The Death Of Jean
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 arelief 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 noopinion of it myself. If you think it worthy, some day--at theproper time--it can end my autobiography. It is the finalchapter."Four months later--almost to the day--(April 21st) he waswith Jean.Albert Bigelow Paine.Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.JEAN IS DEAD!Has any one ever tried to put upon paper all the littlehappenings connected with a dear one--happenings of the twenty-four hours preceding the sudden and unexpected death of that dearone? Would a book contain them? Would two books contain them?I think not. They pour into the mind in a flood. They arelittle things that have been always happening every day, and werealways so unimportant and easily forgettable before--but now!Now, how different! how precious they are, now dear, howunforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, how clothed with dignity!Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I thesame, from the wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolledhand in hand from the dinner-table and sat down in the libraryand chatted, and planned, and discussed, cheerily and happily(and how unsuspectingly!)--until nine--which is late for us--thenwent upstairs, Jean's friendly German dog following. At my doorJean 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 wasmoved--I saw it in her eyes--and she impulsively kissed my handin return. Then with the usual gay "Sleep well, dear!" fromboth, we parted.At half past seven this morning I woke, and heard voicesoutside my door. I said to myself, "Jean is starting on herusual 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:"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"Possibly I know now what the soldier feels when a bulletcrashes through his heart.In her bathroom there she lay, the fair young creature,stretched upon the floor and covered with a sheet. And lookingso placid, so natural, and as if asleep. We knew what hadhappened. She was an epileptic: she had been seized with aconvulsion and heart failure in her bath. The doctor had to comeseveral miles. His efforts, like our previous ones, failed tobring her back to life.It is noon, now. How lovable she looks, how sweet and howtranquil! It is a noble face, and full of dignity; and that wasa good heart that lies there so still.In England, thirteen years ago, my wife and I were stabbedto the heart with a cablegram which said, "Susy was mercifullyreleased today." I had to send a like shot to Clara, in Berlin,this morning. With the peremptory addition, "You must not comehome." Clara and her husband sailed from here on the 11th ofthis 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 Bermudain perfected health; but by some accident the reporters failed toperceive this. Day before yesterday, letters and telegrams beganto arrive from friends and strangers which indicated that I wassupposed to be dangerously ill. Yesterday Jean begged me toexplain my case through the Associated Press. I said it was notimportant enough; but she was distressed and said I must think ofClara. Clara would see the report in the German papers, and asshe 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 bytelephone to the Associated Press denying the "charge" that I was"dying," and saying "I would not do such a thing at my time oflife."Jean was a little troubled, and did not like to see me treatthe matter so lightly; but I said it was best to treat it so, forthere was nothing serious about it. This morning I sent thesorrowful facts of this day's irremediable disaster to theAssociated 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--herincomparable mother!--five and a half years ago; Clara has goneaway 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 ofthe best friends I ever had, and the nearest perfect, as man andgentleman, I have yet met among my race; within the last sixweeks Gilder has passed away, and Laffan--old, old friends ofmine. Jean lies yonder, I sit here; we are strangers under ourown roof; we kissed hands good-by at this door last night--and itwas forever, we never suspecting it. She lies there, and I sithere--writing, busying myself, to keep my heart from breaking.How dazzlingly the sunshine is flooding the hills around! It islike a mockery.Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days ago. Seventy-fouryears old yesterday. Who can estimate my age today?I have looked upon her again. I wonder I can bear it. Shelooks just as her mother looked when she lay dead in thatFlorentine villa so long ago. The sweet placidity of death! itis more beautiful than sleep.I saw her mother buried. I said I would never endure thathorror again; that I would never again look into the grave of anyone dear to me. I have kept to that. They will take Jean fromthis house tomorrow, and bear her to Elmira, New York, where liethose of us that have been released, but I shall not follow.Jean was on the dock when the ship came in, only four daysago. She was at the door, beaming a welcome, when I reached thishouse the next evening. We played cards, and she tried to teachme a new game called "Mark Twain." We sat chatting cheerily inthe library last night, and she wouldn't let me look into theloggia, where she was making Christmas preparations. She saidshe would finish them in the morning, and then her little Frenchfriend would arrive from New York--the surprise would follow; thesurprise she had been working over for days. While she was outfor a moment I disloyally stole a look. The loggia floor wasclothed with rugs and furnished with chairs and sofas; and theuncompleted surprise was there: in the form of a Christmas treethat was drenched with silver film in a most wonderful way; andon a table was prodigal profusion of bright things which she wasgoing to hang upon it today. What desecrating hand will everbanish that eloquent unfinished surprise from that place? Notmine, surely. All these little matters have happened in the lastfour days. "Little." Yes--THEN. But not now. Nothing she saidor thought or did is little now. And all the lavish humor!--whatis become of it? It is pathos, now. Pathos, and the thought ofit brings tears.All these little things happened such a few hours ago--andnow she lies yonder. Lies yonder, and cares for nothing anymore. Strange--marvelous--incredible! I have had thisexperience before; but it would still be incredible if I had hadit a thousand times."MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"That is what Katy said. When I heard the door open behindthe bed's head without a preliminary knock, I supposed it wasJean coming to kiss me good morning, she being the only personwho was used to entering without formalities.And so--I have been to Jean's parlor. Such a turmoil of Christmaspresents 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 intothe nursery at midnight on Christmas Eve and look the array ofpresents over. The children were little then. And now here isJean's parlor looking just as that nursery used to look. Thepresents are not labeled--the hands are forever idle that wouldhave labeled them today. Jean's mother always worked herselfdown with her Christmas preparations. Jean did the sameyesterday and the preceding days, and the fatigue has cost herher life. The fatigue caused the convulsion that attacked herthis morning. She had had no attack for months.Jean was so full of life and energy that she was constantlyis danger of overtaxing her strength. Every morning she was inthe saddle by half past seven, and off to the station for hermail. She examined the letters and I distributed them: some toher, some to Mr. Paine, the others to the stenographer andmyself. She dispatched her share and then mounted her horseagain and went around superintending her farm and her poultry therest of the day. Sometimes she played billiards with me afterdinner, but she was usually too tired to play, and went early tobed.Yesterday afternoon I told her about some plans I had beendevising while absent in Bermuda, to lighten her burdens. Wewould get a housekeeper; also we would put her share of thesecretary-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 wouldcontinue to be housekeeper, and let Katy assist. Also, she wouldcontinue to answer the letters of personal friends for me. Suchwas the compromise. Both of us called it by that name, though Iwas 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 persuadeher to give up any part of her share in that unlovely work.In the talk last night I said I found everything going sosmoothly that if she were willing I would go back to Bermuda inFebruary and get blessedly out of the clash and turmoil again foranother month. She was urgent that I should do it, and said thatif I would put off the trip until March she would take Katy andgo 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 afurnished house and servants. I meant to write the letter thismorning. 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 thesky-line of the hills.I have been looking at that face again that was growing dearerand dearer to me every day. I was getting acquainted withJean in these last nine months. She had been long an exile fromhome when she came to us three-quarters of a year ago. She hadbeen shut up in sanitariums, many miles from us. How eloquentglad 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 withholdthe word. And I would have the strength; I am sure of it. Inher loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but Iam content: for she has been enriched with the most precious ofall gifts--that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor--death. I have never wanted any released friend of mine restoredto life since I reached manhood. I felt in this way when Susypassed away; and later my wife, and later Mr. Rogers. When Claramet me at the station in New York and told me Mr. Rogers had diedsuddenly that morning, my thought was, Oh, favorite of fortune--fortunate all his long and lovely life--fortunate to his latestmoment! The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in myeyes. True--but they were for ME, not for him. He had sufferedno loss. All the fortunes he had ever made before were povertycompared with this one.Why did I build this house, two years ago? To shelter thisvast emptiness? How foolish I was! But I shall stay in it. Thespirits of the dead hallow a house, for me. It was not so withother members of the family. Susy died in the house we built inHartford. Mrs. Clemens would never enter it again. But it madethe house dearer to me. I have entered it once since, when itwas tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to me it was a holyplace and beautiful. It seemed to me that the spirits of thedead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me ifthey could: Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, andCharles Dudley Warner. How good and kind they were, and howlovable their lives! In fancy I could see them all again, Icould call the children back and hear them romp again withGeorge--that peerless black ex-slave and children's idol who cameone day--a flitting stranger--to wash windows, and stayedeighteen years. Until he died. Clara and Jean would never enteragain the New York hotel which their mother had frequented inearlier days. They could not bear it. But I shall stay in thishouse. It is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before.Jean's spirit will make it beautiful for me always. Her lonelyand tragic death--but I will not think of that now.Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmasshopping, and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Evecame. Jean was her very own child--she wore herself out present-hunting in New York these latter days. Paine has just found onher desk a long list of names--fifty, he thinks--people to whomshe sent presents last night. Apparently she forgot no one. AndKaty 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. Shegot him from Germany. He has tall ears and looks exactly like awolf. He was educated in Germany, and knows no language but theGerman. Jean gave him no orders save in that tongue. And sowhen the burglar-alarm made a fierce clamor at midnight afortnight ago, the butler, who is French and knows no German,tried in vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar. Jeanwrote me, to Bermuda, about the incident. It was the last letterI 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 herchildhood up she always spent the most of her allowance oncharities of one kind or another. After she became secretary andhad her income doubled she spent her money upon these things witha free hand. Mine too, I am glad and grateful to say.She was a loyal friend to all animals, and she loved themall, birds, beasts, and everything--even snakes--an inheritancefrom me. She knew all the birds; she was high up in that lore.She became a member of various humane societies when she wasstill a little girl--both here and abroad--and she remained anactive member to the last. She founded two or