From that time forward Orion Clemens was worth substantially twenty thousand dollars—­till the day of his death, and, after him, his widow.  Far better was it for him that the endowment be conferred in the form of an income, than had the capital amount been placed in his hands.  CXXVIII

Mark TWAIN’s absent-mindedness

A number of amusing incidents have been more or less accurately reported concerning Mark Twain’s dim perception of certain physical surroundings, and his vague resulting memories—­his absent-mindedness, as we say.

It was not that he was inattentive—­no man was ever less so if the subject interested him—­but only that the casual, incidental thing seemed not to find a fixed place in his deeper consciousness.

By no means was Mark Twain’s absent-mindedness a development of old age.  On the two occasions following he was in the very heyday of his mental strength.  Especially was it, when he was engaged upon some absorbing or difficult piece of literature, that his mind seemed to fold up and shut most of the world away.  Soon after his return from Europe, when he was still struggling with ‘A Tramp Abroad’, he wearily put the manuscript aside, one day, and set out to invite F. G. Whitmore over for a game of billiards.  Whitmore lived only a little way down the street, and Clemens had been there time and again.  It was such a brief distance that he started out in his slippers and with no hat.  But when he reached the corner where the house, a stone’s-throw away, was in plain view he stopped.  He did not recognize it.  It was unchanged, but its outlines had left no impress upon his mind.  He stood there uncertainly a little while, then returned and got the coachman, Patrick McAleer, to show him the way.

The second, and still more picturesque instance, belongs also to this period.  One day, when he was playing billiards with Whitmore, George, the butler, came up with a card.

“Who is he, George?” Clemens asked, without looking at the card.

“I don’t know, suh, but he’s a gentleman, Mr. Clemens.”

“Now, George, how many times have I told you I don’t want to see strangers when I’m playing billiards!  This is just some book agent, or insurance man, or somebody with something to sell.  I don’t want to see him, and I’m not going to.”

“Oh, but this is a gentleman, I’m sure, Mr. Clemens.  Just look at his card, suh.”

“Yes, of course, I see—­nice engraved card—­but I don’t know him, and if it was St. Peter himself I wouldn’t buy the key of salvation!  You tell him so—­tell him—­oh, well, I suppose I’ve got to go and get rid of him myself.  I’ll be back in a minute, Whitmore.”

He ran down the stairs, and as he got near the parlor door, which stood open, he saw a man sitting on a couch with what seemed to be some framed water-color pictures on the floor near his feet.

“Ah, ha!” he thought, “I see.  A picture agent.  I’ll soon get rid of him.”