Mark Twain: Man in White Part 3

Her father liked the young Russian and enjoyed debating political questions with him. Clara was pleased by the verbal fireworks that broke out whenever the two men disagreed over some controversial issue of the day. "The Slav temperament against the West-Southern," she later wrote, "provided a thrilling duel of intellects." They were in complete accord, however, on the evil effects of racial prejudice. When Ossip-who was Jewish-brought up the issue of the "persecutions and brutal injustice" that his people had suffered, Twain responded that anti-Semitism arose from "the swollen envy of pigmy minds."

In 1903, Gabrilowitsch concluded a highly successful series of American concerts and returned to Europe in triumph. But Clara didn't follow him. Though they corresponded, they kept their distance from each other and remained out of touch for long periods, and "knew nothing of each other's lives," as Clara later put it. While Clara was developing a new relationship with Charles Wark, Ossip was involved in a brief but pa.s.sionate affair with Alma Mahler, the wife of the great composer.22 Thoroughly mystified by these developments, Twain seems to have a.s.sumed that Clara would never marry. In Redding, he hoped, his daughters would always have a home like the one in that other part of Connecticut where they had grown up under their mother's close supervision. Before debts and illness had forced its surrender, hastening the end of her own life, Livy had expected that the Hartford house would always remain in the family. Selling it had seemed unthinkable. And though it had fallen into other hands, Twain now had the chance to begin a new life in a house almost as lovely and grand as the old one. Given the history of his long search for such a place, the name Autobiography House was especially appropriate for the Redding home. His work would finance its construction, and the finished structure would also provide the setting of his life's last chapter.

You ought never to have any part of the audience behind you; you can never tell what they are going to do.

MARK TWAIN.

PART TWO.

AMERICAN IDOL.

The American press exulted in the daily reports of Twain's successful visit to England and gave it enormous coverage, portraying it as a national triumph.

SIX.

College of One.

If everybody was satisfied with himself, there would be no heroes.

Mark Twain.

WHEN TWAIN FIRST RECEIVED NEWS of the Oxford degree, his impulse was to make quick work of the trip and to return home as soon as possible. He was worried about overtaxing his health and didn't want to risk falling ill overseas-always a possibility at his age, and something he particularly dreaded. His plan was to stay in England for about ten days, with seven of those reserved for London. That would allow just enough time, he reasoned, for a little "private dissipation" and a round of "last good-byeing with old friends whom I shan't meet again without their haloes." (On second thought, he added, "there's one or two whom I shan't ever meet with them. I am sorry for that, for they are among the best of the flock.")2 Twain had a soft spot in his heart for Britain. During eight previous visits he had lived in the country for months at a time, and had come to know it well. His irreverent but low-key humor always found a warm response among the British, who enjoyed the often subtle way that he teased them, and his witty criticisms encouraged them to laugh at their own prejudices and insecurities. When a very proper English gentleman once questioned his American habit of carrying a cheap cotton umbrella, he solemnly explained that it "was the only kind of an umbrella that an Englishman wouldn't steal." Far from causing offense, this remark was widely repeated in London and chuckled over for days.3 Though his view of British inst.i.tutions and policies had suffered its ups and down, he was always fond of the people and the land. On his first visit-in 1872-he was so impressed by the warm welcome that he had told Livy in an outburst of enthusiasm, "I would rather live in England than America-which is treason." His early visits to such major landmarks as the Tower of London and Warwick Castle helped to make English history come alive for him, and continued to fire his imagination in later years as he worked on The Prince and the Pauper and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.4 Much of the romance that he found in the nation's history was connected to his infatuation with the beauty of the countryside. He loved exploring it, especially when the season was right. "The summer in England!" he once exclaimed after learning that William Dean Howells was planning a tour of Britain. "You can't ask better luck than that," he told Howells. Of the rural landscape, he wrote, "England is too absolutely beautiful to be left out doors-ought to be under a gla.s.s case."5 As soon as the news of his impending return to England had been widely circulated, dozens of cables and letters arrived pleading with him to attend events of all kinds-private luncheons and teas, charity and club dinners, public receptions and garden parties. Most people seemed to understand that this would likely be his final trip to Europe, and n.o.body wanted to miss the last chance to see the great Mark Twain.

Wisely, Paine advised him that "England was not going to confer its greatest collegiate honor without first being permitted to pay its wider and more popular tribute." Twain thought it over and decided to use the Oxford occasion as an excuse for turning his trip into a more elaborate public farewell. Instead of staying for a week or so, he agreed to extend his visit to almost a month. The effect of this decision was to transform his stay into something of a national celebration, allowing the press and his loyal readers to reflect at length on his accomplishments and his charms. He couldn't have asked for anything better.6 He discussed his plans with Jean, going out to see her in Katonah near the end of May. They had a good time together, partly because it was just the two of them. On a previous visit he had been accompanied by Isabel Lyon. Afterward, Jean wrote, "Father came & we had a real visit this time, without Miss Lyon & over an hour in length." Though Lyon tried to disguise it, Jean knew that the secretary wasn't comfortable visiting Katonah and was often quick to find fault with her. "When Miss Lyon is about," she wrote, "I am always more painfully conscious of my ignorance and stupidities."7 She was so proud of her father's Oxford degree that she wanted to go along on the voyage, but knew it was impossible. Saying goodbye to him over the telephone on the day of his departure was heart-wrenching. "It was fearfully painful to hear his voice," she wrote in her diary, "& not be able to see or squeeze him. To think of his going abroad without one is horrible."8 Clara expressed no desire to accompany her father. She was too absorbed in her own affairs. But she did worry about him being away for so long. Her biggest concern was that he might do something to make himself and the family look foolish. She urged him to act with decorum and wrote out a list of things he shouldn't do while in England. As she said her goodbyes to him at the pier, she slipped the list into his hand and said, "Read it when you get aboard the ship."

High on the list was the admonition "Don't ... wear white clothes on ship or sh.o.r.e until you get back." Twain would make an effort to follow her instructions, but with mixed results.9 Isabel Lyon wanted to accompany her boss overseas, but Clara seems to have advised her not to go. Rumors about the secretary's relationship with Twain were beginning to circulate in America, especially after press reports of his Annapolis trip mentioned her as his sole companion. No doubt Clara didn't consider it a good idea for Lyon to be seen at Twain's side when so much attention would be focused on him in England. But the secretary didn't like being left behind. She was disconsolate for days and had difficulty sleeping at night. Because she shared Clara's fears that Twain would embarra.s.s himself in some way, she regretted not being able to keep him under her watchful eye.

