mark twain, a biography, 1900-1907-第34章
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be glad & proud to come back again after such a moving & beautiful
compliment as this from comrades whom I have loved so long。 I hope
you can poll the necessary vote； I know you will try； at any rate。
It will be many months before I can foregather with you； for this
black border is not perfunctory； not a convention； it symbolizes the
loss of one whose memory is the only thing I worship。
It is not necessary for me to thank you& words could not deliver
what I feel； anyway。 I will put the contents of your envelope in
the small casket where I keep the things which have become sacred to
me。
S。 L。 C。
So the matter was temporarily held in abeyance until he should return。
to social life。 At the completion of his seventieth year the club had
taken action； and Mark Twain had been brought back； not in the regular
order of things； but as an honorary life member without dues or duties。
There was only one other member of this class； Sir Henry Irving。
The Players； as a club； does not give dinners。 Whatever is done in that
way is done by one or more of the members in the private dining…room；
where there is a single large table that holds twenty…five； even thirty
when expanded to its limit。 That room and that table have mingled with
much distinguished entertainment； also with history。 Henry James made
his first after…dinner speech there； for one thingat least he claimed
it was his first； though this is by the way。
A letter came to me which said that those who had signed the plea for the
Prince's return were going to welcome him in the private dining…room on
the 5th of January。 It was not an invitation； but a gracious privilege。
I was in New York a day or two in advance of the date； and I think David
Munro was the first person I met at The Players。 As he greeted me his
eyes were eager with something he knew I would wish to hear。 He had been
delegated to propose the dinner to Mark Twain； and had found him propped
up in bed； and noticed on the table near him a copy of the Nast book。 I
suspect that Munro had led him to speak of it； and that the result had
lost nothing filtered through that radiant benevolence of his。
The night of January 5； 1906； remains a memory apart from other dinners。
Brander Matthews presided； and Gilder was there； and Frank Millet and
Willard Metcalf and Robert Reid； and a score of others； some of them are
dead now； David Munro among them。 It so happened that my seat was nearly
facing the guest of the evening； who； by custom of The Players； is placed
at the side and not at the end of the long table。 He was no longer frail
and thin； as when I had first met him。 He had a robust； rested look； his
complexion had the tints of a miniature painting。 Lit by the glow of the
shaded candles； relieved against the dusk richness of the walls； he made
a picture of striking beauty。 One could not take his eyes from it； and
to one guest at least it stirred the farthest memories。 I suddenly saw
the interior of a farm…house sitting…room in the Middle West； where I had
first heard uttered the name of Mark Twain； and where night after night a
group gathered around the evening lamp to hear the tale of the first
pilgrimage； which； to a boy of eight； had seemed only a wonderful poem
and fairy tale。 To Charles Harvey Genung； who sat next to me； I
whispered something of this； and how； during the thirty…six years since
then； no other human being to me had meant quite what Mark Twain had
meantin literature； in life； in the ineffable thing which means more
than either； and which we call 〃inspiration；〃 for lack of a truer word。
Now here he was； just across the table。 It was the fairy tale come true。
Genung said：
〃You should write his life。〃
His remark seemed a pleasant courtesy； and was put aside as such。 When
he persisted I attributed it to the general bloom of the occasion； and a
little to the wine； maybe； for the dinner was in its sweetest stage just
thenthat happy； early stage when the first glass of champagne； or the
second； has proved its quality。 He urged； in support of his idea； the
word that Munro had brought concerning the Nast book； but nothing of what
he said kindled any spark of hope。 I could not but believe that some one
with a larger equipment of experience； personal friendship； and abilities
had already been selected for the task。 By and by the speaking began
delightful； intimate speaking in that restricted circleand the matter
went out of my mind。
When the dinner had ended； and we were drifting about the table in
general talk； I found an opportunity to say a word to the guest of the
evening about his Joan of Arc； which I had recently re…read。 To my
happiness； he detained me while he told me the long…ago incident which
had led to his interest； not only in the martyred girl； but in all
literature。 I think we broke up soon after； and descended to the lower
rooms。 At any rate； I presently found the faithful Charles Genung
privately reasserting to me the proposition that I should undertake the
biography of Mark Twain。 Perhaps it was the brief sympathy established
by the name of Joan of Arc； perhaps it was only Genung's insistent
purposehis faith； if I may be permitted the word。 Whatever it was；
there came an impulse； in the instant of bidding good…by to our guest of
honor； which prompted me to say：
〃May I call to see you； Mr。 Clemens； some day？〃
And somethingdating from the primal atom； I supposeprompted him to
answer：
〃Yes； come soon。〃
This was on Wednesday night； or rather on Thursday morning； for it was
past midnight； and a day later I made an appointment with his secretary
to call on Saturday。
I can say truly that I set out with no more than the barest hope of
success； and wondering if I should have the courage； when I saw him； even
to suggest the thought in my mind。 I know I did not have the courage to
confide in Genung that I had made the appointmentI was so sure it would
fail。 I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue and was shown into that long library
and drawing…room combined； and found a curious and deep interest in the
books and ornaments along the shelves as I waited。 Then I was summoned；
and I remember ascending the stairs； wondering why I had come on so
futile an errand； and trying to think of an excuse to offer for having
come at all。
He was propped up in bedin that stately bed…sitting； as was his habit；
with his pillows placed at the foot； so that he might have always before
him the rich； carved beauty of its headboard。 He was delving through a
copy of Huckleberry Finn； in search of a paragraph concerning which some
random correspondent had asked explanation。 He was commenting
unfavorably on this correspondent and on miscellaneous letter…writing in
general。 He pushed the cigars toward me； and the talk of these matters
ran along and blended into others more or less personal。 By and by I
told him what so many thousands had told him before： what he had meant to
me； recalling the childhood impressions of that large； black…and…gilt…
covered book with its wonderful pictures and adventuresthe
Mediterranean pilgrimage。 Very likely it bored himhe had heard it so
oftenand he was willing enough； I dare say； to let me change the
subject and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro had brought。
I do not remember what he said then； but I suddenly found myself
suggesting that out of his encouragement had grown a hopethough
certainly it was something lessthat I might some day undertake a book
about himself。 I expected the chapter to end at this point； and his
silence which followed seemed long and ominous。
He said； at last； that at various times through his life he had been
preparing some autobiographical matter； but that he had tired of the
undertaking； and had put it aside。 He added that he had hoped his
daughters would one day collect his letters； but that a biography
a detailed story of personality and performance； of success and failure
was of course another matter； and that for such a work no arrangement had
been made。 He may hav
