Jean has been in here examining the poll for the Immortals ("Literature,” March 24,) in the hope, I think, that at last she should find me at the top and you in second place; and if that is her ambition she has suffered disappointment for the third time—­and will never fare any better, I hope, for you are where you belong, by every right.  She wanted to know who it is that does the voting, but I was not able to tell her.  Nor when the election will be completed and decided.

Next Morning.  I have been reading the morning paper.  I do it every morning—­well knowing that I shall find in it the usual depravities and basenesses and hypocrisies and cruelties that make up civilization, and cause me to put in the rest of the day pleading for the damnation of the human race.  I cannot seem to get my prayers answered, yet I do not despair.

(Escaped from) 5 o’clock tea. (’sh!) Oh, the American girl in Europe!  Often she is creditable, but sometimes she is just shocking.  This one, a minute ago—­19, fat-face, raspy voice, pert ways, the self-complacency of God; and with it all a silly laugh (embarrassed) which kept breaking out through her chatter all along, whereas there was no call for it, for she said nothing that was funny.  “Spose so many ‘ve told y’ how they ‘njoyed y’r chapt’r on the Germ’ tongue it’s bringin’ coals to Newcastle Kehe! say anything ‘bout it Ke-hehe!  Spent m’ vacation ’n Russia, ’n saw Tolstoi; he said—­” It made me shudder.

April 12.  Jean has been in here with a copy of Literature, complaining that I am again behind you in the election of the 10 consecrated members; and seems troubled about it and not quite able to understand it.  But I have explained to her that you are right there on the ground, inside the pool-booth, keeping game—­and that that makes a large difference in these things.

13th.  I have been to the Knustausstellung with Mrs. Clemens.  The office of art seems to be to grovel in the dirt before Emperors and this and that and the other damned breed of priests. 
                                   Yrs ever
          
                                   mark.

Howells and Clemens were corresponding regularly again, though not with the frequency of former years.  Perhaps neither of them was bubbling over with things to say; perhaps it was becoming yearly less attractive to pick up a pen and write, and then, of course, there was always the discouragement of distance.  Once Howells wrote:  “I know this will find you in Austria before I can well turn round, but I must make believe you are in Kennebunkport before I can begin it.”  And in another letter:  “It ought to be as pleasant to sit down and write to you as to sit down and talk to you, but it isn’t.....  The only reason why I write is that I want another letter from you, and because I have a whole afternoon for the job.  I have the whole of every afternoon, for I cannot work later than lunch.  I am fagged by that