MARK TWAIN

In spite of fair outlook at the beginning of the
year, the one definite thing that happened that
spring was the failure of Charles L. Webster &
Company, Mark Twain's publishing-house. The
business which had begun so prosperously ten
years earlier had dwindled to bankruptcy. Yet
it was not all sorrow: Mark Twain was free.
Loaded with debt (for he refused to settle at less
than the face value of his obligations), but free
from haunting uncertainties. His friend, H. H.
Rogers of the Standard Oil Company, took his
affairs in hand, and Mark Twain hurried back
once more to Europe, to finish his story of Joan
of Arc, begun at Florence, two years before. He
still had faith in the machine, and his spirits were
high. From Rouen, where he went to visit Joan
landmarks, he wrote Rogers—with glee, we may
be sure—his most recent adventure.

Dear Mr. Rogers:

Yours of the 24th Sept. has arrived filled with pleasant-
ness and peace. I would God I were in my room in the
new house in Fairhaven, so'st I could have one good solid
night's sleep. I might have had one last night if I hadn't
lost my temper, for I was loaded up high with fatigue;
but at two this morning I had a W.C. call and jumped
up in the dark and ran in my night-shirt and without a
candle—for I believed I knew my way. This hotel
d'Angleterre must be a congeries of old dwellings—if it
isn't, it is built up in a series of water-tight compartments,
like the American liners, that go clear to the top. You
can't get out of your own compartment. There is only
your one hall; it has four rooms on each side of it and
a staircase in the midst; would you think a person could
get lost in such a place? I assure you it is possible; for a
person of talent.

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