three societiesfor the protection of animals, here and in Europe.She was an embarrassing secretary, for she fished mycorrespondence 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 tolanguages 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, whenthis child's mother laid down her blameless life. They cannotheal the hurt, but they take away some of the pain. When Jeanand I kissed hands and parted at my door last, how little did weimagine that in twenty-two hours the telegraph would be bringingwords 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 cancount the number of them?She was in exile two years with the hope of healing hermalady--epilepsy. There are no words to express how grateful Iam that she did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers, butin the loving shelter of her own home."MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"It is true. Jean is dead.A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articlesfor magazines yet to appear, and now I am writing--this.CHRISTMAS DAY. NOON.--Last night I went to Jean's room atintervals, and turned back the sheet and looked at the peacefulface, and kissed the cold brow, and remembered that heartbreakingnight in Florence so long ago, in that cavernous and silent vastvilla, when I crept downstairs so many times, and turned back asheet and looked at a face just like this one--Jean's mother'sface--and kissed a brow that was just like this one. And lastnight I saw again what I had seen then--that strange and lovelymiracle--the sweet, soft contours of early maidenhood restored bythe gracious hand of death! When Jean's mother lay dead, alltrace of care, and trouble, and suffering, and the corrodingyears had vanished out of the face, and I was looking again uponit as I had known and worshipped it in its young bloom and beautya whole generation before.About three in the morning, while wandering about the housein the deep silences, as one does in times like these, when thereis a dumb sense that something has been lost that will never befound again, yet must be sought, if only for the employment theuseless seeking gives, I came upon Jean's dog in the halldownstairs, 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 sincethe tragedy. Poor fellow, did he know? I think so. Always whenJean was abroad in the open he was with her; always when she wasin 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 theground floor he always followed me about, and when I wentupstairs he went too--in a tumultuous gallop. But now it wasdifferent: after patting him a little I went to the library--heremained behind; when I went upstairs he did not follow me, savewith his wistful eyes. He has wonderful eyes--big, and kind, andeloquent. He can talk with them. He is a beautiful creature,and is of the breed of the New York police-dogs. I do not likedogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but Ihave liked this one from the beginning, because he belonged toJean, 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 Ifound a pile of my books, and I knew what it meant. She waswaiting for me to come home from Bermuda and autograph them, thenshe would send them away. If I only knew whom she intended themfor! But I shall never know. I will keep them. Her hand hastouched them--it is an accolade--they are noble, now.And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me--a thing Ihave often wished I owned: a noble big globe. I couldn't see itfor the tears. She will never know the pride I take in it, andthe pleasure. Today the mails are full of loving remembrancesfor her: full of those old, old kind words she loved so well,"Merry Christmas to Jean!" If she could only have lived one daylonger!At last she ran out of money, and would not use mine. Soshe sent to one of those New York homes for poor girls all theclothes she could spare--and more, most likely.CHRISTMAS NIGHT.--This afternoon they took her away from herroom. As soon as I might, I went down to the library, and thereshe lay, in her coffin, dressed in exactly the same clothes shewore when she stood at the other end of the same room on the 6thof October last, as Clara's chief bridesmaid. Her face wasradiant 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 cameuninvited, and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore pawsupon the trestle, and took a last long look at the face that wasso dear to him, then went his way as silently as he had come.HE KNOWS.At mid-afternoon it began to snow. The pity of it--thatJean could not see it! She so loved the snow.The snow continued to fall. At six o'clock the hearse drewup to the door to bear away its pathetic burden. As they liftedthe casket, Paine began playing on the orchestrelle Schubert's"Impromptu," which was Jean's favorite. Then he played theIntermezzo; that was for Susy; then he played the Largo; that wasfor their mother. He did this at my request. Elsewhere in myAutobiography I have told how the Intermezzo and the Largo cameto be associated in my heart with Susy and Livy in their lasthours in this life.From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages windalong the road and gradually grow vague and spectral in thefalling snow, and presently disappear. Jean was gone out of mylife, and would not come back any more. Jervis, the cousin shehad played with when they were babies together--he and herbeloved old Katy--were conducting her to her distant childhoodhome, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in thecompany of Susy and Langdon.DECEMBER 26TH. The dog came to see me at eight o'clock thismorning. He was very affectionate, poor orphan! My room will behis 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 werethere. The scene is the library in the Langdon homestead.Jean's coffin stands where her mother and I stood, forty yearsago, and were married; and where Susy's coffin stood thirteenyears 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 washard, but I could bear it, for I had Jean left. I said WE wouldbe a family. We said we would be close comrades and happy--justwe two. That fair dream was in my mind when Jean met me at thesteamer last Monday; it was in my mind when she received me atthe door last Tuesday evening. We were together; WE WERE AFAMILY! 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 sweetspirit!-----1. Katy Leary, who had been in the service of the Clemens familyfor twenty-nine years.2. Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operated on for appendicitis.
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