CHAPTER 59 It was at the beginning of 1906, a little more than a month after the seventieth birthday dinner, that the writer of these chapters became personally associated with Mark Twain. I had met him before, and from time to time he had returned a kindly word about some book I had written, and inconsiderately sent him, for he had been my literary hero from childhood. Once indeed he had allowed me to use some of his letters in a biography I was writing of Thomas Nast. He had been always an admirer of the great cartoonist, and the permission was kindness itself. Before the seating at the birthday dinner I happened to find myself for a moment alone with Mark Twain, and remembered to thank him in person for the use of the letters. A day or two later I sent him a copy of the book. I did not expect to hear from it again. It was a little while after this that I was asked to join in a small private dinner to be given to Mark Twain at the players, in celebration of his being made an honorary member of that club, there being at the time only one other member of this class, Sir Henry Irving. I was in the players a day or two before the event, and David Monroe, of the North American Review, a man whose gentle and kindly nature made him David, to all who knew him, greeted me joyfully, his face full of something he knew I would wish to hear. He had been chosen, he said, to propose the players' dinner to Mark Twain, and had found him propped up in bed and beside him a copy of the Nast book. I suspect now that David's generous heart prompted Mark Twain to speak of the book, and that his comment had lost nothing in David's eager retelling. But I was too proud and happy to question any feature of the precious compliment, and Monroe, always most happy in making others happy, found opportunity to repeat it, and even to improve upon it, usually in the presence of others, several times during the evening. The players' dinner to Mark Twain was given on the evening of January 3, 1906, and the picture of it still remains clear to me. The guests, assembled around a single table in the private dining-room, did not exceed twenty-five in number. Brander Matthews presided, and the nightly Frank Millet, who would one day go down on the Titanic, was there, and Gilder, and Monroe, and David Bisfam, and Robert Reed, and others of their kind. It so happened that my seat was nearly facing the guest of the evening, who by accustom of the players, is placed at the side and not at the distant end of the long table. Regarding him at leisure, I saw that he seemed to be in full health. He had an alert, rested look. His complexion had the tints of a miniature painting. Lit by the soft glow of the shaded candles, outlined against the richness of the shadowed walls, he made a figure of striking beauty. I could not take my eyes from it, for it stirred in me the farthest memories. I saw the interior of a farmhouse sitting-room in the middle west, where I had first heard the name of Mark Twain, and where night after night a group had gathered around the evening lamp. To hear read aloud the story of the innocence on their Holy Land pilgrimage, which to a boy of eight had seemed only a wonderful poem and fairytale. To Charles Harvey Genung, who sat next to me, I whispered something of this, and how during the thirty-six years since then no one had meant to me quite what Mark Twain had meant in literature and, indeed, in life. Now here he was just across the table. It was a fairytale come true. Genung said, You should write his life. It seemed to me no more than a pleasant remark, but he came back to it again and again, trying to encourage me with the word that Monroe had brought back concerning the biography of Nast. However, nothing of what he said had kindled any spark of hope. I put him off by saying that certainly someone of longer and closer friendship and larger experience had been selected for the work. Then the speaking began, and the matter went out of my mind. Later in the evening, when we had left our seats and were drifting about the table, I found a chance to say a word to our guest concerning his Joan of Arc, which I had recently reread. To my happiness he told me that long ago incident the stray leaf from Joan's life blown to him by the wind, which had led to his interest in all literature. Then presently I was with Genung again, and he was still insisting that I write the life of Mark Twain. It may have been his faithful urging. It may have been the quick sympathy kindled by the name of Joan of Arc. Whatever it was, in the instant of bidding good-bye to our guest I was prompted to add, May I call to see you, Mr. Clemens, some day? And something to this day I do not know what prompted him to answer. Yes, come soon. Two days later, by appointment with his secretary, I arrived at 21 Fifth Avenue, and waited in the library to be summoned to his room. A few moments later I was ascending the long stairs wondering why I had come on so useless an errand, trying to think up an excuse for having come at all. 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 guilt book with its wonderful pictures and adventures, the innocence abroad. Very likely he was willing enough to let me change the subject presently and thank him for the kindly word which David Monroe 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 humour. 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 9th, 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 someone 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 Ganung, who said he was not surprised, but I think he was. End of Chapter 59 This is Chapter 60 of The Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain by Albert Bigelow Payne. Chapter 60. 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, unreflecting red. He began that morning with some memories of the Comstock mine. Then he dropped back to his childhood, closing at last with some comment on matters quite recent. How delightful it was, his quaint, unhurried fashion of speech, the unconscious habits of his delicate hands, the play of his features as his fancies and phrases passed through his mind, and were accepted or put aside. We were watching one of the great literary creatures of his time in the very process of his architecture. Time did not count. When he finished at last we were all amazed to find that more than two hours had slipped away. And how much! I have enjoyed it, he said. It is the ideal plan for this kind of work. Narrative writing is always disappointing. The moment you pick up a pen, you begin to lose the spontaneity of the personal relation, which contains the very essence of interest. With shorthand dictation one can talk as if he were at his own dinner table, always an inspiring place. I expect to dictate all the rest of my life if you good people are willing to come and listen to it. The dictations thus begun continued steadily from week to week, with increasing charm. We never knew what he was going to talk about, and it was seldom that he knew until the moment of beginning. But it was always fascinating, and I felt myself the most fortunate biographer in the world, as indeed I was. It was not all smooth sailing, however. In the course of time I began to realize that these marvellous dictated chapters were not altogether history, but were often partly or even entirely imaginary. The creator of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn had been embroidering old incidents or inventing new ones too long to stick to history now, to be able to separate the romance in his mind from the reality of the past. Also his memory of personal events had become inaccurate. He realized this, and once said, in his whimsical, gentle way, when I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. But I am getting old, and soon I shall remember only the latter. Yet it was his constant purpose to stick to fact, and especially did he make no effort to put himself in a good light. Indeed, if you wanted to know the worst of Mark Twain, you had only to ask him for it. He would give it to the last syllable, and he would improve upon it and pile up his sins and sometimes the sins of others without stint. Certainly the dictations were precious, for they revealed character as nothing else could. But as material for history they often failed to stand the test of the documents in the next room, the letters, notebooks, agreements, and the like, from which I was gradually rebuilding the structure of the years. In the talks that we usually had when the dictations were ended and the stenographer had gone, I got much that was of great value. It was then that I usually made those inquiries which we had planned in the beginning, and his answers, coming quickly and without reflection, gave imagination less play. Sometimes he would touch some point of special interest and walk up and down, philosophizing, or commenting upon things in general, in a manner not always complementary to humanity and its progress. I seldom asked him a question during the dictation or interrupted in any way, though he had asked me to stop him when I found him repeating or contradicting himself, or misstating some fact known to me. At first I lacked the courage to point out a mistake at the moment and cautiously mentioned the matter when he had finished. Then he would be likely to say, Why didn't you stop me? Why did you let me go on making a donkey of myself when you could have saved me? So then I used to take the risk of getting struck by lightning and nearly always stopped him in time. But if it happened, that I upset his thought, the thunderbolt was apt to fly. He would say, Now you've knocked everything out of my head! Then of course I was sorry and apologized, and in a moment the sky was clear again. There