Twain in His Own Time: A Biographical Chronicle of His Life, Drawn from Recollections, Interviews, and Memoirs by Family, Friends, and Associates

From Memories of a Southern Woman of Letters (1932)

[178] === From Memories of a Southern Woman of Letters (1932) Grace King The Clemens family moved into the Villa Viviani in the hills above Florence, Italy, in late September 1892. The New Orleans novelist Grace King (1851– 1932) soon visited them there. mr. clemens was waiting for us at the station in Florence, grumbling at the delay of the train “always late, except when you counted upon it to be late.” His house, the Villa Viviani, lay on the road to Settignano, beyond the walls of Florence. The road was long and the evening dark. But there was a blaze of light awaiting us when the carriage stopped, and a warm welcome . The household was assembled in the doorway, Livy, Susy, and Jean; Clara had returned to Berlin to her music lessons. There was no time to look around, dinner was served immediately. We talked as fast as we could, but dinner came to an end while we were still at the beginning of our experiences, so much more interesting when related to friends than we had found them in fact. Mr. Clemens sent us to bed soon, “Livy had to keep early hours.” The villa, described as a palace, was on the outside a plain, unadorned brick and stucco building, painted yellow, with green shutters. But the inside was a wonderful surprise. The salon, a “spacious and lofty chasm,” as Mr. Clemens called it, was the center of the house, rising through two stories, and even above the rest of the building. All the rest of the house was built around it. There were long suites of bedrooms and endless corridors connecting them; lodgings planned for a court, so it seemed to our unsophisticated eyes. The numerous rooms had plenty of windows and sunlight; the marble floors were shiny and full of reflections. The house seemed a fortress for strength. It stood in a commanding position on an artificial terrace, surrounded with walls of masonry. Tall trees [179] and stately pines surrounded it. Pink and yellow roses overflowed the walls and the battered mossy stone urns at the gate posts. From the walls, the vineyards and olive orchards fell away toward the valley. The situation was perfect—three miles from Florence on the side of a hill. Beyond was Fiesole , built on its steep terrace. In the immediate front was the Ross Villa, with its wall and turrets. On the distant plain lay Florence, the huge dome of its Cathedral dominating the city. On the right and left of the Cathedral, the Medici Chapel and the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. The horizon, a rim of lofty blue hills, was white with innumerable villas . To Mr. Clemens this was the fairest picture on our planet, the most enchanting to look upon, the most satisfying to the eye. The sun sinking down with tides of color turned it all into a city of dreams, a sight to stir the coldest nature and make a sympathetic one drunk with ecstasy! Mrs. Clemens’s apartment was downstairs, to avoid the steps. She was very much amused at our voyages of discovery in the region of our apartments , particularly at our finding a chapel hidden away at the end of one wing, a perfect little bijou, with the frescoes fresh and bright and the smell of incense still about it. It had been reserved by the owners at the leasing of the villa; Americans were not supposed to be in need of such a retreat. Mrs. Clemens did not appear at breakfast, and our truncated talk had to be deferred till lunch. Then it came in all its fullness. They had much to relate about their stay in the Black Mountains, and of a visit to Berlin, where the Kaiser was gracious in the extreme to them,1 and they had a glimpse of court life. . . . The Clemenses were all German in their sympathy. They spoke the language fluently and read the German newspapers. My sister and I, on the contrary, were hotly French in our feelings and had not been in Germany. They were not at all interested in our experience in Paris. Mr. Clemens had a poor opinion of French literature and would never concede that they had any sense of humor; and he spoke frankly of their ridiculous criticism of the “Jumping Frog.” He, however, was not excitable in his feelings, and could laugh at himself first of all. Mrs. Clemens was full of interest in whatever interested us and...