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Mark Twain's Speeches, Part 1

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<h2> WHEN IN DOUBT, TELL THE TRUTH </h2> Mark Twain’s speech at the dinner of the “Freundschaft Society,” March 9, 1906, had as a basis the words of introduction used by Toastmaster Frank, who, referring to Pudd’nhead Wilson, used the phrase, “When in doubt, tell the truth.” MR. CHAIRMAN, Mr. PUTZEL, AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FREUNDSCHAFT,—That maxim I did invent, but never expected it to be applied to me. I did say, “When you are in doubt,” but when I am in doubt myself I use more sagacity. Mr. Grout suggested that if I have anything to say against Mr. Putzel, or any criticism of his career or his character, I am the last person to come out on account of that maxim and tell the truth. That is altogether a mistake. I do think it is right for other people to be virtuous so that they can be happy hereafter, but if I knew every impropriety that even Mr. Putzel has committed in his life, I would not mention one of them. My judgment has been maturing for seventy years, and I have got to that point where I know better than that. Mr. Putzel stands related to me in a very tender way (through the tax office), and it does not behoove me to say anything which could by any possibility militate against that condition of things. Now, that word—taxes, taxes, taxes! I have heard it to-night. I have heard it all night. I wish somebody would change that subject; that is a very sore subject to me. I was so relieved when judge Leventritt did find something that was not taxable—when he said that the commissioner could not tax your patience. And that comforted me. We’ve got so much taxation. I don’t know of a single foreign product that enters this country untaxed except the answer to prayer. On an occasion like this the proprieties require that you merely pay compliments to the guest of the occasion, and I am merely here to pay compliments to the guest of the occasion, not to criticise him in any way, and I can say only complimentary things to him. When I went down to the tax office some time ago, for the first time in New York, I saw Mr. Putzel sitting in the “Seat of Perjury.” I recognized him right away. I warmed to him on the spot. I didn’t know that I had ever seen him before, but just as soon as I saw him I recognized him. I had met him twenty-five years before, and at that time had achieved a knowledge of his abilities and something more than that. I thought: “Now, this is the man whom I saw twenty-five years ago.” On that occasion I not only went free at his hands, but carried off something more than that. I hoped it would happen again. It was twenty-five years ago when I saw a young clerk in Putnam’s bookstore. I went in there and asked for George Haven Putnam, and handed him my card, and then the young man said Mr. Putnam was busy and I couldn’t see him. Well, I had merely called in a social way, and so it didn’t matter. I was going out when I saw a great big, fat, interesting-looking book lying there, and I took it up. It was an account of the invasion of England in the fourteenth century by the Preaching Friar, and it interested me. I asked him the price of it, and he said four dollars. “Well,” I said, “what discount do you allow to publishers?” He said: “Forty percent. off.” I said: “All right, I am a publisher.” He put down the figure, forty per cent. off, on a card. Then I said: “What discount do you allow to authors?” He said: “Forty per cent. off.” “Well,” I said, “set me down as an author.” “Now,” said I, “what discount do you allow to the clergy?” He said: “Forty per cent. off.” I said to him that I was only on the road, and that I was studying for the ministry. I asked him wouldn’t he knock off twenty per cent. for that. He set down the figure, and he never smiled once. I was working off these humorous brilliancies on him and getting no return—not a scintillation in his eye, not a spark of recognition of what I was doing there. I was almost in despair. I thought I might try him once more, so I said “Now, I am also a member of the human race. Will you let me have the ten per cent. off for that?” He set it down, and never smiled. Well, I gave it up. I said: “There is my card with my address on it, but I have not any money with me. Will you please send the bill to Hartford?” I took up the book and was going away. He said: “Wait a minute. There is forty cents coming to you.” When I met him in the tax office I thought maybe I could make something again, but I could not. But I had not any idea I could when I came, and as it turned out I did get off entirely free. I put up my hand and made a statement. It gave me a good deal of pain to do that. I was not used to it. I was born and reared in the higher circles of Missouri, and there we don’t do such things—didn’t in my time, but we have got that little matter settled—got a sort of tax levied on me. Then he touched me. Yes, he touched me this time, because he cried—cried! He was moved to tears to see that I, a virtuous person only a year before, after immersion for one year—during one year in the New York morals—had no more conscience than a millionaire. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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