was generally a humorous complexion to the dictations, whatever the subject. Humor was his natural breath of life and rarely absent. Perhaps I should have said sooner that he smoked continuously during the dictations. His cigars were of that delicious fragrance which belongs to domestic tobacco. They were strong and inexpensive, and it was only his early training that made him prefer them. Admiring friends used to send him costly imported cigars, but he rarely touched them, and they were smoked by visitors. He often smoked a pipe, and preferred it to be old and violent. Once, when he had bought a new, expensive briar-root, he handed it to me, saying, I'd like to have you smoke that a year or two, and when it gets so you can't stand it, maybe it will suit me. End of Chapter 60 This is Chapter 61 of the Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain by Albert Bigelow Payne Chapter 61 Dictations at Dublin, New Hampshire Following his birthday dinner, Mark Twain had become once more the Bell of New York, and in a larger way than ever before. An editorial in the Evening Mail referred to him as a kind of joint Aristides, Solon, and Themistocles of the American Metropolis, and added, Things have reached a point where, if Mark Twain is not at a public meeting or banquet, he is expected to console it with one of his inimitable letters of advice and encouragement. He loved the excitement of it, and it no longer seemed to wear upon him. Scarcely an evening pass that he did not go out to some dinner or gathering where he had promised to speak. In April, for the benefit of the Robert Fulton Society, he delivered his farewell lecture, the last lecture he said, where anyone would have to pay to hear him. It was at Carnegie Hall, and the great place was jammed. As he stood before that vast, shouting audience, I wondered if he was remembering that night, forty years before in San Francisco when his lecture career had begun. We hoped he might speak of it. But he did not do so. In May the dictations were transferred to Dublin, New Hampshire, to the long veranda of the Upton House, on the Manadnox slope. He wished to continue our work, he said, so this tenographer and myself were presently located in the village, and drove out each morning to sit facing one of the rarest views in all New England, while he talked of everything and anything that memory or fancy suggested. We had begun in his bedroom, but the glorious outside was too compelling. The long veranda was ideal. He was generally ready when we arrived, a luminous figure in white flannels, pacing up and down before a background of sky and forest, blue lake and distant hills. When it stormed, we would go inside to a bright fire. The dictation ended. He would ask his secretary to play the orchestral, which at great expense had been freighted up from New York. In that high situation, the fire and the music and the storm beat seemed to lift us very far indeed from reality. Certain symphonies, by Beethoven, and impromptu by Schubert, and a nocturne by Chopin were the selections he cared for most. His special favorites were Schubert's Opus 142 Part II and Chopin's Opus 37 Part II. End of Footnote No. 12 Though in certain moods he asked for the Scotch melodies. There was a good deal of social life in Dublin, but the dictations were seldom interrupted. He became lonely now and then and paid a brief visit to New York or to Mr. Rogers in Fairhaven, but he always returned gladly, for he liked the rest and quiet, and the dictations gave him employment. A part of his entertainment was a trio of kittens which he had rented for the summer, rented because then they would not lose ownership and would find home and protection in the fall. He named the kittens Sackcloth and Ashes, Sackcloth being a black and white kit, and Ashes, a joint name owned by the two others, who were gray and exactly alike. All summer long these merry little creatures played up and down the wide veranda, or chased butterflies and grasshoppers down the clover slope, offering Mark Twain never-ending amusement. He loved to see them spring into the air after some insect, miss it, tumble back, and quickly jump up again with a surprised and disappointed expression. In spite of his resolve not to print any of his autobiography until he had been dead a hundred years, he was persuaded during the summer to allow certain chapters of it to be published in the North American Review. With the price received, thirty thousand dollars, he announced he was going to build himself a country home at Reading, Connecticut, on land already purchased there, near a small country place of my own. He wished to have a fixed place to go each summer, he said, and his thought was to call it Autobiography House. End of Chapter 61 This is Chapter 62 of the Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain By Albert Bigelow Payne Chapter 62 A New Era of Billiards With the return to New York I began a period of closer association with Mark Twain. Up to that time our relations had been chiefly of a literary nature. They now became personal as well. It happened in this way. Mark Twain had never outgrown his love for the game of billiards, though he had not owned a table since the closing of the Hartford House fifteen years before. Mrs. Henry Rogers had proposed to present him with a table for Christmas, but when he heard of the plan, boylike, he could not wait, and hinted that if he had the table right now he could begin to use it sooner. So the table came, a handsome combination affair suitable to all games, and was set in place. That morning, when the dictation ended, he said, Have you any special place to lunch today? I replied that I had not. Lunch here, he said, and we'll try the new billiard table. I acknowledged that I had never played more than a few games of pool, and those were very long ago. No matter, he said, the poorer you play, the better I shall like it. So I remained for luncheon, and when it was over we began the first game ever played on the Christmas table. He taught me a game in which caroms and pockets both counted, and he gave me heavy odds. He beat me, but it was a riotous, rollicking game, the beginning of a closer relation between us. We played most of the afternoon, and he suggested that I come back in the evening and play some more. I did so, and the game lasted till after midnight. I had beginner's luck—nigger luck, as he called it—and it kept him working feverishly to win. Once when I had made a great fluke, a carom followed by most of the balls falling into the pockets, he said, When you pick up that cue, this table drips at every pour. The morning dictations became a secondary interest. Like a boy, he was looking forward to the afternoon of play, and it seemed never to come quickly enough to suit him. I remained regularly for luncheon, and he was inclined to cut the courses short that we might the sooner get upstairs for billiards. He did not eat the midday meal himself, but he would come down and walk about the dining-room, talking steadily that marvellous, marvellous talk which, little by little, I trained myself to remember, though never with complete success. He was only killing time, and I remember once, when he had been earnestly discussing some deep question, he suddenly noticed that the luncheon was ending. Now, he said, we will proceed to more serious matters. It's your shot! My game improved with practice, and he reduced my odds. He was willing to be beaten, but not too often. We kept a record of the games, and he went to bed happier if the tally-sheet showed a balance in his favour. He was not an even-tempered player. When the game went steadily against him he was likely to become critical, even fault-finding in his remarks. Then presently he would be seized with remorse and become over-gentle and attentive, placing the balls as I knocked them into the pockets, hurrying to render this service. I wished he would not do it. It distressed me that he should humble himself. I was willing that he should lose his temper, that he should be even harsh if he felt so inclined—his age, his position. His genius gave him special privileges. Yet I am glad, as I remember it now, that the other side revealed itself, for it completes the sum of his humanity. Once in a burst of exasperation he made such an onslaught on the balls that he landed a couple of them on the floor. I gathered them up, and we went on playing as if nothing had happened. Only he was very gentle and sweet, like a summer meadow when the storm has passed by. Presently he said, This is a most amusing game. When you play badly it amuses me, and when I play badly and lose my temper it certainly must amuse you. It was but natural that friendship should grow under such conditions. The disparity of our ages and gifts no longer mattered. The pleasant land of play is a democracy where such things do not count. We celebrated his seventy-first birthday by playing billiards all day. He invented a new game for the occasion and added a new rule for it with almost every shot. It happened that no other member of the family was at home. Ill health had banished everyone, even the Secretary. Flowers, telegrams, and congratulations came, and a string of callers. He saw no one but a few intimate friends. We were entirely alone for dinner, and I felt the great honour of being his only guest on such an occasion. On that night, a year before, the flower of his profession had assembled to do him honour. Once between the courses, when he rose, as was his habit, to walk about, he wandered into the drawing-room, and, seating himself at the orchestral, began to play the beautiful flower song from Faust. It was a thing I had not seen him do before, and I never saw him do it again. He was in his