Then: “And here I will tell you how I get beyond it. The first way is through prayer.”
“You sincerely pray?”
“Yes, but sometimes I feel I pray to nothing. Then I think of my family and how I am blessed, and I ask, if I had brought evil into this world, as some accuse me of doing, then how can it be that I am now more or less a happy man?”
“Are you?”
“For a good portion of my days; but then the other moments creep in, and that’s when, Samuel, I must tell you, I will chew on my dream gum and otherwise prevail upon the resources of my wine and spirits cellar. The fact is that it is the rare day when I am not, let me say, in a more or less salubrious state by supper without such spirits.”
“It is your business.”
“Yes, I know, but then even as I count my blessings, I still feel preyed upon by my worst doubts. Along the way I am reminded that I am no longer much of a writer. Tonight you heard a bit of my so-called autobiography, but as I’ve told you, it is something I never expect to finish. You see, I’ve been unable to progress beyond a certain point; if you must know, I have been barely able to proceed beyond the years when you and I knew each other and journeyed to Cuba.”
“So you’ve told me. Why don’t you just get on with it?”
“I have lost the celestial spark for such ruminations.”
“Is it the story of your American father that halts you?”
“I sometimes think so, but it was such a distant thing. How can that be?”
“The truth cannot proceed if it’s distorted. Have you told the truth of that tale?”
“I could, but I have chosen not to.”
“Then how,” asked Clemens, “can you pass through a door if you do not even describe it? My God, Stanley, do you not see that?”
“I do, but my own history, outside of Africa, which I have written about endlessly, should be of my own making. Do you think me a fool for declining to state every hard fact about my past?”
“No; I have done the same myself.”
“Then let me ask you another question. As I don’t think I will ever live to see that book completed — the truth is that whatever I write one day I undo the next — can I still feel confident in my trust that you will never betray me by writing your own account of our journey to Cuba?”
“As I promised you many years ago, despite the times you have annoyed me immensely, I will always keep to it.”
“That relieves me, Samuel. I never want my son, or any future generation, to read what I do not consider the truth about myself.” And then, to lighten the discourse, Stanley added, “For that I will be eternally grateful. Should there be something to Dolly’s speculations about the spirit world, I promise that should you outlive me, Samuel, and I come back as a ghost, I will be as a tail to your back, protecting you in every way.”
“Good, my dear fellow,” he said. “Come now and accompany me while I shoot some billiards.”
Later, as Samuel was happily shooting billiards, he heard a high-pitched voice coming from behind one of the wood-paneled walls: “Find me!” With it came what seemed to be the giggles of a small child; then the voice again. “Come and find me if you can!” it said. And so Clemens, putting aside his cue and bridge (for he had been in the midst of lining up a shot when he heard the voice), moved about the hall, which was lined with elaborately carved seats and cabinets, tapping here and there on the walls. But even when he came to the place where the voice seemed to have originated, it would sound again from somewhere else; and while he had been momentarily intrigued, Samuel, wishing to return to his game, finally said: “All right, Stanley, where are you?” And with that a high glass-fronted cabinet, which was filled with mementos of Stanley’s illustrious past, swung out from the wall; behind it, in what seemed to be a passageway, stood Stanley and Denzil, who, with great pride, exclaimed, “We fooled you!”
STANLEY’S LATER DAYS 1901–4
A lifetime of journeys has left me chronically indisposed, and while I do not relish the lapse in my physical powers I rather enjoy the concentrations of thinking that come to one with such limitations.
— STANLEY
STANLEY NEVER SAW CLEMENS AGAIN. His world, in those years, was largely reduced to the grounds and surrounding woods of Furze Hill, and his moods, along with his health, were becoming more and more unpredictable. On certain days Stanley seemed beyond fatigue and spoke happily of future journeys and the years he had yet to savor with his wife and son, but just as often, he would become forgetful and irascible. The household staff would avoid him whenever possible, and even Dolly suffered from his sudden outbursts of anger — such as when Stanley, for no good reason, accused her of being a dilettante, an overindulged lady of leisure. Alternately he became extremely pious, spending entire nights rereading his favorite sections of the Bible; just as abruptly, he would grow gloomy at the “nonsense of thinking there is a God.”
Even his stays in London during the winters had not made much of a difference to him, for he kept getting sick, and though he managed to visit some of his old club haunts, his had become the life of a recluse.
That his vision continued to grow weaker troubled him, as did the deterioration of his once fine handwriting. As for his own work, the great autobiography: That had long been abandoned. Even his daily habit of keeping a journal fell by the wayside — for after December 19, 1901, he never made another entry. What he otherwise produced — short letters to dear old friends — he had to painstakingly write out, his right hand afflicted with a trembling that required him to steady his forearm with his left hand just to sign his name. The elegant flourishes of his youth were gone forever. Convinced that he had perhaps suffered a mild stroke, he consulted with various doctors and after subjecting himself to a complete physical examination was presented with the news that he might at best have another ten years to live, the prospect of which left him even more covetously disposed toward time and the reassuring surroundings of Furze Hill.
He had maintained a correspondence with Clemens, his letters conveying the general drift of his quiet days at Furze Hill, the progress of his son’s growth, and the ordinary pleasures of the domestic life he had always wanted (as well as his continuing bouts of illness). By then, Stanley had intuited that Clemens was in his past for good.
FOR HIS PART, Clemens was undergoing his own mounting tribulations — for in tandem with Stanley, his beloved Livy had also begun to enter her final decline in those years. But despite his great distractions, Clemens, in thinking about his friend, had made several attempts to entice Stanley into crossing the Atlantic. The first had come by way of a letter that arrived at Furze Hill one morning in the spring of 1901.