James Ross Clemens, of the St. Louis branch, a nephew of Frau von Versen, was in London just then, and wrote at once, through Chatto & Windus, begging Mark Twain to command his relative’s purse.  The reply to this kind offer was an invitation to tea, and “Young Doctor Jim,” as he was called, found his famous relative by no means abandoned or in want, but in pleasant quarters, with his family still loyal.  The general impression survived, however, that Mark Twain was sorely pressed, and the New York Herald headed a public benefit fund for the payment of his debts.  The Herald subscribed one thousand dollars on its own account, and Andrew Carnegie followed with another thousand, but the enterprise was barely under way when Clemens wrote a characteristic letter, in which he declared that while he would have welcomed the help offered, being weary of debt, his family did not wish him to accept and so long as he was able to take care of them through his own efforts.

Meantime he was back into literary harness; a notebook entry for October 24, 1896, says: 

“Wrote the fist chapter of the book to-day-’Around the World’.”

He worked at it uninterruptedly, for in work; there was respite, though his note-books show something of his mental torture, also his spiritual heresies.  His series of mistakes and misfortunes, ending with the death of Susy, had tended to solidify his attitude of criticism toward things in general and the human race in particular.

“Man is the only animal that blushes, or that needs to,” was one of his maxims of this period, and in another place he sets down the myriad diseases which human flesh is heir to and his contempt for a creature subject to such afflictions and for a Providence that could invent them.  Even Mrs. Clemens felt the general sorrow of the race.  “Poor, poor human nature,” she wrote once during that long, gloomy winter.

Many of Mark Twain’s notes refer to Susy.  In one he says: 

“I did not hear her glorious voice at its supremest—­that was in Hartford a month or two before the end.”

Notes of heavy regret most of them are, and self-reproach and the hopelessness of it all.  In one place he records her accomplishment of speech, adding: 

“And I felt like saying ‘you marvelous child,’ but never said it; to my sorrow I remember it now.  But I come of an undemonstrative race.”

He wrote to Twichell: 

But I have this consolation:  that dull as I was I always knew enough to be proud when she commended me or my work—­as proud as if Livy had done it herself—­& I took it as the accolade from the hand of genius.  I see now—­as Livy always saw—­that she had greatness in her, & that she herself was dimly conscious of it.

    And now she is dead—­& I can never tell her.

And closing a letter to Howells: 

    Good-by.  Will healing ever come, or life have value again?