Few men who ever spoke in public could sway an audience more readily than could Mark Twain. It was a delight to him to play upon the emotions of his hearers, and to transport them in the twinkling of an eye from the verge of tears to the realm of laughter. But I recall two occasions on which his art failed him.
He had been visiting a friend who lived in a small town in New York state, and while there was asked by the superintendent of a local charitable institute if he would be kind enough to come there and talk to the inmates. He said he would be delighted to do so. The next evening, when Mark stepped on the platform of the auditorium, he viewed an audience of both sexes and all ages, and portraying various degrees of intelligence. This was somewhat perplexing, and, for a moment, he was at a loss to decide what kind of talk to give them. However, he launched forth in a general way, and, after a few moments, as he tells it, “I fired a mild one at them.” But there was no response—not even the faintest suggestion of a laugh. All sat with their eyes glued on him, wrapt in wonderment, admiration and respect. This was a poser to Mark, but he continued to talk, and, in a minute or two, he “selected a stronger one and hurled it into their midst.” The result was the same—a morgue-like silence emanating from a group of animate corpses.
Mark’s friend was on the platform with him, and Mark looked appealingly at him. He detected a twinkle of amusement in his friend’s face, but got no encouraging look from him. Mark paused, mentally surveyed his last joke and its manner of delivery, and found both flawless. He was bewildered, but, nevertheless, decided to make a final attempt. He felt that his reputation as a humorist was at stake.
So he continued talking, and finally launched an anecdote that had never failed in his experience to turn an audience inside out with laughter and shrieks of applause. But not a glimmer of amusement was perceptible in his audience—not the remotest suggestion of a laugh or a smile. He was furious—mad right clear through at his failure—and he commenced to “take it out of” his audience in sarcastic vein, ending his talk by complimenting them on their acute appreciation of humor and wit. When he reached his friend’s home, he asked him if he could explain their stupor.
“Why, didn’t you know?” said his friend: “They’re all deaf mutes!”
Mark and the “High-brows.”
On the other occasion, Mark had quite a different audience—the faculty and the graduating classes of Columbia University in New York. On the platform with him were several eminent men of international reputation. Knowing the company he would be in, Mark decided that this occasion would be a suitable one at which to show an intellectual audience that he was something more than a humorist—to show them that he was a philosopher and a man of parts in a literary way. He selected for this purpose the beautiful poem which he had written in memory of his daughter Susy, and which had not then been published. He decided to read this to the gathering, at the close of his talk. Mark’s turn came, and he delighted his audience with one of the most delicately witty speeches he had ever made. They thought he had finished, but he kept on his feet, and they continued applauding. He raised his hand beseeching silence, and then said: “I would like, now, ladies and gentlemen, to read you some serious verse that I composed recently. It is an appreciation of my—”
The applause was renewed with fourfold force, the laughter fairly shook the building. Mark looked visibly pained; he appeared to be (as he was) deeply distressed. This served only to accentuate and prolong the demonstration. Finally they quieted down, and very solemnly Mark said: “But, ladies and gentlemen, what I wish to read to you is sacred in my eyes. It refers to—”
But it was no use—the shrieks of laughter drowned his words. After exhausting themselves, the audience waited for more, waited for “the joke.” But Mark merely said, in as grieved a tone as he truly felt: “I see, my friends, that you are in no mood this evening to treat me seriously, so I will not burden you further.” And he sat down, amid a deafening demonstration. Such wit, they thought, was delicious. He could have cried with chagrin. Few, if any, in that audience yet know of their unwitting faux pas.
So it was with Harry Lauder, two years ago, when speaking in a Congregational Church in Montreal. He charmed his audience with a few quaint sayings, and then referred to the Great War, and to the loss he had sustained through the death of his son. It was very pathetic, but a number of people sitting in front of him shook with laughter. They thought he was still funny, to Sir Harry’s utter disgust and to the disgust of others, who like myself felt the man’s sorrow and tearfully sympathized with him in his loss.