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never　recurred　to　the　incident。　　It　was　not　ingratitude　that　he　ever
minded；　it　was　treachery；　that　really　maddened　him　past　forgiveness。




XXIII。

During　the　summer　he　spent　at　York　Harbor　I　was　only　forty　minutes　away
at　Kittery　Point；　and　we　saw　each　other　often；　but　this　was　before　the
last　time　at　Riverdale。　　He　had　a　wide；　low　cottage　in　a　pine　grove
overlooking　York　River；　and　we　used　to　sit　at　a　corner　of　the　veranda
farthest　away　from　Mrs。　Clemens's　window；　where　we　could　read　our
manuscripts　to　each　other；　and　tell　our　stories；　and　laugh　our　hearts　out
without　disturbing　her。　　At　first　she　had　been　about　the　house；　and　there
was　one　gentle　afternoon　when　she　made　tea　for　us　in　the　parlor；　but　that
was　the　last　time　I　spoke　with　her。　　After　that　it　was　really　a　question
of　how　soonest　and　easiest　she　could　be　got　back　to　Riverdale；　but；　of
course；　there　were　specious　delays　in　which　she　seemed　no　worse　and
seemed　a　little　better；　and　Clemens　could　work　at　a　novel　he　had　begun。
He　had　taken　a　room　in　the　house　of　a　friend　and　neighbor；　a　fisherman
and　boatman；　there　was　a　table　where　he　could　write；　and　a　bed　where　he
could　lie　down　and　read；　and　there；　unless　my　memory　has　played　me　one　of
those　constructive　tricks　that　people's　memories　indulge　in；　he　read　me
the　first　chapters　of　an　admirable　story。　　The　scene　was　laid　in　a
Missouri　town；　and　the　characters　such　as　he　had　known　in　boyhood；　but　as
often　as　I　tried　to　make　him　own　it；　he　denied　having　written　any　such
story；　it　is　possible　that　I　dreamed　it；　but　I　hope　the　MS。　will　yet　be
found。　　Upon　reflection　I　cannot　believe　that　I　dreamed　it；　and　I　cannot
believe　that　it　was　an　effect　of　that　sort　of　pseudomnemonics　which　I
have　mentioned。　　The　characters　in　the　novel　are　too　clearly　outlined　in
my　recollection；　together　with　some　critical　reservations　of　my　own
concerning　them。　　Not　only　does　he　seem　to　have　read　me　those　first
chapters；　but　to　have　talked　them　over　with　me　and　outlined　the　whole
story。

I　cannot　say　whether　or　not　he　believed　that　his　wife　would　recover；　he
fought　the　fear　of　her　death　to　the　end；　for　her　life　was　far　more
largely　his　than　the　lives　of　most　men's　wives　are　theirs。　　For　his　own
life　I　believe　he　would　never　have　much　cared；　if　I　may　trust　a　saying　of
one　who　was　so　absolutely　without　pose　as　he　was。　　He　said　that　he　never
saw　a　dead　man　whom　he　did　not　envy　for　having　had　it　over　and　being　done
with　it。　　Life　had　always　amused　him；　and　in　the　resurgence　of　its
interests　after　his　sorrow　had　ebbed　away　he　was　again　deeply　interested
in　the　world　and　in　the　human　race；　which；　though　damned；　abounded　in
subjects　of　curious　inquiry。　　When　the　time　came　for　his　wife's　removal
from　York　Harbor　I　went　with　him　to　Boston；　where　he　wished　to　look　up
the　best　means　of　her　conveyance　to　New　York。　　The　inquiry　absorbed　him：
the　sort　of　invalid　car　he　could　get；　how　she　could　be　carried　to　the
village　station；　how　the　car　could　be　detached　from　the　eastern　train　at
Boston　and　carried　round　to　the　southern　train　on　the　other　side　of　the
city；　and　then　how　it　could　be　attached　to　the　Hudson　River　train　at　New
York　and　left　at　Riverdale。　　There　was　no　particular　of　the　business
which　he　did　not　scrutinize　and　master；　not　only　with　his　poignant
concern　for　her　welfare；　but　with　his　strong　curiosity　as　to　how　these
unusual　things　were　done　with　the　usual　means。　　With　the　inertness　that
grows　upon　an　aging　man　he　had　been　used　to　delegating　more　and　more
things；　but　of　that　thing　I　perceived　that　he　would　not　delegate　the
least　detail。

He　had　meant　never　to　go　abroad　again；　but　when　it　came　time　to　go　he　did
not　look　forward　to　returning；　he　expected　to　live　in　Florence　always
after　that；　they　were　used　to　the　life　and　they　had　been　happy　there　some
years　earlier　before　he　went　with　his　wife　for　the　cure　of　Nauheim。　　But
when　he　came　home　again　it　was　for　good　and　all。　　It　was　natural　that　he
should　wish　to　live　in　New　York；　where　they　had　already　had　a　pleasant
year　in　Tenth　Street。　　I　used　to　see　him　there　in　an　upper　room；　looking
south　over　a　quiet　open　space　of　back　yards　where　we　fought　our　battles
in　behalf　of　the　Filipinos　and　the　Boers；　and　he　carried　on　his　campaign
against　the　missionaries　in　China。　　He　had　not　yet　formed　his　habit　of
lying　for　whole　days　in　bed　and　reading　and　writing　there；　yet　he　was　a
good　deal　in　bed；　from　weakness；　I　suppose；　and　for　the　mere　comfort　of
it。

