Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

“You here in England were very kind toward it, which says much about your civility and understanding of words and the idea of the novel as something that should be new. I suffered somewhat at its American reception, but when I ask myself if I would write that very same book now, knowing what I do of its reception, I say yes. But could I? I doubt it. Let me put it this way: Books represent a confluence — of memories, impressions, emotions, and will. They come out of a certain moment, and I am beyond that moment now.

“I did write it, and am proud to say that Huckleberry Finn has traveled far and wide — I’ve been told that both the czarina of Russia and the kaiser have it in their libraries, and I understand that my dear friend Henry Stanley took it with him on his last expedition into the Congo. What an honor (not a blasphemy) that is.

“When I am writing I am not Samuel Clemens but Mark Twain, and through that portal flows everything. I am my books, and I am not. I admire them, and I do not. It was me, and it wasn’t, but I hope the effect on the reader remains the same.”

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.”