The sky was a dark blue, and the silhouettes of cypress trees, punctuating the horizon, dozed under the stars.
“What am I but a king who looks around and sees the world in a state of sorrow? I see the suffering all around me, and I become ashamed of my easy life. What is the purpose of mankind other than to better the condition of the lower orders?” Then: “What have I, a master of a great but modest land, to gain from risking my wealth to help some heathens, unless it would come to some good? No, Monsieur Stanley,” he said as he slipped into French. “Je suis sincère.” That very night, as the king paused to sniff some blossom’s fragrance, Stanley told him that, upon returning to England, he would give the matter about Africa some thought. It involved Stanley returning to the Congo, with the aim of acquiring, by lease, native territories that the king would oversee. England — and, for that matter, the United States — with other territorial ambitions, had no interest in such enlightened expansions. When Stanley looked at him somewhat apprehensively, the king, a merry fellow who loved the fellatios of Paris brothels, laughed. “Besides, I will pay you well.” Then: “Come, now: You are already greater than any other explorer — why not become the Alexander of Africa?”)
CLEMENS, NO DOUBT, had been exposed to certain exaggerated reports of violence done to the Africans in that region, a subject that always soured Stanley’s relish of his own accomplishments. Even I sometimes imagined that my husband despaired that he could not do more to control the cruel actions of men, which were far out of his control. It was the one thing that made him regret his decision to disengage himself from the activities there — for even if a small percentage of such reports were true, it would reflect badly upon his legacy as a man who had sought to bring good to the region.
“At any rate, Henry: As you know, I have a publishing venture back home; it’s often occurred to me that we should do something for it. Perhaps a book about the ‘old days’ of our youth. Does this hold an interest for you?”
“It is something that we can surely discuss.”
This was followed by a silence.
“And how do you find Germany?” I asked Mr. Clemens.
“Oh, it’s a fair enough place. The food is so-so. Not as good as the French make. But the culture is high, though wasted on lowbrows like me. Wagner operas are pretty but too long. A few months ago we went to a ten-day opera festival in Bayreuth. I slept through most of them — they work like a knockout potion on me. But note for note, you get your money’s worth. Still, I have to say the Germans are a civilized people. And they are into pomp: I’ve taken my older daughters to the kaiser’s fetes — grand balls held in his palace. I’ve signed books for him—‘to William II’: Imagine a boy from Hannibal doing that. We meet everyone of importance but live humbly there. At our hotel in Berlin, we can see the kaiser’s carriage passing by on the street in the mornings — we’re on the first floor, as Livy’s not much on climbing stairs these days.” Then: “She hasn’t been well of late.”
The thought subdued him.
“Is she all right?” my husband asked.
“I would like to say that she is, and she works hard to seem like she is. She never wants to bother me with her condition — and she has some days better than others. But it makes one start to feel old.”
Then: “Anyway, Livy has gone from one thing to the other. She has something called erysipelas, a skin infection; and worse, she suffers from Graves’ disease, which has a bad effect in weakening her heart. I have only left her out of the most urgent necessity. It’s not been an easy time.” Then: “And you, Stanley? How goes your health?”
“It goes as always, Sam. I never know from month to month if something will trigger my malaria.”
“If that’s the worst of your troubles, it deserves a toast. Let’s find the bar.”
And with that, Clemens asked our leave. He and Stanley went off to the men’s billiard room of the hotel. As I left I heard Clemens toasting, “To malaria and all the goddamned things in this world!”
WHEN STANLEY LATER RETURNED HOME, sometime past seven, with Clemens in tow, I should say they were in rather high spirits. Clemens was singing some old spiritual, cheerfully; at first Stanley brought him into our parlor to show him the Edison cylinder machine we had received as a wedding gift from the inventor. Then he took him into his study to show off the many African artifacts he had mounted on the walls — spears and war axes, necklaces and pieces of primitive art (among many other things), as well as the great many volumes of books in his library. Clemens sat smoking, with a whiskey in hand, looking over one book and the next while Stanley, excited as a child, pulled some special and very old volumes off the shelf.
“That is an original edition of Suetonius’s Twelve Caesars, as published by Bettesworth and Hitch in 1732.” Then: “Here is De Quincey.” And: “Gladstone’s Gleanings, signed for us. Not a bad book at all; quite Christian in its outlook.” Then: “These are my Dickenses: David Copperfield. Great Expectations. A Christmas Carol, each bearing the great writer’s signature!”
I was standing by the door to my husband’s study to call them in for dinner — for Clemens had agreed to stay — when I heard Stanley saying: “Old friend, do you mind that I show you these things?”
“Mind? I’d rather sit here comfortably with these books than anywhere else in England,” he answered. I felt slightly intrusive as I reminded them that dinner was waiting: I had not seen Stanley quite so enthused about anything in quite a while. “If there are any of my books that you would like for your own,” he declared as we made our way to the dining room, “feel that they are yours to take with you.” I’d never heard Stanley say such a thing before, not with any other visitor. “You are my friend, after all. A brother in letters, if not more.” Then, tenderly, Stanley said: “You know, Samuel, I will never forget some of the things you have done for me.”
THE DINNER — WHAT COULD BE SAID of it? Roasted quail and potatoes with a pottage of vegetables — our usual kind of fare. My husband, enlivened by having shown Clemens his new study, could not restrain himself from describing more of it. It was as if he were a boy rather than an explorer that evening, so happily disposed was he to Clemens’s presence. He’d even gotten up to bring a large framed montage of explorers’ photographs he’d made from the likenesses of Baker, Speke, Burton, and Livingstone. And if Mr. Clemens’s wineglass went empty, Stanley filled it himself; and he loosened his collar and spoke highly of his friend: “Yes, you are the best that America has to offer in letters — there’s no finer writer than you.”
Such kind words, however, seemed to make Clemens uncomfortable, as he kept shifting about in his seat and looking around the room, as if glancing over at our curio cabinet would change the subject. But once Stanley had decided upon a friendship, there was no limit to his capacity for adulation. In any event, cutting Stanley off just as he began to list the many admirable qualities of Clemens’s work, I had thought to broach the subject that Clemens had brought up earlier at Claridge’s: “And may I ask, Mr. Clemens — you mentioned a collaboration between you and my husband. What have you in mind, sir?”
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be about Africa. I would say it might be something along the lines of a dialogue between two grizzled codgers, talking about the old days on the Mississippi, just before the Civil War: Your husband, in a previous incarnation, madame, plied those waters for several years, as often as I did: In fact, it was on the boiler deck of a riverboat that we met as young men, isn’t that so, Henry?”