My　perspectives　are　not　very　clear；　and　in　the　foreshortening　of　events
which　always　takes　place　in　our　review　of　the　past　I　may　not　always　time
things　aright。　　But　I　believe　it　was　not　until　he　had　taken　his　house　at
21　Fifth　Avenue　that　he　began　to　talk　to　me　of　writing　his　autobiography。
He　meant　that　it　should　be　a　perfectly　veracious　record　of　his　life　and
period；　for　the　first　time　in　literature　there　should　be　a　true　history
of　a　man　and　a　true　presentation　of　the　men　the　man　had　known。　　As　we
talked　it　over　the　scheme　enlarged　itself　in　our　riotous　fancy。　　We　said
it　should　be　not　only　a　book；　it　should　be　a　library；　not　only　a　library；
but　a　literature。　　It　should　make　good　the　world's　loss　through　Omar's
barbarity　at　Alexandria；　there　was　no　image　so　grotesque；　so　extravagant
that　we　did　not　play　with　it；　and　the　work　so　far　as　he　carried　it　was
really　done　on　a　colossal　scale。　　But　one　day　he　said　that　as　to　veracity
it　was　a　failure；　he　had　begun　to　lie；　and　that　if　no　man　ever　yet　told
the　truth　about　himself　it　was　because　no　man　ever　could。　　How　far　he　had
carried　his　autobiography　I　cannot　say；　he　dictated　the　matter　several
hours　each　day；　and　the　public　has　already　seen　long　passages　from　it；
and　can　judge；　probably；　of　the　make　and　matter　of　the　whole　from　these。
It　is　immensely　inclusive；　and　it　observes　no　order　or　sequence。　　Whether
now；　after　his　death；　it　will　be　published　soon　or　late　I　have　no　means
of　knowing。　　Once　or　twice　he　said　in　a　vague　way　that　it　was　not　to　be
published　for　twenty　years；　so　that　the　discomfort　of　publicity　might　be
minimized　for　all　the　survivors。　　Suddenly　he　told　me　he　was　not　working
at　it；　but　I　did　not　understand　whether　he　had　finished　it　or　merely
dropped　it；　I　never　asked。

We　lived　in　the　same　city；　but　for　old　men　rather　far　apart；　he　at　Tenth
Street　and　I　at　Seventieth；　and　with　our　colds　and　other　disabilities　we
did　not　see　each　other　often。　　He　expected　me　to　come　to　him；　and　I　would
not　without　some　return　of　my　visits；　but　we　never　ceased　to　be　friends；
and　good　friends；　so　far　as　I　know。　　I　joked　him　once　as　to　how　I　was
going　to　come　out　in　his　autobiography；　and　he　gave　me　some　sort　of
joking　reassurance。　　There　was　one　incident；　however；　that　brought　us
very　frequently　and　actively　together。　　He　came　one　Sunday　afternoon　to
have　me　call　with　him　on　Maxim　Gorky；　who　was　staying　at　a　hotel　a　few
streets　above　mine。　　We　were　both　interested　in　Gorky；　Clemens　rather
more　as　a　revolutionist　and　I　as　a　realist；　though　I　too　wished　the
Russian　Tsar　ill；　and　the　novelist　well　in　his　mission　to　the　Russian
sympathizers　in　this　republic。　　But　I　had　lived　through　the　episode　of
Kossuth's　visit　to　us　and　his　vain　endeavor　to　raise　funds　for　the
Hungarian　cause　in　1851；　when　we　were　a　younger　and　nobler　nation　than
now；　with　hearts　if　not　hands；　opener　to　the　〃oppressed　of　Europe〃；　the
oppressed　of　America；　the　four　or　five　millions　of　slaves；　we　did　not
count。　　I　did　not　believe　that　Gorky　could　get　the　money　for　the　cause　of
freedom　in　Russia　which　he　had　come　to　get；　as　I　told　a　valued　friend　of
his　and　mine；　I　did　not　believe　he　could　get　twenty…five　hundred　dollars；
and　I　think　now　I　set　the　figure　too　high。　　I　had　already　refused　to　sign
the　sort　of　general　appeal　his　friends　were　making　to　our　principles　and
pockets　because　I　felt　it　so　wholly　idle；　and　when　the　paper　was　produced
in　Gorky's　presence　and　Clemens　put　his　name　to　it　I　still　refused。　　The
next　day　Gorky　was　expelled　from　his　hotel　with　the　woman　who　was　not　his
wife；　but　who；　I　am　bound　to　say；　did　not　look　as　if　she　were　not；　at
least　to　me；　who　am；　however；　not　versed　in　those　aspects　of　human
nature。

I　might　have　escaped　unnoted；　but　Clemens's　familiar　head　gave　us　away　to
the　reporters　waiting　at　the　elevator's　mouth　for　all　who　went　to　see
Gorky。　　As　it　was；　a　hunt　of　interviewers　ensued　for　us　severally　and
jointly。　　I　could　remain　aloof　in　my　hotel　apartment；　returning　answer　to
such　guardians　of　the　public　right　to　know　everything　that　I　had　nothing
to　say　of　Gorky's　domestic　affairs；　for　the　public　interest　had　now
strayed　far　from　the　revolution；　and　centred　entirely　upon　these。　　But
with　Clemens　it　was　different；　he　lived　in　a　house　with　a　street　door
kept　by　a　single　butler；　and　he　was　constantly　rung　for。　　I　forget　how
long　the　siege　lasted；　but　long　enough　for　us　to　have　fun　with　it。　　That
was　the　moment　of　the　great　Vesuvian　eruption；　and　we　figured　ourselves
in　easy　reach　of　a　volcano　which　was　every　now　and　then　〃blowing　a　cone
off；〃　as　the　telegraphic　phrase　was。　　The　roof　of　the　great　market　in
Naples　had　just　broken　in　under　its　load　of　ashes　and　cinders；　and
crashed　hundreds　of