ack, and sit up all night watching the young people dance;
yelling conversationally and being yelled at, conversationally, by new
acquaintances, through the deafening music, about how I like Vienna, and
if it's my first visit, and how long we expect to stay, and did I see
the foot-washing, and am I writing a book about Vienna, and so on. The
terms seemed too severe. Snow mountains are too dear at the price....

For several years I have been intending to stop writing for print as
soon as I could afford it. At last I can afford it, and have put the
pot-boiler pen away. What I have been wanting is a chance to write a
book without reserves--a book which should take account of no one's
feelings, and no one's prejudices, opinions, beliefs, hopes, illusions,
delusions; a book which should say my say, right out of my heart, in the
plainest language and without a limitation of any sort. I judged that
that would be an unimaginable luxury, heaven on earth.

It is under way, now, and it is a luxury! an intellectual drunk: Twice I
didn't start it right; and got pretty far in, both times, before I found
it out. But I am sure it is started right this time. It is in tale-form.
I believe I can make it tell what I think of Man, and how he is
constructed, and what a shabby poor ridiculous thing he is, and how
mistaken he is in his estimate of his character and powers and qualities
and his place among the animals.

So far, I think I am succeeding. I let the madam into the secret day
before yesterday, and locked the doors and read to her the opening
chapters. She said--

"It is perfectly horrible--and perfectly beautiful!"

"Within the due limits of modesty, that is what I think."

I hope it will take me a year or two to write it, and that it will turn
out to be the right vessel to contain all the abuse I am planning to
dump into it.

Yours ever
MARK.

The story mentioned in the foregoing, in which Mark Twain was to
give his opinion of man, was The Mysterious Stranger. It was not
finished at the time, and its closing chapter was not found until
after his death. Six years later (1916) it was published serially
in Harper's Magazine, and in book form.

The end of May found the Clemens party in London, where they were
received and entertained with all the hospitality they had known in
earlier years. Clemens was too busy for le