Isabel’s opinion of the Countess was colored by the fact that she had known her in Philadelphia (when Isabel was working for the Danas) and strongly disliked her then. In Philadelphia, the Countess was rumored by polite society to be an adulteress. Now, Isabel describes her as “vicious,” with “painted hair,” a “coarse voice,” “slit-like … eyes,” “dirty clothes,” and “terrible manners.”
WHEN THE TWO WOMEN MET at the villa, the Countess denied ever having previously met Isabel, although Isabel “made it quite plain to her that she had.” To the consternation of Florentine society and consistent with Isabel’s impression of her, the Countess had built an apartment over the stables and lived there with “the big Roman steward of the place.” Isabel cattily recorded a comment made by a Florentine acquaintance about the Countess’s behavior: “Mr. Cecchi at the Bank asked me if the woman thought herself in the wilds of Africa. that she could outrage every law of Social life, & still be accepted as a member of it. Here she remains. a menace to the peace of the Clemens household.”
During her stay in Italy, Isabel experienced newly found freedoms and became intoxicated with the beauty of the Tuscan countryside. She exclaimed over the sights of Florence, and she was also taken with the beauty of the olive orchards, especially as they appeared at night: “At first the high stone walls on either side of the high road were very disappointing. Now they are less so, because one can remember the mysterious loveliness of a moon-light drive along that same high road, when the Soft olive trees bending over the walls, suggest untold lovelinesses within & one’s imagination can run to glorious riot.”
The country isolation proved beneficial for Twain’s ability to concentrate, and he managed to produce a number of short pieces: “A Dog’s Tale,” “You’ve Been a Dam Fool, Mary. You Always Was,” “Italian Without a Master,” “Italian with Grammar,” and “Sold to Satan.” But it was “The $30,000 Bequest” that was the most substantive of the lot. For decades Twain had explored themes of transvestitism and exchanged genders in his short stories and novels. He had always been irresistibly drawn to the contexts and implications of gender, and in these tales he was identifying and satirizing social constructions of gender roles and power distribution within the restrictions of his society. Two of his prior gender-switch tales, “John Brown and Mary Taylor” and “Hellfire Hotchkiss,” practically serve as drafts for “The $30,000 Bequest.” The story features two main characters—Saladin Foster, nicknamed Sally, and Electra Foster, nicknamed Aleck. Sally is a devoted husband and father who daydreams about spending a $30,000 bequest to be left to him by a distant male relative on the occasion of his death. Aleck is a loving wife and mother as well as a talented money manager and investor. The story consists of the two fantasizing about investing and spending their future bequest until Aleck has managed to parlay the initial $30,000 into an imaginary $300 million. All is lost, though, in an imaginary Wall Street crash. After their fantasy bankruptcy, the two discover that the relative left no estate. They are shattered. The story, which ends with their deaths, can almost serve as Twain’s cautionary tale about the perceived rewards and disappointments incurred in the pursuit of wealth.
With Olivia ever in seclusion, Twain and Isabel spent the long winter days together. During this period Isabel’s position in the household was transformed into something more than that of an employee—she became Twain’s confidante. She was delighted by how their relationship was evolving and was clearly infatuated with her employer. On January 8, in a letter to Harriet Whitmore, she had rhapsodized about her recent interactions with Twain and his growing dependence upon her:
Perhaps you may be interested to know how very entirely Mr. Clemens absorbs all my time—every minute of it—even my evenings. I attend to an infinite number of Things for him, and when he is lonely and restless we play cards—play cards? Why I play with him all day Sunday even. He is delicious; this morning he had a run of very bad luck and biting his cigar hard he said “Christ couldn’t Take Tricks with the kind of cards you give me.” Oh darling Mrs. Whitmore you have given me all this joy, and Truly I am the wealthiest woman ever. There is a side of the life here that is most exquisite and hallowed; and Mr. Clemens lives much in the past—There are days when he restlessly paces the “lonely house.” and he has not yet begun any real work—beyond a short article on “Copyright” that appeared in N. American Review for January. I have very little to do with Jean—never go out with her any more; you see Mr. Clemens wants his secretary on deck—and when he can have her services when he needs them.
