be open； but it was closed。 I said； 'Jean； is this you trying to let me
know you have found the others？' Then the cold air was gone。〃
I saw that the incident had made a very great impression upon him； but I
don't remember that he ever mentioned it afterward。
Next day the storm had turned into a fearful blizzard； the whole hilltop
was a raging； driving mass of white。 He wrote most of the day； but
stopped now and then to read some of the telegrams or letters of
condolence which came flooding in。 Sometimes he walked over to the
window to look out on the furious tempest。 Once； during the afternoon；
he said：
〃Jean always so loved to see a storm like this； and just now at Elmira
they are burying her。〃
Later he read aloud some lines by Alfred Austin； which Mrs。 Crane had
sent him lines which he had remembered in the sorrow for Susy：
When last came sorrow； around barn and byre
Wind…careen snow； the year's white sepulchre； lay。
〃Come in；〃 I said； 〃and warm you by the fire〃；
And there she sits and never goes away。
It was that evening that he came into the room where Mrs。 Paine and I sat
by the fire； bringing his manuscript。
〃I have finished my story of Jean's death；〃 he said。 〃It is the end of
my autobiography。 I shall never write any more。 I can't judge it myself
at all。 One of you read it aloud to the other； and let me know what you
think of it。 If it is worthy； perhaps some day it may be published。〃
It was； in fact； one of the most exquisite and tender pieces of writing
in the language。 He had ended his literary labors with that perfect
thing which so marvelously speaks the loftiness and tenderness of his
soul。 It was thoroughly in keeping with his entire career that he
should； with this rare dramatic touch； bring it to a close。 A paragraph
which he omitted may be printed now：
December 27。 Did I know jean's value？ No； I only thought I did。
I knew a ten…thousandth fraction of it； that was all。 It is always
so； with us； it has always been so。 We are like the poor ignorant
private soldier…dead； now； four hundred yearswho picked up the
great Sancy diamond on the field of the lost battle and sold it for
a franc。 Later he knew what he had done。
Shall I ever be cheerful again； happy again？ Yes。 And soon。 For
I know my temperament。 And I know that the temperament is master of
the man； and that he is its fettered and helpless slave and must in
all things do as it commands。 A man's temperament is born in him；
and no circumstances can ever change it。
My temperament has never allowed my spirits to remain depressed long
at a time。
That was a feature of Jean's temperament； too。 She inherited it
from me。 I think she got the rest of it from her mother。
Jean Clemens had two natural endowments： the gift of justice and a
genuine passion for all nature。 In a little paper found in her desk she
had written：
I know a few people who love the country as I do； but not many。
Most of my acquaintances are enthusiastic over the spring and summer
months； but very few care much for it the year round。 A few people
are interested in the spring foliage and the development of the wild
flowersnearly all enjoy the autumn colorswhile comparatively few
pay much attention to the coming and going of the birds； the changes
in their plumage and songs； the apparent springing into life on some
warm April day of the chipmunks and woodchucks； the skurrying of
baby rabbits； and again in the fall the equally sudden disappearance
of some of the animals and the growing shyness of others。 To me it
is all as fascinating as a bookmore so； since I have never lost
interest in it。
It is simple and frank； like Thoreau。 Perhaps； had she exercised it；
there was a third giftthe gift of written thought。
Clemens remained at Stormfield ten days after Jean was gone。 The weather
was fiercely cold； the landscape desolate； the house full of tragedy。
He kept pretty closely to his room； where he had me bring the heaps of
letters； a few of which he answered personally； for the others he
prepared a simple card of acknowledgment。 He was for the most part in
gentle mood during these days； though he would break out now and then；
and rage at the hardness of a fate that had laid an unearned burden of
illness on Jean and shadowed her life。
They were days not wholly without humornone of his days could be
