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    The Death Of Jean

    by Mark Twain
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    The death of Jean Clemens occurred early in the morning of December 24, 1909. Mr. Clemens was in great stress of mind when I first saw him, but a few hours later I found him writing steadily.

    "I am setting it down," he said, "everything. It is a
    relief to me to write it. It furnishes me an excuse for thinking." At intervals during that day and the next I looked in, and usually found him writing. Then on the evening of the 26th, when he knew that Jean had been laid to rest in Elmira, he came to my room with the manuscript in his hand.

    "I have finished it," he said; "read it. I can form no
    opinion of it myself. If you think it worthy, some day--at the
    proper time--it can end my autobiography. It is the final

    Four months later--almost to the day--(April 21st) he was
    with Jean.

    Albert Bigelow Paine.

    Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.


    Has any one ever tried to put upon paper all the little
    happenings connected with a dear one--happenings of the twenty-
    four hours preceding the sudden and unexpected death of that dear
    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 were
    always so unimportant and easily forgettable before--but now!
    Now, how different! how precious they are, now dear, how
    unforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, how clothed with dignity!

    Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I the
    same, from the wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolled
    hand in hand from the dinner-table and sat down in the library
    and chatted, and planned, 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: I have a cold,
    and you could catch it." I bent and kissed her hand. She was
    moved--I saw it in her eyes--and she impulsively kissed my hand
    in return. Then with the usual gay "Sleep well, dear!" from
    both, we parted.

    At half past seven this morning I woke, and heard voices
    outside my door. I said to myself, "Jean is starting on her
    usual horseback flight to the station for the mail." Then Katy
    [1] entered, stood quaking and gasping at my bedside a moment,
    then found her tongue:


    Possibly I know now what the soldier feels when a bullet
    crashes through his heart.

    In her bathroom there she lay, the fair young creature,
    stretched upon the floor and covered with a sheet. And looking
    so placid, so natural, and as if asleep. We knew what had
    happened. She was an epileptic: she had been seized with a
    convulsion and heart failure in her bath. The doctor had to come
    several miles. His efforts, like our previous ones, failed to
    bring her back to life.

    It is noon, now. How lovable she looks, how sweet and how
    tranquil! It is a noble face, and full of dignity; and that was
    a good heart that lies there so still.

    In England, thirteen years ago, my wife and I were stabbed
    to the heart with a cablegram which said, "Susy was mercifully
    released today." I had to send a like shot to Clara, in Berlin,
    this morning. With the peremptory addition, "You must not come
    home." Clara and her husband sailed from here on the 11th of
    this month. How will Clara bear it? Jean, from her babyhood,
    was a worshiper of Clara.

    Four days ago I came back from a month's holiday in Bermuda
    in perfected health; but by some accident the reporters failed to
    perceive this. Day before yesterday, letters and telegrams began
    to arrive from friends and strangers which indicated that I was
    supposed to be dangerously 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 night for four months
    [2] and was worn out and feeble, the shock might be disastrous.
    There was reason in that; so I sent a humorous paragraph by
    telephone to the Associated Press denying the "charge" that I was
    "dying," and saying "I would not do such a thing at my time of

    Jean was a little troubled, and did not like to see me treat
    the matter so lightly; but I said it was best to treat it so, for
    there was nothing serious about it. This morning I sent the
    sorrowful facts of this day's irremediable disaster to the
    Associated Press. Will both appear in this evening's papers?--
    the one so blithe, the other so tragic?

    I lost Susy thirteen years ago; I lost her mother--her
    incomparable mother!--five and a half years ago; Clara has gone
    away to live in Europe; and now I have lost Jean. How poor I am,
    who was once so rich! Seven months ago Mr. Roger died--one of
    the best friends 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 kissed hands good-by at this door last night--and it
    was forever, we never suspecting it. She lies there, and I sit
    here--writing, busying myself, to keep my heart from breaking.
    How dazzlingly the sunshine is flooding the hills around! It is
    like a mockery.

    Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days ago. Seventy-four
    years old yesterday. Who can estimate my age today?

    I have looked upon her again. I wonder I can bear it. She
    looks just as her mother looked when she lay dead in that
    Florentine villa so long ago. The sweet placidity of death! it
    is more beautiful than sleep.

    I saw her mother buried. I said I would never endure that
    horror again; that I would never again look into the grave of any
    one dear to me. I have kept to that. They will take Jean from
    this house tomorrow, and bear her to Elmira, New York, where lie
    those of us that have been released, but I shall not follow.

    Jean was on the dock when the ship came in, only four days
    ago. She was at the door, beaming a welcome, when I reached this
    house the next evening. We played cards, and she tried to teach
    me a new game called "Mark Twain." We sat chatting cheerily in
    the library last night, and she wouldn't let me look into the
    loggia, where she was making Christmas preparations. She said
    she would finish them in the morning, and then her 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 prodigal profusion of bright things which she was
    going to hang upon it today. What desecrating hand will ever
    banish that eloquent unfinished surprise from that place? Not
    mine, surely. All these little matters have happened in the last
    four days. "Little." Yes--THEN. But not now. Nothing she said
    or thought or did is little now. And all the lavish humor!--what
    is become of it? It is pathos, now. Pathos, and the thought of
    it brings tears.

    All these little things happened such a few hours ago--and
    now she lies yonder. Lies yonder, and cares for nothing any
    more. Strange--marvelous--incredible! I have had this
    experience before; but it would still be incredible if I had had
    it a thousand times.


    That is what Katy said. When I heard the door open behind
    the bed's head without a preliminary knock, I supposed it was
    Jean coming to kiss me good morning, she being the only person
    who was used to entering without formalities.

    And so--

    I have been to Jean's parlor. Such a turmoil of Christmas
    presents for servants and friends! They are everywhere; tables,
    chairs, sofas, the floor--everything is occupied, and over-
    occupied. It is many and many a year since I have seen the like.
    In that ancient day Mrs. Clemens and 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 labeled them today. Jean's mother always worked herself
    down with her Christmas preparations. Jean did the same
    yesterday and the preceding days, and the fatigue has cost her
    her life. The fatigue caused the convulsion that attacked her
    this morning. She had had no attack for months.

    Jean was so full of life and energy that she was constantly
    is danger of overtaxing her strength. Every morning she was in
    the saddle by half past seven, and off to the station for her
    mail. 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 went around superintending her farm and her poultry the
    rest of the day. Sometimes she played billiards with me after
    dinner, but she was usually too tired to play, and went early to

    Yesterday afternoon I told her about some plans I had been
    devising while absent in Bermuda, to lighten her burdens. We
    would get a housekeeper; also we would put her share of the
    secretary-work into Mr. Paine's hands.

    No--she wasn't willing. She had been making plans herself.
    The matter ended in a compromise, I submitted. I always did.
    She wouldn't audit the bills and let Paine fill 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 letters of personal friends for me. Such
    was the compromise. Both of us called it by that name, though I
    was not able to see where my formidable change had been made.

    However, Jean was pleased, and that was sufficient for me.
    She was proud of being my secretary, and I was never able to persuade
    her to give up any part of her share in that unlovely work.

    In the talk last night I said I found everything going so
    smoothly that if she were willing I would go back to Bermuda in
    February and get blessedly out of the clash and turmoil again 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 was settled.
    I had a mind to write to Bermuda by tomorrow's ship and secure a
    furnished house and servants. I meant to write the letter this
    morning. But it will never be written, now.

    For she lies yonder, and before her is another journey than that.

    Night is closing down; the rim of the sun barely shows above the
    sky-line of the hills.

    I have been looking at that face again that was growing dearer
    and dearer to me every day. I was getting acquainted with
    Jean 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
    been shut up in sanitariums, many miles from us. How eloquent
    glad and grateful she was to cross her father's threshold again!

