He was propped up in bed—­a regal bed, from a dismantled Italian palace —­delving through a copy of “Huckleberry Finn,” in search of a paragraph concerning which some unknown correspondent had inquired.  He pushed the cigars toward me, commenting amusingly on this correspondent and on letter-writing in general.  By and by, when there came a lull, I told him what so many thousands had told him before—­what his work had meant to me, so long ago, and recalled my childish impressions of that large black-and-gilt book with its wonderful pictures and adventures “The Innocents Abroad.”  Very likely he was willing enough to let me change the subject presently and thank him for the kindly word which David Munro had brought.  I do not remember what was his comment, but I suddenly found myself saying that out of his encouragement had grown a hope (though certainly it was less), that I might some day undertake a book about himself.  I expected my errand to end at this point, and his silence seemed long and ominous.

He said at last that from time to time he had himself written chapters of his life, but that he had always tired of the work and put it aside.  He added that he hoped his daughters would one day collect his letters, but that a biography—­a detailed story of a man’s life and effort—­was another matter.  I think he added one or two other remarks, then all at once, turning upon me those piercing agate-blue eyes, he said: 

“When would you like to begin?”

There was a dresser, with a large mirror, at the end of the room.  I happened to catch my reflection in it, and I vividly recollect saying to it, mentally “This is not true; it is only one of many similar dreams.”  But even in a dream one must answer, and I said: 

“Whenever you like.  I can begin now.”

He was always eager in any new undertaking.

“Very good,” he said, “the sooner, then, the better.  Let’s begin while we are in the humor.  The longer you postpone a thing of this kind, the less likely you are ever to get at it.”

This was on Saturday; I asked if Tuesday, January 9, would 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.”