I did meet Mr. Shaw—a poised, wonderful, self-effacing sort of fellow, whom I would gladly count as one of my friends. He spoke highly of you and Stanley and said that your wedding to Dr. Curtis was indeed a quiet affair. A question: Is it true that Mr. Shaw wrote a play about you? He claimed to have done so in Candida, which I have not seen. If this is so, I cannot wait to see it.
If I do not see you at Oxford first, then you will find me at your door at one o’clock on the aforementioned date.
With deepest affection,
The soon to be doctor of letters from Oxford!
Samuel
ON THE AUSPICIOUS DAY of his honors, among the audience at the Sheldonian Theatre sat Lady Stanley and her new husband, Dr. Curtis, along with young Denzil and Gertrude. Dolly had been on hand to witness the great standing ovation, of some fifteen minutes’ duration, that greeted Clemens as he was escorted up the aisle to the stage. Presiding over the ceremonies was Lord Curzon of Kedleston, chancellor of the university. When the moment came for Clemens to receive his degree—in recognition of his artem scribendi—the great man rose from his chair and sauntered forward to hear the citation. He reverently bowed his head but could not help but shrug and break into a smile at hearing the remarks read in Latin. This show of pure amusement and joy during so formal a ceremony, coming as it did from a man whose travails and convictions were so well known and whose literature was so much beloved in that country, had a compelling effect upon the audience, for once he had received his degree and had shaken hands with Lord Curzon, saying, “My goodness and thank you!” the audience stood up and gave Clemens another extended ovation.
Afterward Clemens walked out from the theater in a procession with Kipling, Booth, Saint-Saëns, and the Duke of Connaught, the king’s brother, into the light of day. The other honorees shortly followed. A battery of photographers, poised behind their cameras, were awaiting them on the green. When Clemens came to the place where Lady Stanley and Denzil were standing, he stopped for a moment and said to Dolly, “It is good to see you again.” And he gave Denzil, in his dark suit and tie, a firm handshake and pat on his head. When he said, “Why don’t you come to lunch at the lord chancellor’s? I am sure I can sneak you in,” she answered, “Well, there’s more than me and Denzil, Samuel. But God bless you on this great day.”
As brief as this exchange had been, the Duke of Connaught commanded the drummer to halt, and even though the drummer had only marched in place for a few moments, the thumping of the drum, booming across the grounds, commanded Clemens on; and so he, excusing himself—“Guess I will be beheaded if I don’t”—took his leave and rushed ahead to take his place in the procession. Then he vanished into the glories of his day.
IN THE BALANCING ACT of perusing Stanley’s autobiography, Lady Stanley carefully went through all that he had written. Mainly she wanted to lay out for the public as valiant and as honorable a portrait of her late husband as she could. For whatever she may have felt about his failing physicality or the untoward reports about the Congo, “which flowed like spurs and thorns” through her being, she genuinely loved the man.
THE DAY THAT SAMUEL CLEMENS came to visit her at Richmond Terrace, Dolly spent the morning in her studio with a group of young girls whom she had found around St. Paul’s and wished to depict in a drawing to be called The Muses of London. Somehow, despite the importance of her reunion with Clemens, she had allowed herself to forget the time, so that when Clemens arrived promptly at one, she was running late and was upstairs dressing for the occasion. She lingered for a long time before her mirror, trying on various necklaces and fussing over a selection of skirts, vests, and frilly blouses, for she wanted to appear pleasing before him. Why she had this feeling she could not say, but even given the heady circles she traveled in, there was something about the way Clemens regarded her that she always found flattering. He would look at her in a way that was tender, avuncular, yet admiring of her female qualities; and there was something else—as it was likely to be the last time she would see him, she wanted to leave him with a remembrance of refinement and beauty, even if at the same time she chastised herself for such maudlin thoughts.
He had been let in by their butler just as some of the young girls, having been given lunch in the kitchen, were scurrying out ever so happily.
By the time the butler had taken him into the parlor, which Samuel knew well, and had brought him a drink, Clemens, looking around, had become aware that the house had not much changed since Stanley’s passing. No matter which direction he turned, there were monuments to Stanley’s achievements. As he waited, there strode into the room a plump, well-dressed man of about forty, a red-cheeked fellow whose dark hair glistened with lotion. Clemens had been tempted to say, “Dr. Curtis, I presume?” but was preempted by the doctor’s own warm introduction of himself.
“I am the lucky fellow who is Lady Stanley’s new husband,” he said. “Henry Curtis. And you, sir, I know, are the one and only Samuel Clemens.”
“I am.”
“Saw you at Oxford a few days ago; all very touching and well deserved.” Then: “Accommodate yourself: Dolly should be down shortly.”
Then a voice called out from the hallway: Gertrude Tennant, who had become progressively heavier with each passing year, slowly made her way from her study to greet her friend. She warmed instantly at the sight of him: “My dear young man! Let me kiss you!”
Clemens blushed, sat the old woman down, and, though nodding in his most friendly manner at her remarks about how grand had been his reception at Oxford, he was somewhat discomfited by the way she, assuming a motherly posture, held his right hand in her own. Though happy to be there, he was hungover after a late night with some of the “boys” from the clubs. In fact, he had been so tired in the morning that were his appointment with anyone else but Lady Stanley he doubted he would have kept it, having dragged his heels and barely made his way out of the hotel in time.
There was something about the mansion that he found greatly comforting: the birdsong from the garden; the resplendent light through the windows; the quiet of the house, which was situated in one of the less trafficked parts of London. And it pleased him to look back and remember the times he had visited and the pleasant sessions he had passed with Dolly in her studio. As insignificant as they were to the story of his life, and even given the many other artists he had sat for in his day, there was something consoling in being reminded of earlier, perhaps happier times, no matter how numerous his troubles—his family was intact then! And at least he would be away from the glut of journalists who seemed to track him down wherever he went. His only duty was to engage in a little polite conversation with Dr. Curtis, who within a few minutes began to sound to Clemens like an ever-cheerful and not terribly clever sort, a strange choice for so vibrant a lady.
“I imagine your life must be a parade of one great occasion after the other—how exciting,” the doctor said, and Clemens, with his gift for pleasing strangers, rattled off an anecdote about his recent visit with the king and queen. Then he told the doctor about the time that the archbishop had shown him the supposedly genuine Holy Grail—these stories he related with apparent interest, even while his mind was focused on the matter at hand, which was to see Dolly again and clarify for her the circumstances of his and Stanley’s journey to Cuba. Which version he would convey he was not certain. There was the truth, the half-truth, and Stanley’s own account, all drifting hazily in the mists of time.
AFTER ABOUT HALF AN HOUR, Lady Stanley appeared at the parlor door, wearing a black skirt, a ruffled blouse, and a snugly fitting corset, with a string of pearls around her neck and smelling sweetly of lavender perfume. Though he had seen her briefly at the Oxford ceremonies, the clamor had been greatly distracting, and he had only been vaguely aware of her charming appearance; now, in the mansion, he saw her clearly. In the seven years since he had last laid eyes on her, not only had she not seemed to age a day but, if anything, bestowed with the dignity of a widow, she was also m
ore beautiful than ever. Instantly he got to his feet, and such was his agitation that he spilled his glass of whiskey.
“Oh, my dear Lady Stanley,” he had said. “May I kiss your hand?”
And with that, in a stately fashion, he stood before her, clicked his heels as if to parody a German count, and planted a light kiss upon the knuckles of her right hand. It was at this point that Dr. Curtis obligingly flicked open his vest-pocket watch and said: “Wish I could stay, but I’ve got an appointment at two.” Then: “It was an honor to have met you, sir. Enjoy your afternoon.”
LUNCH THAT SUNNY DAY was held at a table in the backyard, under a large awning. Around three, Gertrude began to doze off in her chair and, summoning her strength, called a servant to help her to her room for a nap. “It’s all too relaxing for me,” she said to Samuel. At around four, Denzil came by to say hello: He had been out taking riding lessons. A slight and thin-shouldered boy, he had been glad to give, as Dolly insisted, his “uncle Mark” a hearty embrace around the neck, and after answering a few questions about his schooling and interests, Denzil left them alone. And suddenly the most famous American in England was sitting across the table from Dolly. After several glasses of claret, he was beginning to feel “pickled,” and in that state, as her face grew brighter and more sharply defined in the shifting of the sunlight through the trees, she seemed to become much softer and more beautiful—and as she did he began to feel older and older, his expression settling into one of stony unhappiness that he was not a young man.
“Samuel, how much time do you have this afternoon?” she asked him, breaking the spell.
“I have an appointment at the hotel at six. An interview that I have twice canceled.”
“As you must leave, then we should attend to certain matters.”
“You know, Dolly, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”
“Good. You will sit for me in my studio and smoke to your heart’s content! Then you will tell me your impressions of the manuscript.”
The Manuscript Explained
“NOW, TELL ME, SAMUEL,” she said. “What did you make of it—was Stanley writing the truth of those days?”
He fidgeted a bit, relit his cigar. Then settled himself again.
“Well, mainly he did, but some things he got wrong. I can’t speak about his early days in New Orleans, but I would guess that the accounts are true: I do remember occasionally passing by the Speake and McCreary dry goods warehouse on Tchoupitoulas Street way back when, and don’t doubt for an instant that the place existed or that he worked there. And I believe that Stanley’s stories about the poor slaves and the way he claimed to have met Mr. Stanley, the merchant trader, are also true, and I take him at his word, though I find the bit about his Bible being essential to that meeting on the inventive side—but maybe it happened. As for his early love for literature, I believe that is true. And his version of New Orleans I somewhat enjoyed, but I might have added a different detail or two. And what he wrote about the yellow fever, which was quite a calamitous event in those times, could not be avoided, though to be perfectly honest, Dolly, I felt a little suspicious about the fever stories he told regarding the deaths of Mr. Speake, his employer, and Mr. Stanley’s wife, for I do not recall him mentioning them to me at the time, and, frankly, from a writer’s point of view, the narrative seemed to creak a bit too much from the deus ex machina conveniences such deaths provide.
“But most everything else, to a certain point, I would say seemed plausible enough, though I have to say that in those days, in my recollection, neither Stanley nor I, for that matter, was particularly enlightened or sympathetic about the plight of the Negro slave. If you will forgive my saying so, in that regard Stanley seems to have wanted to come off more nobly than was the case: For we were products of the time, and those times, in the South, were not kind to those folks.”
He took a sip of his drink, then, gripping the armrest and pushing himself up a bit, continued:
“Now, as you told me that he may have written some of the manuscript in a haze of postmalarial confusion, I do believe it may have been so. Especially when it comes to him and me. Indeed, we did meet on the boiler deck of a steamship, upriver somewhere between Memphis and St. Louis, in 1860 or so; I have to say that I was touched by the fraternal flourishes and tenderness he bestowed upon those scenes. But as dim as my memory can be at my age, I cannot recall being so forthcoming about certain personal details, especially in regard to my brother Henry’s fatal accident on the Mississippi. I take it, then, that he may have simply allowed my accounts from Life on the Mississippi to slip into what he may well have construed as his truthful memory of our first meeting; or maybe it was just a dose of plain old wishful thinking, for I was not at all an easy person to get close to—certainly not with some young, straitlaced bookkeeper I happened to meet while having a smoke.
“But about the general drift of our friendship, he was mainly telling the truth. I did like him for his bookish nature, and I did enjoy talking with him. I just don’t recall saying the things he said I did, but by now I’ve forgotten more than enough to fill two or three books, so I don’t fault him for that. As for what went on aboard ship during those river voyages, the stories are mainly true; but from that point on his narrative seems to go astray.
“Mr. Stanley of New Orleans, however preachy and inspiring he may have been while speaking about the Bible, consorted with a very rough trade, and as I remember him, he was drunk a lot and not particularly nice to Stanley, whom he ordered about like a servant. Sometimes I saw Stanley in such a dejected state after leaving his cabin that I wondered what verbal abuses and curses his father had heaped on him; sometimes I wondered if he had laid hands on the boy, for I saw Stanley once with a pretty bruised-up eye. From what I remember, his father was plain mean and cantankerous. That he left out.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Then why would he write so respectfully about him?”
“Why? I suppose he liked the air of respectability that being with a riverboat trader conferred, and maybe he didn’t suffer as much as I seem to remember. Or maybe he was just trying to cover the tracks of his youthful misjudgment. In any case, Mr. Stanley was not the saint that his adopted son mostly made him out to be.” Then: “May I?”
And he poured himself some whiskey from a decanter.
“Now, once we had parted we sometimes corresponded. Stanley was so appreciative of my writing that I sent him old pieces from my early days—that is true—and in the meantime I learned something about his later doings up in Arkansas and the malaria he’d caught. The truth is I never expected to see him again, as we pilots were used to fleeting friendships. Sometimes you saw the same folks over and over again, and sometimes you didn’t; that was the long and short of that kind of life. And maybe I was a little curious about him, maybe even worried—for he had no one but Mr. Stanley to depend upon, which was not much, in my opinion. Then a year went by, and I was sitting in the pilots’ association house in New Orleans, killing time, when in walked Stanley, a bit down on his luck. He was all skin and bones, and the peachiness of his complexion had turned pale. Anyway, I took him out for a good meal and some drinking, and perhaps we did speak about Cuba and his plans to go there and look for Mr. Stanley; frankly, I could not understand why he should even bother, but his heart seemed set on it. He asked me if I would care to come along with him. Well, that was not the foremost thing on my mind. Hostilities were about to begin between the Confederacy and the Union. And with the commercial steamboat trade coming to a dead halt, I was trying to figure out just what I would do with myself—maybe head back up to St. Louis with Mother Clemens, who was visiting me at the time.
“But shortly thereafter, Stanley came down with a bad bout of malaria. Coming out of it a few days later, he was still determined to book passage for Cuba. Now, I have never been a particularly kind fellow—though I thought I was doing right by Stanley by putting him up at my hotel—but as I thought about my friend, in his feeble
ness, making that journey alone, I began to have second thoughts. Maybe there was something about my brother Henry that I saw in him, and maybe I was thinking that by helping Stanley I might find a little peace of mind. In any case, I was restless and curious about the world, and I did not mind the idea of traveling abroad for a short time. And I was not sure if I wanted to set out straightaway upriver, so I kind of made up my mind to go along with him; all that is true.
“Stanley, I noticed, seemed to think it appropriate to invent other motivations—a girl, as I recall, and some fascination of mine with the island. The truth is that in those days I had met many a southerner who had dealings in Cuba, and all of them had some nice things to say about it and some things that were not so nice: but leaving it to fate, I eventually determined to go.
“And it is true that Stanley met my mother—I found it touching to read about her in Stanley’s words after so many years; and it is true that she was none too pleased by my sudden decision. However we each remembered it, I do not regret the wonderful exhilaration of setting out to a new and unknown place—that alone, despite the nuisances and discomforts of any voyage, made it all worthwhile. I do not regret a single night spent out on the deck looking at the moon reflecting on the water or at the dusting of the stars.”
He lit another cigar.
“Havana itself was a strange, majestic, and run-down city, much as Stanley described it, and our hotel, which I revisited a few years back during my journey there with Henry Rogers, was a tolerable enough place run by a somewhat eccentric southern lady who saw ghosts. In fact, the city was filled to the brim with southerners, and there was a lot of talk among them about how Cuba really belonged to us and how once the Civil War was over the matter would be settled for good. I kind of liked the intrigue—the feeling that every stranger might be a spy—but poor Stanley remained a bundle of nerves and mainly worried about locating his so-called father. I will not comment about his description of our doings in Havana as we tried to track his father down except to say that they are generally true. We did indeed make a call upon a businessman’s family who lived above the city, and there was some truth in the statement that I had once met a girl who happened to live there, but romance was not much on my mind in those days. We did meet with a certain Captain Bailey, who had known Mr. Stanley; we visited his old offices and wandered about the American docks of Havana harbor. We did find a man, a dissipated drunk, who knew Mr. Stanley’s whereabouts. All that is true, Dolly, though construed through the peculiarities of Stanley’s voice.