"When the King is on the ocean there is anxiety," she noted solemnly in her journal; "but there is more anxiety of another kind when he is on land. ... He 'scares us to death,' with his inclination for the unconventional."10 As his companion and a.s.sistant for the trip, Twain chose a young man of thirty-two who was a relative newcomer to his circle. Ralph Ashcroft had known the author for only a few years, and their dealings with each other had been limited to financial matters. As secretary-treasurer of the Plasmon Company-the manufacturer of a nutritional powder-Ashcroft had become a business ally of Twain, who was a major investor in the company and who had great hopes for the powder's future as a high-protein food. Like most of the investments he made on his own, this was a bad one, and he would lose around $50,000 in the end. But Ashcroft was able to convince him that he had his interests at heart and was doing his best to protect them from the greedy intrigues of other shareholders.

Twain's faith in Plasmon encouraged him to think the best of the young businessman. He raved about the company's product to all his friends and advised them to invest heavily in its stock. "I'm afraid you think Plasmon is a speculative thing," he told Henry Rogers, "but really it isn't." In all seriousness Twain advised Rogers that Standard Oil should "buy control of the company." Of course, his friend laughed off the idea. Likewise, William Dean Howells found entertainment in Twain's blind devotion to the new super-food. "I was not surprised to learn," Howells recalled, "that the d.a.m.ned human race was to be saved by Plasmon, if anything, and that my first duty was to visit the Plasmon agency with him, and procure enough to secure my family against the ills it was heir to for evermore."11 Twain would come to regret putting his trust in Ashcroft, but at this stage the young man appeared to be a good choice as a companion for the trip overseas. He was English by birth and knew his way around London. A dapper fellow with a Vand.y.k.e beard, he had a smooth, amiable manner and seemed hardworking and efficient. More important, he gave the impression that he would be happy to stay in the background and selflessly attend to the writer's every need. It also helped that Lyon approved of him, though she worried that he would be too "timid" with Twain and fail to stop him "doing thoughtless things."

But he was in no doubt about his princ.i.p.al duty. As he later told an English journalist, he was supposed "to see that Mark behaves himself."12 With Ashcroft at his side, Twain left for England on June 8, sailing from New York on the big modern liner Minneapolis. It was forty years to the day that the Quaker City had set sail for the Mediterranean, taking the young Mark Twain on the voyage that would result in his first great literary triumph-The Innocents Abroad. On that trip-with his whole career ahead of him-he had been full of high hopes. It was his first crossing of the Atlantic, and he had been eager to make his name as a world traveler. "I feel good-I feel d--d good," the thirty-one-year-old writer had scribbled at two A.M. on June 8, 1867. He had stayed up all night drinking with friends, unable to sleep because he couldn't wait to get started. The journey lasted almost six months and altered the course of his life.13 Now, as an old man whose auburn curls of youth had long since turned white, he was preparing to receive one last burst of international acclaim. It isn't surprising that as he stood at the rail and gazed out at the skyline, he felt a wave of nostalgia come over him. So much had changed since he had observed the harbor from the deck of the old Quaker City-a paddlewheel steamship built before the Civil War. The new age of skysc.r.a.pers was in full bloom now, with some buildings rising as high as three hundred feet and overshadowing the church spires that had dominated the scene in his young manhood.

The new view didn't impress him. "By daylight these skysc.r.a.pers make the city look ugly," he had observed on an earlier occasion. To his eyes, the rising skyline was no more pleasing to look at than "a cemetery with all monuments and no gravestones."14 While the ship was preparing to sail, reporters went aboard and found Twain bundled up in an overcoat. Although it was a sunny Sat.u.r.day afternoon, he was apparently antic.i.p.ating a stormy voyage. His mood was solemn. Even his cigar had temporarily failed to brighten his outlook. He threw it overboard and rashly declared that he would never smoke again, then changed his mind a moment later and began searching for another cigar. One newspaperman noted that "there was a faint suspicion of moisture in his eyes as he declared that this might be his last visit to London."

Trying to shift to a less emotional subject, reporters asked what he was working on. Twain explained that he was trying to pile up as many pages of his autobiography as possible before he died. It was a demanding job and kept him busy "twenty-six hours a day." The result would shock many people, he said. "I have made it as caustic, fiendish, and devilish as I possibly could. I have spared no one. It will make people's hair curl. Even Mrs. Eddy's friends are there, all right."

But he confessed that it was such a devastatingly honest and unsparing masterpiece that he would have to postpone its publication. "I don't want it published until after I am dead," he explained, then thought for a moment and added, "I want to be thoroughly dead when it is published. No rumors, but really dead. ... It will occupy many volumes, and I will go right on writing until I am called to the angels and receive a harp."15 Teasing journalists was always good sport, and brought a twinkle to his eye. By the time the ship was at sea, his mood was upbeat, and he began to mingle with the other pa.s.sengers in a free and easy way. Besides the crew, there were only 150 people sharing the voyage with him. Though the ship was big, it doubled as a cargo vessel, and therefore its number of pa.s.sengers was relatively small. The result was that a casual, almost family-like atmosphere prevailed aboard the Minneapolis. Twain seemed to prefer it that way, though he joked beforehand that he had booked his pa.s.sage on "a cattle boat."16 ...

AMONG HIS FELLOW Pa.s.sENGERS on this luxurious "cattle boat" was Archibald Henderson, a mult.i.talented professor of mathematics at the University of North Carolina. Only twenty-nine years old, Henderson had already earned his doctorate and was branching out into other fields far removed from mathematics. After making a study of George Bernard Shaw's plays, he had corresponded with the dramatist and had obtained permission to write his biography. This project was his reason for being aboard the Minneapolis-he was going to London to meet his subject and to begin the research for the book. In effect, he would become for Shaw what Paine was for Mark Twain. Before the voyage was over, however, his fascination with Twain would grow to the point where he would want to write his biography, too. (Henderson's later requests to do a full-scale Life were politely refused by Isabel Lyon, writing on her employer's behalf.) On the morning of June 18, when the Minneapolis reached its berth at Tilbury Docks outside London, Twain was pleasantly surprised to find that large numbers of people were eagerly awaiting his arrival. The moment he arrived, the stevedores stopped what they were doing and gave him a loud welcome, tossing their caps and shouting a l.u.s.ty "hurrah!" Then a crowd of photographers and reporters descended on him and followed along as his luggage was loaded onto the train. They stayed with him on the ride to St. Pancras station in central London, where the tall figure of George Bernard Shaw was waiting to meet Professor Henderson. The two literary t.i.tans were introduced and exchanged warm greetings. "I had the pleasure," Henderson would recall, "of presenting to each other ... the greatest living humorist and the greatest living wit." Shaw said that he had just been telling a reporter how much he admired Twain. In fact, he had been explaining why he thought their works had important elements in common.

