He’d come back in a reflective state and, in his reserved manner, retire to his study, where he would sit, at times motionless, before his desk and the quires from his autobiography, the work he had long since lost his desire to write.
And on many a day, in the appropriate seasons, in the hours before he would make his various excursions, Stanley would look from his study window and watch Dolly, in a shepherdess bonnet and florid silk shirtwaist dress, sitting out on their lawn before an easel with a palette of watercolors, executing the most delicate works of nature, renderings that engendered the deepest pride and wonderment. He’d find himself marveling not only at her God-given talents but also at the many pleasures her gentle and vivacious character had brought into his life, even if they had come late. For her presence, and for all the things he had been given — his fame, his wealth, and the adopted son on whom he doted — he often thanked God.
How lonely did Stanley feel when wife and son made their inevitable return to London.
From Lady Stanley’s Journal, circa 1899
IT WAS BY AN AGREEABLE COINCIDENCE that the autumn of 1899 found the Clemens family back in London, having returned from Vienna and other places, and in residence at 30 Wellington Court, Albert Gate, a household that my sister Eveleen and I occasioned to visit, namely in service of Mrs. Clemens’s continuing interest in the psychic realms. However disappointed she had been with the failure of various mediums to summon forth her daughter—“The spirits sometimes sleep for a hundred years before venturing into the world,” I once told her — she seemed to enjoy our lunches and romps to local galleries, where my knowledge of the Pre-Raphaelite painters seemed to interest her greatly, as did any subject that took her mind off her daughter.
In the shadow of her famous spouse, she seemed perpetually humble, but, as I got to know her somewhat, I sensed that under the many layers of her demure personality there resided a tenacious and forthright being, a strong spirit. She was, after all, her husband’s first reader — in effect his editor — and I could sense, knowing Samuel’s mind a bit from his always charming but rambling reflections on his past, that she was invaluable to him, perhaps by way of helping him to organize his thoughts. (Stanley, on the other hand, was loath to show me anything, considering himself a “man’s man” who had no need of assistance.) While she would never say so, I sensed that his books would never have been the same without her.
In the various letters and notes I had received from them in years past, their handwriting seemed identical, though her letters were much more compact: The same note, word for word, that Samuel would need three leaves to write — his handwriting being large — would, in her hand, fill a single page; and so it seemed to me that where he was LARGE she was small. Years of this ratio — which played out, I imagine, in every area of their lives — seemed to account for the way she carried herself.
And yet we got along well enough, despite her lack of interest in social amusements. I wanted to rejuvenate Mrs. Clemens’s female vivacity by taking her to some of the better shops in London to buy new dresses. But however much I tried, she was intent upon her mourning, remaining doggedly in black and wearing her hair, when not under a veil, pulled tight in a bun. A pair of wire-rim spectacles continually reaffirmed the impression she gave of a woman who had not only entered into but also lovingly embraced her premature old age.
NOW, WHILE LIVY WAS MAINLY CONTENT with her life at home, often quietly entertaining visiting family members from America, Samuel had completely embraced London society. Coming out of his gloom over Susy insofar as he could, he not only went out in public willingly but also gave many well-attended talks in every major club, from the Blackfriars to the Savage.
He was sometimes a bit brusque with me, however: I do not know if he was peeved over our spiritualist outings with Livy — though we were only trying to help her out of her grief — or perhaps he was truly overwhelmed with appointments (to the detriment of his writing, as Livy told me), but in those days, during our fleeting encounters, I began to get the distinct impression that he was trying to avoid me. Why I cannot say.
Still, I would often take the liberty of sending him invitations to lunch with Mother and me at Richmond Terrace, with or without Mrs. Clemens, but time and time again came the polite refusal.
Giving this matter further thought, I wondered if he had begun to feel some discomfort in my presence. While this was not the case when Stanley was around (which he often was not, for he mainly liked to stay out in Surrey in those days) or when we headed out with Livy and the girls to a museum or to visit a psychic, or when we were on some other group excursion, but when we were alone, even if we were just speaking in passing, he would seem to become very sad. And sometimes he would look at me with a tenderness that was heartbreaking, as if through his fiercely intelligent mind there raced a variety of dreams that would take his mind off his sorrows. (So I conjectured.)
The last time he posed in my studio, a few years before, I noticed a terrible solitude and longing in him, and though I did not believe that it could have anything to do with me, Samuel, despite his vivacious facade, seemed especially melancholic at our parting. It may have been my fantasy, but I believed that under other circumstances, this kind and moody genius, ageless in his own way, may well have wanted to have a good cry in my arms. It was an impossibility, of course, as we were each inextricably entwined in our own lives, but it occurred to me that he had perhaps come to regard our friendship as something to be carefully managed; along the way I believe that his admiration for my artistic and feminine qualities, which he’d always commented upon favorably, had perhaps blossomed into some kind of autumnal infatuation, which neither of us had any use for.
One evening, however, when I shared these thoughts with Mother, she tried to set my mind straight on the subject.
“My dear daughter, yours is a remarkable vanity to think that a man like Mr. Clemens would have any interest whatsoever in your person beyond a mild and socially amicable friendship, which exists because of Stanley. If Samuel is sad it is because he is getting old, which is never easy on anyone, and because he has an ailing wife and has lost his most beloved daughter. What man wouldn’t ache in such circumstances? Mr. Clemens, however famous he might be, is no exception.” Then: “But my God, what a dreamer you are.”
ODDLY ENOUGH, A FEW DAYS LATER, Mother informed me that she had invited Mr. and Mrs. Clemens to lunch and that they had accepted. On a Saturday in late November, they arrived with their daughter Jean. At the outset, Clemens had been most apologetic for his long absence from our household and seemed disappointed that “Sir Henry,” as he liked to call him since his knighthood, had not been able to make it in from Furze Hill. Indeed, Stanley had planned to come home for the occasion, but, as often happened in those days, he had been in no condition to travel, even over such a short distance. (The journey took about two hours, including carriage rides to and from the stations.) Aside from regretting Stanley’s absence, Clemens seemed to be in good spirits. And as it seemed that the Clemenses’ sojourn in England would likely end soon, perhaps by summer, for they were longing to return home, I insisted that they promise to visit us at Furze Hill in the spring, for by then the winter’s frost would have passed and, God willing, Stanley would be better.