bald spot had started to show toward the back of his skull. He kept glancing around as if he hoped to find someone of higher authority to back him up.
“Oh, they can be my guests, if you need authorization,” I said. “They’re none of them ruffians, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t just let you bring in a pack of people who don’t belong,” said the steward, although he was clearly beginning to waver.
“Here, what’s the problem?” It was Mr. Clemens, who’d come up behind me. “Do you know these fellows, Wentworth?”
“Why, yes,” I said, and quickly introduced them to my employer. I was secretly pleased to see that Bertie and the DeWitts seemed properly impressed to learn that I was traveling with none other than Mr. Clemens, whom they probably knew as Mark Twain.
“Well, I’m pleased to say that I’m a Yale man myself,” said Mr. Clemens. “If a man that can get into Yale College ain’t good enough to sit in the smoking lounge, then you might as well throw all five of us overboard and get it done with. Are you going to let these boys in—as my guests?”
At this, the steward had to confess that he was out of his league, and he beat a hasty retreat as Mr. Clemens and I escorted the three Yale men over to sit with us.
Bertie and Johnny and I had spent more than one late night with a bottle of wine and an endless stream of talk on every subject under the sun. Those were still some of my fondest memories of college. I had been looking forward to my Atlantic voyage, but now I was even more convinced it was going to be great fun.
5
Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling entertained my Yale classmates with stories and small talk for the better part of an hour. My friends had saved up their earnings from summer work and were now on their way to see the sights of Europe on the cheap by crossing the Atlantic as steerage passengers, after the prime season for eastbound travel. They had brought along bicycles to reduce their expenses on the European side, and were treating the entire expedition as a jolly adventure. Indeed, it sounded like grand fun—although, having had a sample of first-class accommodations with Mr. Clemens, I suspected that my taste for steerage travel was already spoiled. Certainly, there was something to be said for going to Europe first-class and being paid for it, especially if traveling on a shoestring were the only alternative. (Although, to be honest, Mr. Clemens was on a tighter budget than it must have seemed to our fellow passengers, and he would be earning his keep on the other end by giving a series of lectures and readings.)
As I had seen many times before, for Mr. Clemens merely to sit and hold a conversation in a public area was tantamount to issuing an invitation for all who recognized him to come introduce themselves, however slight the pretext. One of my normal responsibilities as his traveling secretary was to pry him away from such intruding members of the public when their demands grew excessive. But for the time being, he was clearly enjoying the crowd’s attention, and utterly charmed not only my friends but most of the others who ventured within earshot.
Among those who introduced themselves were several Philadelphians, who as it turned out were traveling in a group to explore the museums and architectural monuments of England, France, and Italy. Julius Babson and his family we had already met; now we made the acquaintance of Mr. Vincent Mercer, a prominent banker, and the father of young Robert Babson’s fiancée, Theresa. He had a somewhat pinched countenance, and the reserved manner of a man whose station in life depends upon his ability to convince others to trust him with their money. Nevertheless, he claimed familiarity with Mr. Clemens’s writings, and seemed genuinely pleased to make my employer’s acquaintance.
With him was Wilfred Smythe, a young man of about my own age, and the son of a Methodist minister in Philadelphia. (His parents were on board the ship, but his father was another who abjured the use of tobacco, and therefore had not come to the smoking lounge.) Young Smythe had something of the seriousness I had seen in other ministers’ sons, but I caught a twinkle in his eye as he listened to Mr. Clemens’s stories, and decided that his upbringing had not left him without an independent spirit. Vincent Mercer had promoted him to a position of responsibility in his bank, and clearly looked on him as a young man of promise. Observing Smythe’s quiet demeanor and obvious intelligence, I decided that Mr. Mercer’s confidence in him would likely prove to be well-placed.
Mr. Mercer also introduced us to Signor Giorgio Rubbia, an Italian artist who was to be the Philadelphians guide to the artistic treasures of Europe. Although he stood no more than five foot six, Signor Rubbia must have weighed something over two hundred fifty pounds, and his fleshy jowls were accentuated by bushy white side whiskers. His attire was as distinctive as his figure: a wide-brimmed black felt hat, a flamboyant purple-lined cape, and a long, colorful scarf worn instead of a necktie. He seemed incapable of uttering a sentence without an extravagant gesture to accompany it. I could tell by Mr. Clemens’s expression that he was not impressed by Signor Rubbia. Amused, perhaps, but not at all impressed. For myself, I found the man an interestingly exotic specimen, and determined to see what I could learn from his observations on art (although his thick Italian accent might make that something of a challenge).
Signor Rubbia appeared to have only a vague notion of who Mr. Clemens was. But he soon discerned that my employer was the focus of all eyes in the lounge, and that even Vincent Mercer was paying more attention to the American writer than to him. Rubbia’s eyes narrowed as Mr. Mercer asked Mr. Clemens his advice on the sights to see in London; clearly, he considered this request an intrusion on his own prerogatives as guide to the Mercer party.
“What to see depends on what you like,” said Mr. Clemens. “There’s plenty to see in London. Don’t miss Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, or the British Museum—and make sure to get a look at the Tower of London. It’ll remind you how the kings and nobles have kept the people under their thumb for so long. I’ve always wondered how some Americans pretend to admire those rascals—a king’s not much better than a slaveholder, in my opinion.”
Mr. Kipling chuckled. “Now, watch yourself, Clemens. I’ll make allowance for your opinions of kings. You’re an American and a humorist besides, but don’t forget you have a loyal subject of the Queen sitting here next to you.”
“What is there to see in the way of art?” asked Mr. Mercer, ignoring Mr. Kipling’s sally.
“I’d suggest the National Portrait Gallery,” said Mr. Clemens. “Don’t bother with the other National Gallery—if you want my opinion, the portraits are the only paintings in London worth a second look. Even if most of them are of dead people, at least they’re real people. There’s no other art in England worth walking across the street for.”
Signor Rubbia instantly seized this opening. “No art in England? What sort of foolishness is this? Have you not seen The Hay Wain’ of Constable? Or the ‘Fighting Temeraire’ of Turner? Did you not see the Elgin Marbles?”
Mr. Clemens looked up at the Italian, raising his eyebrows. His pipe had burnt out, and he carefully tapped the ashes into the ashtray before he replied. “Sure, I’ve seen all of ’em. I’d rather sit by the Thames and watch the boats passing, if you want to know the truth. Nature’s the oldest master of them all, and the only one that’s never let me down.”
“Aha! A man after my own heart!” exclaimed a hearty voice from the back of the room. I looked up to see Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten, who had just come through the door. “Herr Mark Twain, I hope you have received the magnum of champagne I had sent to your cabin! I consider it a doubly deserved gift after hearing your astute criticism. No man who
