Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

Walking the grounds that evening he had felt deeply contented; the months he’d passed apart from London society he had spent peacefully — reading when his eyes were up to it; forgetting all the bad news about Africa; choosing only to remember his good experiences. And he spent as much time with Denzil as the boy could tolerate, teaching him about plants and the nature of gardens — in short, behaving with him in a manner that Stanley had missed as a child.

He considered his friendships. In the previous few years he had become quite amicably disposed to the company of Henry Wellcome, and his amity with Edwin Arnold and Frederic Myers, for all their eccentricities, provided him with more pleasure than annoyance. And when he reflected upon his other friends, like Samuel Clemens, whom he considered a unique and kind man of astounding talents, he smiled at the thought. In such moments, when he felt that all was good with the world, he wished that his old American friend were by his side and that he could somehow magically convey his wondrous feelings to him, for he knew that the poor fellow had suffered so much. It was as if, in an unexpected way, he could feel a “benevolence” all around him. And this benevolence made him feel nearly saintly. For all his grumblings to Dolly about feeling unappreciated by the world — for by then he had become a relic of the past — he found himself, in fact, feeling no malice toward anyone — not even King Léopold, who had deceived him with his sanctimonious prattle about bringing peace and prosperity to the Congo. Suddenly he was so charitably disposed that were his mother-in-law present, he would have shocked her with a bounty of kisses upon her face. It was as if he had been suddenly freed from all self-restraint: He felt young and loving, dashing and wildly handsome; and though he knew he could not, he wanted to celebrate. And there was Dolly. When he last saw her, in the late morning, she was sitting in her studio at Furze Hill, at work on one of her paintings — it happened to be one of the portraits of Clemens she had been working on — and although he sometimes felt a slight twinge of jealousy about her fascination with him, for she had always behaved coquettishly around Clemens, it did not bother Stanley. Instead he wanted to seek her out and sing the praises of her talents and beauty — and then, in imagining that alternate self, he wanted to overwhelm her with the long-recessed powers of amore that he’d always known he had within himself.

But all that, too, turned out to be an illusion, for shortly the elation he had been experiencing was followed by a severe headache, which laid him so low that he dropped down onto a walkway bench, remaining there until one of his farmhands found him slumped over in agony and helped him back to the mansion, where he spent the evening in bed, a strong dose of brandy, along with some grains of quinine, which he had taken as a precaution against malaria, seeing him through the night. Yet by the morning, as that severe pain had seemed to have receded to a mild ache, and as his son had a rejuvenating effect upon his waning vitality, Stanley, never wishing to disappoint Denzil, went to find him in his nursery, where he had been playing with a set of wooden grenadiers, a gift from the king.

“Come, my boy,” he had said to Denzil. “Let’s go outside. This time, we will get it flying.”

In his hands was the box kite that he had constructed for his son from a kit. And so, even if he could only move ever so slowly, and even if the effort of keeping his head up taxed him, he did not let on. Denzil, in the joy and sprightliness of youth, could barely keep himself from leaping up and down even as he ran forward.

They had come to one of the meadows somewhat east of the house. As Stanley stood, watching the boy scamper forward with the string and kite floating over his head, his father wished that a strong breeze would come along and lift it upward — and it did. As the kite ascended, low clouds drifting along the horizon, Stanley again felt himself fading — a sudden paroxysm so numbing his left hand that he let the string he was holding fall away. The kite pulled up on the current and slowly rose over the fields; Denzil watched it lift beyond the clouds and out of sight.

SOMEHOW HE MANAGED to make his way back to the mansion, where, begging his son’s forgiveness—“I am sad that I cannot play more with you, but I will get you another kite soon enough”—he retired to his bedroom. Along the way Dolly, seeing his pallid face and drunken manner of walking as he entered the front hall of the mansion — for even with the assistance of a cane he swayed slightly from side to side — was so alarmed that she wanted to send for the local doctor. But Stanley, who had grown tired of doctors and treatments and medicines, told her: “With a little rest I will be better.” Then, to further ease her mind, he added, a slight slur in his voice: “Haven’t I always gotten over things? I may be worse for wear, but I will recover; perhaps it was something I ate.”

He managed to sleep for several hours, and as the dinner hour came and went, with Stanley only taking a few sips of broth in bed, Dolly, as was her habit when he was indisposed, came to sit by his bedside and read aloud from whatever he might desire. Lately he had wanted to hear passages from his book about Livingstone, but that evening, Stanley could barely sit up and open his eyes, and though she had begun to read to him, Dolly decided there was no point in continuing, as he had hardly noticed that Denzil had come into the room to sit beside him. When he asked, “Is there something wrong with Daddy?” she thought it best to tell him that he was simply napping; then, as Stanley indeed had seemed to have fallen asleep, she left him in the company of their nurse and went off to attend to Denzil’s bath.

Later she sat down in her small study to write several letters, and then, at around ten, when most of the servants had gone to bed and with silence prevailing, save for the ticking of the mansion’s many clocks, she also retired for the night, in the large boudoir next to Stanley’s, hopeful that he would be better in the morning.

May 22, 1903

Dear Samuel,

I know that you have your own ongoing difficulties with Livy’s health, but I feel it my duty to inform you that last month my beloved husband suffered a stroke. It came to him at Furze Hill in the middle of the night, his cry for help awakening our household: Of course, we sent for a doctor, who arrived at four in the morning, but as with such things there was little that could be done save for the usual recommendation of a sustained period of rest. If I have not informed you sooner, or if Mother has not, it is because we had hoped for a sudden turn for the better, but for the last month Stanley has been unable to speak with coherence and unable to move — my great and brave explorer as helpless as an infant. The doctors say that time will perhaps restore his energies, but it is hard to look at him; one side of his face seems normal, the other dreadfully still or else pinched. I have spent many an hour administering massages to the afflicted areas, as per Dr. Kellgren’s methods, but there has been no result so far. Still, we have tried to make him as comfortable as possible; more frustrating is that he knows not who is attending to him and seems lost to the world. That is what is hardest to endure.

For my part, however, I remain hopeful. Not long ago I consulted a London doctor who also happens to be a spiritualist, and he has assured me that Stanley will greatly improve in the coming months; surely once this recovery begins we will have much to celebrate. In the meantime, on behalf of Stanley, I send you and your family much affection.