“You see, Miss Tennant, when I set out once again for Africa in 1874, I had no choice but to bring Kalulu along with me. As I would be away for an indeterminate amount of time, I did not want to board him in some school. He welled up with tears at the mention of being separated from me, his ‘white father.’ Having no notion of the dangers and difficulties awaiting us, I decided that the only practical solution was that he come along in his faithful role as my rifle bearer. And so we set out. By then the child, who had been a little boy, had grown into a man, springing up, as I would always say, like a palm tree. Taller than I and knowing the run of such expeditions, he was one of my most trusted and beloved companions—and rugged and persevering as well. Kalulu survived many of the calamities we encountered, from near starvation to attacks by the natives. However, there came a day in 1877 when my expedition began a descent from a plateau along a route of steep gorges and rapids some one hundred and fifty-five miles long—these deafening and impossible cascades I had named Livingstone Falls. Those cataracts were so treacherous that we soon saw our first casualties, among them one of my officers. I almost suffered from the same fate, for I was also thrown into the rapids and would have drowned had I not been rescued by one of my assistants, a strong swimmer, a brave Zanzibari named Uledi. But my dear Kalulu was not so fortunate. As he rode in those same rushing waters, his steersman had allowed the canoe to crash into some rocks, and poor Kalulu was among the six men carried off into the currents. The last I saw of him, from a distance, he was being swallowed up by a whirlpool at the bottom of a falls, which I then named after him—the Kalulu Falls. What he must have been thinking I cannot say, but it is my hope that he went down with good thoughts of me.”
Dolly took his hand in her own and lowered her head slightly, as if attempting to look into his heart.
Gertrude
DESPITE HER PROMISES, Gertrude continued to regard Stanley’s presence in her and her daughter’s lives without enthusiasm. Grudging in the respect she accorded his accomplishments, she found his general demeanor and manner so telling of his lowly roots as to feel embarrassed whenever they ventured out in public. His manner of eating particularly offended her, for he ate quickly, chewed loudly, and so relished his meals that he always finished, as no true patrician would, every last morsel of food. The tics of his digestive system she also found trying.
While there was never any telltale sign of personal unseemliness about him—in fact he took considerable pride and care in his grooming—Gertrude thought him filthy inside: More practically, she could not imagine why any woman, let alone her own daughter, who could have her choice of eligible men, would want to bind herself to the burdens that Stanley, in his unsteady health, would no doubt bring to a union. In that regard, he did his cause no good by openly admitting that, from time to time, he would unexpectedly come down with bouts of his recurring malaria, which would lay him up in bed for weeks at a time; furthermore, obviously aged by such maladies, Stanley reminded Gertrude, almost seventy, of her own mortality, and in thinking of her daughter’s future happiness, she wondered how many years he, with his worn-down system, would have left to him.
EVEN IF DOROTHY SEEMED VERY much taken by him, for reasons beyond her mother’s understanding, by late August, after only two months of putting up with her own unhappiness about their budding courtship, Gertrude Tennant decided that it would not be a bad time for her and her daughter to go on vacation by way of a Continental tour. It was on a late August day, when Stanley had come by the house for lunch, that Gertrude announced that she and Dorothy would be going away until November. Since the tour had been suggested by Dorothy herself earlier in April, before she had met Stanley, her mother’s abrupt decision did not come as a surprise; and while it had slipped into the back of her mind by then, Dorothy, in fact, did not mind the prospect of revisiting her favorite museums; nor, by way of collecting her emotions, did she object to the perspective that such a separation might give her—for in midlife, she was somewhat perplexed by her growing attachment to a man whom many others apparently found stern and unlikable.
That day Dorothy spoke of her excitement over the prospect of painting from nature, as they would also visit the country estates of friends in Scotland and Wales; besides, though she would greatly miss him, they would never really be apart. As she later told Stanley, “I will write you every day of my thoughts of you, as I know you will write me.”
Later that evening, as he lay in bed in his New Bond Street flat, trying to read himself to sleep, he decided, as he occasionally did, to make an attempt at the highest of the arts, the writing of poetry. It was about one in the morning when he, feeling both relieved and disconcerted at the sudden announcement of her departure, wrote out these rudimentary lines:
Oh, the weary lion am I
Parched from want of water
Searching far and wide
For the respite of dusk and the
Slumber of the wilds…
Gifts
THAT CHRISTMAS HE VISITED the shops of Oxford Street in search of a gift for her: He considered sable-lined plumed hats, majestic jewelry boxes, and intricately inlaid mother-of-pearl Swiss clocks with automatic movements (cherubs—how he adored cherubs, poised to ring little golden bells). He looked at elaborate purses woven with gold thread, ornate ivory chess sets, pearl necklaces, silver perfume decanters, gold earrings, an antique leather globe—the possibilities confounded him. But finally he settled on a diamond bracelet (which cost him five hundred pounds) and, apropos of their dinner with Gladstone, a copy of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, which he had come across in the J. & E. Bumpus bookshop on Oxford Street. (Her mother called the first gift splendid, the second “somewhat stingy.”) Miss Tennant gave Stanley a fine first edition of Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers, which, in his love for that author, delighted him. (Years later, that same edition would sit among other books in his widow’s home.)
Spending Christmas Day by her side at Richmond Terrace, he, sitting in front of the parlor fireplace, thought it a possibility that he would one day have the kind of Christmas he had never known: with a wife and family beside him.
More than a month later, on January 28, 1886, his birthday, Dorothy presented him with a silver adornment for his watch chain, a coin-like token that bore her monogram and said in Swahili: BULA MATARI, TALA, or “Breaker of rocks, remember me.” (While he celebrated his birthday on the aforementioned date, his favorite anniversary of the year was always November 10, the day he found Livingstone.) And she had given him other gifts, for no particular reason—books, mainly. They always came with an inscription such as: REMEMBER THAT LOVE CONQUERS ALL or NEVER FORGET THE ONE WHO CARES MOST FOR YOU. These he cherished and kept in a section of a bookcase that he set aside for her missives.
Seeing her at least twice a week for portrait sittings, or for excursions into town, and always on Saturday for tea, he began to believe that there was some hope for them as a couple. Many of his nights alone were spent not with thoughts of Africa but of Miss Tennant herself. Always chaste in his thoughts about her, he tried never to imagine what she would look like naked, though, as he fought off the temptation to, he would concede to himself that she had a full and womanly body. And for several months, she often confided to her dead father that she had been thinking about marrying Stanley, “if only he would overcome his timidity and broach the subject. Then I would show him that I am passionately loving.” When she conceived of their wedding, it would be a grand affair, to be held in Westminster, and she, the blushing bride (so she fantasized) would make her way down the aisle toward Stanley while her father, in the bloom of health, would walk beside her: “Oh, Father, should such a day come, I know that you will surely be there.”
FOR SEVERAL MONTHS Life on the Mississippi, a gift from Stanley, served as her bedside reading, along with Stanley’s own volume on the Congo; of the two, she drew the greater pleasure from Clemens’s picaresque and captivating chronicles, though her infatuation with Stanley cast his ow
n book in a continually forgiving light. While his The Congo and the Founding of Its Free State contained little humor, such as would make a dreary night pass more pleasantly, she found the personality of the explorer evident in the forced march of its words, its aggregation of details, and its closely observed descriptions of events. Its chronicles of obstacles overcome on his journeys were a testament to his intrepid spirit. What it lacked in tenderness it made up for in thrilling evocations of darkest Africa—and in a sanctimoniousness that Dorothy, despite her dislike of overly pious types, found inspiring. It was a book, much like Stanley himself, that was something to be contended with and taken quite seriously.
BY FEBRUARY, HOWEVER, things slowly began to change between them. One evening while attending a dinner at the Tennant mansion, he passed much of that meal in silent agony, as his stomach was badly cramped with knots so tight that several times he excused himself from the table and retreated to the study, where, at one point, Dorothy found him writhing about on the floor, doubled over in pain, uttering that with such discomforts as came to him with gastritis, he would rather die than live.
A week or so later, he was still laid up in bed, with his man Hoffman by his side and Baruti, barefoot and in a page’s uniform, pacing disconsolately up and down the halls, when Dorothy and her mother arrived at his flat. They found him pale and barely able to move, the room smelling of medicines. Stanley, ashamed of his dismal state, said little and was barely able to do more than hold Dorothy’s hand for a few moments, his face, made rigid by his pain, much like a death mask.
February 22, 1886
Dear Dorothy,
I was very much touched indeed by your visit yesterday. Though I could barely express myself well, I was sincere when I told you that it meant so much that you would inconvenience yourself to see me. I am sorry for the atmospheric disharmonies of such a sickroom, but that you remained so long to reassure me gave me a hope and gratitude that, unfortunately, I did not have the strength to express in words at the time, for these pains come and go like the tides of a river.
I hope you noticed that I had by my bedside the silver watch chain token you had given me for my birthday—I will always treasure it, as I will your gracious and attentive friendship.
Your devoted servant,
H. M. Stanley
March 15
Dear Bula Matari,
Mother and I remain deeply concerned that your recovery is taking so long; we do miss your company, and though I have remained busy as ever painting my beloved ragamuffins and with the gaieties of my life here in London, I look to the day when you are well again: Please tell me that you will get better.
Lovingly yours,
Dolly
NOT UNTIL LATE MARCH did he feel well enough to leave his flat, but even then he could barely walk without difficulty and exhaustion. His body having been drained of its strength, Stanley required the assistance of a cane, and he, on a milk diet, had lost so much weight that he was loath to come face-to-face with Dolly. Several times she had written Stanley in those days, asking him to come and visit; or she would visit him, but, as he answered her: “Such is my lamentable condition that I would prefer that we wait, as I would not be very good company: And yet your gracious concern continues to give me strength and hope for better things to come.”
In the last week of March, advised by his physician to leave London and partake of the more congenial and healthful climes of Italy, Stanley, packing a portmanteau, slipped out of the city and crossed the Channel to France, his journey taking him to Nice, then to Rome. Thereafter, he headed north to spend a week in a resort on Lake Como. Then he went south: At Capri he visited, astride a donkey, the cliffside Villas of Tiberius; at Ischia he sought the cures of the island’s natural mineral springs; a few days later, he was in Naples, from which he visited its archaeological tourist attractions.
BACK IN LONDON THAT SUMMER, while Dorothy and her mother remained on holiday at friends’ estates in Scotland, Stanley decided that he had, all along, perhaps been too reticent and guarded in his feelings about Dorothy. Suddenly he felt consumed with “the all-important question”—a marriage proposal; for two weeks it haunted his thoughts, followed him into his sleep, met him at every corner. Finally he sent an uncharacteristically brief letter of proposal to Miss Tennant.
Her answer came promptly: a two-page missive along with a pressed rose. Although she made it clear in her reply that she cared deeply for Stanley, to his dismay he quickly realized that he was being rejected—and on the maddening grounds that he was too “great” a man.
August 15, 1886
Dear Samuel,
Since I have told you somewhat of my ongoing relations with Miss Tennant, and as it the kind of story that deserves some closure, I will tell you, without mincing words, that it has ended badly; in short, she has thrown me off, and it seems that I have wasted the past sixteen months living in a fool’s paradise. As a writer (and a fine one indeed), you surely know of the vacancy that occurs when you have let go of a book—there is a great void of mental activity and emotions to be filled—and this, alas, is what, upon reflection, made me particularly susceptible to her cunning and charms. In retrospect, it is no coincidence that I fell into her trap just after I had finished my book on the founding of the Congo Free State; if I hadn’t the time to while away in the first place, I doubt if I would have spent so many hours in that woman’s company or been swept up in her gush of compliments and fulsome adulations or put up with her obnoxious mother. Without going into the bloody details, I hope it will suffice to say that I have decided to stick, henceforth, to those things I do best; as I am apparently ill-suited for romance, I have resigned myself to my bachelorhood, for, as solitary as that may be, I can at least be free of female manipulations. Thankfully I have enough friendships to make it bearable. Which is to say, Samuel, that despite this debacle, I feel remarkably well and, truthfully, somewhat relieved that it is over.
“Not at all true,” Stanley confessed in person to his friend several months later, while on a lecture tour of America. “It’s not as if I haven’t tried to forget Miss Tennant—indeed I have. But the confounded woman creeps into my thoughts in the most unexpected ways: I think it is worst at night, when I am in my bed alone. Have you any idea, Sam, of the loneliness of such nightly solitude, year after year?”
“I do, fellow traveler. I’ve had my share of such nights.”
“But at least you have the solace of a fine home.”
“It is one of my few.” Then, impatiently: “What makes you think I would have an answer to your dilemma, anyway? I wish there were a potion you could take—or maybe a hypnotist would be of help to you. Obviously that high dame means a lot to you still, and I expect that it will take you some time to get over her. But as you are about the most hard-nerved and steely man I’ve ever known in my life, I expect you to quickly put her from your mind: Think of her as just another jungle that you have hacked your way through; sure, you’re sad and disappointed, but this, too, will pass. Use your noggin on this one, Stanley. It pains me to see you this way. And, at any rate, what makes you think that this life is anything but imperfect? You of all people should know that the best.”
Then, more calmly: “In the meantime, dear Stanley, whatever you do, my friend, do not allow your memories of that woman—what was her name, anyway?—to lay you low. Now, with all due respect, buck up.”
And that was all that either man said of the Tennant affair.
HUCK FINN IN AFRICA
BACK IN LONDON IN THE NEW YEAR, on the eve of setting out to Zanzibar by way of Alexandria and Cairo, in the service of King Léopold, Stanley dashed off several notes to friends; one of them was addressed to Samuel Clemens:
February 17, 1887
160 New Bond Street
Dear Samuel,
This brief ditty is to inform you that I am off on the Emin chase; don’t know what awaits me, and the weight of details and preparations boggles the mind, but as I have been making my final
preparations and packing away an entire case of geographical and scientific books, I should let you know, for what it’s worth, that among the few books I am bringing along for my leisure (should that exist) is your own Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which you were gracious enough to have given me.
Until we meet again,
Henry M. Stanley
ON MARCH 18, 1887, STANLEY’S hurriedly organized expedition, commencing from Zanzibar by ship, arrived, after a month’s sailing, at the port of Matadi, at the mouth of the Congo River, on the west Atlantic coast of Africa. In Stanley’s party were some six hundred native Zanzibari carriers, sixty-one Sudanese soldiers, thirteen Somalis, and his own two servants, Hoffman and Baruti. Joining the group was a Zanzibari ivory and slave trader named Tippu Tib, high lord of the Stanleyville region, whose personal retinue included thirty-six wives and concubines and some sixty-one guardsmen and porters. There was Stanley’s contingent of European officers: Captain Robert Nelson, a veteran of the Zulu Wars; Lieutenant John Rose Troup, who had seen service at one of Stanley’s stations along the Congo and was fluent in Swahili; William Bonny, a former medic in the British army; James Sligo Jameson, an amateur naturalist, who was put in charge of cooking and the distribution of rations for the expedition; and one Arthur J. M. Jephson, who had no qualifications save for the fact that he, like Jameson, donated one thousand pounds to join this glorious enterprise. (Hundreds of others had also applied.) Two more officers, on special leave from active duty in the army, were on hand: Lieutenant William Grant Stairs of the Royal Engineers and one Major Edmund Barttelot of the Seventh Fusiliers, his high-strung second in command. Finally, as chief medical officer, there was Dr. Thomas Heazle Parke, whom Stanley had signed on in Cairo.