Stormfield was solemn and empty without Mark Twain; but he wrote by
every steamer, at first with his own hand, and during the last week by
the hand of one of his enlisted secretaries--some member of the
Allen family usually Helen. His letters were full of brightness and
pleasantry--always concerned more or less with business matters, though
he was no longer disturbed by them, for Bermuda was too peaceful and too
far away, and, besides, he had faith in the Mark Twain Company's ability
to look after his affairs. I cannot do better, I believe, than to offer
some portions of these letters here.
He reached Bermuda on the 7th of January, 1910, and on the 12th he
wrote:
Again I am living the ideal life. There is nothing to mar it but
the bloody-minded bandit Arthur,--[A small playmate of Helen's of
whom Clemens pretended to be fiercely jealous. Once he wrote a
memorandum to Helen: “Let Arthur read this book. There is a page in
it that is poisoned.”]--who still fetches and carries Helen.
Presently he will be found drowned. Claude comes to Bay House twice
a day to see if I need any service. He is invaluable. There was a
military lecture last night at the Officers' Mess Prospect; as the
lecturer honored me with a special urgent invitation, and said he
wanted to lecture to me particularly, I naturally took Helen and her
mother into the private carriage and went.
As soon as we landed at the door with the crowd the Governor came to
me& was very cordial. I “met up” with that charming Colonel Chapman
[we had known him on the previous visit] and other officers of the
regiment & had a good time.
A few days later he wrote:
Thanks for your letter & for its contenting news of the situation in
that foreign & far-off & vaguely remembered country where you &
Loomis & Lark and other beloved friends are.
I had a letter from Clara this morning. She is solicitous & wants
me well & watchfully taken care of. My, my, she ought to see Helen
& her parents & Claude administer that trust. Also she says, “I
hope to hear from you or Mr. Paine very soon.”
I am writing her & I know you will respond to your part of her
prayer. She is pretty desolate now after Jean's emancipation--the
only kindness that God ever did that poor, unoffending child in all
her hard life.
Send Clara a copy of Howells's gorgeous letter.
The “gorgeous letter” mentioned was an appreciation of his recent Bazar
article, “The Turning-Point in My Life,” and here follows:
January 18, 1910.
DEAR CLEMENS,--While your wonderful words are warm in my mind yet I
want to tell you what you know already: that you never wrote
anything greater, finer, than that turning-point paper of yours.
I shall feel it honor enough if they put on my tombstone “He was
born in the same century and general section of Middle Western
country with Dr. S. L. Clemens, Oxon., and had his degree three
years before him through a mistake of the University.”
I hope you are worse. You will never be riper for a purely
intellectual life, and it is a pity to have you lagging along with a
worn-out material body on top of your soul.
Yours ever,
W. D. HOWELLS.
On the margin of this letter Clemens had written:
I reckon this spontaneous outburst from the first critic of the day
is good to keep, ain't it, Paine?
January 24th he wrote again of his contentment:
Life continues here the same as usual. There isn't a fault in it
--good times, good home, tranquil contentment all day & every day
without a break. I know familiarly several very satisfactory people
& meet them frequently: Mr. Hamilton, the Sloanes, Mr. & Mrs. Fells,
Miss Waterman, & so on. I shouldn't know how to go about bettering
my situation.
On February 5th he wrote that the climate and condition of his health
might require him to stay in Bermuda pretty continuously, but that he
wished Stormfield kept open so that he might come to it at any time. And
he added:
Yesterday Mr. Allen took us on an excursion in Mr. Hamilton's big
motor-boat. Present: Mrs. Allen, Mr. & Mrs. & Miss Sloane, Helen,
Mildred Howells, Claude, & me. Several hours' swift skimming over
ravishing blue seas, a brilliant sun; also a couple of hours of
picnicking & lazying under the cedars in a secluded place.
The Orotava is arriving with 260 passengers--I shall get letters by
her, no doubt.
P. S.--Please send me the Standard Unabridged that is on the table in
my bedroom. I have no dictionary here.
There is no mention in any of these letters of his trouble; but he was
having occasional spasms of pain, though in that soft climate they
would seem to have come with less frequency, and there was so little to
disturb him, and much that contributed to his peace. Among the callers
at the Bay House to see him was Woodrow Wilson, and the two put in some
pleasant hours at miniature golf, “putting” on the Allen lawn. Of course
a catastrophe would come along now and then--such things could not
always be guarded against. In a letter toward the end of February he
wrote: It is 2.30 in the morning & I am writing because I can't sleep.
I can't sleep because a professional pianist is coming to-morrow
afternoon to play for me. My God! I wouldn't allow Paderewski or
Gabrilowitsch to do that. I would rather have a leg amputated.
I knew he was coming, but I never dreamed it was to play for me.
When I heard the horrible news 4 hours ago, be d---d if I didn't
come near screaming. I meant to slip out and be absent, but now I
can't. Don't pray for me. The thing is just as d---d bad as it can
be already.
Clemens's love for music did not include the piano, except for very
gentle melodies, and he probably did not anticipate these from a
professional player. He did not report the sequel of the matter; but it
is likely that his imagination had discounted its tortures. Sometimes
his letters were pure nonsense. Once he sent a sheet, on one side of
which was written:
BAY HOUSE,
March s, 1910.
Received of S. L. C.
Two Dollars and Forty Cents
in return for my promise to believe everything he says
hereafter.
HELEN S. ALLEN.
and on the reverse: