Wild Nights!

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Always there are those in the audience you cannot woo, and you cannot win.

  Yet: you must!

  The boy Sam who hadn’t been expected to survive his first year was eleven when his father died in the late winter of 1857. The gaunt-faced man died of pneumonia, a terrible death: suffocation. On his very deathbed he did not acknowledge his frightened son. He did not wish to touch his son. He had no blessing for his son. He had no final words for his son. He appeared to be angry, chagrined. He’d been a devout Christian, a pro-slaver, a man of the law determined to uphold the law of the land, a God-fearing man, a man who had grimly obeyed the commandment to marry and to “increase and multiply” and yet: he was dying, he was good as dead, at age forty-eight shrunken and aged, and no prayers could help him.

  In life, John Clemens had toiled deeply in debt. A father is one who is in debt. When you are born, you are in-debt: indebted. Quickly you learn that life is the effort to climb out of debt, as out of a vast bog sucking at your lower body. You toil, you wear yourself out in the effort. You try to climb out of the bog, but your enemies kick at your grasping fingers, stamp your hands beneath their boot-heels. You are a fervent Christian, yet they are more fervent Christians, their prayers are listened to by the Deity, who joins in their scorn of you. Poor bastard: you die, as you’d toiled, in-debted; your family inherits your debts.

  Through a keyhole the flamey-haired boy Sam observed an autopsy performed on the naked, wasted corpse of John Clemens by a local coroner, an individual known to the boy, which made the procedure all the more unreal. In disbelief the boy stared as the corpse’s rib cage was pried open with something that resembled a small, sharp crowbar; in appalled fascination the boy observed what appeared to be the corpse’s lungs removed, to be placed on a metal table; and what had to be the heart, that did not resemble any valentine heart but rather a bloody, sinewy clump of muscle-flesh.

  A violent chill and convulsion came over the boy, he had made a mistake, he had blundered and this time would never be able to put things right again. Outside in the grass he heaved out his guts, his childhood had ended.

  His mother apprenticed him to a local printer: his life of toil had begun.

  Work, work! All that you can do, to climb out of debt: to make yourself a rich man, to save yourself from debt, and from death.

  And even then, you will never save yourself.

  His Angelfish would be spared such maudlin tales. Not a word of his joyless early life would Mr. Clemens relate to his young friends. Not a word of such shame, that “celebrity” could never quite extinguish, to his dear granddaughters.

  And now here was—was the name Madelyn? Maddy?—a slender, very pretty girl of perhaps fourteen—though possibly thirteen—waiting for Grandpa Clemens as she’d promised, in her “secret place” on a stone bench above a pond partly hidden by tulip trees, a short walk from Fifth Avenue at Eighty-sixth Street. Ah, Grandpa’s old heart quickened its beat! His fingers twitched in his pocket, gripping the small gift-package. The girl was wearing the most exquisitely charming navy blue school jumper with a pleated skirt, beneath the jumper a long-sleeved white cotton blouse; her stockings were fine-mesh, and white; on her small feet were polished, lace-up shoes. Her dark-gleaming hair fell in two plaits over her shoulders and her heart-shaped face was rosy with expectation. His childhood had ended in barbarous Hannibal, Missouri, in 1857; her childhood, in the most civilized quarters of Manhattan, would not end any time soon.

  He was certain! He would see to it.

  “Mr. Clemens!”—the girl leapt up from the bench where she’d been sitting in a pose of reading, or scribbling into a notebook, and in an instant was upon him, excited, giddy, hugging him around the neck with thin, frantic arms, “—I knew it had to be you, coming along the path all in white, there is no one but you”—brushing her warm lips against Grandpa’s weatherworn cheek, flushed now with emotion as awkwardly he stooped to receive the hug, refraining from hugging her in turn, smoldering cigar in one hand, cedar cane in the other, “—may I call you ‘Grandpa’?—dear ‘Grandpa Clemens’—I’ve told Momma I am visiting a school friend—I have never deceived Momma before, I swear!—I was so very lonely waiting here for you—” a kick of his heart, sudden stab of gout-pain giving Mr. Clemens a moment’s sobriety as he managed to say in utter sincerity and with no vestige of the stage-Missouri drawl, “Dear Maddy, I was very lonely waiting for you.”

  Can’t bear to put on black clothes ever again—odious black—black the hue of mourning, & of death—

  Wish I might wear colors, shimmering rainbow hues such as the females have monopolized—a Garden of Eden!

