What Is Man? and Other Essays

mber 24, 1909. Mr. Clemens was in great stress of mind when I f

ing.” At intervals during that day and the next I looked in, and usually found him writing. Then on the evening of

n of it myself. If you think it worthy, some day—at the prope

st to the day—(April 2

Bigelow

hristmas Eve,

IS

one? Would a book contain them? Would two books contain them? I think not. They pour into the mind in a flood. They are little things that have been always happening every day, and wer

, and discussed, cheerily and happily (and how unsuspectingly!)—until nine—which is late for us—then went upstairs, Jean’s friendly German dog following. At my door Jean said, “I can’t kiss you good night, father:

lf, “Jean is starting on her usual horseback flight to the station for the mail.” Then K

JEAN I

e soldier feels when a bull

, so natural, and as if asleep. We knew what had happened. She was an epileptic: she had been seized with a convulsion and heart

how tranquil! It is a noble face, and full of dignit

oday.” I had to send a like shot to Clara, in Berlin, this morning. With the peremptory addition, “You must not come home.” Clara an

ously ill. Yesterday Jean begged me to explain my case through the Associated Press. I said it was not important enough; but she was distressed and said I must think of Clara. Clara would see the report in the German papers, and as she had been nursing her husband day and nig

it so, for there was nothing serious about it. This morning I sent the sorrowful facts of this day’s irremediable

riends I ever had, and the nearest perfect, as man and gentleman, I have yet met among my race; within the last six weeks Gilder has passed away, and Laffan—old, old friends of mine. Jean lies yonder, I sit here; we are strangers under our own roof; we k

ays ago. Seventy-four years old yest

as her mother looked when she lay dead in that Florentine villa so lo

nto the grave of any one dear to me. I have kept to that. They will take Jean from this house tomorrow,

little French friend would arrive from New York—the surprise would follow; the surprise she had been working over for days. While she was out for a moment I disloyally stole a look. The loggia floor was clothed with rugs and furnished with chairs and sofas; and the uncompleted surprise was there: in the form of a Christmas tree that was drenched with silver film in a most wonderful way; and on a table was a prodigal profus

onder, and cares for nothing any more. Strange—marvelous—incredible! I have had this

JEAN I

hout a preliminary knock, I supposed it was Jean coming to kiss me good morn

d

I used to slip softly into the nursery at midnight on Christmas Eve and look the array of presents over. The children were little then. And now here is Jean’s parlor looking just as that nursery used to look. The presents are not labeled—the hands are forever idle that would have l

l. She examined the letters and I distributed them: some to her, some to Mr. Paine, the others to the stenographer and myself. She dispatched her share and then mounted her horse again and

e absent in Bermuda, to lighten her burdens. We would get a housekeeper;

out the checks—she would continue to attend to that herself. Also, she would continue to be housekeeper, and let Katy assist. Also, she would continue to answer the

was proud of being my secretary, and I was never able to pers

for another month. She was urgent that I should do it, and said that if I would put off the trip until March she would take Katy and go with me. We struck hands upon that, and said it

and before her is ano

m of the sun barely shows abo

in these last nine months. She had been long an exile from home when she came to us three-quarters of a year ago. She had be

—that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor—death. I have never wanted any released friend of mine restored to life since I reached manhood. I felt in this way when Susy passed away; and later my wife, and later Mr. Rogers. When Clara met me at the station in New York and told me Mr. Rogers had died suddenly tha

a holy place and beautiful. It seemed to me that the spirits of the dead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me if they could: Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, and Charles Dudley Warner. How good and kind they were, and how lovable their lives! In fancy I could see them all again, I could call the children back and hear them romp again with George—that peerless black ex-slave and children’s i

very own child—she wore herself out present-hunting in New York these latter days. Paine has just found on her desk a long list of names—fifty,

knows no language but the German. Jean gave him no orders save in that tongue. And so when the burglar-alarm made a fierce clamor at midnight a fortnight ago, the butler, who is French and knows no German, tried in

allowance on charities of one kind and another. After she became secretary and had her income doubl

ll the birds; she was high up in that lore. She became a member of various humane societies when she was still a little girl—both here and

the waste-basket and answered the letters. She thought all letters deserved

fferent ear for music, but her tongue took to languages with an easy facility.

ild’s mother laid down her blameless life. They cannot heal the hurt, but they take away some of the pain. When Jean and I kissed h

hearts we send our sympa

this house, remembrancers of Jean will mutely sp

There are no words to express how grateful I am that she did not meet her

JEAN I

ue. Jean

d hilarious articles for magazines ye

s so many times, and turned back a sheet and looked at a face just like this one—Jean’s mother’s face—and kissed a brow that was just like this one. And last night I saw again what I had seen then—that strange and lovely miracle—the sweet, soft contours of early maidenhood restore

ted Jean’s apartment since the tragedy. Poor fellow, did he know? I think so. Always when Jean was abroad in the open he was with her; always when she was in the house he was with her, in the night as well as in the day. Her parlor was his bedroom. Whenever I happened upon him on the ground floor he always followed me about, and when I went upstairs he went too—in a tumultuous gallop. But now it was different: after patting him a little I went to the library—he remained

ting for me to come home from Bermuda and autograph them, then she would send them away. If I only knew whom she inten

the tears. She will never know the pride I take in it, and the pleasure. Today the mails are full of loving remembrances for he

o she sent to one of those New York homes for poor girl

fin, dressed in exactly the same clothes she wore when she stood at the other end of the same room on the 6th of October last, as Clara’s chief

his hind legs and rested his fore paws upon the trestle, and took a last long look at t

. The pity of it—that Jean could

le Schubert’s “Impromptu,” which was Jean’s favorite. Then he played the Intermezzo; that was for Susy; then he played the Largo; that was for their mother. He did this at

ar. Jean was gone out of my life, and would not come back any more. Jervis, the cousin she had played with when they were babies together—he and her be

clock this morning. He was very affectionate, poo

rning. The snow drives across the landscape in vas

ne is the library in the Langdon homestead. Jean’s coffin stands where her mother and I stood, forty years ago, and were married; and wher

OCK.—It i

omrades and happy—just we two. That fair dream was in my mind when Jean met me at the steamer last Monday; it was in my mind when she received me at the door last Tu

w Jean is i

n believe it. God re

had been in the ser

r twenty-

h had been operated