The first time we called at the convent, Pere Jacopo was absent; the next (Just at this moment Miss Spaulding spoke up and said something about Pere Jacopo—­there is more in this acting of one mind upon another than people think) time, he was there, and gave us preserved rose-leaves to eat, and talked about you, and Mrs. Howells, and Winnie, and brought out his photographs, and showed us a picture of “the library of your new house,” but not so—­it was the study in your Cambridge house.  He was very sweet and good.  He called on us next day; the day after that we left Venice, after a pleasant sojourn Of 3 or 4 weeks.  He expects to spend this winter in Munich and will see us often, he said.

Pretty soon, I am going to write something, and when I finish it I shall know whether to put it to itself or in the “Contributors’ Club.”  That “Contributors’ Club” was a most happy idea.  By the way, I think that the man who wrote the paragraph beginning at the bottom of page 643 has said a mighty sound and sensible thing.  I wish his suggestion could be adopted.

It is lovely of you to keep that old pipe in such a place of honor.

While it occurs to me, I must tell you Susie’s last.  She is sorely badgered with dreams; and her stock dream is that she is being eaten up by bears.  She is a grave and thoughtful child, as you will remember.  Last night she had the usual dream.  This morning she stood apart (after telling it,) for some time, looking vacantly at the floor, and absorbed in meditation.  At last she looked up, and with the pathos of one who feels he has not been dealt by with even-handed fairness, said “But Mamma, the trouble is, that I am never the bear, but always the person.”

It would not have occurred to me that there might be an advantage, even in a dream, in occasionally being the eater, instead of always the party eaten, but I easily perceived that her point was well taken.

I’m sending to Heidelberg for your letter and Winnie’s, and I do hope they haven’t been lost.

My wife and I send love to you all. 
                                   Yrs ever,
          
                                   mark.

The Howells story, running at this time in the Atlantic, and so much enjoyed by the Clemens party, was “The Lady of the Aroostook.”  The suggestions made for enlarging the part of the “old man” are eminently characteristic.

Mark Twain’s forty-third birthday came in Munich, and in his letter conveying this fact to his mother we get a brief added outline of the daily life in that old Bavarian city.  Certainly, it would seem to have been a quieter and more profitable existence than he had known amid the confusion of things left behind in, America.

To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in America: 

No. 1a Karlstrasse,
Dec. 1, Munich. 1878. 
My dear mother and sister,—­I broke the back of life yesterday and started down-hill toward old age.  This fact has not produced any effect upon me that I can detect.