"He is in very much the same position as myself," Shaw had said of Twain. "He has to put matters in such a way as to make people who would otherwise hang him believe he is joking."17 It was an astute observation, and though the two were able to spend only a short time together at the railway station, they would meet again before the end of Twain's visit and enjoy a more leisurely conversation over lunch at Shaw's home.

The newspapers were soon full of stories about Twain's triumphant appearance on English soil. The London Daily Express explained why his arrival was worth celebrating: "He is just as much a national inst.i.tution on this side of the Atlantic as he is in his native country. The fact that he was born in America merely const.i.tutes him a citizen of the United States for voting purposes. Otherwise he is a citizen of the English-speaking world." There was so much coverage of his visit that an amazed correspondent from a New York paper cabled home the observation that Twain was "receiving as much attention as would a European potentate." One of the few complaints from the British press was that the conquering hero had chosen to come in a "pale-grey lounge suit" and black bowler. Where, the reporters wondered, was "the famous suit of white, the costume that set two continents talking"?18 ...

DURING HIS VISIT to England, Twain spent most of his time in London, where he established a convenient headquarters in fashionable Mayfair. Tucked away on a quiet street just off Piccadilly, his hotel, Brown's, was not as new as the Ritz nor as grand as Claridge's, but its high ceilings and oak-paneled interiors were comfortable, and its white Georgian facade was elegant without being ostentatious. Of medium size, Brown's Hotel was a favorite with well-to-do Americans, such as Andrew Carnegie and the Roosevelt family. In 1886, when Theodore Roosevelt stayed there during preparations for his wedding to Edith Carow, he was unknown in England and identified himself as a "ranchman." Twenty years later, when his young relations Franklin and Eleanor spent a week of their honeymoon at the hotel, they were given the best rooms-the Royal Suite-because they were, in the words of the bride, "identified with Uncle Ted."19 Twain was so pleased with Brown's that he didn't seem to mind its a.s.sociation with the Roosevelts. Normally, that would have been enough to disqualify it. After all, he had taken a dislike to William Howard Taft simply because he was Roosevelt's vice president, ridiculing him as "Roosevelt's miscarriage preserved in alcohol." Fortunately, Brown's remained unspoiled for him. Its appeal wasn't based on its popularity, but on its simple dignity and quiet charm. He had savored both during an earlier visit, and was looking forward to enjoying them again. He scorned the larger hotels that were packed with tourists, and was grateful to have an old-fashioned but s.p.a.cious suite with a snug parlor and two bedrooms. "A blessed retreat of a sort now rare in England," he said of the hotel, "and becoming rarer every year."20 Spirits in high gear, Twain threw himself into a whirlwind of social activity during his free week before the ceremony in Oxford. He was kept busy seeing old friends, making several new ones, and paying his respects to the families of a few dead ones. He dined out at the Ritz, spoke to a luncheon attended by 250 people at the Hotel Savoy, and drew admiring crowds when he strolled down Piccadilly or wandered into Green Park. So great was the demand to entertain him that at least a dozen London clubs offered honorary memberships for the length of his stay. Ralph Ashcroft spent much of each day trying to answer all the letters and calls that poured into the hotel. On at least one occasion he stayed up until three in the morning writing replies on Twain's behalf.

Invited to tour Parliament shortly after his arrival, Twain was allowed the privilege of listening to the debates in the House of Lords from the gallery reserved for amba.s.sadors and visiting heads of state. A little later, visiting the Commons, he was welcomed by Prime Minister Henry Campbell-Bannerman and introduced to many of the leading politicians of the day, who gathered at an informal reception to shake his hand and trade quips. He already knew one of them-young Winston Churchill, then a restless MP working his way up the crowded ranks of his party.

At thirty-two, Churchill was slender, pale, and still in possession of a relatively full head of reddish brown hair. Though he was only a junior minister in the Colonial Office, he acted with all the confidence of someone who knew he would be running things sooner or later. "These are my views," he had recently written at the end of a long report to his superior, Lord Elgin, who acknowledged them with the curt reply "But not mine."21 Twain was familiar with Churchill's self-a.s.sured-some would say arrogant-manner. They had met at least twice before-first, at a London party given in the summer of 1899 by the Anglo-Canadian novelist and politician Sir Gilbert Parker; and then, a year later, at a lecture in New York, where Twain had introduced the Englishman to the audience with the words "By his father he is English, by his mother he is American-to my mind the blend which makes the perfect man." (Twain also used this occasion to criticize the imperialist conflict that had helped make the young man famous-the Boer War-though he praised Churchill's brave exploits in the field as a war correspondent and soldier.) Now, seeing him again at the House of Commons, he seems to have felt instinctively that, with his many advantages and high ambition, the politician was headed for real greatness. As he later noted in a dictation, everywhere he went during his trip he heard gossip about "that soaring and brilliant young statesman, Winston Churchill."22 At the House of Commons, Twain kept a relatively low profile. It was a different scene, however, when he went to Windsor on a pleasant Sat.u.r.day afternoon to attend one of the biggest events of the social season. The great occasion was the garden party given by King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, with eight thousand guests invited to take tea and stroll the vast lawns that stretched far beyond Windsor Castle's turrets and towers. Even dressed like other men in the traditional frock coat and silk hat worn on such occasions, Twain stood out. Before the day was over he managed to upstage everyone, including the royal couple.

"Mark Twain was admittedly the most popular man present," wrote the London correspondent of Harper's Weekly. "As he drove from the station to the castle he was kept incessantly bowing in response to the delighted cheers of the crowds. ... Half the notable men and women of the land hurried across the lawns to welcome him."23 Summoned to the royal pavilion, he spent almost a quarter of an hour chatting with the king and queen. Gazing over the scenery, he spoke of his admiration for Windsor and "its beautiful grounds," then offered to buy the castle. When the king good-naturedly declined to sell, Twain feigned disappointment. Later, he said it was only a rumor that he had tried to acquire the property, and added authoritatively, "I started it myself."24 Though he enjoyed teasing the king, he was well aware that it was a great honor to receive so much attention from the royal couple. Part of him could laugh at the pretensions of royalty, but another part was in awe of all the history they represented. Noting Twain's fascination with England's past, Howells was to recall that his friend "felt pa.s.sionately the splendor of the English monarchy, and there was a time when he gloried in that figurative poetry by which the king was phrased as 'the Majesty of England.' He rolled the words deep-throatedly out, and exulted in their beauty as if it were beyond any other glory of the world."25 Given the importance of Twain's visit, the American amba.s.sador-Whitelaw Reid-decided that a special tribute to the author was in order. Accordingly, he hosted a large party for Twain at Dorchester House in Park Lane. But he was motivated more by etiquette than sentiment. In fact, the amba.s.sador must have been one of the few Americans in England who didn't like Mark Twain.

There had been a bitter disagreement between the two men decades earlier, when Reid was editor of the New York Tribune, and Twain was an ambitious young writer trying to make the transition from popular humorist to novelist. Believing Twain's literary work was overrated, Reid had given a lukewarm response to the author's first novel-The Gilded Age, co-written with Charles Dudley Warner. When Twain realized where he stood with the powerful editor, he turned against him. For many years, each man had made a point of avoiding the other. Even after Reid moved away from journalism into politics and diplomacy, relations between them remained frosty, and now neither was happy to see the other in London. Twain didn't think their relationship would change "until Satan wants one of us and the New Jerusalem the other; the final result is not in our hands, but each of us thinks he knows how it will be."26 To complicate matters, both men were supposed to receive honorary degrees at Oxford on the same day. Knowing how things stood between the pair, Henry Rogers-who was touring Europe and was briefly in London-joked with Twain that "W.R." was the kind of person to "hog" all the limelight.27 But there was not much chance of that. Though Reid had served as amba.s.sador to France, and had run unsuccessfully for vice president with Benjamin Harrison in 1892, his fame was no match for his old adversary's.

For proof of that, the amba.s.sador needed only to observe how Twain was regarded by both the American and English guests who came to Dorchester House for the emba.s.sy party in his honor. Everyone wanted to hear what Twain had to say, especially the group of reporters waiting just beyond the door. They arrived with him and would leave with him. As soon as he emerged from Reid's party, they swarmed around him and followed him home. None of them was interested in a diplomat. But they couldn't get enough of Twain.

They were amazed at his energy. Though it was midnight when he left the party, he insisted on walking back to his hotel. One journalist wrote that the famous American was demonstrating considerable physical endurance for a man of his age: "Let it be stated that he stood-stood, not sat-for an hour and a half after dinner, smoking and talking, and then walked home three-quarters of a mile to his hotel." At the end of this long night of shadowing his subject, the weary journalist concluded that the author would "rather smoke than sleep."28 One of Twain's daily habits caused a minor sensation at his hotel. Since his arrival, he had been getting up at eight to visit the Bath Club across the street from Brown's. Each morning he went down to the lobby dressed only in a bathrobe and slippers. He then strolled over to the club and enjoyed a Turkish bath. Accompanying him at a discreet distance was Ralph Ashcroft, who had apparently been unable to talk him into wearing something more appropriate in public than a "white bathrobe with a beautiful, pale, convalescent blue stripe running all down it."29 The proper ladies and gentlemen of Mayfair who caught a glimpse of Twain's bare legs as he walked out of the hotel were shocked. Some stared in disbelief, others laughed. Soon these daily outings were being reported in both British and American papers. The hotel manager was apologetic, explaining to the press that "a great man like Mark Twain must be allowed to do as he pleases."

When reporters caught up with the author one morning after his return to the hotel and asked whether he understood that people were not used to seeing elderly men in bathrobes on the streets of London, he affected innocence and shrugged.

"I simply wanted to take a bath," he explained with a straight face, "and did the same thing I'd often done at the seaside. London is a sort of seaside town, isn't it?"30 Though the incident was soon forgotten in London, the headlines in New York provoked some indignant criticism from well-mannered Americans who thought Twain was giving his country a bad reputation. It was the old question of propriety again. A letter writer signing herself "An American Woman" complained to the New York Times that the famous humorist was a national disgrace: As a reasonable American I should like to know what treatment would be meted out to any Englishman behaving in a like manner in the Waldorf-Astoria. ... Every newspaper in the city would howl its indignation at the insult offered our beautiful city, especially if it occurred, as it has done in London, during the season. Is it any wonder our manners are sometimes called into question?31 This was the kind of criticism that Clara and Isabel Lyon had feared. And, indeed, they were mortified when they saw the press reports of Twain's public appearance in his bathrobe. "We never can tell what he will do next," Lyon fretted. Clara was so alarmed that she cabled a terse warning: "Much worried. Remember proprieties." Unrepentant, her father responded cheerfully, "They all pattern after me."32 Lord Curzon leads the way as Twain joins the procession to receive his honorary degree at Oxford University.

SEVEN.

A Yank at Oxford.

For twenty years I have been diligently trying to improve my own literature, and now, by virtue of the University of Oxford, I mean to doctor everybody else's.

Mark Twain.

JUST BEFORE NOON on Wednesday, June 26, a procession of some three dozen distinguished gentlemen and scholars left the Hall of Magdalen College and followed an indirect route through the streets of Oxford to the university's ornate seventeenth-century theater in nearby Broad Street. At the head of the group was the lean, august figure of George Nathaniel Curzon-a member of the Irish peerage and the eleventh viceroy of India. He had resigned his imperial office in 1905, but was still a vigorous, youthful man in his forties and wasn't ready to accept a life of ease in retirement. A former student and fellow at Oxford, he had recently been elected chancellor of the university, and on this warm and windy day in early summer, he was making his first major appearance in his new position.

Though he considered himself a progressive politician who had governed India with efficiency and fairness for six years, he liked old-fashioned pomp and ceremony and was happy to trade his modern suit and tie for an antique academic costume that included a heavy black gown with gold trim. Fond of fancy dress during his time in India-where he insisted with amusing eccentricity that his subordinates attend formal events in knee breeches rather than "take refuge in the less dangerous but irregular trouser"-he looked perfectly at ease walking beneath the old weather-stained towers and domes of the college buildings in his white ruffled neckerchief, silk stockings, buckle shoes, and knee breeches.2 Several paces behind him was a white-haired gentleman who appeared rather less comfortable in an academic gown of scarlet and gray. An early dropout of the frontier educational system of Hannibal, Missouri, Mark Twain couldn't help but feel a little out of place wearing the ceremonial outfit of a doctor of literature at one of the world's great universities. He hadn't attended a school of any kind since his early teens, and the ones he had known were mostly one-room establishments staffed by country teachers with little training and no time for ceremony.

At some point during the day's events, a press cameraman took a photograph that captured perfectly all the old-fashioned pomp of the procession. Seeming the very embodiment of aristocratic confidence, Curzon appears at one end of the picture striding purposefully ahead in his costume adorned with various emblems of his high station, and a.s.sisted by two pages wearing tricornered hats. On the other side of the photograph Twain can be seen awkwardly smoothing his unruly hair and tugging at his gown, the dark mortarboard riding uneasily on his large head. He is definitely the odd one in the picture, the self-made American who-like his fictional Yankee Hank Morgan-appears to have wandered back in time and is suddenly forced to do his best to cope with the inexplicable rituals of the Old World.

When the procession left the s.p.a.cious grounds of Magdalen College, the spectators lining the street helped to lighten the formal atmosphere by bursting into loud cheers. At first, it seemed as if they were giving a general welcome to each of the grand men in gowns who had been selected to receive honorary degrees at the day's convocation. Besides Mark Twain, there were several other world-famous figures in the procession whose mere appearance in public could cause tremendous excitement.

Among the most popular were Rudyard Kipling-who was walking directly behind Twain-and General William Booth of the Salvation Army, whose long white beard made him look like a biblical patriarch. Also prominent in the procession were Prince Arthur of Connaught; Henry Campbell-Bannerman; the foreign secretary, Edward Gray; the sculptor Auguste Rodin; and the composer Camille Saint-Saens. The rest of the group included more than a score of well-respected leaders in the fields of science, medicine, history, law, and religion.

But it soon became clear that all the enthusiastic cries and applause were directed at one man only. Realizing that the crowd's attention was focused on him, Mark Twain beamed with satisfaction. He waved and smiled as the noise grew louder, easing into his usual manner of walking, which a friend once described as "the rolling gait of a sailor." The spectators were ecstatic. Writing afterward to Jean, he said that he "prodigiously enjoyed" every moment of the town's spontaneous tribute to him. "I am glad I came, dear heart, very glad indeed."3 From his vantage point in the procession a few feet away from Twain, Rudyard Kipling looked on in wonder, amazed at the outpouring of affection. "All the people cheered Mark Twain," he observed. "And when they weren't cheering and shouting, you could hear the Kodak shutters click-clicking like gun locks."4 Both men were surprised by the energetic way that the spectators showed their feelings. As Kipling described it, "The street literally rose at him-men cheered him by name on all sides. Americans begged him to look at them on the grounds they were from such and such a state. Whole detachments of Englishmen shouted: 'good old Mark,' and he took off his mortarboard and smiled and waved his hand and seemed perfectly happy. It was glorious."5 Kipling took enormous pleasure in Oxford's enthusiastic response to a fellow author whom he had long admired. The two were friends and had known each other for almost twenty years. In 1889, as an ambitious writer of twenty-three with tremendous energy but relatively few publications, Kipling had made a pilgrimage to Twain's summer home in Elmira, showing up unannounced on his doorstep after searching the town for anyone who could tell him the whereabouts of Mr. Samuel Clemens. When he reached the right address, the earnest, bespectacled Kipling not only received a warm welcome from his hero, but was asked to stay for a while and talk. It didn't seem to matter that his small collection of work was then completely unknown to Twain.

"Well, you think you owe me something," the older author had said as they shook hands, "and you've come to tell me so. That's what I call squaring a debt handsomely."6 Still in awe of his friend, Kipling made a point now of hanging back a step or two during the procession, allowing Twain to have the triumphant moment all to himself. He wouldn't have had it otherwise, he later said, for he was determined to "enjoy Oxford's delight in [Twain] and his delight in it."7 When they finally reached the round hall of the university theater, its tiers and galleries were filled to capacity, and both undergraduates and faculty were eagerly stirring. One by one the honored guests entered the theater to receive their degrees and to hear Lord Curzon commend their achievements in Latin. The rowdy undergraduates cheered for their favorites and shouted out impertinent but good-natured remarks about the ceremony, making so much noise that few could hear the Latin readings, much less understand them.

While he waited his turn outside, Twain grew restless and took a break to smoke under an old archway. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do when his name was called, but he was prepared for anything. On his arrival in Oxford, one of his hosts had asked him in a clipped accent, "Come to Jesus?" Though that invitation had given him pause, he had accepted it. "I thought I was in for a revival meeting or something of that sort, but, being polite, I made no objections. Nevertheless, it was a great relief to find that my host meant Jesus College, where I had a mighty fine time."8 When his turn came to enter the university theater, he went in with Kipling, and the audience gave what all observers from the press agreed was the loudest reception of the day. "The great ovation was reserved for Mark Twain, who was the lion of the occasion," the New York Times correspondent wrote. "Everyone rose when he was escorted up the aisle and he was applauded for a quarter of an hour." Another reporter described this long ovation as a "veritable cyclone." According to Kipling, "even those dignified old Oxford dons stood up and yelled." As for the center of all this attention, Twain had joked at the time of his arrival in Britain that he would show the university "what a real American college boy looks like." Now he stood tall and soaked up the adulation while he let everyone feast their eyes on the white-haired wonder "boy" they were about to honor.9 When the crowd finally settled down, Curzon stepped to the rostrum and made the day complete for his guest by delivering in Latin a long sentence that sounds suitably grandiose even in English: "Most jocund, pleasant, and humorous man, who shakes the sides of all the circuit of the earth with your native merriment, I, by my authority and that of the entire university, admit you to the honorary degree of doctor of literature."10 At the end of the ceremony, a large group of undergraduates descended on Twain and practically carried him through the streets to the chancellor's luncheon at All Souls College. When he was able to break free and catch his breath, he looked around and found himself in the company of the student editor of a college newspaper. The student gathered his courage and requested a short interview. Though Twain was feeling overwhelmed by all the excitement of the day, he agreed to answer a few questions. But first he needed to ask one of his own.

"Where is the nearest urinal?" inquired the new doctor of literature.11 ...

VARIOUS CELEBRATIONS FOLLOWED Twain's appearance in the university town, and he held up well throughout his stay. At one luncheon he was approached by the maharajah of Bikanir, who was dressed in traditional finery that immediately caught Twain's attention.

"Have you bought Windsor Castle yet?" the maharajah asked pleasantly.

"No," Twain answered, "but I'd like to buy your clothes."12 Though Oxford was probably not ready for a Twain clad in Indian silks, the town seemed to him an ideal place for showing off. The day after he received his degree, he attended a special celebration that offered him the chance to watch the greatest display of costumes he had ever seen. Both town and gown came together to stage the Oxford Historical Pageant, a colorful production held in a meadow bordering the Cherwell River.