loveliest humour all that day and evening, and at night, when we stopped playing, he said, I have never had a pleasanter day at this game. I answered, I hope ten years from tonight we shall be playing it. Yes, he said, still playing the best game on earth. End of Chapter 62 This is Chapter 63 of the Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain, by Albert Bigelopane, Chapter 63, Living with Mark Twain. I accompanied him on a trip he made to Washington in the interest of copyright. Speaker Uncle Joe Cannon lent us his private room in the capital, and there, all one afternoon, Mark Twain received congressmen, and in an atmosphere blue with cigar smoke, preached the gospel of copyright. It was a historic trip, and for me an eventful one, for it was on the way back to New York that Mark Twain suggested that I take up residence in his home. There was a room going to waste, he said, and I would be handier for the early and late billiard sessions. I accepted, of course. Looking back now, I see pretty vividly three quite distinct pictures, one of them, the rich red interior of the billiard room with the brilliant green square in the center on which the gay balls are rolling, and bent over it, his luminous white figure in the instant of play. Then there is the long lighted drawing room, with the same figure stretched on a couch in the corner, drowsily smoking while the rich organ-tone summoned from him, scenes and faces which the others do not see. Sometimes he rose, pacing the length of the parlours, but oftener he lay among the cushions, the light flooding his white hair and dress, heightening his brilliant coloring. He had taken up the fashion of wearing white altogether at this time. Black, he said, reminded him of his funerals. The third picture is that of the dinner table, always beautifully laid, and always a shrine of wisdom when he was there. He did not always talk, but he often did, and I see him clearest, his face alive with interest, presenting some new angle of thought in his vivid inimitable speech. These are pictures that will not fade from my memory. How I wish the marvellous things he said were like them. I preserved as much of them as I could, and in time trained myself to recall portions of his exact phrasing. But even so they seemed never quite as he had said them.  His dinner-table talk was likely to be political, scientific, and philosophic. He often discussed aspects of astronomy, which was a passion with him. I could succeed better with the billiard-room talk that was likely to be reminiscent, full of anecdotes. I kept a pad on the windowsill and made notes while he was playing. At one time he told me of his dreams. There is never a month passes, he said, that I do not dream of being in reduced circumstances and obliged to go back to the river to earn a living. Usually, in my dream, I am just about to start into a black shadow without being able to tell whether it is Selma Bluff or Hat Island or only a black wall of night. Another dream I have is being compelled to go back to the lecture-platform. In it I am always getting up before an audience with nothing to say, trying to be funny, trying to make the audience laugh, realizing I am only making silly jokes. Then the audience realizes it, and pretty soon they commence to get up and leave. That dream always ends by my standing there in the semi-darkness, talking to an empty house. He did not return to Dublin the next summer, but took a house at Tuxedo near New York. I did not go there with him, for in the spring it was agreed that I should make a pilgrimage to the Mississippi and the Pacific Coast to see those few still remaining who had known Mark Twain in his youth. John Briggs was alive, also Horace Bixby, Joe Goodman, Steve and Jim Gillis, and there were a few others. It was a trip taken none too soon. John Briggs, a gentlehearted old man who sat by his fire and threw one afternoon, told me of the happy days along the riverfront, from the cave to Holiday's Hill, did not reach the end of the year. Horace Bixby at eighty-one was still young, and piloting a government snagboat.  CHAPTER 64 A degree from Oxford. On my return I found Mark Twain elated. He had been invited to England to receive the degree of Literary Doctor from the Oxford University. It is the highest scholastic honorary degree, and to come back, as I had, from following the early wanderings of the barefoot truant of Hannibal, only to find him about to be officially knighted by the world's most venerable institution of learning, seemed rather the most surprising chapter, even of his marvellous fairy tale. If Tom Sawyer had owned the magic wand, he hardly could have produced anything as startling as that. He sailed on the eighth of June, 1907, exactly forty years from the day he had sailed on the Quaker City to win his greater fame. I did not accompany him. He took with him a secretary to make notes, and my affairs held me in America. He was absent six weeks, and no attentions that England had ever paid him before could compare with her lavish welcome during this visit. His reception was really national. He was banqueted by the greatest clubs of London. He was received with special favour at the King's Garden Party. He travelled by a royal train, crowds gathering everywhere to see him pass. At Oxford, when he appeared on the street, the name Mark Twain ran up and down like a cry of fire, and the people came running. When he appeared on the stage at the Sheldonian Theatre to receive his degree, clad in his Doctor's robe of scarlet and grey, there arose a great tumult, the shouting of the undergraduates for the boy who had been Tom Sawyer and had played with Huckleberry Finn. The papers next day spoke of his reception as a cyclone, surpassing any other welcome, though Rudyard Kipling was one of those who received degrees on that occasion, and General Booth and Whitelaw Reed and other famous men. Perhaps the most distinguished social honour paid to Mark Twain at this time was the dinner given him by the staff of London Punch, in the historic Punch editorial rooms on Bouverie Street. No other foreigner had ever been invited to that sacred board, where Thackeray had sat, and Douglas Gerald and others of the great departed. Punch had already saluted him with a front page cartoon, and at this dinner the original drawing was presented to him by the editor's little daughter, Joy Agnew. The Oxford degree and the splendid homage paid him by England at large became, as it were, the crowning episode of Mark Twain's career. I think he realised this, although he did not speak of it. Indeed, he had very little to say of the whole matter. I telephoned a greeting when I knew that he had arrived in New York, and was summoned to "'Come down and play, billiards!' I confess I went with a good deal of awe, prepared to sit in silence and listen to the tale of the returning hero, but when I arrived he was already in the billiard room knocking the balls about, his coat off, for it was a hot night. As I entered he said, "'Get your cue! I've been inventing a new game!' That was all. The pageant was over, the curtain was rung down. Business was resumed at the old stand. End of chapter 64 This is chapter 65 of The Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain by Albert Bigelow Payne Chapter 65 The Removal to Reading There followed another winter during which I was much with Mark Twain, though a part of it he spent with Mr. Rogers in Bermuda, that pretty island resort which both men loved. Then came Spring again and June, and with it Mark Twain's removal to his newly built home Stormfield at Reading, Connecticut. The house had been under construction for a year. He had never seen it. Never even seen the land I had bought for him. He even preferred not to look at any plans or ideas for decoration. When the house is finished and furnished, and the cat is purring on the hearth, it will be time enough for me to see it. He had said more than once. He had only specified that the rooms should be large and that the billiard rooms should be red. His billiard rooms thus far had been of that color, and their memory was associated in his mind with enjoyment and comfort. He detested details of preparation, and then too he looked forward to the dramatic surprise of walking into a home that had been conjured into existence, as with a word. It was the 18th of June, 1908, that he finally took possession. The Fifth Avenue house was not dismantled, for it was the plan then to use Stormfield only as a summer place. The servants, however, with one exception, had been transferred to Reading, and Mark Twain and I remained alone, though not lonely, in the city-house, playing billiards most of the time and being as hilarious as we pleased, for there was nobody to disturb. I think he hardly mentioned the new home during that time. He had never seen even a photograph at the place, and I confess I had moments of anxiety, for I had selected the site, and had been more or less concerned otherwise, though John Howells was wholly responsible for the building. I did not really worry, for I knew how beautiful and peaceful it all was. The morning of the 18th was bright and sunny and cool. Mark Twain was up and shaved by six o'clock in order to be in time. The train did not leave until four in the afternoon, but our last billiards in town must begin early and suffer no interruption. We were still playing when, about three, word was brought up that the cab was waiting. Arrived at the station, a group collected, reporters and others, to speed him to his new home. Some of the reporters came along. The scenery was at its best that day, and he spoke of it approvingly. The hour and a half required to cover the sixty miles distance seemed short. The train-porters came