I am not melancholy; I shall never be melancholy again, I think.
You see, I was in such distress when I came to realize that you were gone far away & no one stood between her & danger but me--& I could die at any moment, & then--oh then what would become of her! For she was wilful, you know, & would not have been governable.
You can"t imagine what a darling she was that last two or three days; & how fine, & good, & sweet, & n.o.ble--& joyful, thank Heaven!
--& how intellectually brilliant. I had never been acquainted with Jean before. I recognized that.
But I mustn"t try to write about her--I can"t. I have already poured my heart out with the pen, recording that last day or two.
I will send you that--& you must let no one but Ossip read it.
Good-by. I love you so! And Ossip.
FATHER.
CCXC. THE RETURN TO BERMUDA
I don"t think he attempted any further writing for print. His mind was busy with ideas, but he was willing to talk, rather than to write, rather even than to play billiards, it seemed, although we had a few quiet games--the last we should ever play together. Evenings he asked for music, preferring the Scotch airs, such as "Bonnie Doon" and "The Campbells are Coming." I remember that once, after playing the latter for him, he told, with great feeling, how the Highlanders, led by Gen.
Colin Campbell, had charged at Lucknow, inspired by that stirring air. When he had retired I usually sat with him, and he drifted into literature, or theology, or science, or history--the story of the universe and man.
One evening he spoke of those who had written but one immortal thing and stopped there. He mentioned "Ben Bolt."
"I met that man once," he said. "In my childhood I sang "Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," and in my old age, fifteen years ago, I met the man who wrote it. His name was Brown.--[Thomas Dunn English. Mr. Clemens apparently remembered only the name satirically conferred upon him by Edgar Allan Poe, "Thomas Dunn Brown."]--He was aged, forgotten, a mere memory. I remember how it thrilled me to realize that this was the very author of "Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt." He was just an accident. He had a vision and echoed it. A good many persons do that--the thing they do is to put in compact form the thing which we have all vaguely felt. "Twenty Years Ago" is just like it "I have wandered through the village, Tom, and sat beneath the tree"--and Holmes"s "Last Leaf" is another: the memory of the hallowed past, and the gravestones of those we love. It is all so beautiful--the past is always beautiful."
He quoted, with great feeling and effect:
The ma.s.sy marbles rest On the lips that we have pressed In their bloom, And the names we love to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
He continued in this strain for an hour or more. He spoke of humor, and thought it must be one of the chief attributes of G.o.d. He cited plants and animals that were distinctly humorous in form and in their characteristics. These he declared were G.o.d"s jokes.
"Why," he said, "humor is mankind"s greatest blessing."
"Your own case is an example," I answered. "Without it, whatever your reputation as a philosopher, you could never have had the wide-spread affection that is shown by the writers of that great heap of letters."
"Yes," he said, gently, "they have liked to be amused."
I tucked him in for the night, promising to send him to Bermuda, with Claude to take care of him, if he felt he could undertake the journey in two days more.
He was able, and he was eager to go, for he longed for that sunny island, and for the quiet peace of the Allen home. His niece, Mrs.
Loomis, came up to spend the last evening in Stormfield, a happy evening full of quiet talk, and next morning, in the old closed carriage that had been his wedding-gift, he was driven to the railway station. This was on January 4, 1910.
He was to sail next day, and that night, at Mr. Loomis"s, Howells came in, and for an hour or two they reviewed some of the questions they had so long ago settled, or left forever unsettled, and laid away.
I remember that at dinner Clemens spoke of his old Hartford butler, George, and how he had once brought George to New York and introduced him at the various publishing houses as his friend, with curious and sometimes rather embarra.s.sing results.
The talk drifted to sociology and to the labor-unions, which Clemens defended as being the only means by which the workman could obtain recognition of his rights.
Howells in his book mentions this evening, which he says "was made memorable to me by the kind, clear, judicial sense with which he explained and justified the labor-unions as the sole present help of the weak against the strong."
They discussed dreams, and then in a little while Howells rose to go.
I went also, and as we walked to his near-by apartment he spoke of Mark Twain"s supremacy. He said:
"I turn to his books for cheer when I am down-hearted. There was never anybody like him; there never will be."
Clemens sailed next morning. They did not meet again.
CCXCI. LETTERS FROM BERMUDA
Stormfield was solemn and empty without Mark Twain; but he wrote by every steamer, at first with his own hand, and during the last week by the hand of one of his enlisted secretaries--some member of the Allen family usually Helen. His letters were full of brightness and pleasantry--always concerned more or less with business matters, though he was no longer disturbed by them, for Bermuda was too peaceful and too far away, and, besides, he had faith in the Mark Twain Company"s ability to look after his affairs. I cannot do better, I believe, than to offer some portions of these letters here.
He reached Bermuda on the 7th of January, 1910, and on the 12th he wrote:
Again I am living the ideal life. There is nothing to mar it but the b.l.o.o.d.y-minded bandit Arthur,--[A small playmate of Helen"s of whom Clemens pretended to be fiercely jealous. Once he wrote a memorandum to Helen: "Let Arthur read this book. There is a page in it that is poisoned."]--who still fetches and carries Helen.
Presently he will be found drowned. Claude comes to Bay House twice a day to see if I need any service. He is invaluable. There was a military lecture last night at the Officers" Mess Prospect; as the lecturer honored me with a special urgent invitation, and said he wanted to lecture to me particularly, I naturally took Helen and her mother into the private carriage and went.
As soon as we landed at the door with the crowd the Governor came to me& was very cordial. I "met up" with that charming Colonel Chapman [we had known him on the previous visit] and other officers of the regiment & had a good time.
A few days later he wrote:
Thanks for your letter & for its contenting news of the situation in that foreign & far-off & vaguely remembered country where you & Loomis & Lark and other beloved friends are.
I had a letter from Clara this morning. She is solicitous & wants me well & watchfully taken care of. My, my, she ought to see Helen & her parents & Claude administer that trust. Also she says, "I hope to hear from you or Mr. Paine very soon."
I am writing her & I know you will respond to your part of her prayer. She is pretty desolate now after Jean"s emanc.i.p.ation--the only kindness that G.o.d ever did that poor, unoffending child in all her hard life.
Send Clara a copy of Howells"s gorgeous letter.
The "gorgeous letter" mentioned was an appreciation of his recent Bazar article, "The Turning-Point in My Life," and here follows:
January 18, 1910.
DEAR CLEMENS,--While your wonderful words are warm in my mind yet I want to tell you what you know already: that you never wrote anything greater, finer, than that turning-point paper of yours.
I shall feel it honor enough if they put on my tombstone "He was born in the same century and general section of Middle Western country with Dr. S. L. Clemens, Oxon., and had his degree three years before him through a mistake of the University."
I hope you are worse. You will never be riper for a purely intellectual life, and it is a pity to have you lagging along with a worn-out material body on top of your soul.
Yours ever, W. D. HOWELLS.
On the margin of this letter Clemens had written:
I reckon this spontaneous outburst from the first critic of the day is good to keep, ain"t it, Paine?
January 24th he wrote again of his contentment:
Life continues here the same as usual. There isn"t a fault in it --good times, good home, tranquil contentment all day & every day without a break. I know familiarly several very satisfactory people & meet them frequently: Mr. Hamilton, the Sloanes, Mr. & Mrs. Fells, Miss Waterman, & so on. I shouldn"t know how to go about bettering my situation.