A covered grandstand for five thousand spectators was erected for the occasion, and Twain sat with Kipling in the royal box. (Since no one from the royal family attended, Twain and Kipling "represented Royalty as well as we could in a sudden and unprepared way without opportunity for practice.") From their privileged spot in the front row of the grandstand, they had not only a clear view of the action, but also one un.o.bstructed by anything modern. All they could see in the distance was a timeless scene of woods and fields and the river.13 For the next four hours Twain was enthralled by what he witnessed, never moving from his seat as he watched one large group of costumed performers after another reenact epic scenes from Oxford's history, beginning with events in the eighth century and ending with the eighteenth. The authentic look of each scene made Twain think that he was watching real history unfold before his eyes. During a mock battle between the Cavaliers and Roundheads, the fighting was so spirited that when it was over and Cromwell's men pa.s.sed in triumph before the grandstand, the spectators hissed. For a writer who had spent years trying to bring English history to life in such works as The Prince and the Pauper and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, it was a joy to sit back and see things of his imagination a.s.sume such enchanting forms.

"It was a fairy dream," he wrote excitedly in a letter to Jean. "Hundreds on foot & hundreds on horseback ... lit up all the gra.s.sy stretches with kaleidoscopic movement & color, [and] made all the grand opera's efforts at the spectacular seem poor & small & cheap & fict.i.tious."14 Inspired, he continued reflecting on the experience for weeks, as though what he had seen was a vision of art and life in perfect harmony. It led him to make one of the more poetic comments of his later years, saying of the pageant: "The birds were not disturbed by it, but fluttered along with it and seemed to enjoy it as much as anybody. And the swans in the river were undisturbed by all the life and color and gayety, but acted as if used to it, and unconsciously took their part in and added to the beauty and joy of the picture."15 The images were still vivid in his mind several months later when he added a chapter to one of his old ma.n.u.scripts-a work that is now known as No. 44, the Mysterious Stranger. In chapter thirty-three he created a spooky procession of ghostly figures-marching skeltons representing famous figures from many historical periods-who magically appear out of nowhere and then suddenly vanish. "The dead pa.s.sed by in continental ma.s.ses, and the bone-clacking was so deafening you could hardly hear yourself think. Then, all of a sudden 44 waved his hand and we stood in an empty and soundless world."

BY FRIDAY THE 28TH the excitement had finally worn him out. He was in need of a quiet day of rest before returning to London, where he had agreed to address a large gathering at a Sat.u.r.day night banquet given by the lord mayor.

Then, without warning, disaster struck-or so it seemed at the time to a weary Mark Twain.

The trouble came in the form of a short, stout woman of about fifty who was the reigning queen of popular fiction in Edwardian Britain. Marie Corelli, whose real name was Mary Mackay, wrote breathless tales of romance and historical drama with heavy doses of mysticism and dark religious desire. She churned out a new book almost every year. Her most recent work-The Treasure of Heaven-had sold 100,000 copies on its first day of publication in 1906. Readers found her stories so spellbinding that they tended to forgive her frequent stylistic breakdowns and absurdly elaborate descriptions. When a male character in her novel Thelma sneezes, Corelli describes it as the "cornet-blast from that trifling elevation of his countenance called by courtesy a nose."

With good reason, the critics routinely savaged her. But she considered herself a kindred spirit of Shakespeare and made her home in Stratford-upon-Avon, where her money and fame helped to establish her as one of the town's leading figures. Pompous and vain, she was constantly trying to raise her standing in the literary world by cultivating the support of other writers. But most of the good ones who knew her work were appalled at her awful prose and couldn't fathom her appeal. "From the way she writes she ought to be here," Oscar Wilde is reported to have said from the prison cell where he was serving a two-year sentence for acts of "indecency."16 Unfortunately for Twain, she decided that being seen with him would be good for her, and temporarily put aside her general prejudice against Americans, whom she considered "the trickiest and most unscrupulous people on earth." In this case, her own trick was to make Twain think that she wanted to be friends. They had met briefly in the early 1890s in Germany, when her commercial success was just beginning. She had been gushing and overbearing. He had been peeved.17 But now, after his warm welcome in London and Oxford, he was in such a good mood that he did something he would almost immediately regret-he agreed to have lunch in Stratford on Sat.u.r.day the 29th with Marie Corelli. There was possibly another reason why he accepted her invitation. Her name was a.s.sociated in his memory with a minor moment in his daughter Susy's last years. He explained the connection to a friend in 1897, when he turned down an earlier chance to see Corelli, saying that his old mental images of Susy's life-even the seemingly trivial ones-were still too painful to revisit. "It would move me too deeply to see Miss Corelli. When I saw her last it was on the street in Homburg, & Susy was walking with me." The memory had nothing to do with Twain's opinion of Corelli. It was simply that seeing her would bring back the sentimental moment. Though its effect had been too powerful for him ten years earlier, he may have welcomed it now-at least, at the outset.18 Ralph Ashcroft was given the job of arranging the rail travel from Oxford to Stratford, and then on to London. But when he reported that such a journey would take up a good part of the day, Twain knew he would have to cancel the lunch. He wrote to Corelli and said that his time was too short, and that he couldn't come to see her after all. If he traveled to Stratford, he explained, he would get back to London with only an hour or so to spare before having to deliver his speech. That would leave him so exhausted that he might "arrive at the Lord Mayor's banquet in a hea.r.s.e."19 His letter left her unmoved. She refused to change her plans and blithely dismissed his concerns, explaining that she had already invited other guests and couldn't disappoint them.

"Consider my side of the matter a little," she said. "I have invited Lady Lucy and two other ladies, and three gentlemen; to cancel the luncheon now would inflict upon them the greatest inconvenience."

Twain tried reasoning with her, but the only side of the question she could see was her own. He couldn't find a graceful way out. Further complicating matters, she had alerted the press to her plans, and they were coming to Stratford in force to report on his visit. If he failed to show, she was sure to make a great fuss and spoil the otherwise perfect coverage of his stay in Britain. It was "a hopeless task," he reluctantly concluded, "to persuade a conscienceless fool to mercifully retire from a self-advertising scheme which was dear to her heart."20 So, with great reluctance, he set off for Stratford at the appointed time. To his distress, he found on his arrival that Corelli had organized a series of events throughout the town and was expecting him to give three or four short speeches before lunch. Enraged, he dug in his heels and insisted that the only thing he was going to do was eat and be on his way. He spoke so forcefully that even she was momentarily taken aback and didn't protest.

Her one public triumph of the day came when she tricked him into inspecting her garden and led him through a small gate to a yard where she had positioned more than fifty pupils of the local military school to greet him and to clamor for a speech. Cornered, he obliged with a few remarks, recalling for the benefit of the "budding warriors" his brief service in the Civil War as a Rebel militia leader who waged a successful campaign of "persistent retreating." Told that the mayor of Stratford wanted to award him civic honors, he politely explained that his visit was solely "a personal one to Miss Corelli." Conveniently, a man from The Times of London was there to report on the event, and the beaming hostess made sure that her name would appear in the paper.21 At lunch, she was all smiles and full of cheerful small talk. He was grim-faced and seething. When she stood and gave a little speech, toasting him with her gla.s.s of champagne, he thanked her but made no effort to reciprocate, staring at her in sullen silence. At the first opportunity, he bolted.