to carry out the bags. He drew from his pocket a great handful of silver. Give them something, he said. Give everybody liberally that does any service. There was a sort of open-air reception and waiting, a varied assemblage of vehicles festooned with flowers had gathered to offer gallant country welcome. It was a perfect June evening, still and dreamlike. There seemed a spell of silence on everything. The people did not cheer. They smiled and waved to the white figure, and he smiled and waved reply. But there was no noise. It was like a scene in a cinema. His carriage led the way on a three-mile drive to the house on the hilltop, and the floral procession fell in behind. Hill sides were green, fields were white with daisies, dogwood and laurel shone among the trees. He was very quiet as we drove along. Once, with gentle humour looking out over a white daisy field, he said, That is buckwheat! I always recognize buckwheat when I see it. I wish I knew as much about other things as I know about buckwheat. The clear running brooks, a swift flowing river, a tumbling cascade where we climbed a hill, all came in for his approval. Then we were at the lane that led to his new home, and the procession behind dropped away. The carriage ascended still higher, and a view opened across the Sagatoc Valley, with its nestling village and church spire and farmhouses, and beyond them the distant hills. Then came the house, simple in design, but beautiful. An Italian villa, such as he had known in Florence, adapted here to American climate and needs. At the entrance his domestic staff waited to greet him, and presently he stepped across the threshold and stood in his own home for the first time in seventeen years. Nothing was lacking. It was as finished, as completely furnished, as if he had occupied at a lifetime. No one spoke immediately, but when his eyes had taken in the harmony of the place, with its restful home-like comfort, and followed through the open French windows to the distant vista of treetops and farm-sides and blue hills, he said, very gently, How beautiful it all is! I did not think it could be as beautiful as this. And later, when he had seen all of the apartments, it is a perfect house, perfect, so far as I can see in every detail. It might have been here always. There were guests that first evening, a small home dinner-party, and a little later at the foot of the garden some fireworks were set off by neighbors inspired by Dan Beard, who had recently located in Reading. Mark Twain, watching the rockets that announced his arrival, said gently, I wonder why they go to so much trouble for me. I never go to any trouble for anybody. The evening closed with billiards, hilarious games, and when at midnight the queues were set in the rack, no one could say that Mark Twain's first day in his new home had not been a happy one. This is Chapter 66 of the Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox dot org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain by Albert Bigelow Payne Chapter 66 Life at Stormfield Mark Twain loved Stormfield. Almost immediately he gave up the idea of going back to New York for the winter, and I think he never entered the Fifth Avenue house again. The quiet and undisturbed comfort of Stormfield came to him at the right time of life. His day of being the bell of New York was over. Now and then he attended some great dinner but all was under protest. Finally he refused to go at all. He had much company during that first summer, old friends and now and again young people of whom he was always fond.  Each young lady visitor was allowed to select one of these as her patron fish and attach her name to it. Thus as a member of the Aquarium Club she was represented in absence. Of course there were several cats at Stormfield, and these really owned the premises. The kittens scampered about the billiard table after the balls, even when the game was in progress, giving all sorts of new angles to the shots. This delighted him, and he would not for anything have discounted or removed one of those furry hazards. My own house was a little more than half a mile away, our lands adjoining, and daily I went up to visit him, to play billiards, or to take a walk across the fields. There was a stenographer in the neighborhood, and he continued his dictations, but not regularly. He wrote, too, now and then, and finished the little book called Is Shakespeare Dead? Winter came, the walks were fewer, and there was even more company. The house was gay, and the billiard games protracted. In February I made a trip to Europe, and the Mediterranean, to go over some of his ground there. Returning in April I found him somewhat changed.  His daughter Jean, who had been in a health resort, was coming home to act as his secretary, and this made him very happy. We resumed our games, our talks, and our long walks across the fields. There were few guests, and we were together most of the day and evening. How beautiful the memory of it all is now! To me, of course, nothing can ever be like it again in this world. Mark Twain walked slowly these days. Early in the summer there appeared indications of the heart trouble that less than a year later would bring the end. His doctor advised diminished smoking, and forbade the old habit of lightly skipping up and down stairs. The trouble was with the heart muscles, and at times there came severe, deadly pains in his breast, but for the most part he did not suffer. He was allowed to walk, however, and once I showed him a part of his estate he had not seen before—a remote cedar hillside. On the way I pointed out a little corner of land which earlier he had given me to straighten our division line. I told him I was going to build a study on it and call it Markland. I think the name pleased him. Later he said, If you had a place for that extra billiard table of mine—the Rogers table which had been left in storage in New York—I would turn it over to you. I replied that I could adapt the size of my proposed study to fit the table, and he said, Now, that will be very good.  You must build that study. So it was planned, and the work was presently under way. How many things we talked of—life, death, the future, all the things of which we know so little and love so much to talk about—astronomy, as I have said, was one of his favorite subjects. Neither of us had any real knowledge of the matter which made its great facts all the more awesome. The thought that the nearest fixed star was twenty-five trillions of miles away, two hundred and fifty thousand times the distance to our own remote sun, gave him a sort of splendid thrill. He would figure out those appalling measurements of space covering sheets of paper with his sums, but he was not a good mathematician, and the answers were generally wrong. Comets in particular interested him, and one day he said, I came in with Haley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Haley's Comet. He looked so strong and full of color and vitality, one could not believe that his words held a prophecy, yet the pains recurred with increasing frequency and severity. His malady, and Jaina pectoris, was making progress, and how bravely he bore it all. He never complained, never bewailed. I have seen the fierce attack crumble him when we were at billiards, but he would insist on playing in his turn, bowed, his face white, his hand digging at his breast. End of Chapter 66 This is Chapter 67 of the Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain, by Albert Bigelow Payne. Chapter 67 The Death of Jean Clara Clemens was married that autumn to Osip Gabrilovitch, the Russian pianist, and presently sailed for Europe where they would make their home. Jean Clemens was now head of the house, and what with her various duties and poor health, her burden was too heavy. She had a passion for animal life of every kind, and in some farm buildings at one corner of the estate had set up quite an establishment of chickens and domestic animals. She was fond of giving these her personal attention, and this, with her house direction and secretarial work, gave her little time for rest. I tried to relieve her of a share of the secretarial work, but she was ambitious and faithful. Still, her condition did not seem critical. I stayed at Stormfield now most of the time, nights as well as days, for the dull weather had come, and Mark Twain found the house rather lonely. In November he had an impulse to go to Bermuda, and we spent a month in the warm light of that summer island, returning a week before the Christmas holidays. And just then came Mark Twain's last great tragedy—the death of his daughter Jean. The holidays had added heavily to Jean's labours. Out of her generous heart she had planned gifts for everybody, had hurried to and from the city for her purchases, and in the loggia set up a beautiful Christmas tree. Meantime she had contracted a heavy cold. Her trouble was epilepsy, and all this was bad for her. On the morning of December 24 she died, suddenly, from the shock of a cold bath. Below in the loggia drenched with tinsel stood the tree, and heaped about it the packages of gifts which that day she had meant to open and put in place. Nobody had been overlooked. Jean was taken to Elmira for burial. Her father, unable to make the winter journey, remained behind. Her cousin, Jervis Langdon, came for her. It was six in the evening when she went away. A soft, heavy snow was falling, and the gloom of the short day was closing in. There was not the least noise. The whole world was muffled. The lantern shone out the open door, and at an upper window, the light gleaming on his white hair, her father watched her going away from him for the last time. Later he wrote, From my window I saw the hearse