by Mark Twain
I happened to lift my eyes—that poor woman’s face was as white as marble! The French phrase stood translated! I did not read any more, and we hurriedly changed to some other topic.
As I have said, this was the last incident in Mrs. Clemens’s social life—a life in which she had been active and which she had enjoyed with all her heart from the days of her young girlhood. It was the last incident—it closed that volume. It prefaced the next and final volume of her existence in this earth.
At seven the next morning (August the 11th) I was wakened by a cry. I saw Mrs. Clemens standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the wall for support, and panting. She said “I am dying.”
I helped her back to the bed and sent for Dr. Leonard, a New York physician. He said it was a nervous break down, and that nothing but absolute rest, seclusion, and careful nursing, could help her. That was the beginning. During the twenty-two succeeding months she had for society, physicians and trained nurses only, broadly speaking.
The next sixty days were anxious ones for us. When we entered the month of October, it was a question if we could get her back to Riverdale. We could not venture transportation by Mr. Rogers’s yacht. She would not be able to endure the sea effect. At last we resolved to try the rather poor contrivance called an invalid’s car. I call it a poor contrivance because while it is spacious, and has plenty of room in it for all the friends and nurses and physicians you need, it has one very great defect—the invalid’s bed is stationary and immovable, and responds to every jump and jerk and whirl of the train, whereas if it were suspended from the roof by elastic ropes, hammock fashion, the invalid would never feel a jolt or a quiver. We secured a special train to take this car to Boston and around Boston. Then we hitched it to a regular express train which delivered us in the Grand Central Station in New York on time. A locomotive stood ready and waiting, and in fifteen minutes it delivered us at our home, Riverdale.
The Siege and Season of Unveracity.
The burly English butler carried Mrs. Clemens up stairs to her bed and left her there with the trained nurse. When he closed that bedroom door he shut the truth out from that bed-chamber forever more. The physician, Dr. Moffat, came once or twice a day and remained a few minutes. If any doctor-lies were needed he faithfully furnished them. When the trained nurse was on duty she furnished such lies as were needful. Clara stood a daily watch of three or four hours, and hers was a hard office indeed. Daily she sealed up in her heart a dozen dangerous truths, and thus saved her mother’s life and hope and happiness with holy lies. She had never told her mother a lie in her life before, and I may almost say that she never told her a truth afterward. It was fortunate for us all that Clara’s reputation for truthfulness was so well established in her mother’s mind. It was our daily protection from disaster. The mother never doubted Clara’s word. Clara could tell her large improbabilities without exciting any suspicion, whereas if I had tried to market even a small and simple one the case would have been different. I was never able to get a reputation like Clara’s. It would have been useful to me now, but it was too late to begin the labor of securing it, and I furnished no information in the bed-chamber. But my protection lay in the fact that I was allowed in the bed-chamber only once a day, then for only two minutes. The nurse stood at the door with her watch in her hand and turned me out when the time was up.
My room was next to Mrs. Clemens’s, with a large bath-room between. I could not talk with her, but I could correspond by writing. Every night I slipped a letter under the bath-room door that opened near her bed—a letter which contained no information about current events, and could do no harm. She responded, with pencil, once or twice a day—at first at some length, but as the months dragged along and her strength grew feebler, she put her daily message of love in trembling characters upon little scraps of paper, and this she continued until the day she died.
I have mentioned that Clara’s post was difficult, and indeed it was.
Thursday, June 7, 1906
The difficulties of Clara’s position during her mother’s and Jean’s illness—The Susy Crane letter—Mr. Clemens’s version of Mr. Howells’s story—Taking Mrs. Clemens to Florence, and her death, there.
Several times, in letters written to friends, in those days, I furnished illustrations of the difficulties of Clara’s position. One of these letters was written to Susy Crane at the end of 1902, two months and a half after we had come back from York Harbor.
Some days before Christmas, Jean came in from a long romp in the snow, in the way of coasting, skeeing, and so on, with the young Dodges, and she sat down, perspiring, with her furs on, and was presently struck with a violent chill. She fell into the doctor’s hands at once, and by Christmas Eve was become very ill. The disease was double pneumonia. From that time onward, to and beyond the date of this letter, her case was alarming. During all this time her mother never suspected that anything was wrong. She questioned Clara every day concerning Jean’s health, spirits, clothes, employments and amusements, and how she was enjoying herself; and Clara furnished the information right along, in minute detail—every word of it false, of course. Every day she had to tell how Jean dressed; and in time she got so tired of using Jean’s existing clothes over and over again, and trying to get new effects out of them, that finally, as a relief to her hard-worked invention she got to adding imaginary clothes to Jean’s wardrobe, and would probably have doubled it and trebled it if a warning note in her mother’s comments had not admonished her that she was spending more money on these spectral gowns and things than the family income justified.
Of course Jean had to have a professional nurse, and a woman named Tobin was engaged for that office. Jean’s room was at the other end of the house from her mother’s quarters; and so, doctors and nurses could come and go without their presence being detected by Mrs. Clemens. During the middle, or the end, of January, Jean had become able to be about, and the doctor ordered a change of scene for her. He said she must be taken South, to Old Point Comfort, and this was done. Katy and Miss Tobin accompanied her, and she remained at Old Point Comfort several weeks. The orders were to stay six weeks, but neither Jean nor Katy could endure that trained nurse, and they returned to Riverdale before the term was up.
During the whole of Jean’s absence Mrs. Clemens was happy in the thought that she was on the premises; that she was in blooming health; that she was having as joyous a time as any young girl in the region. Clara kept her mother posted, every day, concerning Jean’s movements. On one day she would report Jean as being busy with her wood-carving; the next day she would have Jean hard at work at her language-studies; the day after, she would report Jean as being busy typewriting literature for me. In the course of time she got as tired of these worn stage-properties as she had of Jean’s clothes, before.
I will here insert the Susy Crane letter.
Clara’s Day.
In bed, 9 p.m.
Riverdale, Dec. 29/02.
Susy dear, two hours ago, Clara was recounting her day to me. Of course I can’t get any of it right, there’s so much detail; but with your York Harbor experience of the hardships attendant upon sick-room lying, you will get an idea, at any rate, of what a time that poor child has every day, picking her way through traps and pitfalls, and just barely escaping destruction two or three times in every hour.
[To-day. Jean’s other lung attacked; a crisis expected to-night—Dr. Janeway to be summoned in the morning. Our doctor is to stay all night.]
Of course Clara does not go to her Monday lesson in New York to-day, on Jean’s account—but FORGETS that fact, and enters her mother’s room (where she has no business to be,) toward train-time, dressed in a wrapper.
Livy. Why Clara, aren’t you going to your lesson?
Clara. (Almost caught). Yes.
Livy. In that costume?
Cl. Oh, no.
L. Well, you can’t make your train, it’s impossible.
Cl. I know, but I’m going to take the o
ther one.
L. Indeed that won’t do—you’ll be ever so much too late for your lesson.
Cl. No, the lesson-time has been put an hour later. [Lie.]
L. (Satisfied. Then suddenly). But Clara, that train and the late lesson together will make you late to Mrs. Hapgood’s luncheon.
Cl. No, the train leaves fifteen minutes earlier than it used to. [Lie.]
L. (Satisfied). Tell Mrs. Hapgood etc. etc. etc. (which Clara promises to do). Clara dear, after the luncheon—I hate to put this on you—but could you do two or three little shopping-errands for me?—it is a pity to send Miss Lyon all the way to New York for so little.
Cl. Oh, it won’t trouble me a bit—I can do it. (Takes a list of the things she is to buy—a list which she will presently hand to Miss Lyon and send her to New York to make the purchases).
L. (Reflectively). What is that name? Tobin—Toby—no, it’s Tobin—Miss Tobin.
Cl. (Turning cold to the marrow, but exhibiting nothing—Miss Tobin is Jean’s trained nurse). What about Tobin—or Miss Tobin? Who is it?
L. A nurse—trained nurse. They say she is very good, and not talkative. Have you seen her?
Cl. (Desperately—not knowing anything to say in this mysterious emergency). Seen her? A Miss Tobin? No. Who is it?
L. (To Clara’s vast relief). Oh, I don’t know. The doctor spoke of her—and praised her. I suppose it was a hint that we need another. But I didn’t respond, and he dropped the matter. Miss Sherry is enough; we don’t need another. If he approaches you about it, discourage him. I think it is time you were dressing, dear—remember and tell Mrs. Hapgood what I told you.
[Exit Clara—still alive—finds Miss Sherry waiting in the hall. They rehearse some lies together for mutual protection. Clara goes and hovers around in Jean’s part of the house and pays her frequent visits of a couple of minutes but does not allow her to talk. At 3 or 4 p.m. takes the things Miss Lyon has brought from New York; studies over her part a little, then goes to her mother’s room.]
Livy. It’s very good of you, dear. Of course if I had known it was going to be so snowy and drizzly and sloppy I wouldn’t have asked you to buy them. Did you get wet?
Cl. Oh, nothing to hurt.
L. You took a cab, both ways?
Cl. Not from the station to the lesson—the weather was good enough till that was over.
