Mrs. C. is feeling so well that she is not going to try the New York
doctor till we have gone around the world and robbed it and made the
finances a little easier. 
                    With a power of love to you all,
                                   S. L. Clemens.

There would come moments of depression, of course, and a week later he wrote:  “I am tired to death all the time:”  To a man of less vitality, less vigor of mind and body, it is easy to believe that under such circumstances this condition would have remained permanent.  But perhaps, after all, it was his comic outlook on things in general that was his chief life-saver.

To H. H. Rogers, in New York City: 

169 Rue de L’UNIVERSITE, Apr. 29, ’95.  Dear Mr. Rogers,—­I have been hidden an hour or two, reading proof of Joan and now I think I am a lost child.  I can’t find anybody on the place.  The baggage has all disappeared, including the family.  I reckon that in the hurry and bustle of moving to the hotel they forgot me.  But it is no matter.  It is peacefuller now than I have known it for days and days and days.

In these Joan proofs which I have been reading for the September Harper I find a couple of tip-top platform readings—­and I mean to read them on our trip.  If the authorship is known by then; and if it isn’t, I will reveal it.  The fact is, there is more good platform-stuff in Joan than in any previous book of mine, by a long sight.

Yes, every danged member of the tribe has gone to the hotel and left me lost.  I wonder how they can be so careless with property.  I have got to try to get there by myself now.

All the trunks are going over as luggage; then I’ve got to find somebody
on the dock who will agree to ship 6 of them to the Hartford Customhouse. 
If it is difficult I will dump them into the river.  It is very careless
of Mrs. Clemens to trust trunks and things to me. 
                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. Clemens.

By the latter part of May they were at Quarry Farm, and Clemens, laid up there with a carbuncle, was preparing for his long tour.  The outlook was not a pleasant one.  To Mr. Rogers he wrote:  “I sha’n’t be able to stand on the platform before we start west.  I sha’n’t get a single chance to practice my reading; but will have to appear in Cleveland without the essential preparation.  Nothing in this world can save it from being a shabby, poor disgusting performance.  I’ve got to stand; I can’t do it and talk to a house, and how in the nation am I going to sit?  Land of Goshen, it’s this night week!  Pray for me.”

     The opening at Cleveland July 15th appears not to have been much of
     a success, though from another reason, one that doubtless seemed
     amusing to him later.