“May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day?”

And something—­dating from the primal atom, I suppose—­prompted him to answer: 

“Yes, come soon.”

This was on Wednesday night, or rather on Thursday morning, for it was past midnight, and a day later I made an appointment with his secretary to call on Saturday.

I can say truly that I set out with no more than the barest hope of success, and wondering if I should have the courage, when I saw him, even to suggest the thought in my mind.  I know I did not have the courage to confide in Genung that I had made the appointment—­I was so sure it would fail.  I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue and was shown into that long library and drawing-room combined, and found a curious and deep interest in the books and ornaments along the shelves as I waited.  Then I was summoned, and I remember ascending the stairs, wondering why I had come on so futile an errand, and trying to think of an excuse to offer for having come at all.

He was propped up in bed—­in that stately bed-sitting, as was his habit, with his pillows placed at the foot, so that he might have always before him the rich, carved beauty of its headboard.  He was delving through a copy of Huckleberry Finn, in search of a paragraph concerning which some random correspondent had asked explanation.  He was commenting unfavorably on this correspondent and on miscellaneous letter-writing in general.  He pushed the cigars toward me, and the talk of these matters ran along and blended into others more or less personal.  By and by I told him what so many thousands had told him before:  what he had meant to me, recalling the childhood impressions of that large, black-and-gilt-covered book with its wonderful pictures and adventures—­the Mediterranean pilgrimage.  Very likely it bored him—­he had heard it so often—­and he was willing enough, I dare say, to let me change the subject and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro had brought.  I do not remember what he said then, but I suddenly found myself suggesting that out of his encouragement had grown a hope—­though certainly it was something less—­that I might some day undertake a book about himself.  I expected the chapter to end at this point, and his silence which followed seemed long and ominous.

He said, at last, that at various times through his life he had been preparing some autobiographical matter, but that he had tired of the undertaking, and had put it aside.  He added that he had hoped his daughters would one day collect his letters; but that a biography—­a detailed story of personality and performance, of success and failure —­was of course another matter, and that for such a work no arrangement had been made.  He may have added one or two other general remarks; then, turning those piercing agate-blue eyes directly upon me, he said: 

“When would you like to begin?”

There was a dresser with a large mirror behind him.  I happened to catch my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to it mentally:  “This is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams.”  But even in a dream one must answer, and I said: