mark twain, a biography, 1900-1907-第33章
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have seen her play； as we all have； and； oh； that is divine； but I
have always wanted to know Madame Bernhardt herselfher fiery self。
I have wanted to know that beautiful character。
Why； she is the youngest person I ever saw； except myselffor I
always feel young when I come in the presence of young people。
And truly； at seventy； Mark Twain was young； his manner； his movement；
his point of view…these were all； and always； young。
A number of palmists about that time examined impressions of his hand
without knowledge as to the owner； and they all agreed that it was the
hand of a man with the characteristics of youth； with inspiration； and
enthusiasm； and sympathya lover of justice and of the sublime。 They
all agreed； too； that he was a deep philosopher； though； alas！ they
likewise agreed that he lacked the sense of humor； which is not as
surprising as it sounds； for with Mark Twain humor was never mere fun…
making nor the love of it； rather it was the flower of his philosophy
its bloom arid fragrance。
When the fanfare and drum…beat of his birthday honors had passed by； and
a moment of calm had followed； Mark Twain set down some reflections on
the new estate he had achieved。 The little paper； which forms a perfect
pendant to the 〃Seventieth Birthday Speech； 〃 here follows：
OLD AGE
I think it likely that people who have not been here will be
interested to know what it is like。 I arrived on the thirtieth of
November； fresh from carefree & frivolous 69； & was disappointed。
There is nothing novel about it； nothing striking； nothing to thrill
you & make your eye glitter & your tongue cry out； 〃Oh； it is
wonderful； perfectly wonderful！〃 Yes； it is disappointing。 You
say； 〃Is this it？this？ after all this talk and fuss of a thousand
generations of travelers who have crossed this frontier & looked
about them & told what they saw & felt？ Why； it looks just like
69。〃
And that is true。 Also it is natural； for you have not come by the
fast express； you have been lagging & dragging across the world's
continents behind oxen； when that is your pace one country melts
into the next one so gradually that you are not able to notice the
change； 70 looks like 69； 69 looked like 68； 68 looked like 67& so
on back & back to the beginning。 If you climb to a summit & look
backah； then you see！
Down that far…reaching perspective you can make out each country &
climate that you crossed； all the way up from the hot equator to the
ice…summit where you are perched。 You can make out where Infancy
verged into Boyhood； Boyhood into down…lipped Youth； Youth into
bearded； indefinite Young…Manhood； indefinite Young…Manhood into
definite Manhood； definite Manhood； with large； aggressive
ambitions； into sobered & heedful Husbandhood & Fatherhood； these
into troubled & foreboding Age； with graying hair； this into Old
Age； white…headed； the temple empty； the idols broken； the
worshipers in their graves； nothing left but You； a remnant； a
tradition； belated fag…end of a foolish dream； a dream that was so
ingeniously dreamed that it seemed real all the time； nothing left
but You； center of a snowy desolation； perched on the ice…summit；
gazing out over the stages of that long trek & asking Yourself；
〃Would you do it again if you had the chance？〃
CCXXXVIII
THE WRITER MEETS MARK TWAIN
We have reached a point in this history where the narrative becomes
mainly personal； and where； at the risk of inviting the charge of
egotism； the form of the telling must change。
It was at the end of 1901 that I first met Mark Twainat The Players
Club on the night when he made the Founder's Address mentioned in an
earlier chapter。
I was not able to arrive in time for the address； but as I reached the
head of the stairs I saw him sitting on the couch at the dining…room
entrance； talking earnestly to some one； who； as I remember it； did not
enter into my consciousness at all。 I saw only that crown of white hair；
that familiar profile； and heard the slow modulations of his measured
speech。 I was surprised to see how frail and old he looked。 From his
pictures I had conceived him different。 I did not realize that it was a
temporary condition due to a period of poor health and a succession of
social demands。 I have no idea how long I stood there watching him。 He
had been my literary idol from childhood； as he had been of so many
others； more than that； for the personality in his work had made him
nothing less than a hero to his readers。
He rose presently to go； and came directly toward me。 A year before I
had done what new writers were always doingI had sent him a book I had
written； and he had done what he was always doingacknowledged it with a
kindly letter。 I made my thanks now an excuse for addressing him。 It
warmed me to hear him say that he remembered the book； though at the time
I confess I thought it doubtful。 Then he was gone； but the mind and ear
had photographed those vivid first impressions that remain always clear。
It was the following spring that I saw him againat an afternoon
gathering； and the memory of that occasion is chiefly important because I
met Mrs。 Clemens there for the only time； and like all who met her；
however briefly； felt the gentleness and beauty of her spirit。 I think I
spoke with her at two or three different moments during the afternoon；
and on each occasion was impressed with that feeling of acquaintanceship
which we immediately experience with those rare beings whose souls are
wells of human sympathy and free from guile。 Bret Harte had just died；
and during the afternoon Mr。 Clemens asked me to obtain for him some item
concerning the obsequies。
It was more than three years before I saw him again。 Meantime； a sort of
acquaintance had progressed。 I had been engaged in writing the life of
Thomas Nast； the cartoonist； and I had found among the material a number
of letters to Nast from Mark Twain。 I was naturally anxious to use those
fine characteristic letters； and I wrote him for his consent。 He wished
to see the letters； and the permission that followed was kindness itself。
His admiration of Nast was very great。
It was proper； under the circumstances； to send him a copy of the book
when it appeared； but that was 1904； his year of sorrow and absence； and
the matter was postponed。 Then came the great night of his seventieth
birthday dinner； with an opportunity to thank him in person for the use
of the letters。 There was only a brief exchange of words； and it was the
next day； I think； that I sent him a copy of the book。 It did not occur
to me that I should hear of it again。
We step back a moment here。 Something more than a year earlier； through
a misunderstanding； Mark Twain's long association with The Players had
been severed。 It was a sorrow to him； and a still greater sorrow to the
club。 There was a movement among what is generally known' as the 〃Round
Table Group〃because its members have long had a habit of lunching at a
large； round table in a certain windowto bring him back again。 David
Munro； associate editor of the North American Review…〃 David；〃 a man well
loved of menand Robert Reid； the painter； prepared this simple
document：
TO
MARK TWAIN
from
THE CLANSMEN
Will ye no come back again？
Will ye no come back again？
Better lo'ed ye canna be；
Will ye no come back again？
It was signed by Munro and by Reid and about thirty others； and it
touched Mark Twain deeply。 The lines had always moved him。 He wrote：
TO ROBT。 REID & THE OTHERS
WELL…BELOVED；Surely those lovely verses went to Prince Charlie's
heart； if he had one； & certainly they have gone to mine。 I shall
be glad & proud to come back again