  But I will wear white—the whitest white!—purest most pristine white!—through the dark, terrible days of winter—as no man of our time will ever dare.

  1088 Park Avenue

  May 14, 1906

  Dearest “Grandpa” Clemens,

  I am so nervous, so filled with love for my dearest Grandpa, I am afraid you will not be able to read my handwritting with so many blots (tears & kisses) on the page, how can I THANK YOU for this beautiful Angelfish pin, it is like magic enamel & gold & sapphire eyes oh dearest Grandpa THANK YOU.

  At all times now, I think of my dear Grandpa. There is no one else, how could there be I am the little girl who loves you dear Grandpa,

  Your Loving “Granddaughter” Maddy

  Damned human race! Like syphilis it is. A virulent contagion that must be erased.

  For I am Satan, and I know.

  Into the Admiral’s fine-meshed net they swam, the most exquisite of Bermudian angelfish: aquamarine, big-eyed, with translucent glimmering fins. And small enough to fit in the size of a man’s opened hand.

  The youngest Angelfish in Admiral Clemens’ Aquarium at this time was dear, funny, sweet little Jenny Anne, the Carlisles’ eleven-year-old daughter whom Mr. Clemens would surely see again this summer, when the Carlisles came to stay with him in the country; a more recent addition to the club was Violet Blankenship who was somewhere beyond fourteen but not, Mr. Clemens dearly hoped, yet sixteen, the fickle, flighty, so very “electric” daughter of Dr. Morris Blankenship, a Park Avenue physician entrusted with Mr. Clemens’ gout, arthritic, digestive, respiratory and cardiac ailments; and there was ravishing little Geraldine Hirshfeld, youngest daughter of Mr. Clemens’ editor at Harper’s whom Mr. Clemens had known, and adored, since the child was born, now—could it be?—at least a dozen years ago. And there was the fairy-rascal Fanny O’Brien, whom Mr. Clemens claimed laughingly he could not trust, for Fanny was always teasing; and there was dear gravely sweet Helena Wallace, and there was Molly Pope whose mother could surely be prevailed, with the promise of a small monetary reward, to bring the lanky thirteen-year-old to visit Admiral Clemens in the summer, as the previous summer. Quite openly these charter members of the Aquarium Club wore their Angelfish pins, for their parents saw no harm in it; indeed their parents, well acquainted with the elderly Mr. Clemens’ eccentric and generous ways, were flattered at the attention showered on their daughters. I am seventy & grandchildless & so one might expect the whole left-hand compartment of my heart to be empty & cavernous & desolate; but it isn’t because I fill it up with the most angelic schoolgirls.

  “Papa, you make yourself ridiculous. At your age! Papa, I am your daughter: why aren’t I enough for you?”

  Clara’s voice was hoarse and raw, her eyes wild with hurt. Mr. Clemens shielded his eyes from her. He felt a moment’s stab of guilt: in Clara’s appeal he heard his own, to the long-ago father John Clemens who had not loved him. “It might be, dear Clara, that I am a cold-hearted son of a bitch.” Mr. Clemens laughed, and turned away.

  But, ah!—the Angelfish. No matter the strain in the Clemens household, no matter Mr. Clemens’ disappointment with Clara and Jean, simply to think of his schoolgirl-granddaughters was to feel his ailing heart expand.

  Of current Angelfish, all of them members in good standing of the Aquarium Club under the auspices of Admiral Cleme
ns, it was little Madelyn Avery who seemed to Mr. Clemens perhaps the most exquisite, not only for her fine-boned Botticelli features but for her very American spirit: for little Maddy was determined, she vowed, to be a “poet”—“to make the world take notice of me.”

  Admiral’s Headquarters

  21 Fifth Avenue

  June 5, 1906

  Dearest Angelfish Maddy,

  Aren’t you the most beguiling little witch!—I mean, that you have so bewitched your Admiral Grandpa.

  Dear girl, will you promise me you will stay as you are? Not change an inch, an ounce? Now is your golden time. Admiral Grandpa commands.

  Tuesday next at the Secret Place? After 4 P.M.? The garrulous Missouri cardsharp Mr. Twain continues to be so very popular, there is a Century Club luncheon in his honor, with every sort of Dignitary to offer toasts; following which, as your Admiral Grandpa will be freed for the remainder of the afternoon, he invites you to join him in the greenery of the Park; & perchance afterward to high tea at the Plaza. Ah, if my dearest Angelfish can placate Momma, with a tale of a music lesson, or a visit to a girl friend’s home! For we must not arouse suspicion, you know.

  Ah, I hate it! For it seems to matter not how innocent we are in our hearts, the world of d—d Grown-Ups will judge crudely & harshly & so we must take care.

  Love & kisses from the Doting One,

  SLC

  The utmost caution was required at 21 Fifth Avenue, that the harpy-daughter Clara did not waylay Mr. Clemens’ innocent missives: he dared not place them on the front table in the foyer for a servant to post, nor even inside the mailbox beside the front door, but made it a point to walk out, to post these tender letters himself.

  21 Fifth Avenue

  June 8, 1906

  Dear Miss Avery,

  WANTED FOR LEASE OR PURCHASE: 1 VERY BRIGHT & VERY PRETTY LITTLE BROWN-EYED GIRL-POET STANDING TO THE HEIGHT OF A MAN’S SHOULDER & WEIGHING BUT A FEATHER TO BE LIFTED IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND. ALL RESPONSES DIRECTED TO ADMIRAL SAMUEL CLEMENS, ADDRESS ABOVE.

  Very sincerely,

  SLC

  21 Fifth Avenue

  June 10, 1906

  Dearest of all Angelfish,

  Waking this morning so very happy, having dwelt in my dreams in the Bermudian aquamarine waters swimming & cavorting with my Angelfish, all of us so strangely—so wonderfully—lacking bodies; though visible to one another as a spirit might be only just visible to the discerning & not the vulgar eye.

  For this vision of joy, dear Maddy: thank you.

  SLC

  Garrison Hotel

  Cleveland, Ohio

  June 14, 1906

  Dearest Maddy,

  Alone here—though rarely let-alone—& feeling very lonesome for my Angelfish Maddy amid this weekend of impersonating M.T. (if only your Grandpa did not perform his tricks so well, he would cease being invited to such places & could feel no regret for turning away such generous fees) & the most lavish of banquets, & toasts lasting well into the night. There is Grandpa Clemens gazing out over a sea of flushed porkchop faces & grizzled eyebrows & mustaches like his own & the damned soul sees not one of these sporting an Angelfish pin; & can only console himself that, in another few days, he will return to NYC, and to the SPECIAL PLACE. It may be, dear Maddy, that I will bring a gift, or two.

  Your lonely & adoring Grandpa, love & kisses,

  SLC

  At the stone mansion at Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street, Mr. Clemens had to be particularly cautious about incoming mail on those mornings when, it seemed likely, he would be receiving an Angelfish letter: throwing on his dressing gown, kicking his swollen feet into slippers, limping down the massive staircase and with his cane making his way out to the front walk, or up the street, eagerly greeting the startled postman before Clara could intercede.

  1088 Park Avenue

  June 20, 1906

  Dearest Mr. Clemens,

  It is very late—stealthy-late!—at night & the Park Avenue Episcopal Church bell has tolled the lonely hour of 2 A.M. I feel such love for you, dear Grandpa,& my dearest Pen-Pal, Momma believes me to be asleep amp; has scolded me for “fevered” behavior but how am I to be blamed for it is out of such fevers that poems come to me, that so strangely “scan”—

  For My Admiral

  No Secret

  Is Sacred

  Except Shared

  ’Twixt Thee & Me

  For Eternity

  Your Devoted “Granddaughter” Maddy

  This enigmatic little poem Mr. Clemens immediately committed to heart: the most charming female verse, that quite captivated him.

  “‘Eternity’! A very long time.”

  Several of Mr. Clemens’ other Angelfish spoke of literary aspirations, and scribbled the sweetest little doggerel-verse, but it did truly seem that Madelyn Avery was in a category of her own. In the Secret Place, Maddy had shared with her elderly admirer some of her pastel sketches she had done for an art class; and he had no doubt, judging from the fervor with which she spoke of her music lessons, that she had some musical talent, as well. He would send the girl prettily bound books of verse by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Robert Browning, and Tennyson; and the newly published A Garden of Verse Petals, a gathering of work by American women poets. (He had glimpsed into, and been quite shocked by, the rough, rowdy, coarse-minded and yet strangely thrilling poetry of Walt Whitman, unsuitable for the eyes of any girl or woman.) Mr. Clemens had already given Madelyn a special edition, in fine white-leather binding, of Mr. Twain’s Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, which the dear child had accepted with tears of gratitude.

