ld be too soon
to start. He agreed that Tuesday would do, and inquired as to my plan
of work. I suggested bringing a stenographer to make notes of his
life-story as he could recall it, this record to be supplemented by
other material--letters, journals, and what not. He said:

"I think I should enjoy dictating to a stenographer with some one to
prompt me and act as audience. The room adjoining this was fitted up for
my study. My manuscript and notes and private books and many of my
letters are there, and there are a trunkful or two of such things in the
attic. I seldom use the room myself. I do my writing and reading in
bed. I will turn that room over to you for this work. Whatever you need
will be brought to you. We can have the dictations here in the morning,
and you can put in the rest of the day to suit yourself. You can have a
key and come and go as you please."

That was always his way. He did nothing by halves. He got up and showed
me the warm luxury of the study, with its mass of material--disordered,
but priceless.

I have no distinct recollections of how I came away, but presently, back
at the Players, I was confiding the matter to Charles Harvey Genung, who
said he was not surprised; but I think he was.

LX.

WORKING WITH MARK TWAIN

It was true, after all; and on Tuesday morning, January 9, 1906, I was on
hand with a capable stenographer, ready to begin. Clemens, meantime, had
developed a new idea: he would like to add, he said, the new dictations
to his former beginnings, completing an autobiography which was to be
laid away and remain unpublished for a hundred years. He would pay the
stenographer himself, and own the notes, allowing me, of course, free use
of them as material for my book. He did not believe that he could follow
the story of his life in its order of dates, but would find it necessary
to wander around, picking up the thread as memory or fancy prompted. I
could suggest subjects and ask questions. I assented to everything, and
we set to work immediately.

As on my former visit, he was in bed when we arrived, though clad now in
a rich Persian dressing gown, and propped against great, snowy pillows.
A small table beside him held his pipes, cigars, papers, also a
reading-lamp, the soft light of which brought out his brilliant coloring
and the gleam of his snowy hair. There was daylight, too, but it was dull
winter daylight, from the north, while the walls of the room were a deep,
u