and the carriages wind along the road, and gradually grow vague and spectral in the falling snow, and presently disappear. Jean was gone out of my life, and would not come back any more. The cousin she had played with when they were babies together, he and her beloved old Katie, were conducting her to her distant childhood home, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in the company of Susie and Langdon. Chapter 68 Days in Bermuda Ten days later Mark Twain returned to Bermuda, accompanied only by a valet. He had asked me if we would be willing to close our home for the winter and come to Stormfield so that the place might be ready any time for his return. We came, of course, for there was no thought other than for his comfort. He did not go to a hotel in Bermuda, but to the home of Vice-Consul Allen, where he had visited before. The Allens were devoted to him and gave him such care as no hotel could offer. Bermuda agreed with Mark Twain, and for a time there he gained in strength and spirits and recovered much of his old manner. He wrote me almost daily, generally with good reports of his health and doings, and with playful counsel and suggestions. Then by and by he did not write with his own hand, but through his newly appointed secretary, Mr. Allen's young daughter Helen, of whom he was very fond. The letters, however, were still gay. Once, he said, while the matter is in my mind, I will remark that if you ever send me another letter which is not paged at the top, I will write you with my own hand, so that I may use in utter freedom and without embarrassment the kind of words which alone can describe such a criminal. He had made no mention so far of the pains in his breast. But near the end of March he wrote that he was coming home if the breast pains did not mend their ways pretty considerable. I do not want to die here, he said. I am growing more and more particular about the place. A week later brought another alarming letter, also one from Mr. Allen, who frankly stated that matters had become very serious indeed. I went to New York and sailed the next morning, cabling the Gabrylovitches to come without delay. I sent no word to Bermuda that I was coming, and when I arrived he was not expecting me. Why, he said, holding out his hand, you did not tell us you were coming. No, I said. It is rather sudden. I didn't quite like the sound of your last letters. But those were not serious. You shouldn't have come on my account.  That's very good, he said in his slow, gentle way. Wow, I am glad to see you. His breakfast came in and he ate with appetite. I had thought him thin and pale at first sight, but his colour had come back now and his eyes were bright. He told me of the fierce attacks of the pain, and how he had been given hypodermic injections, which he amusingly termed hypnotic injunctions, and the subcutaneous. For Mr. and Mrs. Allen I learned how slender had been his chances and how uncertain were the days ahead. Mr. Allen had already engaged passage home for April 12. He seemed so little like a man whose days were numbered. On the afternoon of my arrival we drove out, as we had done on our former visit, and he discussed some of the old subjects in quite the old way. I had sold for him, for $6,000, the farm where Jean had kept her animals, and he wished to use the money in erecting for her some sort of memorial. He agreed that a building to hold the library which he had already donated to the town of Reading would be appropriate and useful. He asked me to write at once to his lawyer and have the matter arranged. We did not drive out again. The pains held off for several days, and he was gay and went out on the lawn, but most of the time he sat propped up in bed reading and smoking. When I looked at him there, so full of vigor and the joy of life, I could not persuade myself that he would not outlive us all. He had written very little in Bermuda his last work being a chapter of amusing advice, for me, as he confessed, what I was to do upon reaching the gate of which St. Peter has said to keep the key, as it is the last writing he ever did, and because it is characteristic, one or two paragraphs may be admitted here. Upon arrival do not speak to St. Peter until spoken to. It is not your place to begin. Do not begin any remark with, say, when applying for a ticket avoid trying to make conversation. If you must talk, let the weather alone. You can ask him for his autograph, there is no harm in that, but be careful and don't remark that it is one of the penalties of greatness. He has heard that before. CHAPTER 69 THE RETURN TO RETTING I spent most of each day with him, merely sitting by the bed and reading. I noticed when he slept that his breathing was difficult, and I could see that he did not improve.  It was only a few days before we sailed that the severe attacks returned. Then followed bad nights. But respite came, and we sailed on the twelfth as arranged. The Allen home stands on the water, and Mr. Allen had chartered a tug to take us to the ship. We were obliged to start early, and the fresh morning breeze was stimulating. Mark Twain seemed in good spirits when we reached the Oceana, which was to take him home. As long as I remember anything I shall remember the forty-eight hours of that homeward voyage. He was comfortable at first, and then we ran into the humid oppressive air of the Gulf Stream, and he could not breathe. It seemed to me that the end might come at any moment, and this thought was in my own mind, but he had no dread, and his sense of humour did not fail. Once when the ship rolled and his hat fell from the hook and made the circuit of the cabin floor, he said, The ship is passing the hat! I had been instructed in the use of the hypodermic needle, and from time to time gave him the hypnotic injunction, as he still called it. But it did not afford his entire relief. He could remain in no position for any length of time, yet he never complained and thought only of the trouble he might be making. Once he said, I am sorry for you pain, but I can't help it. I can't hurry this dying business.  Relatives, physicians, and news-gatherers were at the dock to welcome him. Revived by the cool fresh air of the North, he had slept for several hours and was seemingly much better. A special compartment on the same train that had taken us first to Reading took us there now, his physicians in attendance. He did not seem to mind the trip or the drive home. As we turned into the lane that led to Stormfield, he said, Can we see where you have built your billiard room? The gable of the new study showed among the trees, and I pointed it out to him. It looks quite imposing, he said. Arriving at Stormfield, he stepped unassisted from the carriage to greet the members of the household, and with all his old courtliness offered each his hand. Then, in a canvas chair we had brought, we carried him upstairs to his room, the big, beautiful room that looked out to the sunset hills. This was Thursday evening, April 14, 1910. End of Chapter 69. This is Chapter 70 of The Boy's Life of Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Boy's Life of Mark Twain, by Albert Bigelopayne. Chapter 70 The Clothes of a Great Life Mark Twain lived just a week from that day and hour. For a time he seemed full of life, talking freely and suffering little. Clara and Osip Gabriljevich arrived on Saturday and found him cheerful, quite like himself. At intervals he read, Sretonius and Carlisle lay on the bed beside him, and he would pick them up and read a page or a paragraph. Sometimes, when I saw him thus, the high color still in his face, the clear light in his eyes, I said, It is not reality, he is not going to die. But by Wednesday of the following week it was evident that the end was near. We did not know it then, but the mysterious messenger of his birth year, Haley's Comet, became visible that night in the sky. On Thursday morning, the twenty-first, his mind was still fairly clear, and he read a little from one of the volumes on his bed. By Clara he sent word that he wished to see me, and when I came in he spoke of two unfinished manuscripts which he wished me to throw away, as he briefly expressed it, for his words were few now and uncertain. I assured him that I would attend to the matter, and he pressed my hand. It was his last word to me. During the afternoon, while Clara stood by him, he sank into a doze, and from it passed into a deeper slumber, and did not heed us any more. Through that peaceful spring afternoon the life-wave ebbed lower and lower. It was about half past six, and the sun lay just on the horizon when Dr. Quinterd noticed that the breathing, which had gradually become more subdued, broke a little. There was no suggestion of any struggle. The noble head turned a little to one side. There was a fluttering sigh, and the breath that had been unceasing for seventy-four to multuous years had stopped forever.  Flowers in profusion were banked about him, but on the casket lay a single wreath which Dan Beard and his wife had woven from the laurel which grows on Stormfield Hill. He was never more beautiful than as he lay there, and it was an impressive scene to see those thousands file by regard him for a moment gravely, thoughtfully, and pass on. All sorts were there, rich and poor, some crossed themselves, some saluted, some paused a little to take a closer look. That night we went with him to Elmyra, and next day he lay in those stately parlours that had seen his wedding-day, and where little Langdon and Susie had lain, and Mrs. Clemens, and then Jean only a little while before. The worn-out body had reached its journey's end, but his spirit had never grown old, and today, still young, it continues to cheer and comfort a tired world.


