With Snap-shot of Villa di Quarto
In greeting us, Mark Twain gave the impression of having planned out exactly what he was going to say. I had noticed the same thing on other occasions. He knew that people expected him to say something humorous or unusual, and he tried not to disappoint them.
“Welcome to the barracks,” he exclaimed. “Looks like a hotel, doesn’t it? You’d think with twenty bedrooms on the top floor and only four in my family there would be a chance to put up a friend or two, wouldn’t you? But there isn’t any one I think so little of as to be willing to stuff him into one of those cells.”
We had tea out of doors. Miss Clara Clemens, who later became Mrs. Gabrilowitch, served as hostess, as Mrs. Clemens was confined to her bed by the heart trouble that had brought the family to Italy. As we sipped our tea and nibbled at the delicious Italian cakes, Mark Twain continued his comments on the villa, explaining that it was alleged to have been built by the first Cosimo de’ Medici (“If it was, he had a bum architect,” Mark Twain interjected); later it was occupied by the King of Württemberg (“He was the genius who put in the Pullman staircase”); and still later by a Russian Princess (“She is responsible for that green majolica stove in the hall. When I first saw it I thought it was a church for children”); and then it fell into the hands of his landlady (“Less said about her the better. You never heard such profanity as is expressed by the furniture and the carpets she put in to complete the misery. I’m always thankful when darkness comes on to stop the swearing”).
The garden was beautiful, but oppressive,—due probably to the tall cypresses (always funereal in their aspect), which kept out the sun, and produced a mouldy luxuriance. The marble seats and statues were covered with green moss, and the ivy ran riot over everything. One felt the antiquity unpleasantly, and, in a way, it seemed an unfortunate atmosphere for an invalid. But so far as the garden was concerned, it made little difference to Mrs. Clemens,—the patient, long-suffering “Livy” of Mark Twain’s life,—for she never left her sick chamber, and died three days later.
After tea, Mr. Clemens offered me a cigar and watched me while I lighted it.
“Hard to get good cigars over here,” he remarked. “I’m curious to know what you think of that one.”
I should have been sorry to tell him what my opinion really was, but I continued to smoke it with as cheerful an expression as possible.
“What kind of cigars do you smoke while in Europe?” he inquired.
I told him that I was still smoking a brand I had brought over from America, and at the same time I offered him one, which he promptly accepted, throwing away the one he had just lighted. He puffed with considerable satisfaction, and then asked,