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Mark Twain 
 
 and 
 
 The Happy Island 
 
 by 
 
 Elizabeth Wallace 
 
 Author of 
 
 A Garden of Paris 
 
 Chicago 
 A. C.McClurg & Co. 
 
 19 13 
 
.W3 
 
 Copyright 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 
 1913 
 
 Published April, 1913 
 
 Copyrighted in Great Britain 
 
 W. F. MALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 
 
 5CI.A346340 
 &0/ 
 
To all those 
 
 who knew and loved Mark Twain 
 
 on the Happy Island, 
 
 this little book 
 is hopefully dedicated 
 
A NOTE OF INTRODUCTION 
 
 THIS little story of " The Happy Island " 
 has a place of its own in Mark Twain 
 literature, in that it presents an idyllic picture 
 of our philosopher-humorist in the serener 
 days of his later life — a picture of which the 
 author herself was a part. 
 
 Mark Twain always loved Bermuda, from 
 the first day of his first visit, to that last day 
 of his final visit, when he sailed away, with 
 the shadows already gathering just ahead. 
 Miss Wallace 9 s story is a tender one, showing 
 him still full of life and health, and of that 
 gracious sympathy with childhood which was 
 always one of his chief characteristics and 
 added comfort to his later years. 
 
 The world will be the better and Mark 
 Twain's memory the sweeter for these gentle 
 chapters. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Sign of the Shell . . 1 
 
 II. How History May Be 
 
 Taught 11 
 
 III. Some Literary Gossip ... SI 
 
 IV. Spanish Point 31 
 
 V. The Island Without Mark 
 
 Twain 43 
 
 VI. The Return 55 
 
 VII. Battleships and Society . . 65 
 
 VIII. Mark Twain's Aquarium . . 75 
 
 IX. Odds and Ends ..... 85 
 
 X. The King and Kipling . . 93 
 
 XI. Stormfield 103 
 
 XII. Stormfield, Happily 
 
 Continued 115 
 
 XIII. Letters 127 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mr. Clemens, Margaret, and Maude 
 
 Frontispiece ^ 
 
 Out from under the shadows stepped a 
 
 gray figure % 
 
 The great rambling hotel 4 w 
 
 They went in the donkey-cart .... 6 L 
 
 They jogged off down the road . . . . 12 ^ 
 
 The history lesson 14 *S 
 
 The far end of the island 22 * 
 
 Past the quarry 32 / 
 
 I think a photograph is a most important 
 
 document" 34 
 
 The houses were start! ingly white ... 38 
 
 The sea dashed in spray upon the rocks . 40^ 
 
 Parting came all too soon 44 ^ 
 
 An old wall lapped by the waves . . . 46 v 
 
 In the Botanical Gardens 48 v/ 
 
 Past the town 50^ 
 
 His companion was Henry H. Rogers . . 56 / 
 Glances and cameras were always turned 
 
 upon them 60 ^ 
 
 The Chaplain's cousin 66 ^ 
 
 They assumed a high moral attitude . . 70 
 
 His light weight could not discourage her . 76 v 
 
 The Angel-fish came into our circle . . 78 v 
 
Illustrations 
 
 Society that Mr. Clemens loved . 
 A bit of the Happy Island 
 Maude's expression was hard to catch 
 A house two or three centuries old 
 
 Stormfield 
 
 It was hard to tell which he loved best 
 
 I want you to look at this view ' ' . 
 
 And watch the sun paint the waters " 
 
 80^ 
 88' 
 
 94 
 
 j 
 
 104 
 116* 
 128 *. 
 138^ 
 
Cfte %isn of tftc ©ftcll 
 
Mark Twain and the 
 Happy Island 
 
 I CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SIGN OF THE SHELL 
 
 THE road to the hotel wound upward, 
 and on either side of it palmettos 
 rustled noisily beside still and somber 
 cedars. 
 
 Out from under their shadows stepped a 
 gray figure with a crown of glistening white 
 hair. He walked lightly and looked about 
 him with an air of interested and unconscious 
 expectancy. As he came nearer the hotel 
 veranda we recognized the shaggy eyebrows, 
 the delicately arched nose, the drooping mus- 
 tache. Indeed, we had realized his personality 
 the first moment that his figure had emerged 
 from the semi-tropical background. He could 
 be no other than Mark Twain. He passed 
 up the steps and into the hotel, his head held 
 
 1 
 
Mark Twain 
 
 a little to one side, inquiringly. We heard a 
 soft drawling voice for a moment and then a 
 carriage clattered up to the veranda, bringing 
 other guests, and we lost him. 
 
 For it was the day when the unsteady but 
 regular steamer brought us, once in ten days, 
 news and passengers from the world. Two 
 weeks before, we, the Lady Mother and I, 
 had crossed the stormy sea, a sea so stormy 
 that the short voyage of forty-five hours 
 seemed an eternity cutting us off from our 
 previous existence. This feeling of finality 
 had given a mysterious attraction to the green 
 islands which rose gently out of the sea before 
 us on the early morning of the third day. 
 This, and the change from bleak and wintry 
 December to glorious glowing summer, made 
 us suspect that we were under the spell of 
 some lovely enchantment. This suspicion be- 
 came settled conviction as our boat, so pathet- 
 ically small in the New York dock, suddenly 
 loomed up into stately proportions as she 
 picked her way through the treacherously 
 smiling channel. She had a wary but impor- 
 tant air as she turned and twisted between 
 
Out from under the shadows 
 stepped a gray figure 
 
The Sign of the Shell 
 
 the tiny islets, and then drew up majestic- 
 ally alongside the little wharf. And this 
 conviction was deepened into happy accept- 
 ance when we drove over white coral roads, 
 bordered with palmettos and royal palms, 
 when we saw banana groves and twenty-foot 
 oleander hedges, when we breathed the fra- 
 grance of magnolias and caught glimpses of 
 gleaming white houses through thick tropical 
 foliage, and white roads winding up little 
 hillsides, and when there flashed before us a 
 dash of white spray. 
 
 There could be no doubt of it. A fairy 
 had touched us with her magic wand, and we 
 were again in the dreamy, happy days of the 
 Golden Age. 
 
 The great rambling hotel which was to be 
 our home stood half a mile from the dock 
 and down close by the shore. It was the only 
 large wooden building on the island, and that 
 in itself was a distinction. Its long verandas 
 looked out over the blue waters of the harbor, 
 and sail-boats came clustering about the stone 
 pier, hoping to tempt unwary guests. 
 
 Soon after coming to the Happy Island I 
 
4 Mark Twain 
 
 found a companion and a playmate. It made 
 little difference that Margaret's skirts were 
 short and mine long, or that she wore her 
 hair down and I wore mine up, and that she 
 looked twelve years old while I only felt twelve. 
 All this mattered little, for she had one of 
 those understanding souls that knows with keen 
 and sure intuition many things that others 
 learn slowly and uncertainly. So she accepted 
 me as her playmate, and we took long walks 
 together, and exchanged confidences, and wove 
 wonderful tales of magic and adventure and 
 were quite content. 
 
 As a usual thing, Margaret and I felt but 
 a languid interest in the passengers who came, 
 for they did not invade our world. But on 
 the morning that Mark Twain arrived, we felt 
 an unusual thrill, and we wondered if we 
 might not see him once in a while. 
 
 Until that day there had been very few 
 guests, for it was the first of the year and the 
 beginning of the season. But now the dining- 
 room took on a distinctly populated appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Margaret's table was not far from ours, 
 
CD 
 
 
 
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 <*» 
 
 
 v^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 -o 
 
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The Sign of the Shell 
 
 and that day she was sitting alone. Presently 
 Mark Twain came in, and as he reached her 
 table he stopped and spoke to her. He not 
 only spoke to her, but had a conversation with 
 her. I knew, then, that he had recognized her 
 as one of the choice souls of the earth. 
 
 As soon as Margaret had finished her 
 luncheon, she came over to our table, her sweet 
 face beaming, and said : " That nice old 
 gentleman is Mr. Clemens, and he is so funny. 
 He pretended to know me, and he wants me to 
 ride with him in the donkey-cart this after- 
 noon, but I told him I had an engagement 
 with you, and could n't go." 
 
 I told her I would release her from her 
 engagement with me, for it was an honor to 
 be invited to go with Mr. Clemens, an honor 
 which she ought not lightly to forego. Then 
 she told me in detail the conversation she had 
 had with him. 
 
 He had said, after a moment of apparent 
 hesitation, and in a tone of surprise, "Why, 
 how do you do? I am very much ashamed of 
 myself, but I believe I've forgotten your 
 name." 
 
6 Mark Twain 
 
 Margaret: How do you do? I'm afraid I 
 don't know you. 
 
 Mr. Clemens (reproachfully): Have you 
 forgotten me? / remember you very well. 
 Your name is Janet. 
 
 Margaret: Oh, no, sir: It isn't Janet. 
 
 Mr. Clemens: I beg your pardon. I have 
 a very bad memory. Oh ! now it comes to me. 
 You are Dorothy. 
 
 Margaret (entering into the spirit of the 
 interview) : I'm afraid you have a bad mem- 
 ory, sir, a very bad one ! 
 
 Mr. Clemens (undaunted): Now, that's 
 too bad. I was sure I would remember — I 
 think it must be — Margaret. 
 
 Margaret: Yes, that's my name. 
 
 Mr. Clemens: But I'm very much grieved 
 that you should have forgotten me. I think 
 you ought to have some sort of a memoran- 
 dum of me, so that the next time we meet I 
 shouldn't be subjected to the same humiliating 
 experience. [Here Mr. Clemens took a little 
 pink shell out of his pocket and gave half of 
 it to Margaret.] Take this and guard it 
 carefully, and every time we meet hence- 
 
1»» 
 
 to 
 
 ■ss 
 
 K 
 
 *s» 
 
 5^ 
 
 ^> 
 
 "M 
 
 « 
 
 Z> 
 
 
 to 
 
 £3 
 
 S 
 
 »a 
 
 Sv 
 
 
 to 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 »Afi 
 
 -5! 
 
 
 « 
 
 S^ 
 
 
 
The Sign of the Shell 
 
 forward you can show me your half of the 
 shell and I will show you mine, and if they 
 match I shall know it's you and you will 
 know it's I! 
 
 Of course Margaret gleefully agreed, and 
 as proof she showed me her half of the shell, 
 repeating appreciatively: "Isn't he a dear, 
 funny man ! " 
 
 And just here, although not in chrono- 
 logical order, I must relate the after-history 
 of the divided shell. 
 
 Some time afterwards Mr. Clemens had two 
 pretty gold - enameled replicas of the shells 
 made, and he presented one of them to Mar- 
 garet. The other he hung on his watch-fob. 
 
 Many months later Margaret went to visit 
 Mr. Clemens in his Connecticut home. When 
 the carriage drove up to the door Mr. Clemens 
 was there to welcome his little friend, but 
 Margaret looked at him gravely, hesitated a 
 little, and then said : " Do you know if there 
 is a nice old gentleman, by the name of Mr. 
 Clemens, living here?" Mr. Clemens an- 
 swered by drawing out his shell and showing 
 it to her. She had hers in her hand. She 
 
8 Mark Twain 
 
 compared them for a moment. Her face 
 lighted up with a mischievous smile, and she 
 ran into his outstretched arms, saying: 
 "Why! you are Mr. Clemens!" 
 
l£>oto ^i0torp $@ap T5t Caugftt 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW HISTORY MAY BE TAUGHT 
 
 THAT afternoon Margaret went with 
 Mr. Clemens in the donkey-cart. I 
 saw them start, or, rather, try to 
 start. For Maude was stubborn and it took 
 some time to persuade her to move. Maude 
 was diminutive in size, but the amount of 
 obstinacy she possessed would have fitted out 
 a mastodon, nicely. She was always attached 
 to a small cart, and early every morning she 
 was at her post in front of the hotel. She 
 showed perfect indifference as to whether she 
 went or came. Of course, she preferred a 
 stationary attitude. 
 
 Reginald was her guardian angel — a black 
 little islander who enjoyed the distinction of 
 being the only human being who could make 
 Maude go. Later, Mr. Clemens discovered 
 that he was also absolutely joke-proof. 
 
 As Mr. Clemens, Margaret, Reginald, and 
 Maude finally jogged off down the road and 
 
 11 
 
12 Mark Twain 
 
 disappeared at the turn, I felt a little lonely 
 for my young playmate, and possibly a little 
 envious. Why couldn't I, too, have been 
 really twelve years old? 
 
 The next morning after breakfast Mar- 
 garet's loyal soul could no longer endure the 
 strain of divided affections. She brought Mr. 
 Clemens over to me and said: "You mustn't 
 be rivals, and I want you to know each other." 
 We said we would try to bury our hatred. 
 
 In the happy weeks that followed, the Mark 
 Twain of Roughing It and of Innocents 
 Abroad, of Tom Sawyer and of Huckleberry 
 Finn, became Mr. Clemens of the Happy 
 Island, and his companionship in gentle ex- 
 cursions, along peaceful, shady roads, was 
 even more delectable than when he had led us 
 over western plains or on European jaunts. 
 In the delight of knowing Mr. Clemens we 
 almost forgot Mark Twain. This charming, 
 courteous gentleman, with the crown of sil- 
 ver hair, with his immaculate white clothes, 
 his kindly deference of manner, his ready 
 thoughtfulness, and his sweet affection for 
 children, was sufficient in himself to win any- 
 
They jogged off down the road 
 
How History May Be Taught 13 
 
 one's heart, without the prestige of the other 
 name. 
 
 I think it was the next morning after the 
 meeting of the rivals that the history lessons 
 began. We were at breakfast, and from our 
 table I could see both Mr. Clemens and Mar- 
 garet. I noticed Mr. Clemens writing for a 
 while quite busily. Then he called the satur- 
 nine head waiter and gave him a card, with 
 instructions. The unsmiling messenger took 
 the card and carried it over to Margaret. 
 She looked at it and nodded back smilingly 
 at Mr. Clemens. The mystery was solved 
 after breakfast when Margaret brought me 
 the card, on which was inscribed her lesson 
 in history. Mr. Clemens followed the pic- 
 torial method, and he used ingenious devices 
 for fixing the length of a king's reign. For 
 instance, on this particular card he wished to 
 represent William the Conqueror. He had 
 drawn a grotesque figure made with eleven 
 legs and ten arms, which meant that he had 
 reigned twenty-one years. Could there have 
 been anything more lucid? 
 
 After breakfast, when he met Margaret, he 
 
14 Mark Twain 
 
 asked her in his gentle drawl: "Margaret, 
 how many arms and legs did William have ? " 
 Upon her replying promptly, "Twenty- 
 one!" he said, "Extraordinary, wasn't it, 
 dear ? Extraordinary ! " 
 
 These history lessons continued with regu- 
 larity, to our great delight. I remember that 
 Stephen was a huge foot with nineteen toes. 
 Henry II was a head with a mouth made like 
 this: $ — 35 — $. Richard the Lion Hearted 
 was a lion. Half of him was drawn on one 
 side of the card, with " over " written under- 
 neath, and on the reverse sprawled the last 
 half of him. In his mouth was a heart, and, 
 dangling from it, a card bearing the dates 
 1180-1199. 
 
 The dining-room was a large light room 
 overlooking the sea. The meals were leisurely 
 to the last degree, and it was a very nice 
 place in which to make informal calls. Mr. 
 Clemens was rather abstemious, and when he 
 had finished earlier than the rest of us he 
 would often come over to our table and talk. 
 His whimsical way of putting things, his deep 
 knowledge of human nature, his half-pessimis- 
 
a 
 
 How History May Be Taught 15 
 
 tic philosophy, his kindly toleration, in most 
 things, made everything he said so precious 
 that we did not want to lose a word. The 
 morning after we had heard of the assassina- 
 tion of the King and the Crown Prince of 
 Portugal he came over and sat down, and the 
 conversation naturally turned on that topic. 
 Did you ever realize," he said, " how awfully 
 difficult it is to kill a king? Think how many 
 times it has been tried, and how often it fails ! 
 They tried it eighteen times on Henry IV, 
 many times on Queen Victoria, and we don't 
 know how many countless times on the Em- 
 peror of Russia. Will those anarchists never 
 learn that when the heart is filled with hate 
 the hand that aims the weapon will surely 
 tremble ! " 
 
 From this we went on to speak of certain 
 common traits of the human race, and Mr. 
 Clemens launched forth on a tirade against 
 the general asininity of us all. Hysterical 
 hero-worship and the fickleness of public 
 favor were touched upon. Mr. Clemens grew 
 eloquent and took as a symbol a temporary 
 triumphal arch — one built for a popular 
 
16 Mark Twain 
 
 hero. " It was made of staff and plaster 
 because the people hadn't time, they hadn't 
 time [I can still hear the insistent nasal drawl 
 which gave such a world of meaning to these 
 words] to build a more enduring token. They 
 would build it in marble, later — yes, later, 
 when they had more time! The plaster arch 
 crumbled away, but later, when they had time, 
 there was no hero to whom to build the 
 enduring arch." 
 
 We happened to mention the description of 
 the Bander-log in the Jungle Book as one of 
 the best satires ever written on the human 
 race. This gave Mr. Clemens another 
 text, upon which he grew wonderfully elo- 
 quent. Yes, we were all Bander-log, and the 
 biggest Bander-log of all was whoever sat 
 in the executive chair of the nation. He 
 wondered why the Almighty had ever created 
 us. It was bad enough to have concocted the 
 house-fly, or to have imagined rats and mice, 
 but the Bander-log was the crowning mistake. 
 And then, to conceive of the idea that this 
 same Almighty who had created us wanted to 
 have our company through all eternity ! He 
 
How History May Be Taught 17 
 
 laughed gently as he finished his blasphemous 
 tirade, and, looking at the Lady Mother, who 
 wore a slightly puzzled expression, he added: 
 " Now, you must forget all that I 've said, 
 and if the Recording Angel brings this up 
 against me I shall simply tell him that I never 
 said anything of the sort, that it was those 
 W s who were talking!" 
 
Some JLitetatp <8o0$ip 
 
 i 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 SOME LITERARY GOSSIP 
 
 ONCE in a while it rained on the Happy 
 Island, and when it did, it did it 
 thoroughly. The water came down 
 in sheets and torrents, sweeping in from the 
 sea, across the harbor, blotting out the islands 
 and filling the air indoors with moisture. At 
 such times it was impossible to brave the 
 weather, for the most impermeable protection 
 became soaked. One compensation, however, 
 was, that the instant the rain ceased, the hard, 
 white coral roads were as passable as ever. 
 You could walk out, holding your head high, 
 and with no fear of bringing up in a mud 
 puddle. 
 
 One Sunday morning the weather was thus 
 comporting itself, and it was hard to mark the 
 dividing line between sea and rain-drenched 
 atmosphere. We went out on the veranda, 
 where we found a protected spot and some 
 capacious chairs. Margaret had been con- 
 
 21 
 
 
22 Mark Twain 
 
 demned to write letters, and Mr. Clemens 
 missed her. He came out on the veranda and 
 joined us. He was dressed, as he always was 
 in daytime the last few years of his life, in 
 white serge. The only color about him was 
 the dark brown of a row of cigars in either 
 breast-pocket. The row diminished as the 
 morning progressed. He was always immacu- 
 late, although he wore his clothes easily, and 
 there was never anything about him to sug- 
 gest that he himself cared how he looked. His 
 beautiful white hair curled softly in the damp- 
 ness, and he was the image of picturesque 
 comfort as he pulled at his cigar and talked. 
 It may have been the suggestion of the day, 
 but, whatever it was, something moved him to 
 discuss missionaries. This subject, together 
 with old-fashioned orthodoxy, were topics 
 that invariably stirred him to satiric loquacity. 
 He gave the poor missionaries no quarter, he 
 made no exceptions, they were all impaled 
 upon the sharp brochette of his keen diction 
 and grilled by the fire of his contempt. And 
 all that he said, he said in his quiet slow 
 drawl, with a twinkle of the eye, once in a 
 

Some Literary Gossip 23 
 
 while — a twinkle that one did not often see, 
 unless one looked carefully, for his bushy 
 eyebrows almost concealed the deep gray- 
 green eyes. He often made us wait for a 
 word, but when it came it was the only one 
 in the Century Dictionary that could so 
 exactly have conveyed to us what he wanted 
 to say. 
 
 There sat not far from us a sweet soul 
 whose heart was deeply interested in the mis- 
 sionary cause. All unconscious of this, Mr. 
 Clemens went on. A long time afterward he 
 learned that she had overheard the conversa- 
 tion and the quick expression of his regret 
 showed that his kind heart saw no humor in 
 that situation. 
 
 After an exhaustive arraignment of mis- 
 sionaries and their weaknesses, something was 
 said about Mr. Clemens's recent story of 
 " Captain Stormfield's Heavenly Experi- 
 ences," which had shortly before appeared in 
 magazine form. Mr. Clemens chuckled as he 
 asked us if we remembered the picture of 
 Heaven as presented in Elizabeth Stuart 
 Phelps's book, Gates Ajar. He said that 
 
24 Mark Twain 
 
 when he read that book he was deeply im- 
 pressed by what seemed a sentimental and 
 foolish idea. He resolved to satirize it, and 
 wrote the first draught of Captain Stormfield. 
 The result did not quite suit him, and, besides, 
 he hesitated to publish it so soon after the 
 appearance of Miss Phelps's book. So he put 
 the manuscript aside, and it was almost for- 
 gotten. Then one day he came across it, 
 thought it worth publishing, and sent it to 
 the magazine where it appeared. 
 
 His cigars were not all smoked, and the 
 rain continued to fall prodigiously and so we 
 led him on to talk of other books he had 
 written. One that he loved best of all, per- 
 haps, and that is not nearly so widely read as 
 his others, was Personal Recollections of Joan 
 of Arc. He said that for years he had been 
 impressed by the spirit of the French heroine, 
 and year by year, for twelve years, he had laid 
 by in his memory, and in his notes, every im- 
 pression he could get of her. The most thrill- 
 ing historical document he had ever read, he 
 said, was the official account of her trial. And 
 he regretted that he had not traveled in the 
 
Some Literary Gossip 25 
 
 parts of France where she had lived. Finally 
 the time came when he could write of her, and 
 he found that she stood forth in his mind, a 
 clear, convincing figure. 
 
 There was a silence as he finished speaking 
 of her, and we looked almost reverently on 
 this man, who had seen into the heart of a 
 simple peasant maid, and had understood the 
 inspiration that had transformed her into the 
 savior of France, and yet had kept her girl- 
 ishly gay and womanly sweet. 
 
 The silence was broken by Mr. Clemens, 
 who said, whimsically : " My books are really 
 exceedingly serious and have been made the 
 subject of profound study." He then told us, 
 with much relish and some elaboration, the 
 history of the Mark Twain Club. 
 
 One day he had received a communication 
 from the north of England. The letter was 
 written on heavily embossed and crested paper, 
 and was to the effect that a club had been 
 organized for the purpose of studying the 
 works of the great American humorist. The 
 writer delicately hinted that this had not yet 
 been done in a scholarly and scientific manner, 
 
26 Mark Twain 
 
 and that it was the intention of the Club to 
 delve deeply into the stores of philosophic 
 wisdom which were sometimes hidden from the 
 casual reader by the super-fabric of wit and 
 humor. The organization, with the permis- 
 sion of Mr. Clemens, should be known as The 
 Mark Twain Club, and would feel itself much 
 honored if it might send the record of its 
 proceedings to Mr. Clemens. 
 
 Mr. Clemens was pleased, very much 
 pleased. His works had not received the 
 attention from scholars and from learned 
 societies that he felt they deserved. Now 
 justice would be done them. 
 
 With some pardonable degree of compla- 
 cency he received and read the first papers of 
 The Mark Twain Club. They were most 
 satisfactory. The Club had printed not only 
 the record of proceedings, but also the studies 
 presented. From time to time Mr. Clemens 
 received these reports. The society was evi- 
 dently flourishing. A letter came from the 
 President saying that the Club had decided 
 to have an emblem ; that, after much thought 
 and consideration, a suitable design had been 
 
Some Literary Gossip 27 
 
 chosen, and that they begged Mr. Clemens to 
 do them the honor of accepting one. A few 
 days later a small box arrived containing a 
 very beautiful and curiously wrought pin set 
 with a number of precious stones. Mr. Clem- 
 ens took great pleasure in wearing the pin 
 and in carelessly saying to inquiring friends : 
 " Oh, yes ! that 's the pin of The Mark Twain 
 Club, an English organization. — Yes, it's 
 very interesting.'' 
 
 After some time the publications of The 
 Mark Twain Club ceased to come, and the 
 incident began to lose some of its vividness. 
 
 When Mr. Clemens was making his lecture 
 tour around the world, a fine-looking gentle- 
 man approached him at Sydney, Australia, 
 after his lecture, and said: "Mr. Clemens, I 
 
 am Sir , the President of The Mark 
 
 Twain Club. It would give me great pleasure 
 if you would take supper with me. I could 
 then give you some interesting details regard- 
 ing the Club." 
 
 Mr. Clemens accepted, with pleasurable 
 curiosity. When they were seated at table 
 the Englishman leaned over and said, in a 
 
28 Mark Twain 
 
 confidential tone, "I am The Mark Twain 
 Club." He then went on to explain that some 
 time before he had suffered from a nervous 
 breakdown and, while in that condition, he 
 was ordered by his physician to abstain en- 
 tirely from all mental excitement. He had 
 thereupon retired to his estate in the north of 
 England and, while there, had conceived of 
 the happy idea of the Club, as furnishing a 
 mild distraction without any attendant mental 
 strain. He was the charter member. There 
 had never been any others. 
 
 "But the pins?" queried Mr. Clemens. 
 
 "You are wearing the only one that was 
 ever made," replied the courteous founder of 
 The Mark Twain Club. 
 
©panisft point 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 SPANISH POINT 
 
 ONE brilliant Sunday afternoon we went 
 to Spanish Point. When Mr. Clemens, 
 Maude, Reginald, and one or two 
 others went, there was always a preliminary 
 animated discussion as to who should ride. 
 Maude, obviously, could n't. Reginald, offi- 
 cially, could not. It was an open question, 
 never quite settled, as to which was the more 
 strenuous exercise, urging the reluctant 
 Maude to go, or tramping alongside trying 
 to keep her slow pace. Sometimes we would 
 toss a penny and abide by its fall, or Mr. 
 Clemens would gravely refer the decision to 
 Margaret, as the most serious of the party. 
 Then the two destined to the more vigorous 
 work entered the cart and moved off down the 
 road and up the hill past the quarry, on the 
 way to Spanish Point, two miles away. 
 
 The shell road, smooth and hard, was bor- 
 dered on either side by mossy stone walls- 
 
 31 
 
32 Mark Twain 
 
 Over these walls hung the beautiful purple 
 vines of the bougainvillea, heather with its 
 small scarlet flower, or yellow clusters of the 
 pigeon-berry. Sometimes the stone wall 
 stopped and a hedge of the variegated match- 
 us-if-you-can took its place, behind which 
 rose the hectic blossoms of the hibiscus. Here 
 and there drooped a grove of palms where 
 bananas clustered thickly on the branches, and 
 then tall cocoanut trees swept up to greater 
 heights. Just beyond a grove of sweet-scented 
 cedars a hospitable gateway broke the wall. 
 It bore an attractive legend, like Norwood, or 
 Soncy, or Olive Hill, and a driveway fringed 
 by a marvelous tropic growth led windingly to 
 some big, low, white coral-stone house, over- 
 run with veranda-roses and all sorts of sweet 
 perfumed flowers. 
 
 The air was limpid and soft, the houses 
 were startlingly white, and the brilliant foli- 
 age led a reckless and vivid existence on either 
 side of the imperturbably hard and dry road. 
 Sometimes we would stop suddenly at the 
 clear, sweet notes of a cardinal bird and catch 
 a glimpse of his scarlet coat against the deep 
 
Spanish Point 33 
 
 green of the cedar. Sometimes we would look 
 out between the trees to the blue glimmer of 
 the harbor, where sails looked like white clouds 
 as they flitted past. 
 
 Mr. Clemens was in a particularly happy 
 and reminiscent mood ; but when I try to put 
 down what he said I feel that it lacks the 
 pungency of the sea air and the charm of his 
 drawl. 
 
 Mr. Clemens was more often serious than 
 humorous in conversation, and I never knew 
 him to be funny for the mere sake of being 
 funny. He never seemed to say anything to 
 win applause or to evoke laughter. If he 
 said a humorous thing, it had to be humorous 
 enough to satisfy his own sense of humor. 
 It must not fall below his own ideal. I never 
 knew him to say a clever thing at the sacri- 
 fice of a kind thing, nor a witty thing 
 divorced from truth. I don't mean mere 
 vulgar facts, but truth, truth about human 
 nature — he was always true to that. 
 
 We had scarcely lost the hotel from view 
 when we met a group of gentlemen, evidently 
 tourists. One of them came eagerly up to us 
 
34 Mark Twain 
 
 and, accosting Mr. Clemens, said: "I beg 
 your pardon, Mr. Clemens, but my daughter 
 is particularly fond of your writings. Would 
 you object if I took a picture of you for 
 her? " Mr. Clemens, who chanced to be walk- 
 ing at that particular moment, answered 
 immediately : " Certainly not, sir. Where do 
 you wish me to stand?" The man became so 
 nervous that he couldn't snap his kodak and 
 handed it to his companion, exclaiming: 
 " Say, you take it ! I guess you can manage 
 it better than I can." 
 
 As we passed on we asked Mr. Clemens if 
 he didn't ever get tired of being bothered in 
 this way, but he replied that it was very 
 little trouble to stop for a moment, and was 
 most gratifying to his vanity ! I had noticed 
 that Mr. Clemens always assumed a dignified 
 pose at such times, with a serious, almost 
 severe expression of face. When he was 
 spoken to of this he said : " I think a photo- 
 graph is a most important document, and 
 there is nothing more damning to go down to 
 posterity than a silly, foolish smile caught and 
 fixed forever." 
 
"I think a photograph is 
 a most important document 
 
Spanish Point 35 
 
 Mr. Clemens had presented me the day 
 before with a precious volume which he had 
 discovered in the island book store, entitled 
 Beeton* s Complete Letter-Writer for Gentle- 
 men. It had appealed to Mr. Clemens's sense 
 of humor. He had written this inscription on 
 the blank page, " To Young Lady desirous 
 of perfecting Herself in the Epistolary Art 
 [date in full] . Dear Miss : Try Bee- 
 ton, Trust Beeton, Beeton is your friend. 
 Have no fear. Sincerely yours, S. L. Clem- 
 ens." This choice book we carried with us 
 and regaled ourselves, from time to time, with 
 particularly rare specimens of the epistolary 
 art. 
 
 Apropos of this book Mr. Clemens told a 
 story he remembered from his boyhood, of a 
 negro who was up north and who wanted to 
 communicate with his mother down south. He 
 went to his mistress with a Complete Letter- 
 Writer in his hand, having selected therefrom 
 a model entitled : " From a Young Man pro- 
 posing marriage to the Lady of His Choice." 
 He insisted upon his mistress copying this 
 verbatim. Protests were in vain, and she was 
 
36 Mark Twain 
 
 obliged to reproduce the ardent but utterly 
 inappropriate words. She learned months 
 afterward that the letter had had an enormous 
 success, and that all the darkies on the planta- 
 tion had tried to emulate this effort. The 
 mother was pleased beyond words, and the 
 letter became an authority to be consulted by 
 everyone, no matter to whom or about what 
 he was writing. 
 
 This story led us to talk of life and its 
 disappointments. Mr. Clemens advanced a 
 favorite theory: "If I had been helping the 
 Almighty in his job I would have commenced 
 at the other end, and have the human race 
 begin with old age. It would have been in- 
 finitely better and more logical to begin as 
 old men, and have all our woes and aches and 
 troubles over in a few years. They would be 
 much easier to bear sustained by the hope of 
 a joyful youth. And think of the exhilara- 
 tion and inspiration of reaching eighteen and 
 knowing that you were never to be old and 
 wrinkled again. Yes, the Almighty made a 
 pretty bad job of it, pretty bad!" 
 
"Spanish Point 37 
 
 By this time Maude's pace, which had grad- 
 ually been growing more languid, stopped 
 altogether, and we decided to rest a while by 
 the roadside. Across the road was a house 
 two or three centuries old. It had evidently 
 not been whitewashed for years, and had be- 
 come a beautiful soft gray. It reminded us 
 of Ohl England, whence its first owners had 
 doubtless come, and we asked Mr. Clemens to 
 tell us of some of his summer experiences on 
 the British Isles. 
 
 Although the experience of the previous 
 summer, when the Oxford degree had been 
 conferred upon him, had probably been the 
 culminating one of his life, he very seldom 
 spoke of its events or referred in any way to 
 the wonderful homage he had everywhere re- 
 ceived. So when we asked him he replied: 
 " There was one incident that may amuse you 
 as it did me. It was on the occasion of the 
 Open Air Pageant at Oxford. I had been 
 detained and came in a little late, with Lord 
 Curzon and Rudyard Kipling. We were con- 
 ducted to a box, and, when seated, a note was 
 
38 Mark Twain 
 
 passed to us — a little slip of paper on which 
 was written, ' Not true.' Upon opening the 
 paper, we found inside these lines of Kipling : 
 
 " East is East and West is West 
 And never the Twain shall meet." 
 
 As he finished the story, he added: "By the 
 way, the best picture I ever had taken was 
 at that time. We were coming out in pro- 
 cession, and I was walking beside Sidney Lee. 
 Mr. Kipling was behind me, and someone with 
 a camera tried to snap him; but the kodak 
 slipped, or something happened, and it turned 
 out that I had eclipsed him completely, and 
 there was nothing left but the tip of his ear." 
 
 Maude was now sufficiently rested, and we 
 got up to jog along to Spanish Point. The 
 sea was very beautiful and dashed in spray 
 upon the rocks. We gathered shells and pol- 
 ished pebbles, and wrote names in the sand, 
 and then turned to come back. 
 
 Mr. Clemens talked of his father and of 
 the latter's attitude toward the slave trade. 
 He told us with much chuckling of the time 
 he took his mother to a minstrel show, having 
 deluded her into the belief that she was going 
 
«0 
 
 CO 
 
 S 
 
 © 
 
 5S 
 
 *> £ 
 
Spanish Point 39 
 
 to hear some African missionaries. And that 
 reminded him of a later incident, which he 
 related thus : " I have n't told you of the 
 time I was asked to address John D. Rocke- 
 feller Jr.'s Sunday-school class, have I? 
 Well, once John D. Jr. sent me an invitation 
 to talk to his class on any subject I might 
 choose, taken from the Bible. Just before 
 this time John D. Jr. had been whitewashing 
 Joseph a good deal, and making him out to 
 be a pretty fine fellow. So when the letter 
 came with this invitation I said to my secre- 
 tary: 'You just write to Mr. Rockefeller 
 that the only subject that seems to interest me 
 very much just now is the subject of Joseph, 
 but that I'm afraid that what I have to say 
 about him won't exactly meet with his views.' 
 This was written to him, and by the next mail 
 came a very polite answer from Mr. Rocke- 
 feller saying that he was sure that anything 
 I would have to say would be most profitable, 
 but that perhaps it would be advisable for me 
 to jot down my thoughts and send them to 
 him beforehand. I followed his happy sug- 
 gestion, and I exposed Joseph in a way he 
 
40 Mark Twain 
 
 had never been exposed before, and I said 
 what I thought of his whole Egyptian policy 
 in perfectly plain terms. It was really very 
 good," and Mr. Clemens gave a reminiscent 
 chuckle. "I sent the manuscript on to Mr. 
 Rockefeller, and, do you know, he never 
 pursued the subject!" 
 
 Maude realized the nearness of home and 
 food and mended her pace. Margaret ex- 
 claimed gleefully : " Oh, Mr. Clemens ! She 's 
 going, she's trotting!" And with a trium- 
 phant wave of the whip, they left us behind 
 and we heard no more stories that afternoon. 
 
5>5 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 53 
 
 ^5 
 
 g 
 
 O 
 
 s 
 
C&e Mand tottbout e@ark Ctoain 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE ISLAND WITHOUT MARK TWAIN 
 
 THE time of parting came all too soon. 
 Mr. Clemens had to be back in New 
 York to be host at a very special 
 luncheon, and Margaret had to submit to 
 some educational discipline which we privately 
 decided she could easily get along without. 
 However, parental prejudices have to be con- 
 sidered, and we had to bow to the inevitable. 
 
 The day before they sailed, Margaret said 
 to me, "Is there a Mrs. Clemens in New 
 York?" I told her that Mrs. Clemens had 
 gone very far away and would never come 
 back. "Has Mr. Clemens any little girls?" 
 pursued Margaret. I answered that his girls 
 were now big girls, but that he had lost one 
 whom he now remembered as his little girl, 
 and whom he had loved very tenderly, and 
 that this was the reason he loved other little 
 girls so much. It made him less lonely when 
 
 43 
 
44 Mark Twain 
 
 he had them about him. Margaret thought 
 for a moment; then, her brown eyes full of 
 tenderness, " I wish / was Mrs. Clemens, and 
 then I would just care for him and care for 
 him, and love him awfully ! " 
 
 Margaret felt for him the deep affection 
 that children have for an older person who 
 understands them and treats them with re- 
 spect. Mr. Clemens never talked down to her, 
 but considered her opinions with a sweet dig- 
 nity. This wonderful comprehension that he 
 had of children, and his perfect sympathy for 
 them, helped us to understand better the sim- 
 plicity of his own character. When we were 
 with him, we, too, felt like little children. 
 All pretentious wisdom, all sophisticated 
 phrases, all acquired and meaningless con- 
 ventions were laid aside, and we said what 
 we meant, and spontaneity took the place of 
 calculation, and we became simple and un- 
 afraid, and sure of being understood. 
 
 We went down to the boat to say good-by 
 to Margaret and Mr. Clemens. The latter, 
 however, hated farewells of any kind, and so 
 he went directly to his cabin and did not 
 

 5*. 
 
 
The Island Without Twain 45 
 
 emerge therefrom until they had lifted 
 anchor. 
 
 As the ship sailed away bearing the sweet 
 little girl, Margaret, and the sweet old man, 
 Mr. Clemens, we felt that the island had 
 grown suddenly smaller, that the colors had 
 faded, and that there was a chill in the air. 
 As we turned away from the dock, however, 
 we saw the familiar form of Maude, standing 
 quiet, imperturbable, unmoved by any emo- 
 tion, and we felt comforted. 
 
 Mr. Clemens had not cared for sailing, so 
 when he had gone we thought to distract our 
 minds by this. Neither was the Lady Mother 
 fond of this particular amusement. The next 
 morning after the steamer went away, I sug- 
 gested to her that we take a sail. She was 
 examining the interior of a sago-palm at that 
 moment, but she heard my wild proposition. 
 She looked at me pityingly and said: "I 
 want to enjoy my stay here." 
 
 She had been inveigled into a rowboat one 
 day. She stepped into it gingerly, and then 
 sat in rigid misery for nearly an hour, eyeing 
 with distrust the other craft in the harbor, 
 
46 Mark Twain 
 
 for she attributed to them all a sinister inten- 
 tion of running us down. So she was not to 
 be persuaded. 
 
 However, a companion was found, and we 
 went down to the pier where the boats stand 
 waiting for customers. The skippers are 
 haughty men who do not beg for patronage. 
 In this they have a social standing far above 
 that of the rowboat men, who shamelessly 
 clamor for passengers. 
 
 We took the blackest skipper we could find. 
 He was big and muscular and passing 
 homely, but he had a settled gravity that 
 won our confidence immediately. He seemed 
 to regard with some disdain our order to sail 
 among the islands, so that we might take 
 pictures. His disdain grew into a withering 
 contempt when our taste in subjects was re- 
 vealed. He suggested a big new house that 
 stared unblinkingly out on the view. When 
 we showed no appreciation he grew silent and 
 taciturn and eyed us with suspicion from time 
 to time. All interest in us died out, and he 
 seemed to grow deaf and dumb when we asked 
 him to go near an old wall lapped by the 
 
An old wall Japped by the waves 
 
The Island Without Twain 47 
 
 waves, where cedars and oleanders grew, and 
 where the naked, lace-like branches of a 
 Pride-of-India tree were outlined against the 
 sky. Only once did he vouchsafe to talk, and 
 that was when we had beguiled him to tell us 
 about the Boer prisoners. "Yes, they used 
 to be on that island. They lived in tents and 
 had good things to eat. The men were on 
 one island, the boys on another, and the hos- 
 pital over there on still another. They were 
 very religious, and every afternoon at five you 
 could hear them singing hymns." "Did any 
 one ever try to escape? " we queried. " Oh, 
 yessum; several. There was one who cut 
 down a cedar tree one night and threw it into 
 the water, then jumped in himself, thrust his 
 head up through the branches, and swam 
 slowly down to the hotel. He was an officer, 
 and had it all arranged with his friends who 
 were stopping at the hotel. They gave him 
 clothes and took care of him that night, and 
 the next morning he went on board the 
 steamer like any ordinary passenger, and so 
 got to New York. There was another poor 
 fellow who wasn't so successful. He took a 
 
48 Mark Twain 
 
 box and cut air-holes in it, and used that for 
 a head covering while he swam out towards an 
 American ship. As bad luck would have it, a 
 sailor who knew a bit about tides saw this box 
 apparently floating out, while the tide was 
 coming in. He thought there was something 
 mighty queer about that, and he sailed up 
 alongside. The Boer was taken again." 
 "And what happened to him ? " " He was 
 shot, madam." 
 
 Our skipper was actually growing garru- 
 lous. We were fascinated, not only by his 
 stories, but by his language. It seemed 
 strange to hear a black, black negro speak 
 with an English accent and use almost elegant 
 phraseology. The first time I had been im- 
 pressed by this characteristic of the black 
 people of the island was when, a day or two 
 after our arrival, we had gone to the Botan- 
 ical Gardens. Seeing a very strange-looking 
 tree, I asked a darkey who was working near 
 by, what the name of it was. He replied in- 
 stantly with a rather long and complicated 
 name, which I did not quite catch. I said, "Is 
 that its botanical name ? " To which the 
 
In the Botanical Gardens 
 
The Island Without Twain 49 
 
 dusky gentleman answered : " Well, madam, 
 to a certain extent it is." 
 
