November 28 Saturday – Elizabeth Wallace describes the events of her last day’s stay at Stormfield:
The next morning as I was going down stairs, Mr. Clemens called to me from his room, in a tone that made me hurry. He was standing by one of the many windows, and he said: “Come quickly and look at the deep blue haze on those barberry bushes! They have never looked quite like this before.” Then he went on to say: “When they built this house they had the inspiration to put in these small panes. See how each one frames a wonderful picture, and I can have a different one every time I change my position. No man-made pictures shall ever hang on my walls so long as I have these.”
And Mr. Clemens had no picture on his wall, except a portrait of his daughter Jean.
That afternoon we took a long drive over the hills. Mr. Clemens kept no coachman and no carriage at that time, but when he wished a “rig” he sent word to the friendly farmer near by, who would soon appear with a surrey and a team of horses.
I remember that much of the talk that afternoon turned on the strange manifestations of genius and the tragic lives of many of those who were thus fatally endowed.
When evening came that day we asked Mr. Clemens to read Kipling to us again, and thus revive some of the memories of the Happy Island. And so we sat around the big blazing fire, and again the King’s voice swept us out to visions of mighty action. More favorites were added. The Three Decker was read with unction, and The Long Trail was read twice over before the audience was satisfied. We wished that Mr. Rogers were there, and, happily, we did not feel the chill prophecy that some of us were never to see him again. An hour before luncheon, on Sunday, we gathered together in the living-room. Some one proposed that Mr. Clemens read aloud to us from his book, What Is Man? Into this work Mr. Clemens had put some of his deepest convictions as to the meaning of life and the principles that guide the human soul. What ever may be their philosophical value to others, he, at least, believed in them utterly, and when he read aloud to us the clear, trenchant dialogue, we, too, were convinced, for a time, of their truth. He grew so earnest that he would often repeat a phrase, twice, in a deep, solemn voice, and he so utterly forgot his pipe that it went out completely.
Our afternoon’s peace was somewhat invaded by calls from the outside world and demands that Mr. Clemens should allow himself to be photographed. I often wondered how many thousand times the camera must have turned its eye upon him.
That last evening we played Hearts, for it still continued to be Mr. Clemens’ favorite game. Again we missed Mr. Rogers sorely, and wished for his bantering. For no one else of us dared to chaff Mr. Clemens in quite the way that he had done. Besides, we knew that it wouldn’t have been in the least humorous. We lengthened the hours as long as we could, for it was to be the last evening together, as the early morning train was to take me away. Since we knew how averse Mr. Clemens was to saying good-by to anyone, we parted that evening with a simple good-night. I did not expect to see him again, but the next morning as I went down to my hurried breakfast I heard his voice calling me. I went to his room. He was lying in his big carved bed, propped up by pillows. On the little table beside him were crowded together pipes, cigars, matches, a bottle or two, and a number of books. He handed one of the books to me, and said, “ You must have one of my souvenirs.” It was a copy of Eve’s Diary, with a kindly dedication in it on the fly-leaf. Then he said good-bye. The November sunshine had gone. The chill of winter had come into the air, and as I drove over the hills to the station I felt that I was going away from something very wonderful and very precious. For the love and friendship of those who have their faces turned towards the sunset is sometimes as rare and sweet and unworldly as that of little children. Perhaps they both are nearer the infinite, and so can understand [Mark Twain and the Happy Island, chapters 12]. Note: Wallace afterward noted she never saw Twain again. Her inscribed copy of Eve’s Diary is not extant.
C.M. Ferrell, 74 years old, wrote from Newark, NJ to relate his old times on the Mississippi when he was on the F.X. Aubrey, which he thought Sam likely had seen. He related several tales but asked for nothing [MTP]. Note: “Ans. Dec 7. MLH”
William V. Griffin wrote from New Haven to ask Sam for 1,000 words for the Yale Daily News [MTP]. Note: “Ans. Nov 30th MLH”
Susie Rall Hesen wrote from Chesapeake Beach, Md. to ask if Sam knew about certain books from her youth, books not by him [MTP].
William Arnold Jacobs sent birthday wishes [MTP]. Note: “Ans. Dec 9. MLH”
Henry W. Rule wrote from Independence, Mo. to wish happy birthday and ask for a recent photo [MTP].
Harold V. Strawn wrote from Cleveland to ask for an autograph [MTP]. Note: “Autogr. Sent Dec 1. MLH”