Hello, and welcome to ACMI's Holiday Crafting Series. I'm here to share with you many ideas for the holidays to work with boxes. Yes, boxes and cards and all kinds of things. And here's a big box that I saved. And guess what's inside? Christmas cards from past years. And there are all kinds of ways to use Christmas cards to cut them up, make collages, all kinds of things. But here's my favorite idea. I found a candy box and I decorated it. And then I put a picture of my friends on it. This was a photograph of Tom and Karen that was taken two years ago. So I cut it out and I put it on this candy box or a nut box. And then guess what? Then I took my iPad and I took a picture of it. And instead of sending cards this year to certain people, you could send them a box that was decorated with your friends' pictures on it. How fun is that? For example, if I wanted to change this and send it to another set of friends, I will just have cut out pictures of my friends and put it on the box. Then I get my iPad and I photograph it and I send it to them. Happy holidays, my friends. All right, well that's a fun idea. And then moving over here do some of the simpler things and then the more complex things. And it's wonderful to think of using things, reusing boxes, jars, cards, and that's what I've done. So this is just a box that I think was bought at the dollar store. Now you could decorate this and use it. You might have had it at home. I just put a little red ribbon around it. I just got started with this box. And here's a little snowman. And I could just poke it right there. And then this could be a box that is gifted to someone. Just a very simple idea. Now here is a set of cylindrical boxes. One is wooden and one is cardboard. And I made this really sweet little plover box just by cutting out a picture of a plover. And then I put match podge on it. It's a kind of a thick gooey or a paste like substance that you can get at playtime.  It's just beautiful. Now here's a cardboard box that I got at the dollar store. And just watch how sweet this could be. Here's a picture of a little girl. And I already cut out, measured a cut out here. And see how easy this would be to make a sweet baby box, a treasure for someone. And you just cut. Here's a little baby. And then you would glue it right on the top of this box. And how sweet would that be as a little gift. And you could add little accents here and there, whatever you want to do. All kinds of things you can do. So two more ideas here. Here's one, a box that I made. And I was just fascinated with the little maple pieces that came from the trees on the bike path. And I collect sticks. So I made these dragonfly boxes. And they just are, I don't know, they're just so sweet. Well, they're empty without anything in them. And a lot of people would say, oh, thank you for this box. But, well, you get doctor it up a little bit. Spray gold on it, make it a little fancier. And then take it another step. Put little cards inside that people can fill in. Today I wish. Today I am. Today I believe. Today I know. Today I will. And today I hope. Now they look kind of plain. But then you could get out your markers and some little designs you could make. And then make these onto cute little cards. I just got started with this. If it were me, I'd be doodling all over it. See what you might do. And then when you give it as a gift, you just put these together. And you open it up. And you put these in the box. And there you have a lovely gift. Inexpensive, creative and fun. All right. I don't know about you, but I don't love having medicine jars and things around on my nightstand. So I like to decorate things. So I started to do that with this little jar. And I made a little piece of clay to put along the top and cooked it and molded it. And I could go a little farther. Now I don't know if you know about these little stones. You can buy them at Michael's. And they're wonderful. You can put pictures underneath them and make things look a little bit happier and more fun. So watch. I'm just going to put a little bit of glue around the outside. And I'm going to put a little snowman on this like this. And then I'm going to just attach this with this nice goop glue to the top of my bottle. And then it doesn't look so medicinal. And what's even more fun is to take jars maybe that you've had cream in and to find all pins and pieces of jewelry. And this was a pin I made for my mom years ago. I keep everything. So this really works out well as the top for this little jar. Is that not pretty? And I have another pin that I made with petals. This is made with Sculpey clay. Just little petals all fit together. And what I would do is take the glue and just glue it on this jar. And you have a pretty little giveaway jar. You can put peanuts in it, M&Ms, trinkets, pins, safety pins, whatever. But a wonderful way to recycle things. I love recycling. So I've shown you how to make this circular boxes. This little box and the little jars and these wonderful little boxes. Now here's an idea to use a lot of your old pieces of jewelry. Just make a collage. This was a pin. And then Amazon has wonderful feathers. I love buying feathers and using them. In fact, I might even decorate another box that I have when the feathers come. And here's another box that I decorated. And I made this little piece out of clay. So let's see what we might do if we started out with a box. We have this little empty box. I made a mold of an angel out of sculpey clay. And then put glitter on it. Take just a little bit of glue and glue it to the back. And put it on the box. Looks kind of plain. So let's look around for some things. Ah, let's try this. I'm a collector. I collect all kinds of things so I have no idea how things are going to go together, but it's just fun to play. So just play during the holidays with little things that you have tucked away that you never thought you might use. Now isn't that cute?  This is just an idea to get you started. All right. So this box I made at some time. This is a little fancy, but if you're into making collages, this to me is the sweetest little collage box. And it's wonderful to pick natural things up off the bike path. And then these are little pieces of painted wood that I stick in here. And I love making these little babies. These are made out of clay. And here's another one. I made a little baby, a little sleepy Christmas baby, just sleeping on the beach. So sweet. You could use her in many of the different places that I have already shown you. Like it could go on a box top. It could go, that's already been used, but I bet you have lots of ideas yourselves if you're watching. So let's go over to my favorite of all boxes. This could be a wonderful candy box. Or a friend of mine was in the hospital during the winter and we didn't want to send her flowers, but she loves chocolates. So I made this box and I'll show you the box in just a minute. You can get it on Amazon. It's a wonderful hard fold-up box. You could put all kinds of things in these boxes. Here's a little fairy. I love making fairies and elves as a theme. You see this? She's so sweet there. And here is the box. It comes. You can get a set of three of these. And I think this is a wonderful, wonderful thing to get. Look at this. It has a magnetic clasp. It's sturdy. You can send it in the mail and decorate it and make it into a beautiful, beautiful holiday box of candy. Goodies. These are little like fairy angels I make out of natural materials. And I could stick one right on the top. I'm not going to stick her on right now, but just give you an idea. Go around your house. Look for a treasured piece. Put it on top. You might like to add little pieces, feathers. A little bit of greenery. You don't have to get as fancy as I did, but just fine little things, little sticks, little feathers. I mean, how simple is that? And then I took a gold paint and I dabbed it all over here. But there are all kinds of ways to decorate this wonderful, wonderful box. You might also like to do something as simple as use a photograph. And last winter, when I was doing stories and art for children, I had pictures that would amuse the children. And this was a picture of, it looks like a shoe horse with animals in it.  Just make it simple for yourself. If you don't like to get as complex as I do, I kind of like to take things as far as I can. But see what you think. Okay, well, now, thank you for watching. And I hope that I've given you lots of good ideas for the holidays. And the next program I will do, I will be showing you how to use your cards, Christmas cards, to recycle them, make collages with them and use all kinds of materials to make new kinds of Christmas cards and gift cards and little packets if you're sending credit cards. Lots of creative things to look forward to. So thank you for watching. Happy holidays, happy crafting.