  Thirteen was the age Suzy had been, when undertaking an ambitious project: a “biography” of her father, of whose worldly fame and reputation she was beginning to have a faint notion. Of course, Suzy’s father offered her some assistance with the project. Canny Mr. Clemens hoped to publish Papa: An Intimate Biography of Mark Twain by His 13-Year-Old Daughter Suzy with great fanfare, hoping for sales in the hundreds of thousands of copies; but dear Suzy, in the way of growing girls, suddenly lost interest in the project and abandoned it in mid-sentence, so very coincidentally on July 4, 1886:

  We arrived in Keokuk after a very pleasant

  Damn! Papa encouraged Suzy to continue, perhaps Papa harrangued Suzy a bit, yet Suzy seemed never to have time; and so the “biography” existed in several notebooks, in schoolgirl handwriting, and was too slight and incomplete even to be doctored up, by Mr. Clemens. In later years, he could hardly bring himself to look through the notebooks, which he kept with his most precious documents and manuscripts, to see again the darling girl’s large wobbly handwriting with its many charming misspellings and grammatical errors; he felt almost a stab of physical pain, to “hear” again, in his mind’s ear, Suzy’s voice.

  How young Sam Clemens had been in 1886, how young his beautiful family, and how idyllic the world had seemed! It must have been the case that Satan prowled the larger world and that humankind was as mendacious, wicked, and generally worthless as at all times in history; and yet it had not seemed so, to Sam Clemens. His wife Livy, his daughters Suzy, Clara, and Jean, had adored him. And he had adored them. Sam Clemens had wanted for nothing then. (Except money. Except fame. Except prestige.) He could not quite comprehend how, not many years later, his world had changed so horribly, in August 1896, when Suzy died, it seemed overnight, of spinal meningitis.

  After this, life was a cruel cosmic joke. How could it be otherwise! Years, decades, moved swiftly: dashing Sam Clemens became an old man, the flamey-red hair turned snowy-white, his way of carrying himself became hesitant, as one walks who anticipates sudden pain; his Missouri drawl, the trademark of his doppelgänger Twain, struck his ears as vulgar and demeaning, yet he dared not abandon it for such buffoonery was Mr. Clemens’ bread and butter on the lecture circuit, where money was to be made, far easier than the effort of writing in solitary confinement. (Writing! The activity for which the only adequate bribe is the possibility of suicide, one d
ay.) Mr. Clemens’ love for his surviving daughters was a grim duty: they could not manage without him, especially the invalid Jean. He could not bear their company, and understood that they resented him. Clara had quite broken his heart on an anniversary of Suzy’s death when her Papa had been drunkenly maudlin at their dinner table, in reminiscing of the old, idyllic days at Quarry Farm (east of Elmira, New York), by telling him bluntly that she and her sisters had always been frightened of him; they had loved him, yes, but they had dreaded him more, for his sharp tongue, unpredictable temper, “mercurial moods” and his habit of teasing that was in fact “tormenting.” And the damned cigars!

  Like poison, exuding from him. The perpetual stale bluish smoke-cloud, a stink to be associated with any habitation in which Papa Clemens dwelled.

  Of that, these terrible harpy-words, Mr. Clemens would not think.

  Instead, he reread little Madelyn Avery’s letters, in the schoolgirl hand he treasured; and reread the quite astonishing little poem, which, while it did not “scan,” did seem to him true poetry, at least of the kind a female sensibility might yield. “The dear child is an inspiration to me. My Angelfish-Muse.” And yet: his own words came very slowly, quite literally his old, arthritic right hand moved with crabbed slowness, and his thoughts were so disjointed, he did not wish to squander money on a stenographer, just yet. He was having a damned difficult time writing a commissioned piece for Harper’s, and a yet more wretched time, that was driving him to his favorite Scotch whiskey at ever earlier hours of the day, with his gnarled allegory of Satan in sixteenth-century Austria. Vivid as a hallucination he’d seen: Satan as an elegantly attired, monocled and mustached Viennese gentleman, with a seductive smile. Satan as the Mysterious Stranger who inhabits us, in our deepest, most secret beings. The Mysterious Stranger—for that was the inspired title—would be quite the finest tale Mark Twain had ever written, the great work of his life, that would catapult Twain finally to the height which his more fervid admirers had long since claimed for him, as the greatest of all American writers; as The Mysterious Stranger would compare favorably with the strongest of Tolstoy’s moral fables.