“I think he meant something else,” I ventured.
“I know exactly what that long-snooted lackey meant. He meant that he didn’t know whether his boss wants to see me. That’s nothing new—there’ve been thousands of people who didn’t want to see me, and just as many who I felt the same about. But anybody I’m paying to answer my doorbell will have better manners than to turn up his nose at people who come asking to see me. I know a wild-eyed Croatian inventor whose hair goes in all directions and who doesn’t give a damn about pressed shirts or polished shoes. If I’d decided not to talk to him because my butler didn’t like the way he looked, which he didn’t, I’d have missed some of the most amazing stuff I’ve ever heard. The man’s got better ideas than Edison, and I ought to know—I’ve met Edison, too.”
“Sometimes I think you must have met everyone worth knowing,” I said.
“I’d be disappointed if that turned out to be true,” he said. “It’s a big world, with a hell of a lot of people in it I haven’t met yet. I’d hate to think that none of ’em are worth getting to know. It would take away half my reason for traveling.”
I was not quite certain how to reply to this observation, but was saved having to do so by the return of the butler, who opened the door and said, “Mr. Villiers is at home. If you will please follow me.” He accompanied this revelation with the most perfunctory bow imaginable.
Mr. Clemens responded by bending his upper body nearly parallel to the ground, accompanied by a florid gesture. “Lead the way, kind sir,” he said. The butler made a yeoman effort not to alter his expression, but even I could see that my employer had nonplussed him. He turned on his heel without a word, and we followed him into the house. A glance at Mr. Clemens showed him doing his best to suppress a mischievous grin.
The butler led us down a short hallway, paneled in dark wood and lit with candles—a curious choice of illumination, I thought. Surely this well-to-do neighborhood had gas, if not electricity, available. What I had seen of London indicated that despite the venerable age of many of its buildings, it had adopted most of the modern conveniences to be found in the larger, younger cities of America. The hallway was lined with oil paintings, mostly portraits of gentlemen and ladies in the costume of a considerably earlier time, but we moved along far too rapidly to admit close inspection of them.
“In here, sir,” said the butler, stopping outside a doorway leading off the right side of the hallway and gesturing toward the entrance. Mr. Clemens led the way in, and I followed. This room was also dark-paneled, with thick velvet curtains over the windows and numerous candles burning in tarnished brass sconces around the room. (Bright as it was outside, I would have thought the sunlight would have been welcome, if only to reduce the expenditure for candles.) A thick Persian carpet covered the floor. At a large table, piled high with books, sat Villiers, a large leather-bound folio printed in a black-letter typeface open in front of him. Two large and very ornate silver candelabra sat on either side of him, and a crystal decanter—containing tawny port, to judge by the color—occupied a tray on a side table. The tray also held goblets, of a style matching the decanter.
Villiers looked up as we entered, and rose to his feet, a thin smile on his lips. He wore a dark crimson satin jacket, the color almost matching the curtains and rug. “Mr. Clemens—what an outstanding pleasure to have you as a visitor. As perhaps you have felt, my home is devoted to works of the creative spirit. A visit from another man of genius is always an occasion to be celebrated.” If he noted my presence, he did not consider it worth comment.
My employer bowed again, this time less ostentatiously than when he made his mock bow to the butler. “I don’t know I’d call myself a genius, but I reckon it would be rude to contradict a man in his own home, especially when he’s trying to throw a compliment in my direction. So I thank you, Mr. Villiers. I hope we haven’t come at too inconvenient a time.”
“Not in the least, Mr. Clemens,” said Villiers. He gestured toward the book open before him. “You found me leafing though Sir Thomas Browne’s Vulgar Errors—a volume I always find highly amusing, though perhaps I read it differently to most people nowadays. I find myself thinking that the title reflects as much on its author as on the ostensible subjects. Still, it remains an inspiration for my artistic endeavors. I wonder if you know it.”
“Mostly by reputation,” said Mr. Clemens (which was more than I could say). “Old Dr. Browne wouldn’t believe anything he hadn’t seen with his own eyes, if what I’ve heard is right. I guess we’d have found a few things to laugh about together, if he’d been born a couple of hundred years later. But I’ve never bothered to go dig up his book—I can usually find a month’s supply of moonshine without going that far out of my way.”
Villiers responded with a smile. “Yes, the fools are always with us, are they not?” he said. “But I am neglecting my duty as a host, Mr. Clemens—I hope you will join me in a glass of this excellent port.”
“Yes, indeed,” said my employer. “Cabot and I have been running all over town on one errand or another. I’m sure a taste would do both of us considerable good.”
Villiers showed us to chairs, then filled three glasses and passed them around. I am not ordinarily fond of sweet wines,