Though he may have felt that the visit lasted several hours, he was in and out in only two hours and fifteen minutes. There was no problem getting back to London in time for the banquet. All the same, he was furious and made sure that he recorded his fury for posterity in one of his dictations. What was so regrettable about his encounter with Corelli, he complained, was that she had forced him to act contrary to his true nature, which-compared with hers-was positively angelic. "In any other society than Marie Corelli's," he insisted, with his usual talent for exaggeration, "my spirit is the sweetest that has ever yet descended upon this planet from my ancestors, the angels."22 ...

AS MUCH AS THE DAY in Stratford irritated him, it was the only incident of its kind during his trip. Everyone except Corelli seems to have treated him with the greatest deference and courtesy. A few days of rest at Brown's helped to restore his good humor. By the following Sat.u.r.day-with only a week left in his stay-he was ready for a little mischief and decided it was time to break Clara's rule and make his first London appearance in his white suit. He chose to do it at a familiar place-the Savage Club, whose boisterous membership of bohemian gentlemen had always given him a warm welcome in the past, beginning with his first dinner as their guest in 1872. Among these friendly "Savages," he felt that his rebellion against the sober tones of formal dress would receive a sympathetic response.

After explaining that he had been under orders from his family "to refrain from white clothes," he told the club that the breaking point of his obedience had finally been reached, and that he could no longer resist wearing his favorite suit on English soil. With a show of mock humility, he thanked the Savages for indulging his weakness. "In these three or four weeks I have grown so tired of grey and black," he told them, "that you have earned my grat.i.tude in permitting me to come as I have."23 Of course, the club was delighted to feast their eyes on a sight that the rest of the country had not been given the pleasure of witnessing. And, as it turned out, this was to be both the first and the last time that he wore the suit in England. This fact caused not inconsiderable disappointment, especially during his stay in Oxford, where the students had been expecting him to appear in his famous garb and had shouted to him, "Where is your white suit?" when he stepped forward to receive his degree from Curzon.

Regardless of what he wore, he was always easy to spot wherever he went in England. And many Londoners kept an eye out for him. One journalist gave his readers a helpful alert: "I do not know whether Mark Twain has brought his famous white suit with him. But in any case, if in the course of the next few days you see on the streets of London a man with a vast mane of gray hair, blue eyes challenging beneath heavy, puckered brows, a grizzled mustache veiling a mouth of equal strength and sensitiveness, with a fine steadfast conquering look about him, and a drawl of incomparable softness-take off your hat to him with reverence, for he is Mark Twain."24 Even those Londoners who saw him on the street and were unsure of his ident.i.ty seemed to realize that he was an American who was famous for something. One day in Regent Street an older woman came up to him and took his hand warmly, saying, "I have always wanted to shake hands with you." Twain paused and gave her a quizzical smile.

"So you know who I am, madam?" he asked.

"Of course, I do," she answered eagerly. "You're Buffalo Bill."25 Except for an excursion to Liverpool, he stayed in London for the last half of his trip, primarily visiting old friends. One evening he found time to take a restful break by retiring to a quiet corner of an old pub in Fleet Street. In a cozy corner by a fireplace he spent a couple of hours enjoying a simple meal with his old friend-and the actor Henry Irving's dutiful a.s.sociate-Bram Stoker, whose genial company he had enjoyed off and on for twenty years, and whose one great book-Dracula-includes an allusion to Twain's maxim "Faith is believing what you know ain't so." (Professor Van Helsing, the fearless vampire hunter, mentions "an American" who defined faith as "that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.")26 Over meat pies and beer-and out of the limelight-the normally reserved and serious Stoker could let down his guard and allow his Irish wit and charm to shine. The two writers shared an interest in dreams and ghost stories, and spent their time together trading spooky tales of witchcraft like a couple of boys sitting around a campfire on a dark night. There was also a very practical side to the author of Dracula-whose primary occupation for more than a quarter of a century was managing Irving's Lyceum Theatre in London-and Twain liked discussing business matters with him. His advice was uncommonly reliable. It was also fun to listen to his gossip. He knew all the famous people in the theatrical world, and many of their secrets.

The brightest star in that world was George Bernard Shaw, and when Twain finally had a chance to see more of him, he was delighted with the experience. He went to Shaw's home for lunch on July 3, and the two spent much of their time exchanging compliments. Charmed by what he later called Twain's "complete gift of intimacy," Shaw felt that they had known each other for years. The playwright was still pouring out praise when he penned a note to his new friend almost immediately after their lunch was over, declaring, "The future historian of America will find your works as indispensable to him as a French historian finds the political tracts of Voltaire. I tell you so because I am the author of a play [John Bull's Other Island] in which a priest says, 'Telling the truth's the funniest joke in the world,' a piece of wisdom which you helped to teach me."27 Twain had a less successful-though not unpleasant-encounter with another famous playwright. During a dinner at the Garrick Club, he noticed that J. M. Barrie was seated nearby. But the creator of Peter Pan; or, The Boy Who Would Not Grow Up-which had opened on the London stage three years earlier-was so shy that he kept to himself most of the evening. Only five feet tall, he was reserved with nearly everyone, but he was so much in awe of Twain that he could hardly speak. They had met a few times before, and on each of those occasions Barrie had demonstrated the same pattern of behavior-he would listen raptly to Twain, start to say something, and then a distraction of one kind or another would draw attention away from him, and he would silently melt into the background and leave.

Though Twain saw this as nothing more than an acute case of shyness, Barrie had another explanation. It was his impression that there was an elusiveness in Twain's manner that made it difficult to engage him. As the playwright would admit many years later, he didn't quite know how to react to Twain's coy humor: "I see myself getting closer and closer to him as he neared the point of what he was saying; then his voice fell and he turned his face away from me, and his one hope seemed to be that I should not catch his meaning. He always appeared to be pained in a gentle lovable way if his listeners smiled, and it almost broke him up if we laughed."