Olivia Langdon Clemens, 1895
Obviously, Isabel was not bored with keeping Twain company during the Italian country winter, and she was ecstatic about his growing need for her. As she attended to his thirst for constant attention, he was also fulfilling her longing for a lost birthright. Perhaps the time they shared represented a welcome return for Isabel to her father and childhood: Tarrytown and Florence merged; images of Charles Lyon and Twain combined; the Lyons’ country home Spring-Side morphed into the Villa di Quarto; and the Hudson and Arno Rivers converged. Isabel had an early and traumatic introduction to life’s hardships due to her father’s death and she looked to Twain as a compassionate benefactor. Here in Italy, Isabel had one of the most famous men in the world all to herself, to love, to admire, and to desire—and was happy to serve him.
But Twain and Isabel’s cozy times were interrupted when he developed acute bronchitis and gout so severe that his feet became inflamed and swollen. After recovering from his illness, he effected a transition of seismic proportions. Twain’s wife, Olivia, had been his primary literary audience throughout their thirty-four years of marriage, during which she had listened to him read his prose and had provided feedback. With Olivia bedridden and the daughters apparently little involved with him, Twain turned to Isabel. “About January 14, Mr. Clemens began to dictate to me. His idea of writing an autobiography had never proved successful, for to his mind autobiography is like narrative & should be spoken. … In fact he loves the work.” With the worshipful Isabel as his eager audience, Twain was finally able to maintain his focus and the autobiography dictations began in earnest. He rejoiced to his old friend William Dean Howells two days later: “I’ve struck it! And I will give it away—to you. You will never know how much enjoyment you have lost until you get to dictating your autobiography. … Miss Lyons does the scribing, & is an inspiration, because she takes so much interest in it.”
Isabel was equally pleased: “Last week we began an entrancing occupation; that of having Marse C. dictate—not letters, but words for a book. He is making his journal of describing this villa and the work is the most interesting Ever. In these days we have written about 3000 words. Working for an hour or a little more, Each morning.”
Their partnership thus established, Twain shared material with Isabel that he found too risqué for his family. One day, he called her into his bedroom and asked her to type for him (notwithstanding their earlier conversation about her lack of skills, apparently Isabel had some proficiency with the typewriter): “Somewhere in the Bible there is a story about the woman whose soul was being damaged by Some jewels she owned & so she gave them to her sister. This illustrated the fact that Mr. Clemens has been writing Something that is so strong, that he cannot give it to Jean to type, because he does not know how nearly her soul is lost; he is not willing to ‘shove her in among the goats,’ but I only can get the machine & do the typing.”
Twain’s confidence in Isabel was double-edged: apparently she had already fallen among “the goats” and did not have to be protected as the afflicted Jean did. There is also a note of sexual triumph in Isabel’s entry, her subtext proclaiming that she has replaced Olivia and regards herself as more intimate with Twain than his daughter was.
Twain and Isabel’s dictation sessions ended abruptly on February 2. The Countess Massiglia owned an apparently homicidal donkey that managed to break out of his stall and threaten the unsuspecting Isabel as she walked
nearby. By Isabel’s account, the donkey was a public menace that had previously mauled and killed two people.
I dropped out of sight behind some bushes. & though I did not feel afraid, a strange terror took possession of me for I knew that if he could get at me he would kill me. He snorted around outside the bushes—until he was sent along on his way, by the two contadini from whom he had escaped, and who were hastening along after him, trying to Catch him. Like one in a nightmare I fled up the long winding hill. but before I reached the top my heart began to fail me—or in its efforts to do its work well, it Seemed to be bursting beyond its limits—For 5 days I lay like one in a dream, but soon I pulled myself together enough to go unsatisfactorily about my work.
Clara Clemens confirmed Isabel’s peculiar account in a letter she wrote to a friend several days after the incident: “Miss Lyon was pursued by that donkey that killed two men & injured a third, & although she escaped him the shock was so great on her nerves that she has been lying ever since half unconscious with a pulse so weak that part of the time it can’t be felt. So you know the nurse said today she was afraid Miss Lyon might die & if she didn’t die that she would be ill for several months with nervous prostration.” Twain wrote to his publisher, Frederick A. Duneka, general manager of Harper and Brothers, blaming the donkey attack for the “sudden standstill” in his writing, and reporting that Isabel’s “life was about frightened out of her—since which time she has lain half-conscious in her bed at home, and the doctors cannot foretell what the outcome will be.” The dictations would not resume until the end of March.
February proved to be a difficult month not just for Isabel, but for Twain, Olivia, and Clara as well. Twenty-nine-year-old Clara had long chafed under the strict restrictions her parents had set for her, and after Susy’s death their grip had tightened. Twain insisted that his daughter be chaperoned, and begrudged any potential suitors paying attention to her. While Europe normally held great appeal for her, she had only reluctantly accompanied her parents and sister to Italy. She resented being treated like a child and was desperate to strike out on her own and lead an independent life. The depth of her resentment and animosity was revealed in a letter she wrote to her close friend Dorothea Gilder (daughter of Richard Watson Gilder, a prominent poet, editor in chief of the Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, and founder of the Authors’ Club). Sure that her friend, who was younger by eight years, would keep her confidence, Clara confessed her guilt to Dorothea about an awful incident involving a screaming confrontation with her father—a rant, in fact, that the entire household had witnessed.
I have reached the very lowest stage a human being can drop. I have had an attack of what everyone in the house calls hysteria the one thing of all others I have always despised most.
I should not believe it had happened if I were not so lame & sore all over, today and seem curiously weak.
For Heaven’s sake I hope you never will be seized as I was yesterday for the shame on me today is indescribable, when one of the servants came in to my room this A.M. & said that all the servants wished to express their sympathy I felt as if I should never stop flushing.
I don’t know why I was so suddenly seized but at any rate I was seized by something & began to scream & curse & knocked down the furniture Etc. Etc. ’till everyone of course came running & in my father’s presence I said I hated him hated my mother hoped they would all die & if they didn’t succeed soon I would kill them, well on & on for more than an hour, I don’t know all I said but mother hearing the noise & being told that I was overwrought got a heart attack and as you can imagine today I can hardly meet anyone’s eyes. Of course I am as hoarse as a crow & am terribly bruised from knocking myself against things. Doesn’t it sound like the commonest vulgarest actress? It all comes of controlling controlling controlling one’s self ’till one just bursts at last in despair. The whole winter has been & still is ghastly, my mother has been growing steadily worse, the doctor’s tone is always discouraging, there is constant war with that Countess & my father is trying to sue her (with right of course) we expect to leave to move out of the house any minute & there it is, my mother couldn’t be moved if the house were burning. …
I should think everyone would consider it dangerous to come near our family. …
I never had such a strange feeling before in my life as I have today, I keep blushing at intervals & then feeling resentful—do tell me have you ever acted so that people were frightened away from you & admitted to you afterwards they thought you were insane? If you haven’t I pray you never will. I am in bed half the time nowadays anyway but this minute it seems to me I should like never leave it.
This is not exactly a letter it’s sort of a “please do tell me that you have or that you know some one that had a similar attack,” it seems to me I don’t belong in good society anymore. very affectionately yrs. C.C.
Clara later pleaded with Dorothea to destroy the letter, yet her friend ignored her wishes. Clara’s ferocious outburst proved more than Olivia could bear, and the stress only added to her nearly constant pain.
Isabel Lyon had no physical contact with the “other” lady of the house during this period; within her writings, there survives only one document that links her and Olivia at this time. During the month of March, Isabel sent Olivia a brief note on behalf of Twain asking if she remembered an expected visitor, Katherine Bates. Olivia wrote back at the bottom of the note that she did and that if she was well enough when Miss Bates visited Florence she would be happy to see her. Although the two women were part of the same household, they occupied separate compartments of Twain’s life. Now, both were seriously ailing simultaneously, and Clara made her own bid for attention and retreated to her bed as well. One can only imagine Twain’s sense of being under siege. As someone who was accustomed to having his needs met immediately and everyone’s attention focused on him, this change in the balance of the household must have proven to be enormously unsettling.
Isabel knew about Clara’s breakdown and the ugly threats she had made against her mother and father, although she was far too circumspect to comment directly in her journal about what had happened. A week after the incident, Isabel discreetly jotted down a note on a loose piece of paper that she had visited Clara, “to have a word with her.” Isabel now was privy to powerful, intimate knowledge about the family and had gained frightening insight into Clara’s emotional state of mind. At the same time, Clara realized that Isabel possessed information about this highly embarrassing personal episode in her life and that realization must have caused her considerable discomfort. Shortly afterward, Isabel gave Clara a new nickname in her writings: Santissima. In Italian, Santissima means the most saintly, the most revered, the most holy. A church in Florence dedicated to the Virgin Mother is named Santissima Annunziata. With this latest display of her fearsome temper Clara bore little resemblance to any saint, and Isabel’s seeming endearment may actually have functioned as a pointed parody of Clara’s troubled disposition. The two women would never again share an entirely comfortable relationship.
Writing to Harriet Whitmore less than a month after the incident, Isabel omitted any mention of Clara’s attack in her determinedly upbeat letter:
Mrs. Clemens has not had the good winter that the first weeks after her arrival promised—She has not left her room for a long long time, but she seems to be improving now—and all are hoping that the lovely Spring days will bring Strength with them.
Mr. Clemens is just up after two weeks in bed with hard bronchitis—he is still coughing a good deal.
Clara and Jean are quite well. Both are studying hard—and Clara is doing beautiful things with her voice. I am present at all her lessons, and the development is marvelous. Someone after hearing her sing, was heard to say “What a wonderful black Contralto from such a little creature!”
Italy is very beautiful these days—and the Villa di Quarto overlooks one of the loveliest views about Florence—Mr. Clemens sends many messages to you and to Mr. Whi
tmore.
On April 8, Olivia had another heart attack—this time with Clara in the room to witness her agony. Later that same month Twain confided to Henry Rogers, “The past week has been awful—she has had bad nights, and been obliged to sit up in bed for hours, in order to get her breath. … Three nights ago her pulse went up to 192, and nothing but a subcutaneous injection of brandy brought her back to life.”
The Clemens family’s troubles aside, at the end of February Isabel had made a friend outside of her immediate circle. Don Raffaello Stiattisi was a local priest from whom she began to take Italian lessons. Over the next few months, she grew very fond of the handsome priest and the two frequently spent time together. Her attraction to Don Raffaello, while genuine, certainly had a bit of the character of forbidden fruit to it in view of his priestly vocation. Nevertheless, the two had a number of outings together, sometimes accompanied by Clara or by Isabel’s mother, Georgiana. Isabel dreamily recounted a beautiful evening they had spent together:
Clara Clemens and Don Raffaello Stiattisi, Florence, Italy, 1904
We sat out of doors, heard lovely music and watched the city lights come out. The hills of Fiesole were a wonderful dark blue, a glorious sunset was making it all too beautiful, and the Arno stretched along like a pearl necklace, with its curving line of lights. Best of all, always and forever was Don Raffaello with his beautiful face, his lovely buoyancy of manner, and his great sweetness of soul. We stayed to watch the view, and to watch some intelligent young soldiers experimenting with a newly invented method of telegraphing, by means of flashes of light. We could see the answering flashed from a hill between Fiesole and Quarto and it was all too lovely. Then we took the train home, and walked from the Piazza del Duomo down to the hotel.
Mark Twain's Other Woman Page 5