altogether without that； though it was likely to be of a melancholy sort。
Many of the letters offered orthodox comfort； saying； in effect： 〃God
does not willingly punish us。〃
When he had read a number of these he said：
〃Well； why does He do it then？ We don't invite it。 Why does He give
Himself the trouble？〃
I suggested that it was a sentiment that probably gave comfort to the
writer of it。
〃So it does；〃 he said； 〃and I am glad of itglad of anything that gives
comfort to anybody。〃
He spoke of the larger Godthe God of the great unvarying laws； and by
and by dropped off to sleep； quite peacefully； and indeed peace came more
and more to him each day with the thought that Jean and Susy and their
mother could not be troubled any more。 To Mrs。 Gabrilowitsch he wrote：
REDDING； CONN； December 29； 1909。
O； Clara； Clara dear； I am so glad she is out of it & safesafe！
I am not melancholy； I shall never be melancholy again； I think。
You see； I was in such distress when I came to realize that you were
gone far away & no one stood between her & danger but me& I could
die at any moment； & thenoh then what would become of her！ For
she was wilful； you know； & would not have been governable。
You can't imagine what a darling she was that last two or three
days； & how fine； & good； & sweet； & noble& joyful； thank Heaven！
& how intellectually brilliant。 I had never been acquainted with
Jean before。 I recognized that。
But I mustn't try to write about herI can't。 I have already
poured my heart out with the pen； recording that last day or two。
I will send you that& you must let no one but Ossip read it。
Good…by。 I love you so！ And Ossip。
FATHER。
CCXC
THE RETURN TO BERMUDA
I don't think he attempted any further writing for print。 His mind was
busy with ideas； but he was willing to talk； rather than to write； rather
even than to play billiards； it seemed； although we had a few quiet
gamesthe last we should ever play together。 Evenings he asked for
music； preferring the Scotch airs； such as 〃Bonnie Doon〃 and 〃The
Campbells are Coming。〃 I remember that once； after playing the latter
for him； he told； with great feeling； how the Highlanders； led by Gen。
Colin Campbell； had charged at Lucknow； inspired by that stirring air。
When he had retired I usually sat with him； and he drifted into
literature； or theology； or science； or historythe story of the
universe and man。
One evening he spoke of those who had written but one immortal thing and
stopped there。 He mentioned 〃Ben Bolt。〃
〃I met that man once；〃 he said。 〃In my childhood I sang 'Sweet Alice；
Ben Bolt；' and in my old age； fifteen years ago； I met the man who wrote
it。 His name was Brown。 ＇Thomas Dunn English。 Mr。 Clemens apparently
remembered only the name satirically conferred upon him by Edgar Allan
Poe； 〃Thomas Dunn Brown。〃＇ He was aged； forgotten； a mere memory。 I
remember how it thrilled me to realize that this was the very author of
'Sweet Alice； Ben Bolt。' He was just an accident。 He had a vision and
echoed it。 A good many persons do thatthe thing they do is to put in
compact form the thing which we have all vaguely felt。 'Twenty Years
Ago' is just like it 'I have wandered through the village； Tom； and sat
beneath the tree'and Holmes's 'Last Leaf' is another： the memory of the
hallowed past； and the gravestones of those we love。 It is all so
beautifulthe past is always beautiful。〃
He quoted； with great feeling and effect：
The massy marbles rest
On the lips that we have pressed
In their bloom；
And the names we love to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb。
He continued in this strain for an hour or more。 He spoke of humor； and
thought it must be one of the chief attributes of God。 He cited plants
and animals that were distinctly humorous in form and in their
characteristics。 These he declared were God's jokes。
〃Why；〃 he said； 〃humor is mankind's greatest blessing。〃
〃Your own case is an example；〃 I answered。 〃Without it； whatever your
reputation as a philosopher； you could never have had the wide…spread
affection that is shown by the writers of that great heap of letters。〃
〃Yes；〃 he said； gently； 〃they have liked to be amused。〃
I tucked him in for the night； promising to send him to Bermuda； with
Claude to take care of him； if he felt he could undertake the journey in
two days more。
H