It seemed to me no more than a pleasant remark, but he came back to it
again and again, trying to encourage me with the word that Munro had
brought back concerning the biography of Nast. However, nothing of what
he said had kindled any spark of hope. I put him off by saying that
certainly some one of longer and closer friendship and larger experience
had been selected for the work. Then the speaking began, and the matter
went out of my mind. Later in the evening, when we had left our seats
and were drifting about the table, I found a chance to say a word to our
guest concerning his "Joan of Arc," which I had recently re-read. To my
happiness, he told me that long-ago incident--the stray leaf from Joan's
life, blown to him by the wind--which had led to his interest in all
literature. Then presently I was with Genung again and he was still
insisting that I write the life of Mark Twain. It may have been his
faithful urging, it may have been the quick sympathy kindled by the name
of "Joan of Arc"; whatever it was, in the instant of bidding good-by to
our guest I was prompted to add:
"May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day?" And something--to this
day I do not know what--prompted him to answer:
"Yes, come soon."
Two days later, by appointment with his secretary, I arrived at 21 Fifth
Avenue, and waited in the library to be summoned to his room. A few
moments later I was ascending the long stairs, wondering why I had come
on so useless an errand, trying to think up an excuse for having come at
all.
He was propped up in bed--a regal bed, from a dismantled Italian palace
--delving through a copy of "Huckleberry Finn," in search of a paragraph
concerning which some unknown correspondent had inquired. He pushed the
cigars toward me, commenting amusingly on this correspondent and on
letter-writing in general. By and by, when there came a lull, I told him
what so many thousands had told him before--what his work had meant to
me, so long ago, and recalled my childish impressions of that large
black-and-gilt book with its wonderful pictures and adventures "The
Innocents Abroad." Very likely he was willing enough to let me change
the subject presently and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro
had brought. I do not remember what was his comment, but I suddenly
found myself saying that out of his encouragement had grown a hope
(though certainly it was less), that I might some day undertake a book
about himself. I expected my errand to end at this point, and his
silence seemed long and ominous.
He said at last that from time to time he had himself written chapters of
his life, but that he had always tired of the work and put it aside. He
added that he hoped his daughters would one day collect his letters, but
that a biography--a detailed story of a man's life and effort--was
another matter. I think he added one or two other remarks, then all at
once, turning upon me those piercing agate-blue eyes, he said:
"When would you like to begin?"
There was a dresser, with a large mirror, at the end of the room. I
happened to catch my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to
it, mentally "This is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams."
But even in a dream one must answer, and I said:
"Whenever you like. I can begin now."
He was always eager in any new undertaking.
"Very good," he said, "the sooner, then, the better. Let's begin while
we are in the humor. The longer you postpone a thing of this kind, the
less likely you are ever to get at it."
This was on Saturday; I asked if Tuesday, January 9, would be too soon
to start. He agreed that Tuesday would do, and inquired as to my plan
of work. I suggested bringing a stenographer to make notes of his
life-story as he could recall it, this record to be supplemented by
other material--letters, journals, and what not. He said:
"I think I should enjoy dictating to a stenographer with some one to
prompt me and act as audience. The room adjoining this was fitted up for
my study. My manuscript and notes and private books and many of my
letters are there, and there are a trunkful or two of such things in the
attic. I seldom use the room myself. I do my writing and reading in
bed. I will turn that room over to you for this work. Whatever you need
will be brought to you. We can have the dictations here in the morning,
and you can put in the rest of the day to suit yourself. You can have a
key and come and go as you please."
That was always his way. He did nothing by halves. He got up and showed
me the warm luxury of the study, with its mass of material--disordered,
but priceless.
I have no distinct recollections of how I came away, but presently, back
at the Players, I was confiding the matter to Charles Harvey Genung, who
said he was not surprised; but I think he was.