested
Her
aria profane, then gently criticized
“You
got the words all right, but missed the tune.”
And
now to the spire of your castle: the third floor tower
Where
you smoked, played pool, and wrote your manuscripts:
It
whispers Thou shalt not covet Mark Twain’s muse,
Nor
working habits, wit, success, or pathos, nor real
Tragedies
hardening jokes beyond redemption—
Bringing
a man to his knees or blasphemy
(It’s
his to choose, not yours: you haven’t got
His
daughters or his moustache or his accent
Or
his particular brand of suffering:
Only yours). And
so the visit ends and
We
descend the stairs of this enduring
Monument
to Mark Twain’s mortal life.
Past
the piano where Sam sang spirituals,
Beyond
the wallpaper that shimmered in gaslight,
Paper
imported from the dream that was Olana…
Out
to the oddly clarified light of Hartford,
Home
to us both, at one time or another,
Brighter
now because of who you were,
Gentler,
perhaps, because of what you wrote.
[ 2017 ]