 When the lunch hour made itself felt we 
 gave the word to go home, and our skipper 
 made a good landing at the pier, where other 
 boats had already come in. Others followed, 
 sails were lowered, and soon there were half a 
 dozen or more clustering about the stone land- 
 ing, their slender masts outlined gracefully 
 against the sky. The wind went down as 
 though it, too, needed a siesta, and the sky 
 began to veil itself in soft gray clouds. 
 
 The moonlight nights were very clear and 
 beautiful, and when by chance there was a 
 breeze, just enough to ruffle the surface of 
 the water and to fill the sails, and when there 
 was a softness in the air, then we would go 
 out after dinner. And as I think of it now I 
 re-live the scene. As we go down to the pier 
 our voices ring clear in the still air. The 
 bumping of the boat against the wall echoes 
 with a hollow sound — the song of a lonely 
 oarsman in a distant boat comes distinctly 
 over the water. 
 
 We get in and tuck the steamer rugs about 
 
50 Mark Twain 
 
 us, and in a minute a breeze catches us, the 
 boat bends to it, its bow cutting through the 
 dark water with a gleam of white foam. Above 
 us the stars shine, some large and still, with 
 steady yellow light, others far away and cold, 
 and others twinkling uncertainly, but with a 
 friendly, familiar air, as if to say, " We, too, 
 are small and unsure of our existence." We 
 sail down the harbor, past the town, where 
 lights are gleaming from the windows of 
 white houses, and the hills beyond show little 
 twinkling stars of light through the black of 
 the cedars. The rival hotel has lights stream- 
 ing from every window, and we can hear the 
 broken strains of a two-step, which sound like 
 the intermittent efforts of a lame man to 
 dance. 
 
 Tied up to a wharf is the Halifax steamer, 
 getting ready to sail at midnight for the 
 West Indies. Slender fingers of yellow light 
 point from its portholes, the donkey engine 
 creaks dolorously, and melodious darkey voices 
 are heard singing out orders. We pass over 
 the wavering reflections in the water, and, 
 catching a stronger breeze, we sail out into the 
 
« ^ ^ 
 
 '"S t»j -fc^ 
 
 m 
 
 .'1: "* 
 
 n. 
 
The Island Without Twain 51 
 
 larger harbor, where the emerald islands look 
 black against the steely water. Clouds have 
 come across the moon, clouds that hint at 
 storms, but there is still a silver path down to 
 our boat. 
 
 We grow silent, for the beauty of the scene 
 enters into our hearts, and night is voiceless 
 and needs no empty words to sing its praises. 
 Our boat glides along, with scarcely the 
 sound of a ripple. The sail is black against 
 the sky, and we are borne to the mystic land 
 of night and dreams, down the silvery path of 
 moonbeams. 
 
C6e IReturn 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 THE Happy Island was only two weeks 
 without Mr. Clemens, after all, and 
 our hearts were filled with joy when 
 his return was announced. This time he came 
 to stay for a longer period. His companion 
 was Mr. Henry H. Rogers, a tall, distin- 
 guished looking man, with a fine-cut profile 
 and clear young coloring. He had been ill 
 and had chosen to come here with his long- 
 time friend to recuperate. It was always a 
 mooted question whether Mr. Rogers took 
 care of Mr. Clemens or Mr. Clemens of Mr. 
 Rogers. It was a question that they took 
 much delight in unsettling. 
 
 But there was no Margaret. I had been 
 instructed to try to fill her place with some 
 other choice soul, and that was the way the 
 Angel Fish came into our circle. She, how- 
 ever, belongs to another chapter. 
 
 Mr. Clemens and Mr. Rogers secured a 
 55 
 
56 Mark Twain 
 
 table near ours in the dining-room, and there 
 was much visiting back and forth. The first 
 morning, after breakfast, we met with Mr. 
 Rogers to organize what we were pleased to 
 call the S. L. C. Life-Saving Society. Mr. 
 Rogers gravely stated that Mr. Clemens, 
 being of a guileless and unsuspecting nature, 
 was sometimes led away by designing and not 
 altogether desirable strangers. His kind heart 
 could never permit him to refuse himself to 
 anyone who might address himself to him, 
 and the result was that he was sometimes 
 drawn into annoying relationships. The plan 
 of action of the S. L. C. Life-Saving Society 
 was to be as follows: when we should see 
 Mr. Clemens engaged in conversation with a 
 doubtful party, we were to go up to him and 
 say, " Pardon me, but Mr. Rogers is looking 
 for you, and would like to speak to you 
 immediately." Mr. Clemens, to whom was to 
 be revealed the full significance of this phrase, 
 would thereupon take warning and discreetly 
 withdraw. 
 
 It was soon after their arrival that we 
 began to call Mr. Clemens the King. The 
 
His companion was Henri/ II. Rogers 
 
The Return 57 
 
 title had already been given to him by a small 
 circle of loving friends. We quickly felt the 
 appropriateness of the name, for we realized 
 that we had never known anyone who made 
 his personality to be felt more than he did, 
 and yet without any effort. He just was. 
 
 The King hit upon the happy idea of 
 calling Mr. Rogers the Rajah. And so they 
 remained for us to the end of the chapter — 
 an ending that came, alas ! all too soon. 
 
 Mr. Clemens never grew tired of poking 
 fun at Mr. Rogers and his stately, dignified 
 manner. One day, as the latter came into the 
 dining-room, a little late, with his slow step, 
 Mr. Clemens, who was already seated at the 
 table, said, "There he comes, looking just 
 like Gibbs' Lighthouse, stiff and tall, turning 
 his lights from side to side ! " 
 
 Their deep and strong affection for each 
 other usually manifested itself verbally in this 
 sort of whimsical abuse. 
 
 One of our first excursions together, after 
 the return, was to Prospect Park. 
 
 Prospect Park has many charms, the great- 
 est of which is the prevalence of scarlet 
 
58 Mark Twain 
 
 military coats. For Prospect Park is the 
 garrison, and not to go to at least one func- 
 tion is to be hopelessly civilian, which is an- 
 other name for plebeian. None of us wished 
 to be that. Besides, Mr. Clemens had a 
 particularly tender spot in his heart for all 
 things English, since the loving reception he 
 had had the summer before from all classes 
 on the British Isles. As we look back we see 
 Prospect Park colored with many joys, and 
 we were grateful to the Home Government 
 who saw fit to retain one regiment there. To 
 be sure, the one regiment was sorely in need 
 of padding; but what were numbers, when 
 among the officers were the witty Major B, 
 the handsome, dashing A. D. C, the kindly 
 Colonel, and the appealing, child-like sub- 
 alterns ? 
 
 To Prospect Park, then, we went of a 
 Sunday, to hear the band. The truly pious 
 went to the church services, and watched the 
 red-coated soldiers come in and take their 
 places in the uncomfortable little chairs, 
 ranged in serried ranks in the barracks' 
 church. This was a long, narrow house, built 
 
The Return 59 
 
 of wood and covered with corrugated iron, 
 which gave it a peculiarly unchurchly aspect, 
 and seemed to hint at a necessity for fire- 
 proof arrangements. But the Chaplain was a 
 kindly man who refrained from speaking of 
 the wrath to come, and confined himself to 
 brave, encouraging words to these lads, so far 
 from home. 
 
 We arrived a little early for the band con- 
 cert and entirely too late for the services. 
 But we drove up to the church to watch the 
 soldiers march out. We heard the last re- 
 sponses in strong, virile tones, then a hymn, 
 then a rustling of feet; and then the scarlet 
 audience streamed out from both doors of the 
 furnace-like building. Mr. Clemens murmured 
 something about " flames of fire and the wrath 
 to come." However, the bright colors soon 
 melted away and scattered, to reassemble on 
 the greensward of the park. Presently the 
 band gathered under a clump of cedars, and 
 the lovely strains sounded sweeter because, 
 while listening, we could at the same time see 
 the wonderful color of the sky and feel the 
 balmy air upon our cheeks. 
 
60 Mark Twain 
 
 The only discomfort in being with Mr. 
 Clemens and Mr. Rogers in a public place 
 was that glances and cameras were always 
 turned upon them. But they accepted this 
 attention with indifference, and why should 
 we be bothered? Mr. Clemens was not a 
 passionate lover of music, but he was fond 
 of a band or of an organ. On this particular 
 day he was distracted from a fair attention to 
 the program by the awkward antics of a lank 
 puppy and a fat baby. The fat baby was 
 evidently the direct lineal descendant of the 
 bass-drummer, for the child lunged from time 
 to time in his direction, laying violent but 
 unsteady hold on the paternal legs. Indeed, 
 all those straight, firm legs of the standing 
 band had a wonderful attraction for the Fat 
 Baby, and when the puppy's charms palled 
 she would stand by her unhappy father a 
 while, looking contemplatively at the forest 
 of legs before her; then she would reel, and 
 totter, and disappear among the avenues of 
 legs, to be hauled out ignominiously when the 
 number was over. All this Mr. Clemens ob- 
 
Glances and cameras were always 
 turned upon them 
 
The Return 61 
 
 served with quiet delight, making an appro- 
 riate observation from time to time. 
 
 The puppy failed to interest him so much, 
 for he had no love for dogs, and sometimes 
 said that he wished he could exterminate 
 them all. 
 
 Mr. Clemens directed our attention to 
 some other children who were playing, and 
 remarked : " They look like intoxicated June- 
 bugs careening over the lawn." 
 
 Two small boys strutted past, looking very 
 important and pompous and British. We 
 heard one say to the other: "How long are 
 you going to stay? My mother told me I 
 could stay until ' God saves the King.' " 
 
 We, too, decided to stay until that interest- 
 ing moment, and when it came we rose, a little 
 stiffly, from the rug on which we had been 
 reposing, and joined in the national anthem 
 with fraternal regard. As Mr. Clemens bared 
 his white head, he looked, indeed, a kingly 
 figure clothed in white against the scarlet 
 background of the band. 
 
15attle0f)ip0 attD Soctetp 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 BATTLESHIPS AND SOCIETY 
 
 ONE day three English cruisers came into 
 the harbor. The next evening Mr. 
 Clemens received a charming letter 
 from the Chaplain of one of them, a letter 
 which pleased him much because of its quaint 
 phrasing. Here it is, in part : 
 
 Dear Doctor Clemens: I understand we are 
 cousins and in a closer sense than that you 
 are American and I English. Your dear mother 
 is sister to my (to me) dearer mother! 
 
 I am jealous that my Alma Mater was fore- 
 stalled by Oxford in adopting you. 
 
 I regret, also, that the exigencies of the 
 service prevented my being in Oxford — in 
 fact, England — to assist those who desired to 
 do you honor. Think you that we might square 
 yards in some way? May I suggest a way? 
 What if you did us the honour to lunch on board 
 the battleship on Monday or Tuesday? Does 
 that appeal to your sense of humour? If not, 
 will you let it touch that whole-hearted gen- 
 erosity of yours, and come? 
 
 65 
 
66 Mark Twain 
 
 We won't ask you to say anything funny, 
 but will, if you will honour us, show you as 
 much of the ship as you might wish to see, and 
 do our best not to bore you too much. 
 
 I have a confession to make — my conscience 
 
 compels me. Here it is — Fleet-Surgeon F 
 
 and I made a pilgrimage yesterday to your 
 present shrine to do you homage. We had one 
 golden opportunity, when you were smoking 
 your after breakfast cigar on the terrace of 
 the hotel, but being the shyest of a shy race, 
 or let me say, the kindest of our kind, we 
 refrained from taking advantage of your only 
 moment of isolation to attack you and achieve 
 the object of our visit. 
 
 The letter went on to name days and hours 
 when Mr. Clemens might favor them, and 
 wound up with : 
 
 I must apologize for the length of this invi- 
 tation. My excuse is, that it is not so much 
 an invitation as a humble petition from two 
 
 Grateful Admirers-in-Chiep. 
 
 Of course Mr. Clemens went, and had a 
 beautiful time, and made a speech that made 
 them rock with laughter and then furtively 
 wipe away tears. The Chaplain told us about 
 it afterwards. That is the way we knew. And 
 Mr. Clemens also told the Chaplain about his 
 
The Chaplain's cousin 
 
Battleships and Society 67 
 
 friends, so that a boat was sent for us and we 
 had afternoon tea on board. The Chaplain 
 had a hospitable soul, as well as a graceful 
 pen and the happy gift of speech, so that he 
 made a royal good host. We saw the six hun- 
 dred men of the battleship stand up in straight 
 military lines on the forward deck and answer 
 to roll-call. Then the shore-leave men 
 scrambled down into their boats, held up their 
 oars in perfect vertical lines, dropped them at 
 the word of command, and rowed off cheerily, 
 to have a respectable British orgy in the staid 
 town of the island. 
 
 Then we, in our turn, scrambled down to 
 our boat, the crew gave a cheer for Mr. 
 Clemens, and as the launch moved away we 
 waved lingering farewells to the old grey 
 cruiser. 
 
 Almost all social functions, and there were 
 many on the little island, Mr. Clemens escaped. 
 Once in a while he was persuaded to go to an 
 afternoon tea. These were very popular. On 
 these occasions innumerable kinds of rich cake 
 were served, in such reckless profusion and 
 with such pressing hospitality that dinner was 
 
68 Mark Twain 
 
 completely wrecked. But when we were all in- 
 vited to a West-Indian Pepper-Pot luncheon, 
 we eagerly accepted. Our hostess was not a 
 born islander, but as fourteen or fifteen win- 
 ters had sheltered her on the Happy Isles, she 
 was an adopted daughter. Besides, she knew 
 how Pepper-Pot was made, and this, added to 
 other charms, made her quite irresistible. She 
 laughingly told us that Pepper-Pot was best 
 on Sunday, for it was a heathen dish. Its 
 origin was clothed in mystery. 
 
 It takes three or four days to cook Pepper- 
 Pot, but when it is done it is a worthy crea- 
 tion. Dark, rich, heterogeneous, with an 
 unanalysable flavor, it possesses an apparently 
 mild flavor until you have half finished your 
 dishful. Then it begins to burn insidiously, 
 first your tongue, then your palate, then your 
 throat, until you feel gently aflame. It is not 
 a wholly unpleasant sensation, and we all ate 
 bravely. 
 
 Mr. Clemens remarked, when the silence of 
 discovery had first fallen upon us, "This 
 would be a very good dish if it had a little 
 
 
Maude's expression was hard to catch 
 
Battleships and Society 69 
 
 pepper in it." We all smiled humidly, and 
 furtively wiped our eyes. 
 
 After luncheon some curious neighbors 
 came in to call, and among them was one 
 who did not win the affection of any of us, 
 nor of Mr. Clemens, whom she particularly 
 wished to impress. We had an opportunity 
 then of seeing Mr. Clemens's tactics. He had 
 a wonderful way of suddenly disappearing, of 
 slipping into space, of melting into a misty 
 background, when he wished to escape a per- 
 son who bored him, that was the perfection of 
 art. Sometimes, when circumstances prevented 
 this disappearance of his physical self, he 
 nevertheless absented himself mentally, so that 
 the undesired one felt, all at once, that he 
 was talking to the unanswering air. Withal 
 Mr. Clemens always remained courteous and 
 dignified, and never for an instant conveyed 
 the thought of rudeness. Indeed, we never saw 
 him angry or impatient except when he could 
 not find a match-box in his pocket, or when 
 his waitress failed to bring him his bacon 
 grilled as he liked it. Even then he was simply 
 
70 Mark Twain 
 
 whimsical in his wrath. The great disturbances 
 usually found him calm and philosophical. 
 
 Mr. Clemens cared nothing for the excur- 
 sions, that were sometimes proposed, to visit 
 some object of interest. He used to say chat 
 he had probably seen the oldest house in the 
 world, the longest street, the biggest city, the 
 most wonderful cathedral, the highest moun- 
 tain — so why should he bother himself now, 
 in his old age, to see second-rate curiosities? 
 So he showed no interest in crystal caves, nor 
 natural bridges, nor coral gardens, but he 
 loved to sit on the veranda and drink in the 
 changing beauty of sky and sea, or to take 
 long drives under cedar arches or over palm- 
 shaded roads that ended suddenly in the surf. 
 
 He never played golf, that we knew of, but 
 he was exceedingly fond of billiards. It was a 
 pretty sight to see him teaching his little girl 
 friends to play, and encouraging them by 
 letting them beat him. 
 
 In the evening we often used to play cards 
 in his room. The only game we ever played 
 was Hearts. Mr. Clemens usually prefaced 
 the game by saying to Mr. Rogers, in a tone 
 
They assumed a hic/Ji moral attitude 
 
Battleships and Society 71 
 
 of kindly remonstrance : " Now, I sincerely 
 hope you are not going to make any display 
 of your disagreeable disposition tonight. Do 
 try to show us some pleasant sides of your 
 character." 
 
 Mr. Rogers, with a perfectly serious face, 
 replied in the same vein, and this was kept up 
 throughout the evening, so skillfully that the 
 other two never grew weary. On the contrary, 
 we were convulsed with silent mirth. 
 
 They, Mr. Clemens and Mr. Rogers, each 
 had a theory that the other would be a hope- 
 less outcast were it not for his regenerating 
 influence. They assumed a high moral and 
 didactic manner when they reasoned with one 
 another. 
 
 Sometimes, however, there was a sweet 
 gravity in their intercourse, and that was at 
 such moments as when Mr. Clemens read Mc- 
 Andrews' prayer and Mr. Rogers listened, 
 with a moisture in his eyes, to the beautiful 
 pathos of his friend's voice. 
 
9@arfe Ctoain'0 aquarium 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S AQUARIUM 
 
 ON one of the three hundred and sixty- 
 five islets that group about the Happy 
 Isle was an aquarium. As it used to 
 be a store-house for powder and other food 
 for guns and cannon, it was all the more pic- 
 turesque as a house for fish. 
 
 Mr. Clemens beguiled into going there 
 one day by the genial and obliging Consul, 
 took Mr. Rogers and the rest of us with 
 him. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and 
 the sun brought out all sorts of unexpected 
 lights on the water. The fish in the aquarium 
 were very wonderful in their coloring and 
 form, but Mr. Clemens didn't seem to think 
 that they were very sociable. And it wasn't 
 pleasant to see the octopus dine off a retiring 
 and harmless crab, nor to see the keeper 
 stuffing live eels down the lazy moreau's throat. 
 There were four-eyed fish and squirrel-fish 
 and parrot-fish, and I don't know how many 
 
 75 
 
76 Mark Twain 
 
 other kinds of streaked and barred and polka- 
 dotted curiosities. But the kind that Mr. 
 Clemens picked out as his favorite was the 
 Angel-fish. They were plump, and had fins 
 like wings, and were gorgeous in their color- 
 ing and had pretty little pursed-up mouths 
 that suggested maidenly modesty. Their 
 wings suggested spirituality, and their color- 
 ing femininity. These traits appealed espe- 
 cially to Mr. Clemens, and, not long after, 
 Mr. Clemens's aquarium was established. In 
 this aquarium there were to be none but 
 Angel-fish admitted. To be an Angel-fish one 
 must be a girl, and one must be young, and 
 one must have won Mr. Clemens's heart. This 
 latter was not hard to do, for he always made 
 the overtures when he first met, or saw, any 
 promising candidate. Margaret was, I think, 
 morally speaking, the first real Angel-fish, but 
 Irene was the first one to be so-called. She 
 was Margaret's direct successor in the donkey- 
 cart, and many a lovely morning she and Mr. 
 Clemens and Maude ambled off to Spanish 
 Point, while the faithful followed or preceded, 
 according to Maude's gait. 
 
His light weight could not discourage her 
 
Mark Twain's Aquarium 77 
 
 One morning, when we were returning after 
 a happy jaunt, Mr. Rogers began to berate 
 Mr. Clemens for riding longer than was his 
 turn. Mr. Clemens defended himself by say- 
 ing that it was purely out of consideration 
 for Maude, as his light weight could not 
 discourage her, whereas Mr. Rogers's heavy 
 form would be a burden too great for her. 
 The result of the discussion was that Mr. 
 Rogers and I got into the cart, while Mr. 
 Clemens, the Angel-fish, and the others walked 
 behind. Despite our efforts, Maude could not 
 be made to see the advantage of going rap- 
 idly, and when we came to the hill in front of 
 the hotel she stopped completely and went 
 down on her knees — her final argument. I 
 tender-heartedly suggested getting out and 
 helping Maude up the incline. But Mr. 
 Rogers had a happier plan, which was to 
 make Mr. Clemens push the cart up the hill. 
 Mr. Clemens demurred at first, but submitted 
 with good grace, and Maude, encouraged by 
 the sympathetic friend in the rear, pricked up 
 her long, sad ears, and we dashed up to the 
 
78 Mark Twain 
 
 front entrance in fine style, with the Angel- 
 fish following fast behind. 
 
 Others were later made members of the 
 King's aquarium, and to each one was given 
 a pretty enameled pin in the shape of an 
 Angel-fish, which she was to wear as often as 
 possible. 
 
 When Mr. Clemens could not have one of 
 his Angel-fish with him, then the next best 
 thing was to talk about them. 
 
 One evening he told us of far-away Dorothy. 
 He had said to her one time : " Dear — [to 
 hear Mr. Clemens say "dear" to one of his 
 little girl friends was a revelation of the 
 wealth of affection in that one syllable] — I 
 love you so that I think I really will have to 
 eat you up ! " And Dorothy responded, quick 
 as a flash: "Oh, don't! Mr. Clemens; you 
 would miss me so!" How Mr. Clemens 
 chuckled over this ! And he told another story 
 of this same Dorothy. They were at break- 
 fast and Dorothy was eating her egg. Mr. 
 Clemens began by saying : " Is n't this egg a 
 wonderful thing, so curiously made, so marvel- 
 ously constructed! I wonder how it all came 
 
The Angel-fish came into our circle 
 
Mark Twain s Aquarium 79 
 
 about!" And Dorothy responded, practi- 
 cally: "Why, they're just made to keep the 
 hens busy." 
 
 There were two or three Dorothys among 
 the Angel -fish, and it was hard for Mr. 
 Clemens to tell which he loved best. 
 
 One of Mr. Clemens's household wrote me 
 later an incident of one of the other Doro- 
 thys which had filled Mr. Clemens's soul 
 with joy. This Dorothy was at his house in 
 New York one day. She was twelve years 
 old and shone as an authoress. Sitting by 
 the King's side, she wrote a story, handing 
 him each sheet as it was finished. It was 
 something as follows: "A man was seated 
 in a chair by the fireside, brooding over his 
 troubles. He was sad because his wife was 
 dead. Suddenly a spectre appeared before 
 him, and it was his wife. She said : t Dear, I 
 could not bear to see you so sad and dis- 
 contented, so I have come to comfort you. 
 You must not be sad. You must be bright 
 and happy. It was best that I should leave 
 you when I did, because I was going to get a 
 divorce.' Then she disappeared. The man 
 
 
80 Mark Twain 
 
 sat for a while longer, and then said to him- 
 self: 'Yes, it is best to be contented.'" 
 Dorothy asked for the last sheet again after 
 she had handed it to the King, saying she did 
 not quite like the ending. The King gravely 
 returned it to her, and she added "with what 
 is ordained," and reread the sentence with 
 satisfaction : " Yes, it is best to be contented 
 with what is ordained." 
 
 This was the kind of society that Mr. 
 Clemens loved best those last days of his life. 
 
 There was a boyishness about Mr. Clemens 
 sometimes that found different modes of ex- 
 pression. Once, when the long corridor of 
 the second floor of the hotel presented a 
 temptingly empty avenue, he hopped, skipped, 
 and ran, and then gave a delicious suggestion 
 of a cake-walk. As soon as a door opened, 
 however, he stopped and assumed a super- 
 naturally grave aspect. 
 
 Another time — it was of a Sunday eve- 
 ning — I heard a mysteriously gentle knock 
 at my door, and, opening it, saw Mr. Clemens. 
 He put his finger to his lips and said "Hush ! " 
 For the Lady Mother's room adjoined. Then, 
 

 
 69 
 
 
 
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Mark Twain s Aquarium 81 
 
 beckoning me out into the hall, he whispered, 
 "Can't you run away and have a game of 
 cards ? " To my reply of " I 'm afraid mother 
 won't let me; it's Sunday evening," he re- 
 joined, "Play hookey; she'll never know." 
 So, closing the door, we escaped down the 
 hall, with a well-simulated thrill of adventure, 
 while the dear Lady Mother remained sweetly 
 unconscious of the perfidy. 
 
2PDD0 anD (8nD0 
 
 
M 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ODDS AND ENDS 
 
 R. CLEMENS was delighted when one 
 day he found an English edition of 
 his book, A Stolen White Elephant, 
 and Other Stories, It was bound in brilliant 
 scarlet, with the picture of a white elephant 
 on the cover. Some of the sketches contained 
 in this volume he had not seen for years. The 
 chapter entitled Notes of an Idle Excursion 
 was particularly to the point, for the excur- 
 sion described was to this same Happy Island, 
 and had been written thirty or more years 
 before. He read it aloud to us one evening, 
 and we marveled at the freshness of descrip- 
 tion. Either the island had remained the 
 same or the magic power of the writer made 
 it ageless. Mr. Clemens had a quaint way of 
 pronouncing the island's name that seemed to 
 hark back to the days of Shakespeare and 
 "vexed Bermoothes isle." He always said 
 " Bermooda," and the name seemed to fit. 
 
 85 
 
86 Mark Twain 
 
 In this same collection of stories is re- 
 counted the incident illustrating the base 
 ingratitude of the young aspirant to literary 
 fame, who is helped by an author and who 
 later on attacks his benefactor. The story 
 points the agreeable moral that it doesn't 
 pay to render that sort of help. If this was 
 a theory of Mr. Clemens, it certainly was not 
 his practice. One day at the hotel Mr. 
 Clemens discovered that a would-be author 
 earnestly desired to have his opinion of a 
 manuscript, but was too timid to ask him to 
 read it. He forthwith asked the author to 
 read him some of his work. We were on the 
 veranda, and we watched Mr. Clemens as he 
 listened. The reading interested him and he 
 sat with his head bent, leaning forward in his 
 chair, his eyes hidden by the bushy eyebrows. 
 How deeply interested, we could not tell, and 
 we waited rather breathlessly when the anx- 
 ious author's voice ceased. The King looked 
 up and there was moisture in his eyes. He 
 said slowly: "I was just wondering what 
 publisher would be worthy of publishing such 
 a beautiful piece of work." The startled joy 
 
Odds and Ends 87 
 
 on the author's face was almost funny. We 
 happened to know that Mr. Clemens's interest 
 did not end there, and that he made certain 
 practical suggestions which were most helpful. 
 
 Mr. Clemens's generous spirit was shown in 
 another way when the Children's Hospital 
 Benefit was given. The management asked 
 him if he would occupy the principal place on 
 the program and make a speech, or tell sto- 
 ries, or, in fact, do anything he pleased. 
 Mr. Clemens readily consented. He was the 
 drawing-card, of course, and when the evening 
 came the hotel parlors were packed to suffo- 
 cation. 
 
 There is no need to describe Mr. Clemens 
 as a public speaker, but on this evening some- 
 thing happened which, Mr. Rogers said, had 
 never, to his knowledge, occurred before. Mr. 
 Clemens was telling his well-known story of 
 the first time he met General Miles in Wash- 
 ington, and of his successful and successive 
 efforts to sell the dog. Everyone who has 
 heard Mr. Clemens tell his stories will remem- 
 ber that he never, never laughed while relating 
 them, no matter how excruciatingly absurd 
 
88 Mark Twain 
 
 the story was. His unbroken gravity always 
 added immensely to the effect on his audience. 
 This time, however, when he reached the cli- 
 max of the story, he suddenly broke down and 
 laughed, laughed so hard that for a minute 
 he could not go on. And the audience shook 
 with mirth because of the unexpectedness of it. 
 One day we decided to have an all-day 
 picnic and drive out to the far end of the 
 island and take lunch in a quaint inn whose 
 glories we had heard sung. Our party filled 
 three or four carriages, and we had a long and 
 very merry ride. But alas for our expecta- 
 tions! When we arrived we found the once- 
 picturesque hostelry newly refurnished. The 
 proprietor had evidently inherited some of the 
 worst tendencies of the early Victorian period 
 of interior decoration, and the rooms were a 
 riot of color, varnish, and silk tidies. After 
 we had been greeted, and our orders had been 
 given, and we were trying to assimilate the 
 local coloring of the parlor, Mr. Clemens 
 gravely and sadly remarked : " It looks more 
 like a wrecked kaleidoscope than anything 
 I've seen for a long time!" This faculty of 
 
Odds and Ends 89 
 
 Mr. Clemens for finding unexpected but per- 
 fectly fitting similes and adjectives was a 
 never-ending joy to the rest of us. 
 
 Mr. Clemens had no great talent for 
 drawing, and though he could make word 
 pictures, his pencil pictures were difficult to 
 recognize. One afternoon he suggested that 
 we embroider some tapestry, for which he 
 would make the designs. For my pattern he 
 chose as the central figure the head of Maude. 
 Beneath was to be a fish, also emblematic of 
 the island, and in the upper left-hand corner 
 was to be worked the legend, " Ste. Maude." 
 With a blue pencil he tried to make a 
 donkey's head. The first attempt looked too 
 much like a cat, the second like a cow, but 
 finally the third satisfied him. The fish was 
 easier to make, because less intelligent-looking, 
 Mr. Clemens said. It was Maude's expression 
 that was so hard to catch. 
 
 The design was transferred by him to the 
 canvas and was outlined in properly colored 
 silks. But it lies unfinished, a mute reminder 
 of the happy afternoon when we laughed like 
 children over the series of tapestried figures 
 
90 Mark Twain 
 
 we were going to make to hand down to 
 posterity. 
 
 One evening Mr. Clemens was led to talk of 
 his life on the Mississippi. His cigars were 
 good, and we were sitting in a quiet corner of 
 the big reading-room, and he had an appre- 
 ciative audience, so that he fell into a sort of 
 inspired monologue. I remember, but cannot 
 transcribe, alas ! the marvelous descriptions he 
 gave of the mighty river. He seemed to 
 be carried back to his youthful days and to 
 see again the rushing current, the changing 
 shores, the glowing sunsets. The descriptions 
 of this evening seemed to me more vivid, more 
 evoking, than the written ones of On the 
 Mississippi. And they are masterpieces. But 
 the added charm lay, doubtless, in the pic- 
 turesqueness of the narrator, who sat as in a 
 vision, his white head and strong features 
 enveloped in a cloud of smoke, out of which 
 his voice came to us vibrating with reminiscent 
 feeling. 
 
Cfte &nt0 anO fttpling 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE KING AND KIPLING 
 
 EVENINGS at a hotel, even a hotel on the 
 Happy Island, are, at best, garish. 
 There are verandas, where a swaying 
 multitude rock back and forth in huge wicker 
 rocking-chairs ; parlors, where old ladies play 
 bridge; and smoking-rooms, where the men, 
 pleasantly wearied from golf, somnolently 
 pull at their cigars; and a ball-room, where 
 expectant young girls listen to the music of a 
 discouraged band. 
 
 But our evenings were different, for we fled 
 from all these allurements, and gathered in 
 Mr. Clemens's room, where we spent most 
 delectable hours. 
 
 Mr. Clemens had a wonderful gift for 
 reading. The author of The Prince and the 
 Pauper, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer 
 could not fail to be dramatic. And this dra- 
 matic sense he knew well how to express in 
 
 93 
 
94 Mark Twain 
 
 his reading. He read slowly, with eloquent 
 pauses, and he threw himself into the senti- 
 ment he was interpreting with intense aban- 
 donment, and yet with a reserve that was 
 consummate art. One evening he read to us 
 some articles by Helen Keller, that were then 
 appearing in Harper's Magazine. Every now 
 and then he would interrupt himself to com- 
 ment on some phase of Miss Keller's personal- 
 ity, or recount some incident of his acquaint- 
 ance with her. Mr. Rogers, too, knew her 
 well, and they both agreed that Miss Keller 
 had proved it was quite unnecessary for us to 
 have so many senses. Another evening he 
 read to us from his own unpublished manu- 
 script — stories of his little girl friends, 
 charming sketches of Dorothy and Margaret 
 and Irene, of his first meetings with them, and 
 of their quaint sayings. 
 
 But I think that the evenings we enjoyed 
 most were those when he read Kipling. He 
 said once : " I 'm not fond of all poetry, but 
 there's something in Kipling that appeals to 
 me. I guess he's just about my level." 
 
 He loved the swing of Kipling's verse and 
 
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The King and Kipling 95 
 
 the brawn and muscle of his thought. On 
 those Kipling evenings, the mise-en-scene was 
 a striking one. There was the bare hotel 
 room, with its pine woodwork and pine furni- 
 ture, and the loose windows, which rattled in 
 the sea wind. Once in a while a gust of 
 asthmatic music from the spiritless orchestra, 
 down stairs, puffed up the hallway. Yellow, 
 unprotected gas-lights burned uncertainly, 
 and Mr. Clemens, in the midst of this, lay 
 on his bed, still dressed in his white serge suit, 
 with the light from the jet shining down on 
 his silver hair, making it gleam and glisten 
 like frost. 
 
 In one hand he held his book ; in the other 
 he had his pipe, which he used principally to 
 gesticulate with in the most dramatic passages. 
 
 Then we sat down near him, and Mr. 
 Rogers lit his cigar, remarking kindly: 
 "Now, Mr. Clemens, don't read too slowly. 
 It seems to me that sometimes you drawl a 
 little," to which Mr. Clemens replied, looking 
 genially up at the ceiling: "It's most un- 
 fortunate that Mr. Rogers speaks so indis- 
 tinctly. I often lose what he says, entirely." 
 
96 Mark Twain 
 
 And then Mr. Clemens began. When he 
 read the Mary Gloster we could see the violent 
 old man lying on his death-bed, undaunted by 
 the thought of the end, pouring bitter curses 
 on his worthless son's head, and at the same 
 time thrilling with his sublimely poetic 
 purpose. The tender beauty of Mr. Clemens's 
 voice when the old man spoke of his one dear 
 love, made the feminine members of the audi- 
 ence weep openly, while Mr. Rogers sat up 
 sternly, blinked hard, and pulled fiercely at his 
 cigar. When Mr. Clemens read Mc Andrews' 
 Hymn his voice rang out in triumph and his 
 pipe waved rhythmically to the song of the 
 steam. Soldier and Sailor Too swept us out 
 to visions of the sea, and of men who died at 
 their posts ; while we laughed delightedly with 
 the swing of The Bolivar, and felt the note of 
 piercing homesickness in Mandalay and Me 
 That Has Been What 1 9 ve Been. 
 
 One evening the Lady Mother was able to 
 be present, and Mr. Clemens chose Tomlinson 
 for her delectation. 
 
 It was an impressive sight — those two types, 
 each so beautiful in ways so utterly different: 
 
The King and Kipling 97 
 
 Mr. Clemens, who had seen the world in all its 
 phases, of sin and pleasure, of joy and sor- 
 row, and who had come out of it with a nature 
 still sweet, a philosophy half -whimsical, half- 
 profound, and a heart where youthful gaiety 
 still had a place; and opposite him the Lady 
 Mother, with her pose of a duchess, the young 
 look in her eyes, and her finely chiseled face, 
 flushed with a happy look of expectancy. 
 Both had lived the same number of years, she 
 so protected from, he so exposed to, their 
 storms. And he chose Tomlinson. I shall not 
 say that she enjoyed it. Some of the expres- 
 sions had not that refinement that she loved, 
 but if she did not wholly approve Kipling, 
 she gave full meed of praise to the King. 
 Him she never criticized. 
 
 Mr. Clemens gave to several of his friends 
 who had at different times enjoyed Kipling 
 with him a copy of the writer's collected 
 verses, marking his favorite poems with heavy 
 lines. 
 
 From one friend to whom he sent such a 
 copy came back, in acknowledgment, the 
 following verses : 
 
98 Mark Twain 
 
 When the King Reads Kipling 
 
 I 
 
 When the King reads Kipling 
 
 We grow silent and are still. 
 
 And our hearts begin to thrill, 
 
 For we know we shall be carried to far lands 
 
 across the seas. 
 We shall tramp through tropic forests, we shall 
 
 rest 'neath banyan trees, 
 Where we hear the lazy r\ itling of palmettos in 
 
 the breeze. 
 We shall feel like happy children, for we haven't 
 
 any choice 
 When we hear the East a-calling with its 
 yearning languorous voice, 
 
 When the King reads Kipling. 
 
 II 
 
 When the King reads Kipling, 
 We are spell-bound, by the ring 
 Of the ballads, as they sing 
 Of the ocean's awful power and its deep 
 
 deceitful wiles: 
 Of the desert's naked grandeur, where the green 
 
 oasis smiles: 
 Of the splendor of horizons glowing blood-red, 
 
 miles on miles: 
 And our souls are stirred within us and we feel 
 
 a glad unrest 
 For we are sailing outward, to the Islands of 
 the Blest 
 
 When the King reads Kipling. 
 
The King and Kipling 99 
 
 III 
 
 When the King reads Kipling, 
 There's a hush falls on the room 
 In the twilight's deepening gloom. 
 And our hearts are strangely lifted to some 
 
 distant purple height, 
 Where we catch a glorious vision of the soul's 
 
 heroic might; 
 Where we hear the cries of anguish, that come 
 
 sobbing through the night. 
 And we feel the tragic shadow, that makes great 
 
 joys complete, 
 For we are borne up to the mountains where 
 two great poets meet, 
 
 When the King reads Kipling. 
 
 Mr. Clemens was deeply touched and wrote 
 the following answer: 
 
 You have overwhelmed me, dear . That 
 
 poem does not seem like words — a march of 
 words with interrupting spaces between — it 
 flows like organ music, in blended strains, deep 
 and rich and eloquent. And so moving! I 
 can't read it aloud, my voice breaks. It is noble, 
 stately, beautiful! I can never thank you with 
 words, but I can with my heart; and I do. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C 
 
100 
 
 Mark Twain 
 
 But time passes on a Happy Island as it 
 does everywhere else, and the inevitable day 
 came when we had to sail away, and wave a 
 lingering good-bye to the kingly white figure 
 on the shore, and sadly watch the green islands 
 sink into the sea. 
 
 We wondered if we should ever see him 
 again, but we were certain that, whether we 
 ever did or not, his image could never fade 
 from our hearts. We should always hear that 
 dear, drawling, resonant voice. We should 
 forever keep in our memory that marvelous 
 personality. 
 
 
^totmfielD 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 STORMFIELD 
 
 A KING, whether he be one by the acci- 
 dental right of inheritance or by the 
 noble right of inborn royalty, has the 
 privilege of calling his vassals to him at his 
 will. So when a summons came, the Thanks- 
 giving following the winter on the Happy 
 Island, for me to go to Mr. Clemens's home 
 in the Connecticut hills, I never thought of 
 hesitating. 
 
 It was Thanksgiving afternoon when I 
 reached the little station. It was a glorious 
 sunny winter day, with a gray frost still on 
 the hills, little icicles on the edge of the 
 streams, and a tang in the air that gave to 
 hearts and cheeks a cheerier glow. 
 
 We drove rapidly over the country roads, 
 and I noticed at each turning that there was 
 a neat and very diminutive sign-board, point- 
 ing always in the direction we followed, and 
 bearing the initials M. T. 
 
 103 
 
104 Mark Twain 
 
 Many minutes before we reached it we 
 could see the peaceful white Italian villa, 
 from whose many windows we knew we could 
 look for miles over the country. The grounds 
 were unspoiled by the hand of the landscape- 
 gardener, and bushes grew everywhere, while 
 the graveled road, that led up to the entrance, 
 was not yet hardened by excessive travel. We 
 drove up to the door. It opened, and there 
 stood Mr. Clemens. It might have been yester- 
 day that I had seen him last, for he had not 
 changed. His suit was as white and immacu- 
 late as ever, his hair as silvery. There was 
 only one change. He had tied a bow of pink 
 ribbon to the top locks of his head, in honor 
 of the guest. He extended both hands in 
 cordial greeting, and I knew then that the 
 Happy Island had not been a dream. The 
 bow of pink ribbon was gently referred to, 
 with proper acknowledgment of its hospitable 
 significance. Mr. Clemens received the thanks 
 gravely, and then the ornament placed there 
 whimsically was apparently forgotten, but 
 remained coquettishly pert all the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
*} 
 
 ^ 
 
 
Storm field 105 
 
 Even before I went to my room I must 
 look over the house. So we went from living- 
 room to loggia and back again to the dining- 
 room, and then down to the pergola, back 
 again to the house and into the billiard-room, 
 then upstairs to catch a glimpse of the view 
 from Mr. Clemens' room before the twilight 
 should close in upon it. Then Clara Clem- 
 ens's charming suite of rooms must be visited, 
 then the other bed-rooms, and the guest- 
 rooms. We must have a peep also into the 
 servants' quarters, but finally, we stopped, 
 before reaching the attic, which was reserved 
 to another time. 
 
 The house was designed by the son of his 
 life-long friend, Mr. W. D. Howells, a fact 
 which gave Mr. Clemens great satisfaction. 
 It was singularly in keeping with the dark, 
 straight cedars which nature had f oreseeingly 
 disposed in decorative lines and groups. In- 
 side there was spaciousness, light, perfect 
 comfort, and simplicity: while outside there 
 was all the beauty of a New England land- 
 scape at its best, with nothing abrupt or harsh 
 in the undulating curves of its hills and val- 
 
106 Mark Twain 
 
 leys ; with something maternal in its soft, full 
 outlines — where it would seem a sweet and 
 restful thing to lay one's tired body down and 
 let this mother Earth soothe and enfold you. 
 
 Mr. Clemens told me, almost with glee, that 
 he had never seen either house or land until 
 one day, the preceding June, when he came 
 and took possession of a fully furnished and 
 settled kingdom. All the instructions he had 
 given were, that his room should be a quiet 
 one, that the billiard-room should be big 
 enough so that when he played he would not 
 have to jab his cue into the wall, and that 
 there should be a living-room at least forty 
 by twenty feet. He was perfectly satisfied 
 with the result, and wandered delightedly 
 from room to room as he pointed out this and 
 that particular charm. 
 
 As twilight fell, we gathered about the big 
 fireplace in the living-room. Mr. Clemens 
 asked me if I noticed anything very peculiar 
 about the room. I vainly tried to perceive 
 some eccentricity, but could not, for everything 
 was in perfect harmony. " Have n't you no- 
 ticed," said he, " that there is n't a picture on 
 
Stormfield 107 
 
 the walls?" I had to confess that I hadn't. 
 We sat and talked of our friends of the 
 Happy Island — of the Rajah, and of Mar- 
 garet and the other Angel-fish, until it was 
 time to go and dress for dinner. 
 
 This was a function where conversation was 
 as important as food. Mr. Clemens grew rest- 
 less before many courses had been served, and 
 rose, to walk up and down the dining-room, 
 discoursing the while on some favorite topic. 
 This he often did at meals. For he was not a 
 hearty eater, except spasmodically, and so he 
 would often suddenly rise, still talking, and 
 continue his tirade while pacing the floor. 
 Then, if another course tempted him, he 
 would come back and partake of it. 
 
 There was a big organ at one end of the 
 living-room, with a self-playing attachment, 
 and after dinner we had some music. One of 
 the guests played while we sat in the fire- 
 light, and Mr. Clemens in his big armchair 
 smoked and was perfectly happy. 
 
 Mr. Clemens spent half of each morning in 
 bed, and sometimes he did not appear until 
 lunch-time; but the morning after Thanks- 
 
108 Mark Twain 
 
 giving he was downstairs at ten, and proposed 
 that we take a walk over the hills, his hills. 
 
 It was a gloriously bright, crisp, cold day, 
 and the atmosphere was so limpid that we 
 could see far away. Mr. Clemens put on a 
 fur-lined great-coat and his gray cap, saw 
 that there was a goodly supply of cigars in 
 his pockets, and we started off down the walk, 
 through the pergola, and picked our way to 
 a winding path that led us to all sorts of 
 charming places. 
 
 Just as we were starting from the house, 
 Mr. Clemens had stopped me and had said: 
 " I want you to look at this view." I looked 
 at the slope below, that dipped down into a 
 pretty valley, and then at the gentle hills 
 beyond, where winter had forced the trees to 
 drop their sheltering screens, so that un- 
 expected houses and isolated farms were here 
 and there revealed. Mr. Clemens asked, " Do 
 you see that white building over there?" 
 pointing, at the same time, to what was unmis- 
 takably a country church. He went on: 
 "We've just discovered that it is a church. 
 It 's the nearest one. Just at a safe distance 
 
Stormfield 109 
 
 All summer we thought that it was a wind- 
 mill." 
 
 That morning walk in the white November 
 sunlight will always remain a vivid memory. 
 
 We scrambled down the hillside and came to 
 the stream, which Mr. Clemens pointed out 
 to me with the proud gesture of a discoverer. 
 It was just what a New England stream should 
 be, winding and clear, flowing at times turbu- 
 lently over obstructing stones, and then paus- 
 ing to form a still, golden-brown pool. We 
 followed its windings with happy delight, 
 finding new beauties to show to each other 
 and to exclaim over. Mr. Clemens told me 
 Indian stories and legends he had heard in his 
 boyhood days. 
 
 We came to a tiny cave, at the side of the 
 road, where there were some baby stalactites, 
 and Mr. Clemens stopped there to discourse 
 on the wonders of geology. He told me he 
 had lately been investigating the subject of 
 the formation of the earth, and he had found 
 it so wonderful that he wanted to know more 
 about it. He had found some old treatises 
 on geology which amused him greatly, but he 
 
110 Mark Twain 
 
 wanted to get some more modern and scientific 
 information. 
 
 And so we wandered on, beguiled by the 
 stream, which kept on murmuring seductively 
 of charms farther on. 
 
 We talked of the Angel-fish and their many 
 attractions. Mr. Clemens told me of Mar- 
 garet's last visit to Stormfield and of what 
 good times they had had together. " She is a 
 dear womanly child," said Mr. Clemens, " and 
 we had one conversation together which con- 
 vinced me more than ever of her sweet consid- 
 eration for others. She was telling me how 
 she intended to bring up her children, and 
 what were her plans for their education. 
 There were to be two, a boy and a girl. The 
 girl was to be named after her mother. I 
 asked her what the boy's name would be, and 
 she replied, with a reproachful look in her 
 brown eyes: 'Why, Mr. Clemens, I can't 
 name him until I know what his father's name 
 is.' Now, wasn't that truly thoughtful?" 
 
 We finally had to leave the stream, for it 
 was the lunch hour, so we made an abrupt 
 turn and approached Stormfield by the oppo- 
 
Storm field 111 
 
 site side from which we had left it. As we 
 climbed the hill, Mr. Clemens paused a mo- 
 ment to say : " I never want to leave this 
 place. It satisfies me perfectly." 
 
©tormfielD, ©appilp Continued 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 STORMFIELD, HAPPILY CONTINUED 
 
 AT luncheon Mr. Clemens spoke of his 
 lasting gratitude to Captain Stormfield. 
 For it was to the success of his Heavenly 
 Experiences that the building of the loggia 
 was due. And that was the reason the peaceful 
 house was thus christened. 
 
 Our meal was somewhat hurried by the 
 announcement, made by the deeply- interested 
 butler, that the people were beginning to 
 come. We were to have that afternoon the 
 first entertainment of a series for the benefit 
 of the Library Fund of the village. Mr. 
 Clemens had offered to tell stories, and the 
 entrance fee was to be twenty-five cents. 
 
 Chairs had been hired from the local under- 
 taker, and had been placed in close rows in 
 the big living-room, in the loggia, and out 
 in the hall. 
 
 115 
 
116 Mark Twain 
 
 The first who arrived had walked five miles. 
 More came. They came in buggies and in 
 other handy vehicles. They entered the house 
 solemnly and took their places silently, re- 
 fusing to make themselves comfortable, and 
 held on grimly to fur overcoats and fleece- 
 lined jackets. Soon the big living-room was 
 filled to overflowing, and then Mr. Clemens 
 stepped up to the improvised platform at one 
 end of the long room and bade them welcome. 
 As usual, he made a most picturesque appear- 
 ance. On the wall behind him was a very 
 large square, of carved, rich, old Italian oak, 
 which filled the space between the two windows 
 and formed an effective background for the 
 white-haired, white-clad figure of the speaker. 
 
 Mr. Clemens told story after story in his 
 happiest vein — how he became an agricultur- 
 ist, how he was lost in the dead of night in 
 the black vastness of a German banqueting- 
 hall. He was brilhant, wonderful. He seemed 
 determined to bring a ripple into the faces of 
 that silent audience. Once in a while stern 
 features would relax for a moment, but the 
 
It was hard to tell which he loved best 
 
Storm field, Continued 117 
 
 effort seemed to hurt, and the muscles would 
 become fixed again. 
 
 In the back of the room there sat some of 
 the younger generation, who suffered from 
 occasional apoplectic outbursts. And yet we 
 knew that everyone there was enjoying it 
 deeply, hugely, only, as Mr. Clemens said 
 afterwards, "they weren't used to laughing 
 on the outside." And they were proud, too, 
 proud almost to sinning, of their illustrious 
 fellow-townsman, and they would have shouted 
 with laughter, if they only could. 
 
 When Mr. Clemens had finished, after an 
 entertainment of an hour and a half, there 
 was no lack of applause. This they could 
 give. The audience dispersed slowly, many 
 of the number stopping to look, with open- 
 mouthed but inarticulate admiration, at the 
 beauties and luxuries of this home, so different 
 from theirs. 
 
 That evening Mr. Clemens rested himself 
 by playing billiards. Before beginning, he 
 showed me his collection of fish. Charmingly 
 colored pictures of Angel -fish and other 
 
118 Mark Twain 
 
 varieties were framed and hung low around 
 the billiard-room. He told me that each real 
 Angel-fish who came to visit him could choose 
 one of those and call it her coat-of-arms. 
 
 There were other very remarkable sketches 
 and caricatures hung on the walls, but Mr. 
 Clemens seemed most interested in the pisca- 
 torial collection. 
 
 It was sometimes a wonderful and fearsome 
 thing to watch Mr. Clemens play billiards. 
 He loved the game, and he loved to win, but 
 he occasionally made a very bad stroke, and 
 then the varied, picturesque, and unorthodox 
 vocabulary, acquired in his more youthful 
 years, was the only thing that gave him 
 comfort. Gently, slowly, with no profane 
 inflexions of voice, but irresistibly as though 
 they had the head-waters of the Mississippi 
 for their source, came this stream of unholy 
 adjectives and choice expletives. I don't 
 mean to imply that he indulged himself thus 
 before promiscuous audiences. It was only 
 when some member of the inner circle of his 
 friends was present that he showed him this 
 mark of confidence, for he meant it in the 
 
Storm field , Continued 119 
 
 nature of a compliment. His mind was as 
 far from giving offence as the mind of a 
 child, and we felt none. We only felt a kind 
 of awe. At no other time did I ever hear 
 Mr. Clemens use any word which could be 
 called profanity. But if we would penetrate 
 into the billiard-room and watch him play, we 
 must accept certain inevitable privileges of 
 royalty. 
 
 The next morning as I was going down- 
 stairs, Mr. Clemens called to me from his 
 room, in a tone that made me hurry. He was 
 standing by one of the many windows, and he 
 said: "Come quickly and look at the deep 
 blue haze on those barberry bushes! They 
 have never looked quite like this before." 
 Then he went on to say: "When they built 
 this house they had the inspiration to put in 
 these small panes. See how each one frames 
 a wonderful picture, and I can have a differ- 
 ent one every time I change my position. No 
 man-made pictures shall ever hang on my walls 
 so long as I have these." 
 
 And Mr. Clemens had no picture on his 
 wall, except a portrait of his daughter Jean. 
 
120 Mark Twain 
 
 That afternoon we took a long drive over 
 the hills. Mr. Clemens kept no coachman and 
 no carriage at that time, but when he wished 
 a "rig" he sent word to the friendly farmer 
 near by, who would soon appear with a surrey 
 and a team of horses. 
 
 I remember that much of the talk that 
 afternoon turned on the strange manifesta- 
 tions of genius and the tragic lives of many 
 of those who were thus fatally endowed. 
 
 When evening came that day we asked Mr. 
 Clemens to read Kipling to us again, and thus 
 revive some of the memories of the Happy 
 Island. And so we sat around the big blazing 
 fire, and again the King's voice swept us out 
 to visions of mighty action. More favorites 
 were added. The Three Decker was read with 
 unction, and The Long Trail was read twice 
 over before the audience was satisfied. We 
 wished that Mr. Rogers were there, and, hap- 
 pily, we did not feel the chill prophecy that 
 some of us were never to see him again. 
 
 An hour before luncheon, on Sunday, we 
 gathered together in the living-room. Some- 
 one proposed that Mr. Clemens read aloud to 
 
Stormfieldj Continued 121 
 
 us from his book, What Is Man? Into this 
 work Mr. Clemens had put some of his deepest 
 convictions as to the meaning of life and the 
 principles that guide the human soul. What- 
 ever may be their philosophical value to others, 
 he, at least, believed in them utterly, and when 
 he read aloud to us the clear, trenchant dia- 
 logue, we, too, were convinced, for a time, of 
 their truth. He grew so earnest that he would 
 often repeat a phrase, twice, in a deep, solemn 
 voice, and he so utterly forgot his pipe that it 
 went out completely. 
 
 Our afternoon's peace was somewhat in- 
 vaded by calls from the outside world and 
 demands that Mr. Clemens should allow him- 
 self to be photographed. I often wondered 
 how many thousand times the camera must 
 have turned its eye upon him. 
 
 That last evening we played Hearts, for it 
 still continued to be Mr. Clemens' favorite 
 game. Again we missed Mr. Rogers sorely, 
 and wished for his bantering. For no one 
 else of us dared to chaff Mr. Clemens in quite 
 the way that he had done. Besides, we knew 
 that it would n't have been in the least humor- 
 
122 Mark Twain 
 
 ous. We lengthened the hours as long as 
 we could, for it was to be the last evening 
 together, as the early morning train was to 
 take me away. 
 
 Since we knew how averse Mr. Clemens was 
 to saying good-by to anyone, we parted that 
 evening with a simple good-night. I did not 
 expect to see him again, but the next morning 
 as I went down to my hurried breakfast I 
 heard his voice calling me. I went to his 
 room. He was lying in his big carved bed, 
 propped up by pillows. On the little table 
 beside him were crowded together pipes, 
 cigars, matches, a bottle or two, and a num- 
 ber of books. He handed one of the books 
 to me, and said, "You must have one of my 
 souvenirs." It was a copy of Eve's Diary, 
 with a kindly dedication in it on the fly-leaf. 
 Then he said good-bye. 
 
 The November sunshine had gone. The 
 chill of winter had come into the air, and as I 
 drove over the hills to the station I felt that 
 I was going away from something very 
 wonderful and very precious. For the love 
 and friendship of those who have their faces 
 
Stormfield, Continued 123 
 
 turned towards the sunset is sometimes as 
 rare and sweet and unworldly as that of little 
 children. Perhaps they both are nearer the 
 infinite, and so can understand. 
 
Lettet0 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 AFTER the happy visit at Stormfield we 
 never saw Mr. Clemens again, but 
 from time to time precious letters 
 came from him, so characteristic that they 
 vividly evoked his presence. He always wrote 
 them in his own hand. 
 
 The first one preserved is one that he wrote 
 in answer to an incident of which I had writ- 
 ten him an account. I had been lecturing to 
 a class of students on Victor Hugo, and I 
 had dwelt upon the enthusiastic appreciation 
 of Frenchmen for their great men of letters. 
 I had added, as I remember, that we had not 
 yet attained that advanced stage of civil- 
 ization where we could make heroes of our 
 literary men, and, warming up to my subject, 
 I said that were I to ask the class sitting 
 then before me who was the most beloved 
 American writer, I much doubted if they 
 
 127 
 
128 Mark Twain 
 
 could, spontaneously, name anyone. Seeing 
 nods of dissent, I challenged them, and a 
 dozen or more responded, "Mark Twain!" 
 while the rest nodded approval. 
 His answer is as follows : 
 
 Stormfield, Redding, Connecticut, 
 
 April 22/09. 
 Dear Betsy: 
 
 It is not convey able in words. I mean my 
 vanity — rotten joy in the dear and pleasant 
 things you say of me, and in my enviable stand- 
 ing in your class, as revealed by the class's 
 answer to your challenge. So I shall not try 
 to do the conveying, but only say I am grateful 
 — a truth which you would easily divine, even 
 if I said nothing at all. 
 
 You must come here again — please don't for- 
 get it. We'll have another good time. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. Clemens. 
 
 In May he wrote in reference to Mr. 
 Rogers's sudden death: 
 
 It is indeed, dear Betsy: a heavy stroke. It 
 bruised many a heart: how many we shall never 
 know, for his helpful kindnesses went far and 
 wide and made no outward sign. Here we shall 
 not look upon his like again ; hereafter — 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
53 
 
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Letters 129 
 
 Another letter was concerning a paper 
 which I had written about him, and which I 
 did not wish to read in public without his 
 sanction. He says : 
 
 I am leaving home for five days and the 
 article will arrive here after I am gone, but I 
 can tell you now that I 'm not afraid to have you 
 print anything you have written with me for 
 subj ect — I don't need to see it first. I know 
 all about it anyway, because Margaret's mother 
 told me how charming it is. I saw her only a 
 few days ago, when I went down to Irvington 
 to see that dear little rascal play Puck in A 
 Midsummer Night's Dream. She did it well 
 and I was proud of her. * * * 
 
 My present journey is to St. Timothy's 
 School, where Francesca, another of my Fishes, 
 will graduate next Thursday. 
 
 And thanks for the Kipling verses! 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
 The envelope containing this letter had 
 been broken, and across the end was written, 
 "Broke it open myself. S. L. C." 
 
 There was a postscript added: 
 
 The mss. has arrived and I unseal my just- 
 finished letter to say how grateful I am that you 
 are able to say such beautiful things about me 
 
130 Mark Twain 
 
 and to feel them. I thank you out of my heart. 
 I can suggest a correction or two, of no 
 importance : 
 
 1. The Oxford degree is Litt.D. 
 
 2. My recollection is that the life of Henri 
 IV was attempted 1 8 times — once for each year 
 of his reign — a pretty striking coincidence, you 
 see! 
 
 The next letter is without date. After 
 speaking of some other matters, he says : 
 
 To change the subject: will you come? Anc 
 
 bring or send Mr. S ? For you and he are 
 
 of the sort that can entertain themselves and be 
 entertained by the household, counting me ou1 
 mainly. I can't ask any other kind, for I wen 
 to Baltimore early in June, and the fatigue anc 
 the raw weather brought a return of what hap- 
 pened in August last. So I can stand but little 
 fatigue and am not down stairs much. I was 
 warned to stop smoking, which I did, for two 
 or three days, but it was too lonesome, and I 
 have resumed — in a modified way — 4 smokes 
 a day instead of 40. This will have a good 
 effect. On the bank balance. 
 
 I have delayed scandalously in the matter of 
 returning the MSS., but I will have it mailed 
 today or tomorrow sure. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
Letters 131 
 
 I almost hesitate to quote from his next 
 letter, and yet what he says is so character- 
 istic of one side of him, the opposite of the 
 gentle self-control and sweetness which he 
 was so beautifully capable of exercising, that 
 it seems only fair to give at least an extract. 
 
 . . . There — I have enjoyed treating the 
 subject with a pen, for I am full of malice, sat- 
 urated with malignity. I feel nearer to the 
 Lord than I ever was before. I feel as He feels 
 of a Saturday night when the weekly report is 
 in and He has had a satisfactory clean-up of 
 the human race. 
 
 I can't walk, I can't drive, I 'm not down- 
 stairs much and I don't see company; but I 
 drink barrels of water to keep the pain quiet; 
 I read, and read, and read, and smoke, and 
 smoke, and smoke all the time (as formerly), 
 and it's a contented and comfortable life. 
 
 I had sent him a copy of Thompson's 
 beautiful appreciation of Shelley, to which he 
 replied : 
 
 Stormfield, Sept. 22/09. 
 Dear Betsy: 
 
 It is a lovely little book, and as rich in 
 sumptuous imagery as is Shelley himself. The 
 eading so moved and charmed me that I read 
 
13 2 Mar k Twain 
 
 some Shelley under the inspiration of it. Thank 
 vou ever so much for sending it. 
 
 But the Angel-fishes are not "company. 
 They are part of the family. They come, and 
 dear me, how welcome they are! 
 
 That little rascal [Margaret] will come I 
 think, when she gets located at Greenwich - 
 near-by — where her next school is. . . • 
 
 We had a grand time here yesterday. Con- 
 cert in aid of the little library. 
 
 Team. 
 
 Gabrilowitsch, pianist. 
 
 David Bispham, vocalist. 
 
 Clara Clemens, ditto. 
 
 Mark Twain, Introducer of learn. 
 
 Detachments', and squads, and gronps and 
 singles came from every where — Danbury, N ew 
 Haven, Norwalk, Redding, Redding Ridge, 
 Eidgefield, and even from New York; some ^ 
 60 motor cars, some in buggies and carnages, 
 and a swarm of farmer-young-folk on foot from 
 miles around: 525 altogether. 
 
 If we hadn't stopped the sale of tickets a aay 
 
 j 1 if Wore the performance we should 
 and a half before tnepe . the 
 
 have been swamped. We jammea i 
 
 library (not quite all had seats) ; we n lea tne 
 
 come, and it woke them up, and I tell you they 
 
Letters 133 
 
 performed to the Queen's taste! The program 
 was an hour and three-quarters long, and the 
 encores added a half hour to it. The enthusiasm 
 of the house was hair-lifting. They all stayed 
 an hour after the close, to shake hands and 
 congratulate. 
 
 We had no dollar seats except in the library, 
 but we accumulated $372 for the Building Fund. 
 We had a tea at half past six for a dozen — 
 the Hawthornes, Jeanette Gilder and her niece, 
 etc.: and after 8 o'clock dinner we had a pri- 
 vate concert and a ball in the bare-stripped 
 library until 10: nobody present but the team, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Paine, and Jean and her dog. 
 And me. Bispham did Danny Deever and the 
 Erlkonig in his majestic great organ tones and 
 artillery, and Gabrilowitsch played the accom- 
 paniments as they were never played before, I 
 do suppose. 
 
 It having been decided that smoking was in 
 no way responsible for my malady, I 'm smok- 
 ing as much as ever now. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
 A later letter tells of the wedding of his 
 daughter Clara, in most happy vein. He was 
 perfectly satisfied. He adds, towards the last : 
 
 Jean abides with me, and runs a farm and 
 keeps my accounts. . . . No, I have n't any 
 7-page letters from Margaret — no letters at 
 
 
134 Mark Twain 
 
 all, in fact. She and her mother were to visit 
 me last week. My Bermuda Angel-fish has been 
 here. She has grown considerably, but is as 
 sweet and innocent and unspoiled as ever she 
 was. 
 
 I sent you Booth Tarkington's little Xmas 
 book the other day. I hate Xmas stories, but 
 this one is bright and felicitous, and has n't any 
 religion in it, and I like it. 
 
 I 've written a Xmas thing myself, for the 
 Bazaar, but if it has any religion in it I did n't 
 notice it. 
 
 I had spoken in one of my letters about 
 Anatole France's book, Vile des Pingouins, 
 and had ordered a copy to be sent to him. 
 In reply this letter came: 
 
 Stormfield, Nov. 13/09. 
 Dear Betsy: 
 
 No, I have n't read it, but you make me want 
 to read it — hungry to read it, in fact. I am all 
 ready for it. Meantime I 've been writing 
 " Letters from the Earth," and if you will come 
 here and see us, I '11 read passages to you. This 
 book will never be published. Paine likes it, 
 but then, Paine is going to be damned anyhow. 
 
 The autumn splendors passed you by? What 
 a pity. I wish you had been here. It was 
 beyond words! It was heaven and hell and 
 sunset and rainbows and the aurora, all fused 
 into one divine harmony, and you couldn't look 
 
Letters 135 
 
 at it and keep the tears back. All the hosan- 
 nahing and strong gorgeousnesses have gone 
 back to heaven and hell and the pole now, but 
 no matter: if you could look out at my bedroom 
 window at this moment, you would choke up; 
 and when you got your voice you would say this 
 is not real, this is a dream. Such a singing 
 together, and such a whispering together, and 
 such a snuggling together of cosy soft colors, 
 and such kissing and caressing, and such pretty 
 blushing when the sun breaks out and catches 
 those dainty weeds at it — you remember that 
 weed-garden of mine? — and then — then the 
 far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance — oh, 
 hearing about it is nothing, you should be here 
 to see it. 
 
 Good ! I wish 7 could go on the platform and 
 read. And I could, if it could be kept out of 
 the papers. There's a charity-school of 400 
 young girls in Boston that I would give my ears 
 to talk to if I had some more ; but — oh, well, I 
 can't go, and so it 's no use to grieve about it. 
 
 This morning Jean went to town; also Paine; 
 also the butler; also Katy; also the laundress. 
 The cook and the maid, and the boy, and the 
 roustabout and Jean's coachman, are left — just 
 enough to make it lonesome, because they are 
 around yet never visible. However, the Harpers 
 are sending Leigh up to play billiards; there- 
 fore, I shall survive. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 O. L. \Jm 
 
136 Mark Twain 
 
 Soon after the date of this letter, Mr. 
 Clemens went to Bermuda to make a short 
 stay. A card came from him, postmarked 
 December 17th, and bearing the following : 
 
 Merry Christmas and affectionate greeting 
 to Betsy. Maude has been close-clipped and 
 looks elegant — even spiritual. 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
 His visit to Bermuda was brief, and he 
 came back to Stormfield to spend the holidays 
 with his daughter Jean. Then came the sad 
 tragedy which robbed him of this daughter, 
 and he was left alone, for his daughter Mrs. 
 Gabrilowitsch had gone to live in Europe. 
 On New Year's day he wrote : 
 
 I can't write, for I am ill with a cold — the 
 first one I have had in two years. The pain 
 in my breast has come back — so I am leaving 
 for Bermuda next Wednesday, for an indefinite 
 stay. 
 
 I enclose a sheet which I wrote to Clara to 
 
 comfort her. I shall stay with the A s, if 
 
 they 've got room for me. 
 
 Always affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
-£ 
 
 
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 e 
 
 iO 
 
 
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Letters 137 
 
 The enclosed sheet to which he refers is 
 touchingly sweet. There are two sentences 
 which I may perhaps quote. In speaking of 
 Jean's death he says: "I am so glad she is 
 out of it and safe — safe ! " 
 
 And, further on: "I am not melancholy; 
 I shall never be melancholy again, I think." 
 
 He is again in Bermuda, and, seemingly, 
 much better. He writes : 
 
 Bermuda, Jan. 26/10. 
 Dear Betsy: 
 
 No, revelation — of a valuable sort — does not 
 come through sorrow when one is old. 
 I am happy — few are so happy — but I get 
 none of this happiness from knowing more of the 
 unknowable than I knew before. Jan. 29 — 
 noon. I intended to be lazy and dictate the rest 
 of this, but my little secretary (Helen, Angel- 
 fish) has escaped, and gone bicycling with a 
 schoolmate. I am guest in her parents' house — 
 indefinitely. I never feel a desire to visit 
 Stormfield. ... I have Claude, best of 
 butlers, valets and everything else, with me. 
 He lives at the Hamilton House, but is in close 
 touch with me by telephone and bicycle. . . . 
 Helen has been gone an hour and a half, and 
 will have to be severely scolded. Did you ever 
 try to scold an angel-fish? I think a person 
 
138 Mark Twain 
 
 i 
 
 could learn to do it. But he would have to have 
 considerable practice. 
 
 Good-bye. Affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
 There was added, in a childish hand, the 
 following apology : 
 
 Mr. Clemens wants me to say I am sorry. 
 So I say I am sorry. 
 
 Helen S. — A — , Secy. 
 
 The last letter bears date of March 12th. 
 
 Dear Betsy: 
 
 • • • • 
 
 If I were to start over again I would be a 
 Reformer. I certainly would. There would be 
 an increasing interest in it that would pay hand- 
 somely for all the hostilities I should raise. 
 
 I wish you had given me the name of your 
 pretty and sweet friend who sailed for Bermuda 
 the other day. I would have hunted her up. 
 You know that, well enough. Maybe she looked 
 for us in the donkey-cart — but I haven't been 
 in it. Helen requires swifter transportation 
 than that. 
 
 You ought to be here now! The weather is 
 divine; and you know what it is to drive along 
 the North Shore in such weather and watch the 
 sun paint the waters. We had that happiness 
 today. The joy of it never stales. . . . 
 
Letters 139 
 
 There are no newspapers, no telegrams, no 
 mobiles, no trolleys, no trains, no tramps, no 
 railways, no theatres, no noise, no lectures, no 
 riots, no murders, no fires, no burglaries, no 
 politics, no offenses of any kind, no follies but 
 church, and I don't go there. I think I could 
 live here always and be contented. 
 
 You go to heaven if you want to — I 'd 
 druther stay here. 
 
 As ever affectionately, 
 
 S. L. C. 
 
 P. S. I have been reading Chapter XIII of 
 "A Yankee in King Arthur's Court." Bless you. 
 I find it good. 
 
 Six weeks later, his friend and official 
 biographer, Albert Bigelow Paine, wrote me: 
 " Yes, he is resting. If you had seen his calm 
 face as I saw it for the last time on Sunday, 
 you would know how peacefully." 
 
 And so the King left us. But the Happy 
 Island, where we learned to know him and 
 love him, will always be for us enchanted 
 ground, and his throne is secure in the king- 
 dom of our hearts. 
 
 THE END 
 
run B9 
 
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