Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

There was something about the mansion that he found greatly comforting: the birdsong from the garden; the resplendent light through the windows; the quiet of the house, which was situated in one of the less trafficked parts of London. And it pleased him to look back and remember the times he had visited and the pleasant sessions he had passed with Dolly in her studio. As insignificant as they were to the story of his life, and even given the many other artists he had sat for in his day, there was something consoling in being reminded of earlier, perhaps happier times, no matter how numerous his troubles — his family was intact then! And at least he would be away from the glut of journalists who seemed to track him down wherever he went. His only duty was to engage in a little polite conversation with Dr. Curtis, who within a few minutes began to sound to Clemens like an ever-cheerful and not terribly clever sort, a strange choice for so vibrant a lady.

“I imagine your life must be a parade of one great occasion after the other — how exciting,” the doctor said, and Clemens, with his gift for pleasing strangers, rattled off an anecdote about his recent visit with the king and queen. Then he told the doctor about the time that the archbishop had shown him the supposedly genuine Holy Grail — these stories he related with apparent interest, even while his mind was focused on the matter at hand, which was to see Dolly again and clarify for her the circumstances of his and Stanley’s journey to Cuba. Which version he would convey he was not certain. There was the truth, the half-truth, and Stanley’s own account, all drifting hazily in the mists of time.

AFTER ABOUT HALF AN HOUR, Lady Stanley appeared at the parlor door, wearing a black skirt, a ruffled blouse, and a snugly fitting corset, with a string of pearls around her neck and smelling sweetly of lavender perfume. Though he had seen her briefly at the Oxford ceremonies, the clamor had been greatly distracting, and he had only been vaguely aware of her charming appearance; now, in the mansion, he saw her clearly. In the seven years since he had last laid eyes on her, not only had she not seemed to age a day but, if anything, bestowed with the dignity of a widow, she was also more beautiful than ever. Instantly he got to his feet, and such was his agitation that he spilled his glass of whiskey.

“Oh, my dear Lady Stanley,” he had said. “May I kiss your hand?”

And with that, in a stately fashion, he stood before her, clicked his heels as if to parody a German count, and planted a light kiss upon the knuckles of her right hand. It was at this point that Dr. Curtis obligingly flicked open his vest-pocket watch and said: “Wish I could stay, but I’ve got an appointment at two.” Then: “It was an honor to have met you, sir. Enjoy your afternoon.”

LUNCH THAT SUNNY DAY was held at a table in the backyard, under a large awning. Around three, Gertrude began to doze off in her chair and, summoning her strength, called a servant to help her to her room for a nap. “It’s all too relaxing for me,” she said to Samuel. At around four, Denzil came by to say hello: He had been out taking riding lessons. A slight and thin-shouldered boy, he had been glad to give, as Dolly insisted, his “uncle Mark” a hearty embrace around the neck, and after answering a few questions about his schooling and interests, Denzil left them alone. And suddenly the most famous American in England was sitting across the table from Dolly. After several glasses of claret, he was beginning to feel “pickled,” and in that state, as her face grew brighter and more sharply defined in the shifting of the sunlight through the trees, she seemed to become much softer and more beautiful — and as she did he began to feel older and older, his expression settling into one of stony unhappiness that he was not a young man.

“Samuel, how much time do you have this afternoon?” she asked him, breaking the spell.

“I have an appointment at the hotel at six. An interview that I have twice canceled.”

“As you must leave, then we should attend to certain matters.”

“You know, Dolly, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

“Good. You will sit for me in my studio and smoke to your heart’s content! Then you will tell me your impressions of the manuscript.”

The Manuscript Explained

“NOW, TELL ME, SAMUEL,” she said. “What did you make of it — was Stanley writing the truth of those days?”

He fidgeted a bit, relit his cigar. Then settled himself again.

“Well, mainly he did, but some things he got wrong. I can’t speak about his early days in New Orleans, but I would guess that the accounts are true: I do remember occasionally passing by the Speake and McCreary dry goods warehouse on Tchoupitoulas Street way back when, and don’t doubt for an instant that the place existed or that he worked there. And I believe that Stanley’s stories about the poor slaves and the way he claimed to have met Mr. Stanley, the merchant trader, are also true, and I take him at his word, though I find the bit about his Bible being essential to that meeting on the inventive side — but maybe it happened. As for his early love for literature, I believe that is true. And his version of New Orleans I somewhat enjoyed, but I might have added a different detail or two. And what he wrote about the yellow fever, which was quite a calamitous event in those times, could not be avoided, though to be perfectly honest, Dolly, I felt a little suspicious about the fever stories he told regarding the deaths of Mr. Speake, his employer, and Mr. Stanley’s wife, for I do not recall him mentioning them to me at the time, and, frankly, from a writer’s point of view, the narrative seemed to creak a bit too much from the deus ex machina conveniences such deaths provide.

“But most everything else, to a certain point, I would say seemed plausible enough, though I have to say that in those days, in my recollection, neither Stanley nor I, for that matter, was particularly enlightened or sympathetic about the plight of the Negro slave. If you will forgive my saying so, in that regard Stanley seems to have wanted to come off more nobly than was the case: For we were products of the time, and those times, in the South, were not kind to those folks.”

He took a sip of his drink, then, gripping the armrest and pushing himself up a bit, continued:

“Now, as you told me that he may have written some of the manuscript in a haze of postmalarial confusion, I do believe it may have been so. Especially when it comes to him and me. Indeed, we did meet on the boiler deck of a steamship, upriver somewhere between Memphis and St. Louis, in 1860 or so; I have to say that I was touched by the fraternal flourishes and tenderness he bestowed upon those scenes. But as dim as my memory can be at my age, I cannot recall being so forthcoming about certain personal details, especially in regard to my brother Henry’s fatal accident on the Mississippi. I take it, then, that he may have simply allowed my accounts from Life on the Mississippi to slip into what he may well have construed as his truthful memory of our first meeting; or maybe it was just a dose of plain old wishful thinking, for I was not at all an easy person to get close to — certainly not with some young, straitlaced bookkeeper I happened to meet while having a smoke.

“But about the general drift of our friendship, he was mainly telling the truth. I did like him for his bookish nature, and I did enjoy talking with him. I just don’t recall saying the things he said I did, but by now I’ve forgotten more than enough to fill two or three books, so I don’t fault him for that. As for what went on aboard ship during those river voyages, the stories are mainly true; but from that point on his narrative seems to go astray.