    Would I bring her back to life if I could do it? I would not.
    If a word would do it, I would beg for strength to withhold
    the word. And I would have the strength; I am sure of it. In
    her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but I
    am content: for she has been enriched with the most precious of
    all gifts--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 that morning, my thought was, Oh, favorite of fortune--
    fortunate all his long and lovely life--fortunate to his latest
    moment! The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my
    eyes. True--but they were for ME, not for him. He had suffered
    no loss. All the fortunes he had ever made before were poverty
    compared with this one.

    Why did I build this house, two years ago? To shelter this
    vast emptiness? How foolish I was! But I shall stay in it. The
    spirits of the dead hallow a house, for me. It was not so with
    other members of the family. Susy died in the house we built in
    Hartford. Mrs. Clemens would never enter it again. But it made
    the house dearer to me. I have entered it once since, when it
    was tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to me it was 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 idol who came
    one day--a flitting stranger--to wash windows, and stayed
    eighteen years. Until he died. Clara and Jean would never enter
    again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented in
    earlier days. They could not bear it. But I shall stay in this
    house. It is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before.
    Jean's spirit will make it beautiful for me always. Her lonely
    and tragic death--but I will not think of that now.

    Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmas
    shopping, and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Eve
    came. Jean was her 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, he thinks--people to whom
    she sent presents last night. Apparently she forgot no one. And
    Katy found there a roll of bank-notes, for the servants.

    Her dog has been wandering about the grounds today,
    comradeless and forlorn. I have seen him from the windows. She
    got him from Germany. He has tall ears and looks exactly like a
    wolf. He was educated in Germany, and 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 vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar. Jean
    wrote me, to Bermuda, about the incident. It was the last letter
    I was ever to receive from her bright head and her competent hand.
    The dog will not be neglected.

    There was never a kinder heart than Jean's. From her
    childhood up she always spent the most of her allowance on
    charities of one kind or another. After she became secretary and
    had her income doubled she spent her money upon these things with
    a free hand. Mine too, I am glad and grateful to say.

    She was a loyal friend to all animals, and she loved them
    all, birds, beasts, and everything--even snakes--an inheritance
    from me. She knew all 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 abroad--and she remained an
    active member to the last. She founded two or three societies
    for the protection of animals, here and in Europe.

    She was an embarrassing secretary, for she fished my
    correspondence out of the waste-basket and answered the letters.
    She thought all letters deserved the courtesy of an answer.
    Her mother brought her up in that kindly error.

    She could write a good letter, and was swift with her pen.
    She had but an indifferent ear music, but her tongue took to
    languages with an easy facility. She never allowed her Italian,
    French, and German to get rusty through neglect.

    The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in, from far and wide,
    now, just as they did in Italy five years and a half ago, when
    this child'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 hands and parted at my door last, how little did we
    imagine that in twenty-two hours the telegraph would be bringing
    words like these:

    "From the bottom of our hearts we send out sympathy,
    dearest of friends."

    For many and many a day to come, wherever I go in this house,
    remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to me of her. Who can
    count the number of them?

    She was in exile two years with the hope of healing her
    malady--epilepsy. There are no words to express how grateful I
    am that she did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers, but
    in the loving shelter of her own home.


    It is true. Jean is dead.

    A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles
    for magazines yet to appear, and now I am writing--this.

    CHRISTMAS DAY. NOON.--Last night I went to Jean's room at
    intervals, and turned back the sheet and looked at the peaceful
    face, and kissed the cold brow, and remembered that heartbreaking
    night in Florence so long ago, in that cavernous and silent vast
    villa, when I crept downstairs 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 restored by
    the gracious hand of death! When Jean's mother lay dead, all
    trace of care, and trouble, and suffering, and the corroding
    years had vanished out of the face, and I was looking again upon
    it as I had known and worshipped it in its young bloom and beauty
    a whole generation before.

    About three in the morning, while wandering about the house
    in the deep silences, as one does in times like these, when there
    is a dumb sense that something has been lost that will never be
    found again, yet must be sought, if only for the employment the
    useless seeking gives, I came upon Jean's dog in the hall
    downstairs, and noted that he did not spring to greet me,
    according to his hospitable habit, but came slow and sorrowfully;
    also I remembered that he had not visited 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 behind; when I went upstairs he did not follow me, save
    with his wistful eyes. He has wonderful eyes--big, and kind, and
    eloquent. He can talk with them. He is a beautiful creature,
    and is of the breed of the New York police-dogs. I do not like
    dogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but I
    have liked this one from the beginning, because he belonged to
    Jean, and because he never barks except when there is occasion--
    which is not oftener than twice a week.

    In my wanderings I visited Jean's parlor. On a shelf I
    found a pile of my books, and I knew what it meant. She was
    waiting for me to come home from Bermuda and autograph them, then
    she would send them away. If I only knew whom she intended them
    for! But I shall never know. I will keep them. Her hand has
    touched them--it is an accolade--they are noble, now.

    And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me--a thing I
    have often wished I owned: a noble big globe. I couldn't see it
    for the tears. She will never know the pride I take in it, and
    the pleasure. Today the mails are full of loving remembrances
    for her: full of those old, old kind words she loved so well,
    "Merry Christmas to Jean!" If she could only have lived one day

    At last she ran out of money, and would not use mine. So
    she sent to one of those New York homes for poor girls all the
    clothes she could spare--and more, most likely.

    CHRISTMAS NIGHT.--This afternoon they took her away from her
    room. As soon as I might, I went down to the library, and there
    she lay, in her coffin, 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 bridesmaid. Her face was
    radiant with happy excitement then; it was the same face now,
    with the dignity of death and the peace of God upon it.

    They told me the first mourner to come was the dog. He came
    uninvited, and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore paws
    upon the trestle, and took a last long look at the face that was
    so dear to him, then went his way as silently as he had come.

    At mid-afternoon it began to snow. The pity of it--that
    Jean could not see it! She so loved the snow.

    The snow continued to fall. At six o'clock the hearse drew
    up to the door to bear away its pathetic burden. As they lifted
    the casket, Paine began playing on the orchestrelle 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 my request. Elsewhere in my
    Autobiography I have told how the Intermezzo and the Largo came
    to be associated in my heart with Susy and Livy in their last
    hours in this life.

    From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wind
    along the road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the
    falling snow, and presently disappear. 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
    beloved old Katy--were conducting her to her distant childhood
    home, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in the
    company of Susy and Langdon.

    DECEMBER 26TH. The dog came to see me at eight o'clock this
    morning. He was very affectionate, poor orphan! My room will be
    his quarters hereafter.

    The storm raged all night. It has raged all the morning.
    The snow drives across the landscape in vast clouds, superb,
    sublime--and Jean not here to see.

    2:30 P.M.--It is the time appointed. The funeral has begun.
    Four hundred miles away, but I can see it all, just as if I were
    there. The scene is the library in the Langdon homestead.
    Jean's coffin stands where her mother and I stood, forty years
    ago, and were married; and where Susy's coffin stood thirteen
    years ago; where her mother's stood five years and a half ago;
    and where mine will stand after a little time.

    FIVE O'CLOCK.--It is all over.

    When Clara went away two weeks ago to live in Europe, it was
    hard, but I could bear it, for I had Jean left. I said WE would
    be a family. We said we would be close comrades 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 Tuesday evening. We were together; WE WERE A
    FAMILY! the dream had come true--oh, precisely true, contentedly,
    true, satisfyingly true! and remained true two whole days.

    And now? Now Jean is in her grave!

    In the grave--if I can believe it. God rest her sweet


    1. Katy Leary, who had been in the service of the Clemens family
    for twenty-nine years.

    2. Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operated on for appendicitis.
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