Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

Stanley was delighted to receive it, searching, as he always did when receiving anything from Clemens, for an inscription on its title page: Reading it over to himself, he showed it to me. It said: TO THE HAPPY NEWLYWEDS. MAY IT ALWAYS BE SO FOR YOU. SAM CLEMENS.

“This is fine indeed: I will read it tomorrow,” Stanley told him. Then: “I do not know if you have received my latest on the Emin Pasha expedition, In Darkest Africa ,” he said. “I know that I asked Major Pond to make sure that you had a set.”

“I do.”

“And your opinion of it?”

“You know I like your writing, Henry; you must work harder than anyone — I was in on the birth of it. I remember your letter from Cairo about the book and how quickly it was written. How many words are in it?”

“About six hundred thousand, more or less.”

“In how many days?”

“Eighty-six.”

“My God! And all the things you put in it — maps, drawings, letters, lists — how on earth you did it I cannot imagine, but you did! It reads like a novel, almost — but some new kind of novel, I should say. Closest I ever got to something like that… well, it was Life on the Mississippi . Of course I admire it for the sheer audacity of the thing. Well done, Henry: And I am saying that despite my own feelings about the situation there. But as a work, well, I’ve got to hand it to you. I am admiring of it.”

“Thank you, Samuel. Coming from you, that means a lot to me.”

Stanley’s face had flushed, and he looked into Clemens’s eyes, which had briefly but intensely focused on his own.

“I do mean it. You’ve turned into one of the most muscular writers in the world. But I couldn’t help noticing that you dedicated that book to King Léopold: I don’t like him, Henry.”

“That is a pity. He is a well-intentioned man in a difficult situation: The Congo does things to men’s souls. Unkind things sometime happen.”

(HERE STANLEY DAYDREAMED for a moment. He remembered the first time he spoke with Léopold. One evening in 1878, in the wake of his second expedition, after the most lavish of dinners, they had gone strolling in the gardens of his palace at Ostend, and the king, humbled by Stanley’s explorations and lavishly praising him, a “common churl,” as the greatest of explorers, had broached the subject of retaining his services in the Congo. The king had an immediate advantage. At some six feet four, he towered over Stanley, but despite this, he continually dropped his head low and slouched his shoulders; at every other moment he seemed to pause, bending low to pick at some blossom, his sentences coming when he, at a lower altitude, met Stanley eye to eye. That night he confessed his personal failings.

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!”