AFTERWARD WE WENT BACK to Richmond Terrace for dinner. Mother was waiting. She liked Clemens; I do not know if he liked her, though my impression is that he did. But upon our arrival, she was pacing about the foyer outside our dining room, inside of which many guests were gathered. As we walked in, Mother instructed Stanley to put his walking cane aside, then she greeted Mr. Clemens, catching him by the inner foyer as our butler removed his coat. She said, winningly: “Before you go in, you must sign some books of yours that I have purchased as gifts.” She led him into her study: She had some twenty of his books set aside in a pile, and she stood by him, thin and opinioned and adamant as she could be, instructing him over every signature. They fell to talking. Clemens, in speaking of his stopover in London, seemed sincerely enchanted by her company, holding her hand and nodding agreeably as she praised him. Meanwhile, Stanley was pacing irritably about. “Dear lady,” I heard Clemens say, “my mother is gone, but you seem very much the lady she was.” And he made the graceful gesture of kissing the upraised knuckles of her hand. “You seem delightful for your age, my lady,” he added. “Consider me a friend.” Then my mother, who I cannot say was the most emotional of women, stood up and shocked me, kissing Clemens on the face. “Well, then,” she said. “As you are mine, I am yours — a dear, dear friend.” Nearly weightless, buoyant over their exchange, and with a fan in hand, she left Clemens and made her way into our dining room.
The Man Inside His Head
IT WAS MY GOOD FORTUNE that Samuel came to sit for me again that next afternoon. He only had an hour, being kept busy with appointments, mainly with his London publishers. He did, however, seem most happy to spend time with me and made the flattering gesture of bringing two bouquets of roses, one for Mother and one for me.
I had made a few rudimentary oil studies of his most interesting face; while his heavy, ridged brow cast his eyes in perpetual darkness, they were lit with wisdom and intelligence — like Stanley’s. His longish nose and prim mouth, hidden under a reddish, gray-streaked walrus mustache, along with his great head of hair, seemed easy enough to capture; yet the subtle quality I most wanted to convey in my portrait of him was elusive. Clemens, at every moment, seemed to be of two minds, which is to say that while he, with a cigar held in his delicate hand, would speak of one thing, I always had the impression that at the same time he was secretly thinking of another. At first, he was quiet that day, but then, while speaking sincerely about how much he missed his family — so many Atlantic crossings, precipitated by financial concerns, taking him back to the States in those days — I asked him how he, with so many demands on his time, could manage so many things at once: his publishing house, his writings, his financial affairs. In a mood to amuse me, he told me a story about “the little man” in his head.
“Indeed, how I manage so much is a mystery to me, particularly since I aspire to laziness and lolling about, which has not been my destiny of late; I really have no choice, but when I am out and about and faced with numerous decisions, I rely upon a friend of mine, a fellow who is always sitting around on a bench in a railway station, waiting for a train. I call him the little commuter. He is an admirable fellow, brighter than I by far and more sensible, especially when it comes to business matters — and he’s far more tolerant of people: Altogether he is my better and smarter self, though I never imagine that he looks anything like me. He is Everyman, a pleasant, no-nonsense fellow, and he must have an intelligent face, but as he often wears a bowler and as I only see him from a distance, as if I were standing on the far end of a train platform, I have never known what he looks like up close. But he always carries, regardless of the time of the year, an overcoat and a valise: I imagine that he is the editor of a publishing house — a successful one — or perhaps he is an attorney. Occasionally I have seen him open his valise and look over some papers, but what they contain I never know. He often sits, the valise by his side, and always removes his overcoat, setting it down beside him, as he, looking off down the tracks, awaits the train. What this train represents I don’t know — it is possibly just a train — but I sometimes think it has to do with a coming opportunity. Often, when I am in the midst of a conversation, it seems to represent an opportunity for escape. That is to say, Mrs. Stanley, that when I happen to find myself in the midst of a boring conversation, I check in on the little commuter; and as things get duller and duller, and just when I am thinking I would rather be somewhere else, the train comes chugging into the station, sending up trails of smoke and clanging its bells. With that he always stands up, puts on his hat and overcoat, stashes his papers into the valise, and, much relieved, gratefully boards.
“My thoughts go with him. Though I may nod thoughtfully and grin at the person I am entrapped with, I have the solace of thinking about the little commuter — even if he and I are not one and the same, I somehow feel that I can see what he sees — and I drift off, thinking that I am looking out at the passing countryside through the window. But then, once my interest has been newly engaged, my little commuter is back on his bench just like that, awaiting the train again, his valise and overcoat and bowler by his side, as before.
“This little man has seen me through many a drudgery — business meetings, visits to lawyers’ offices, court hearings, and many a tedious reception. As to where the train sometimes goes once it leaves the station, it travels the world. I have, while accompanying this chap, revisited the Sandwich Islands: I have gone to San Francisco, to Venice, and sometimes back to Hannibal. And while I have often enjoyed these travels, I have unfortunately boarded that train many a time, especially during matters of business, when I shouldn’t have.”
“And where is this little man now?” I asked.
“Oh, he is still sitting in the station. He rarely gets on when I’m in your company.”
TWAIN’S SADNESS AND OTHER EVENTS
AS HE HAD PROMISED DOLLY that his days of exploration were over, Stanley became an election campaigner again. Giving speeches in social clubs, pubs, and meeting rooms throughout the North Lambeth district — just across the river, over Westminster Bridge — he never deigned to canvass his constituents door-to-door or to shake a single hand if he could avoid it. However he stood on the issues — regarding Africa or regarding the ongoing debate about whether Ireland should be given home rule (he was against it) — and despite the lackluster nature of his speeches, because of his fame, and because he was running as an “illustrious son of the working class,” he won. The very night his victory was proclaimed — at midnight, by way of a red flare fired over the rooftops of North Lambeth, the sky flushing pink — his wife, Dorothy, dozing on a lounge in the attic of the Liberal Unionist Club, awakened to the cheers of Stanley’s constituents, who, gathered as a great and frenzied crowd below, had carried Stanley into the hall on their shoulders. Rushing down the stairs, she was on hand to see Stanley, ashen-faced and listless, as his supporters set him down atop a table. In contrast to the jubilance of his constituency, he was neither excited nor happy in his bearing, as he regarded the whole business as a mistake, another burden to contend with. His expression was solemn, and though just a few scant years before he might have attempted to make a stirring speech — as if such fleeting moments of glory were of importance — he simply looked around and, thanking the boozy crowd, bid his constituents good night. No speech, no flowing rivers of appreciation — he just wanted to go home and smoke. His hands were cold, his manner sullen, and when he and Dorothy rode a hansom cab to Richmond Terrace, the subject of his election had already settled in his gut as a most disagreeable thing. En route home, he told Dolly that he did not wish to discuss it. Settled into a chair in his library, he sat alone until the early hours of the morning, smoking Havana cigars — his only movement to dash out a cigar and light a new one. Occasionally he would reach out for some book or other to leaf through it — but he did not speak to anyone for days.