He was a stranger to me and all the world, and remained so for twelve months, but then he became suddenly known and universally known. . .  George Warner came into our library one morning, in Hartford, with a small book in his hand, and asked me if I had ever heard of Rudyard Kipling.  I said “No.”

He said I would hear of him very soon, and that the noise he made would be loud and continuous. . .  A day or two later he brought a copy of the London “World” which had a sketch of Kipling in it and a mention of the fact that he had traveled in the United States.  According to the sketch he had passed through Elmira.  This remark, with the additional fact that he hailed from India, attracted my attention—­also Susy’s.  She went to her room and brought his card from its place in the frame of her mirror, and the Quarry Farm visitor stood identified.

A theatrical production of “The Prince and the Pauper,” dramatized by Mrs. A. S. Richardson, was one of the events of this period.  It was a charming performance, even if not a great financial success, and little Elsie Leslie, who played the double part of the Prince and Tom Canty, became a great favorite in the Clemens home.  She was also a favorite of the actor and playwright, William Gillette, [9] and once when Clemens and Gillette were together they decided to give the little girl a surprise—­a pair of slippers, in fact, embroidered by themselves.  In his presentation letter to her, Mark Twain wrote: 

“Either of us could have thought of a single slipper, but it took both of us to think of two slippers.  In fact, one of us did think of one slipper, and then, quick as a flash, the other thought of the other one.”

He apologized for his delay: 

“You see, it was my first attempt at art, and I couldn’t rightly get the hang of it, along at first.  And then I was so busy I couldn’t get a chance to work at home, and they wouldn’t let me embroider on the cars; they said it made the other passengers afraid. . .  Take the slippers and wear them next your heart, Elsie dear, for every stitch in them is a testimony of the affection which two of your loyalest friends bear you.  Every single stitch cost us blood.  I’ve got twice as many pores in me now as I used to have . . . .  Do not wear these slippers in public, dear; it would only excite envy; and, as like as not, somebody would try to shoot you.”

For five years Mark Twain had not published a book.  Since the appearance of “Huck Finn” at the end of 1884 he had given the public only an occasional magazine story or article.  His business struggle and the type-setter had consumed not only his fortune, but his time and energy.  Now, at last, however, a book was ready.  “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” came from the press of Webster & Co. at the end of 1889, a handsome book, elaborately and strikingly illustrated by Dan Beard—­a pretentious volume which Mark Twain really considered his last.  “It’s my swan-song, my retirement from literature permanently,” he wrote Howells, though certainly he was young, fifty-four, to have reached this conclusion.