Who's going on guys welcome back to the channel critical overload here So we're gonna be talking about scream 7 in his video once again here today because another needle has fallen Another domino has fallen I would say in this domino effect I can just see happening all week leading into probably the next month with scream 7 and people departing from the project Because now we have reports from deadline Hollywood reporter in some other reputable outlets that Jen Ortega has indeed Decided to not return to the project now I will start off with the Hollywood reporter who says sources insist that Ortega's Departure has nothing to do with Barrera's firing which occurred after she made dozens of social media posts following the Israel-Hommas War Sources say that Ortega's representatives informed spyglass to the prior to the actor strike that the actress one of the biggest Young Hollywood names to emerge in the past decade would not be returning Multiple sources say that the actress either had no deal or in the ring the or in the renegotiating of her option asked What the movie company deemed was too much money. I'm gonna circle back to that too much money part They said then deadline said this we understand that Ortega's exit from the next screen was discussed before the actor strike a Script for scream 7 is not ready yet I'll talk about that and the primetime Emmy nominee has to lead Or has to head to Ireland in April to shoot the second season of Netflix's Wednesday, which will go into this summer So all I'll say first of all is The money stuff if it was indeed something where she had Asked for too much money if that's true according to the Hollywood reporter. She's she's kind of earned that I'm Geno or take has earned that to ask for more money Especially considering how involved she might have been in the screenplay Even if it was just like a limited capacity. I still think she's earned it I think she's earned that if you have her on screen for five minutes ten minutes I think she's earned it. That's just me. However, I will say this We are in a time where they might be very happy to just Rehaul everything in response to the strikes as like revenge and tactics along with Consequences to the actors and the writers for their strikes that of course being the amptp in the studios the other thing you have to acknowledge is the fact that there isn't very much so a Unfortunate outlook on the economy in that state So a lot of stuff is just up in the air when it comes to money while people are old certain things And they're right to feel certain ways if you show me their resumes. I would argue Geno or take is one of those people the problem is The economy might not be allowing for certain things to always align with what you want So then you end up in scenarios like this, but she is old that money. I would say that I don't think she's wrong if that was the case However, I want to also now address this Viewer non yesterday tweeted that they had heard that The script was being rewritten now I've heard also from my landing source who hasn't let me down on multiple occasions that the script is indeed being rewritten and They're starting from scratch Same person who told me that Christopher landing was asked to direct and what happened and a lot of other stuff They told me about so I have no reason to doubt them I was also told the specific month Jenna's intentions were made clear allegedly were as early as April this year So at that in mind and the fact that I've discussed them Wayne options of a limited role if Jenna found time in her schedule I don't think Wednesday shooting conflict is a lie In fact, I'd say is 95% of the reason she isn't back because she already had that out as I can excuse So in the media's mind and whatever I guess spyglass if you want to speculate has any involvement on the media spin Why bring up the 5% reason which I do believe is related to Barrera when you already had the majority reason connected to your Wednesday Scheduling conflict which I do believe is wholeheartedly the majority reason why she's not returning The problem though is I think this is what happened. This is just my opinion. I think that she told them that hey I'm not intending to return But keep then she kind of talked to them along the process of it all said maybe I can and they said okay We'll keep the door open for you. But then after yesterday She decided, you know what? Let's just not do it at all. And that's my opinion. I think that's the 5% But because that's 5% why talk about it? Why lead with that just lead with what the majority was which again It's hard to not think that it was Wednesday Wednesday season 2. That's not something that seems to be a lie That seems like a very obvious truth It's just very coincidental I get it that you're dropping this news today after what happened to after what happened with Barrera I think that Jenna wanted out of the project all together after yesterday. That's what I think I Don't want to discredit yesterday as if it had nothing to do with it a little bit Even if it was not reported on because I do think that was something that played a factor in Jenna's decision I want to also stress that the mention of the script not being ready doesn't mean that a script doesn't exist One did and still does exist. It's just no longer the script We will get in the script. We shouldn't be getting if you don't have the carpenters back I think Melissa Barrera and Jen Ortega will be just fine without this franchise And I want to remind everyone of this now that I'm a little bit more calm as I was yesterday I'd say Twitter is not real life most people day-to-day off this app Do not care about this stuff They have their own lives and their own day-to-day issues when they go to look up and watch screen seven most people will Not look up who on this project is standing with Palestine and who did Melissa Barrera dirty? Who is spyglass because going to the movies isn't a moral affair for them It's a I want to be entertained for an hour or two and a half hours or an hour and a half Affair and escape the problems of life scream seven can still end up being a hit But I hope it's not because I've always wanted seven to be the end anyway And I've argued six is a good ending point to you got to be Realistic is all I'm trying to get at guys at the end of the day Someone is gonna sign on and starring this film It's a profession to them at the end of the day and me thinking that they should have certain morals and say no Isn't going to change that fact that they are indeed a human being with their own free will and thought processes I can disagree with anyone who signs on the screen seven But I will not harass them or get up in arms about it because that's not what really sends the message What sends the message is money send that message by simply just not showing up at the box office I wish whoever signs on well and hopefully you can have a silent seventh film But from this rework project that's inevitably gonna come but I don't see us having any returning stars at this point and a fresh start could be attempted but if it bombs Then you have no more screaming. I'd be fine It'd be the final nail in the coffin to spyglass and what they're doing With the women involved what they're doing in response to all the political grandstanding that I again can't stress is enough I think Hollywood needs to stop that regardless of what is being talked about politically from who you are working with That has nothing to do with filmmaking. I think that needs to stop. So You guys can let me know what you think about this down in the comments section below about Melissa Borreira engine or take up being officially out of the project, but It is what it is man. That's that's where I'm at It just is what it is if it ends up being a good film I will tell you that because at the end of the day I'm most likely still just gonna get my freebie and that'll be all I probably endure if anything because I really don't want them to Have any success with Scream 7 financially. That's my own honest opinion And I will tell you if it's a good or bad movie and be quite honest about it. I won't try to let this situation Create an overly bias Review in my mind when it comes time But let me know what you think about this down in the comment section below if you haven't already of course make sure you Subscribe turn on post notifications that you never miss a video in the description. I'll have links on social media accounts I'm on Facebook Twitter and Instagram you can message me there of course Let me know there's any movies news or reviews you like me to cover in the future and with all that in mind guys I will see you in the next video You


Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for joining us for this very special session at the World Economic Forum. We have had many extraordinary conversations here, but I think this one is going to be truly special. We have an address by a world leader and then a panel of world leaders to discuss what is really the central issue in the world today, which is Russia's war on Ukraine, the West's response, the world's response, and where that will go.  I think that this might be the definition of such a person, but I think there's another definition that comes to mind. I think that in years to come when dictionaries are trying to decide how to describe and define the word courage, they might say such a quality as President Zelensky of Ukraine demonstrated during the Russian invasion of his country. So without any further ado, the first order of business is we will hear directly from Khiv live from the President of Ukraine. I will take one second before to just let you all know that we have a very special situation right now, which is the first lady of Ukraine is in the audience and she will be watching her husband. Mr. President. Ladies and gentlemen, 10 hours ago, 10 hours ago a tragedy happened near Khiv. The helicopter crash planned lives of the ministers of the internal affairs of Ukraine, his colleagues and helicopter, when it fell near a kindergarten. 14 of the Ukrainian families lost their loved ones today and many more, more than as are. Losing did, because I should ask you to honor the memory of every person that has lost with that minute of silence. Please. Thank you very much. Thank you. Thank you for this minute. Only one minute. But it keeps the memory about so many people. Ukraine lives thousands of such units, including three minutes on January 14. Three minutes. The time it took for a Russian missile to travel hundreds of kilometers, keep a residential block in Nimro and kill at least 45 people. 45. My address will be short about the time we are short of. About small minutes. About years made of this unit. Three years ago I spoke at Davos for the first time in Korsakon. The topic was how to build a cohesive and sustainable world. I'm talking online now. And the topic is how to cooperate in a divided, fragmented world. Conclusions there. The world cannot keep the pace with changes and challenges. The list of crisis, global security, environmental, food security, energy wants needs to be amended with another one. The time crisis. The list of costs for decisive, efficient joint actions needs to be extended with one more. The call for spirit. The spirit of decisions making. The action of the civilized world. Treads this are outpacing life. The tyranny is outpacing the democracy. Russia needed less than one second to start the war. The wall needed days to react with forced sanctions. The time the free world uses to think is used by the terrorist state to kill you. Ukraine and its allies have been resisting it for almost a year. This period proved all our prompt actions brought positive results. The opening of European borders. The great deal. The energy unit together they save millions, millions of lives and not only in Ukraine. It is not only Ukraine but the whole world needs exactly this pace of decisions and actions. The world was hesitant in 2014 when Russia without hesitation occupied the Crimea. The world was hesitant in 2022 when Russia without hesitation made the war full scale. The world must not hesitate today and ever. When the evil seeks revenge, the world needs result and speed. Russia is exporting terror. Russia is spreading the strain of the war around the world. Ukraine offers the world a peace formula. Please, ten steps that the world must make faster than Russia makes its new moves. Mobilization of the world must outpace the next military mobilization of our joint enemy. The supply of Ukraine with air defense systems must outpace Russia's next missile attacks. The supplies of western tanks must outpace another invasion of Russian tanks. The restoration of security and peace in Ukraine must outpace Russia attacks on security and peace in other countries. A tribunal for military crimes must prevent new months. The expansion of nature and the EU must outgo the spread of the Russian aggression. We routinely defend values which some of the allies take granted as a fact of life. For us, the fact of life is the world in need of resolute and prompt steps. Ladies and gentlemen, three years ago was my first time at the WEF. It was the time when the world was fighting COVID-19. It fought and won. Now the world is fighting against Putin. In three years, we will be discussing new challenges and threats in Davos. What will this mean? It will mean we will definitely overcome the current threat. The history re-reacts itself. At first, the world either feels to notice or underestimates a threat. Then it unites to resist it and then the world wins. Every time, the same outcome. The world overcame a thylism, the apathetic, the indifference to climate changes, financial crisis, and the criminal strain. The world will overcome again. This is how much can be said in a matter of minutes. This is how much can be understood in a matter of minutes. The world will overcome again. The time is high to make it happen faster. Slavo Grain. Mr. President, thank you so much for that moving address. Let me ask you a few questions. I know how impressed you are. Thank you in advance for this. Of course, let me extend my condolences. I think everybody in this audience has condolences for the terrible tragedy that took place in Ukraine. In November and December, the world watched with amazement as Ukrainian forces liberated one town and city after another. It seems now as though the war has moved into something that looks more like a stalemate. Can you tell us what the war looks like to you on the front lines right now? Thank you for the question. You know, Farid, thank you for your condolences, by the way. I think the war doesn't look good. It has not been good since the beginning and really in wintertime it slows down for known understandable reasons. Everyone gets tired, the nature, the people, and thanks God the enemy too. How it looks? It looks as follows. Daily artists fight in the east of our country. We are standing strongly, resolutely. I am thankful to all of our warriors. The living ones, the ones that we've unfortunately lost for the bravery, it's very important to know that we are strong. Not just in the east of our country, where it's really hot, but we are also strong inside the nation, inside our state. We are united, we are mobilized because we are motivated. It was not us who started the war, but it is us who will have to end it. End it on our land, having it deoccupied with due respect to our people and our sovereignty. As we've got other parts of our nation, the south, the north parts, we do control the situation and definitely the processes have slowed down a bit for a variety of reasons. It is not just about us keeping united inside the country, we need to have the whole world united around our joint values. And because of that, we truly need to continue that support of Ukraine, to continue with supplies of necessary ammunition that we require to get directed over the enemy on the battlefield. We also need the financial support of it. I'd like to thank all the nations of the European Union for the support of our budget deficit. And they're continuing to support us this year. I think it is really important that, you know, given the energy challenges that we are seeing, and these are surely related to disrespect of the humankind, you know, of the attacks against our grades against our energy sector with Iranian drones, with Russian missiles, in order to instill chaos inside the country. Because of that, we definitely need assistance from our partners with a different system. Lots of these, I know these are deficit, but I'd like to thank all many countries worldwide for their assistance, also with alternative energy connectivity solutions. From what it looks like now, Russia intends to get this revenge, and we think that they won't succeed because they're fighting not just Ukraine, but the whole civilized approach towards life. Thank you. Yesterday in Davos, Henry Kissinger suggested that while Ukraine must be supported, and in fact he came out in favor of Ukraine's membership in NATO, there must also be a dialogue with Russia, because Russia must be a part of global order. You know Russia very well, you speak Russian fluently. What are your thoughts on Russia's place in the world? I don't know the proper place for it. I think that Russia has already earned a place among terrorists, and this no longer depends on their leadership. No, I think the leaders are no longer affecting the development of Russian Federation, its culture and so on. Everything depends on the strength of Ukraine, its support by the partners, the political support from the world, as well as from the Russian society. They have to open their eyes if they want to see the future of the Russian Federation with their eyes. They will have to recognize their own mistakes, they will have to recognize their own statutes, and they will have to really respect our territorial integrity. I'm really glad to hear that Mr. Kissinger changed his mind. Our priority today, our political task today, is to see that different political leaders and staggers, those who are still very relevant or have been relevant until recently, for them to be able to recognize the great mistake that Putin committed, for them to recognize this is Russia's aggression. These moments, it is very important for them as well to politically pressure on Russia to stop this bloody aggression. As regards NATO, we clearly understand that security guarantees are among the top priorities for us. Speaking of our formal peace, it is among the top priorities. We don't understand that at the moment we are not in NATO yet, unfortunately Russia does understand this as well, and they do the damn it as to not make it easier for us to join. But we are on the way towards NATO because NATO is the best security guarantee for us, for our country, for our kids, for our country. So we have suggested security guarantees for our nation, and we think that the civilized world is going to support our proposals. Finally, Mr. President, the accident, the helicopter crash we think was an accident, we hope it was an accident, but it did raise in my mind, and it of course must have raised in your mind the question of your own safety. Do you feel that there are still ongoing active threats that are increasing? Do you worry about your own security every day? No, I'm not worried about that. I don't have anything to add here. Well, you said it once, you don't need a ride, you need ammunition, right? Nothing has changed, we still need ammunition. I'm not in haste to anything, to anywhere. Just to add with your permission, you said accidents. I'd like to tell you that because of the war experience that I have now, my society has now. This is not an accident because it has been due to war, and the war has many dimensions, not just on the battlefield. There are no accidents at war time. These are all war results. Absolutely. All those steps, everything happening, missiles striking our civilians, our kids being killed in kindergarten, at schools. Someone might try to bring information that it was us who had our own civilians at the crosshairs, and they were just wanted to hit some power block, and that just a mishap, this is different. Just empty words. Every individual, every death is a result of the war. Mr. President, thank you for your time. You've been very generous. Best of luck.