L. Well, now, tell me everything Mrs. Hapgood said.
[Clara tells her a long story, avoiding novelties and surprises and anything likely to inspire questions difficult to answer; and of course detailing the menu, for if it had been the feeding of the five thousand, Livy would have insisted on knowing what kind of bread it was and how the fishes were served. By and by, while talking of something else—]
Livy. CLAMS!—in the end of December. Are you sure it was clams?
Cl. I didn’t say cl— I meant blue-points.
L. (Tranquillized). It seemed odd. What is Jean doing?
Cl. She said she was going to do a little typewriting. [Lie, of course; Jean being hardly alive.]
L. Has she been out to-day?
Cl. Only a moment, right after luncheon. She was determined to go out again, but—
L. How did you know she was out?
Cl. (Saving herself in time). Katy told me. She was determined to go out again in the rain and snow, but I persuaded her to stay in.
L. (With moving and grateful admiration). Clara you are wonderful! the wise watch you keep over Jean, and the influence you have over her; it’s so lovely of you, and I tied here and can’t take care of her myself. (And she goes on with these undeserved praises till Clara is expiring with shame). How did John Howells seem yesterday?
Cl. Oh, he was very well. Of course it seemed pretty desolate in that big dining room with only two at table.
L. Why only two?
Cl. (Stupidly). Well—er—papa doesn’t count.
L. But doesn’t Jean count?
Cl. (Almost caught again). Why, yes, she counts of course,—makes up the number—but she doesn’t say anything—never talks.
L. Did she walk with you?
Cl. A little way. Then we met the Dodges and she went off coasting with them.
L. (Wonderingly). Sunday?
Cl. (Up a stump for a moment). Well, they don’t every Sunday. They didn’t last Sunday.
[Livy was apparently satisfied. Jean said, some weeks ago, that Clara is the only person who can tell her mother an improbable lie and get it believed; and that it is because Clara has never before told her any lies.]
L. When did Mark Hambourg come?
Cl. Just as John was leaving.
L. I kept waiting to hear the piano. Wasn’t it dull for him with no music? Why didn’t you take him to the piano?
Cl. I did offer, but he had a headache. [Lie.]
[The piano is too close to Jean—it would have disturbed her.]
This is a pretty rude sketch, Aunt Sue, and all the fine things are left out—I mean the exceedingly close places which Clara is constantly getting into and then slipping out just alive by a happy miracle of impromptu subterfuge and fraud. The whole thing would be funny, if it were not so heart-breakingly pathetic and tragic.
I have the strongest desire to call you to us, but the doctor wouldn’t let you see Livy; and if he did—but he wouldn’t.
Dec. 30. 6 a.m.—(which is about dawn). I have been up to Jean’s room, and find all quiet there—Jean sleeping. Miss Tobin whispered, “She has had a splendid night.” The doctor (and Clara) had put in an appearance a couple of times in the night and gone back to bed, finding things going well.
SLC
When one considers that Clara had been practising these ingenuities for two months and a half, and that she was to continue to practise them daily for a year and a half longer, one gets something of a realizing sense of the difficulties and perils of the office she was filling. I will furnish here another sample.
Letter to Reverend Joseph H. Twichell.
Riverdale-on-the-Hudson
The Last day of a—in some respects—
Tough Year, being A.D. 1902.
Dear Joe—
It is 10 a.m., and the post has just brought your good greeting of yesterday. Yesterday at mid-afternoon there was a memorable episode: I was in Livy’s presence two minutes and odd, (the trained nurse holding the watch in her hand) for the first time in three and a half months.
Livy was radiant! (And I didn’t spoil it by saying, “Jean is lying low with pneumonia these seven days.”)
[A good deal of the rest of the week, Joe, can be found in my Christmas story (Harper’s) entitled “Was it Heaven? Or Hell?” which is largely a true story and was written in York Harbor in August or September.]
In that story mother and daughter are ill, and the lying is attended to by a pair of aged aunts—assisted by the doctor, of course, though I suppress his share to make the story short. In this Riverdale home the liars are the doctor, Clara, and Miss Sherry (Livy’s trained nurse). Those are the regulars. I am to see Livy again to-day for two or three minutes, and it is possible that she may say “Who was it you were talking with at breakfast?—I made out a man’s voice.” (And confuse me.) (The man was the doctor; he spends his nights here with Jean, and is not due to visit Livy until noon—he lives two or three miles away.) She sent Miss Sherry down to ask that question, during breakfast. We three consulted, and sent back word it was a stranger. It will be like Livy to ask me what stranger it was. Therefore I am to go prepared with a stranger calculated to fill the bill.
