Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

“In a trunk I had brought along three pint bottles of Champagne for the occasion, and though he was weak from some six years of travels and from illness, after his first civilized meal in a long time — we had cooked a hen and other victuals — we sat drinking for a bit in his hut. Faces were always peering in at us through the mosquito-netted windows. He nearly fainted a few times, but then, with nourishment, he revived, and on that first night he recounted to me the many sad things he had seen in his travels — the slaves’ solemn marches through the jungles, their burned villages, their rotting corpses lining the trails. And, I should say, he seemed to appreciate my efforts to reach him, for few white men had traversed the climes I had (Burton and Speke were the only two I knew of, and they had stopped short of that place). But mainly he spoke of his gratitude at the thought that he was the object of such universal concern…. Then, after he shared his thoughts about the Bible and the solace it had brought him in the most desolate places, we spent the evening discussing the criminal disregard for human life that the slave trade represents.

“‘Either you are the sort who truly believes in the Good Book, or you are helplessly entangled with the avaricious mind of the devil,’” he told me.

“I could go on… but as I am here to introduce a greater program of speakers, far more informed about the history of that trade and, perhaps, more dedicated than I, I should end my brief statement with this. Even though I was once perceived by the preeminent geographical bodies of this land as a self-serving adventurer, the five months I spent with Livingstone not only made me feel a great personal affection for the man, they also strongly amplified my religious beliefs. And regardless of the passing indifference I previously had to the slave trade in Africa, the practice of which I first witnessed in America (and over which that war was fought), my travels with Livingstone stirred me awake — not just to the geographical mysteries of the region but also to a greater concern: the betterment and freedom of our fellow man. [Applause]”

THAT STANLEY, INEXPERIENCED IN AFRICAN TRAVELS and a mere American “penny-a-liner,” had overcome the dangers of that tropical clime to find Livingstone — tall, pale, thin-limbed, and sickly (from malaria), but still alive — in a remote village called Ujiji before other expeditions could do so had inspired not only much jealousy among the members of the Royal Geographical Society, but their professional skepticism as well. Even if Stanley had gone on to spend five months in the company of the saintly and kindly Livingstone, exploring by small boat the upper reaches of Lake Tanganyika, which Livingstone believed to be a possible source of the Nile, and even if he had endured many bouts of malaria along the way and could speak with much affection and intimate personal knowledge about the man who, in those months, had, by his lights, become like a father to him. After Mr. Stanley of New Orleans, and despite the compelling changes that had taken place within his own soul — Stanley, as Livingstone’s disciple, became a full-fledged antislavist then, and his hunger for exploration, with Livingstone’s geographical passions aflame within, had been aroused from the moment his first dispatches were carried by native runners to the coast and then sent onward to Zanzibar and Europe to be published.

While Stanley had been making his way back to England, most of the Fleet Street press was publishing articles that called into question the veracity of his stories. At hearings held by the Royal Geographical Society, a parcel of letters written in Livingstone’s hand for publication in the New York Herald , which Stanley had sent off before him from Zanzibar as proof of his achievement, were called forgeries; and his own detailed descriptions of his travels with Livingstone and of the man himself, also published in the Herald , were dismissed as the wishful inventions of a glory-seeking, ambitious journalist.

By the time certain members of Livingstone’s family — his son Tom and his daughter Agnes — had come forward to authenticate the letters, Stanley, arriving in England, was already put off and full of resentment by the way he had been treated. Even after the Royal Geographical Society had, as a way of reticently recognizing his achievements, invited Stanley to address a conference held by the British Association that August, instead of taking the opportunity to ingratiate himself to his hosts — among them Sir Henry Rawlinson, head of the RGS, and Francis Galton, president of the British Association’s geographical section — Stanley, incensed that no formal public apology had been made, took to the stage and in two separate speeches made his lack of respect for those bodies clear to all.

IT HAPPENED THAT SAMUEL CLEMENS, newly famous as Mark Twain by then, and in Britain on a lecture tour, had been among the three thousand people who had packed the hall that morning. Despite not having seen Stanley since their last meeting back in St. Louis in 1867, and even though, like many an American and Englishman, he had followed with admiration Stanley’s much-publicized exploits, despite the controversies surrounding them, and was quite anxious for Stanley to do well, he was disappointed by his friend’s performance that day.

From Clemens’s notebook:

Watching him floating further adrift from the good graces of the audience, I had to remind myself that Stanley was still a reasonably young man of thirty-three, though a quite different sort from the boy I once knew in New Orleans — somewhat more high-strung than I remembered and, in those days, way too bitter for his own good. As his friend I resolved to sit him down and have a good chat with him before he did himself more harm. Unfortunately, I only had a few moments to speak to him that morning, as he was in the company of the very miffed Galton; but when I greeted Stanley, he seemed genuinely relieved to see me, as I was glad to see him, my own annoyances with him, going back to 1867, having passed.

“How did I do?” he asked me, and I, of course, told him that he had performed splendidly, though given Stanley’s skeptical expression he seemed to know otherwise. Parting, we made an arrangement to meet a few days later in London.

THEN THIS, ANOTHER ENTRY:

Tonight dined with Stanley at the Langham hotel, where we are both staying, and while I was happy to see that Stanley, with his hair let down, was quite affable and full of wonderful travel stories, once the subject of the conference came up, he became as bitter as any man. “Why should I, a person with a miserable, unfortunate past, have to bow down before people who have wined and eaten to the full all their lives? They have no idea what it took for someone like me to have lifted himself from poverty. I have no interest in humoring such fools.”

While I then tried to convince him otherwise, he at one point looked at me in such a way as to suggest that such sentiments would never leave him. Fortunately, while sitting up late and drinking beer, the felicitous effects of imbibing cheered him up, and we were together until nearly four in Stanley’s suite, reminiscing about the past. I am glad to say that the old Stanley I knew turned up again that night, pleasant and very interesting. We only gave up when we ran out of beer and tobacco. We then made a date to visit some antiquarian bookshops the next day.

IN FACT, THEY VISITED WESTMINSTER Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral together, then went out to see Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s old haunt, and made a brief stop at Oxford to look at the library. Three days of travel that neither recorded.