The inability of the two writers to establish a closer relationship was as frustrating to Twain as it was to Barrie. "I have never had five minutes' talk with him that wasn't broken off by an interruption," Twain complained privately. "I should like to have one good unbroken talk with that gifted Scot some day before I die." But it was not to be. After Barrie made his quiet getaway from the Garrick that night, the two never saw each other again.28 What is particularly unfortunate about this failure to connect is that there was obviously so much for the creator of Tom and Huck to discuss with the man who invented Neverland and its gang of Lost Boys. Twain had seen the New York production of Barrie's play in 1905 and had praised its transcendent vision of a child's world. "It breaks all the rules of real life drama," he had told reporters after seeing the play, "but preserves intact all the rules of fairyland, and the result is altogether contenting to the spirit."

In fact, it was so "contenting" that it inspired him to make a revealing declaration to the press that is both poignant and whimsical: "The longing of my heart is a fairy portrait of myself: I want to be pretty; I want to eliminate facts and fill up the gap with charms."29 Now, two years after saying those words, he may have felt that he had briefly realized his wish during this trip to England, where he had received so much acclaim, and where he had felt such pride in his appearance as a "doctor" wearing the colorful gown of an ancient university.

On July 10-three days before he was scheduled to sail home-Twain traveled to Liverpool for his last major public appearance in England. The long rail journey to the northern seaport was made less onerous by the fact that he traveled from London in a special car belonging to the Prince of Wales. He had his own bedroom and was able to nap in royal comfort on the way up. At the station in Liverpool he was met by the lord mayor and was provided an honor guard of a dozen burly policemen. After a twelve-course banquet in the town hall for two hundred people, he took the podium and gave one of the best speeches of his life.

The most stirring part was the conclusion in which he borrowed an old seafaring anecdote and embellished it to suit his own circ.u.mstances. It was the story of two ships-a little coasting sloop with an insignificant cargo of vegetables and furniture, and a ma.s.sive sailing vessel loaded with riches from India. When the two ships pa.s.s in waters off the coast of New England, the "self-important" captain of the small ship calls out to the larger one, asking it to identify itself. In a booming voice, the cry comes back, "The Begum of Bengal, a hundred and twenty-three days out from Canton-homeward bound! What ship is that?"

Humbled, the captain replies, "Only the Mary Ann-fourteen hours out from Boston, bound for Kittery Point-with nothing to speak of!"

During his long stay in England, Twain explained, he had sometimes wondered whether he deserved all the adulation showered on him. At such times he felt "properly meek"-as though he were "only the Mary Ann." But the rest of the time the praise and affection of Britain had so inspired him that he felt he must be "the stately Indiaman, plowing the great seas under a cloud of sail and laden with a rich freightage of the kindest words that were ever spoken to a wandering alien." As he began to deliver the last words of his speech, his audience sat "spellbound" in silence, according to one observer. In an "uplifted" voice he "sang out the words": "My twenty-six crowded and fortunate days seem multiplied by five, and I am the Begum of Bengal, a hundred and twenty-three days out from Canton-homeward bound!"30 These words were greeted with a thunderous cheer, and he left the stage in triumph. The next day he returned to London and rested at Brown's before ending his stay and sailing for home on July 13.

The entire experience was almost enough to give an aging author a new lease on life, and to make him think he should remain in Britain a lot longer. He had felt a powerful spirit emanating from the nation as a whole and was reinvigorated by it. At the end of his visit he boasted to the press that he felt seven years younger.

"If I could stay here another month," he said, "I could make it fourteen." His comment appeared under the headline "Twain Postpones Funeral. Younger Now by 7 Years, He Says, and Changes Mind About Dying."31 Twain returning from England with a new admirer, Dorothy Quick, an eleven-year-old American girl traveling abroad with her family. She would become a favorite in his group of surrogate granddaughters, or "angelfish," as he nicknamed them.

EIGHT.

Young and Old.

At two o'clock in the morning I feel old and sinful, but at eight o'clock, when I am shaving, I feel young and ready to hunt trouble.

Mark Twain.

WHILE TWAIN WAS ENJOYING his time in England, Isabel Lyon and Clara were feeling miserable at the family's rented summer place in Tuxedo Park, where they were mostly on their own, suffering from boredom and an early heat wave. Clara's accompanist and close friend-Charles Wark-was in and out of the house, helping to entertain her and keep up her spirits. Her singing tour in the spring had left her emotionally exhausted. Some days she didn't want to go anywhere, while at other times she was restless and would fly away at a moment's notice on short trips. The "debilitating" heat wave was so bad that she was desperate to escape it, but was suffering from "listlessness" and couldn't summon the energy to leave.2 Lyon wasn't in much better shape. Without Twain around, she was feeling adrift and had developed several nervous aches and pains. The weather only made her feel worse. Each morning "brought renewed heat," she complained, deepening her "terrible sense of loneliness." She stayed busy with her usual duties around the house, and also kept in touch with the builder in Redding, William Sunderland, monitoring his work on the new house, which was progressing slowly. When the heat finally became unbearable, Lyon and Clara suddenly found the energy to do something about it. They decided to escape together on a two-week cruise. It would take them first to Nova Scotia, and then to Newfoundland-a round-trip of three thousand miles.3 Undertaking such a voyage on the spur of the moment, when Twain was out of the country, was a bold move. Yet neither woman seems to have had second thoughts about it. They enjoyed each other's company and traveled well together. Indeed, Lyon worshipped Clara almost as much as she worshipped Mark Twain, and was eager to please her. They had pet names for each other-"Lioness" and "Santa" (short for Santa Clara). "What a creature she is, and how beautiful," Lyon commented admiringly in her journal when Clara returned home from giving a concert earlier in the year. On another occasion she raved that it was a "gift" to fall under Clara's "sweet thrall." Unlike Jean, Clara was someone Lyon could admire as the kind of sophisticated and attractive daughter that her King deserved.4 There was a particular reason why they could afford to drop everything and sail to such a faraway place. Lyon had authority over the family's checkbook, thanks to a power of attorney granted to her by Twain on May 7. To pay the building costs at Redding, she needed such a privilege. By this point both Twain and Clara thought she could be trusted to keep track of all the family's expenses and to pay them as necessary.

But whether Twain would have approved of their hasty decision to take a two-week cruise is debatable-not so much for financial reasons, but because it left Jean in Katonah without anyone available from the household to deal with emergencies. This was a risk, however, that Clara and Lyon were willing to accept for the sake of their own health. Their low spirits needed reviving, and neither one thought anything bad would happen before Twain returned.

They were wrong. But, as it happened, they were the ones who would soon find themselves in trouble, not Jean. They never made it to New-foundland, sailing only as far as Nova Scotia before receiving a terrible fright and turning back.

While Twain was resting up in London after his ordeal with Marie Corelli, Clara and Lyon were aboard the pa.s.senger liner Rosalind. As it entered Halifax harbor on the afte