Villadi Quarto, Florence,
May 12, ’04. 
Dear Gilder,—­A friend of ours (the Baroness de Nolda) was here this afternoon and wanted a note of introduction to the Century, for she has something to sell to you in case you’ll want to make her an offer after seeing a sample of the goods.  I said “With pleasure:  get the goods ready, send the same to me, I will have Jean type-write them, then I will mail them to the Century and tonight I will write the note to Mr. Gilder and start it along.  Also write me a letter embodying what you have been saying to me about the goods and your proposed plan of arranging and explaining them, and I will forward that to Gilder too.”

As to the Baroness.  She is a German; 30 years old; was married at 17; is very pretty-indeed I might say very pretty; has a lot of sons (5) running up from seven to 12 years old.  Her husband is a Russian.  They live half the time in Russia and the other half in Florence, and supply population alternately to the one country and then to the other.  Of course it is a family that speaks languages.  This occurs at their table—­I know it by experience:  It is Babel come again.  The other day, when no guests were present to keep order, the tribes were all talking at once, and 6 languages were being traded in; at last the littlest boy lost his temper and screamed out at the top of his voice, with angry sobs:  “Mais, vraiment, io non capisco gar nichts.”

The Baroness is a little afraid of her English, therefore she will write her remarks in French—­I said there’s a plenty of translators in New York.  Examine her samples and drop her a line.

For two entire days, now, we have not been anxious about Mrs. Clemens (unberufen).  After 20 months of bed-ridden solitude and bodily misery she all of a sudden ceases to be a pallid shrunken shadow, and looks bright and young and pretty.  She remains what she always was, the most wonderful creature of fortitude, patience, endurance and recuperative power that ever was.  But ah, dear, it won’t last; this fiendish malady will play new treacheries upon her, and I shall go back to my prayers again—­unutterable from any pulpit! 
                    With love to you and yours,
                                             S. L. C.

May 13 10 A.M.  I have just paid one of my pair of permitted 2 minutes visits per day to the sick room.  And found what I have learned to expect—­retrogression, and that pathetic something in the eye which betrays the secret of a waning hope.

The year of the World’s Fair had come, and an invitation from Gov.  Francis, of Missouri, came to Mark Twain in Florence, personally inviting him to attend the great celebration and carry off first prize.  We may believe that Clemens felt little in the spirit of humor, but to such an invitation he must send a cheerful, even if disappointing, answer.

To Gov.  Francis, of Missouri: