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.