She and Clara went aboard the steamer at once and sailed for America, to nurse Susy.  I remained behind to search for another and larger house in Guildford.

That was the 15th of August, 1896.  Three days later, when my wife and Clara were about half-way across the ocean, I was standing in our dining-room, thinking of nothing in particular, when a cablegram was put into my hand.  It said, “Susy was peacefully released to-day.”

Some of those who in later years wondered at Mark Twain’s occasional attitude of pessimism and bitterness toward all creation, when his natural instinct lay all the other way, may find here some reasons in his logic of gloom.  For years he and his had been fighting various impending disasters.  In the end he had torn his family apart and set out on a weary pilgrimage to pay, for long financial unwisdom, a heavy price—­a penance in which all, without complaint, had joined.  Now, just when it seemed about ended, when they were ready to unite and be happy once more, when he could hold up his head among his fellows—­in this moment of supreme triumph had come the message that Susy’s lovely and blameless life was ended.  There are not many greater dramas in fiction or in history than this.  The wonder is not that Mark Twain so often preached the doctrine of despair during his later life, but that he did not exemplify it—­that he did not become a misanthrope in fact.

Mark Twain’s life had contained other tragedies, but no other that equaled this one.  This time none of the elements were lacking—­not the smallest detail.  The dead girl had been his heart’s pride; it was a year since he had seen her face, and now by this word he knew that he would never see it again.  The blow had found him alone absolutely alone among strangers—­those others—­half-way across the ocean, drawing nearer and nearer to it, and he with no way to warn them, to prepare them, to comfort them.

Clemens sought no comfort for himself.  Just as nearly forty years before he had writhed in self-accusation for the death of his younger brother, and as later he held himself to blame for the death of his infant son, so now he crucified himself as the slayer of Susy.  To Mrs. Clemens he poured himself out in a letter in which he charged himself categorically as being wholly and solely responsible for the tragedy, detailing step by step with fearful reality his mistakes and weaknesses which had led to their downfall, the separation from Susy, and this final incredible disaster.  Only a human being, he said, could have done these things.

Susy Clemens had died in the old Hartford home.  She had been well for a time at Quarry Farm, well and happy, but during the summer of ’96 she had become restless, nervous, and unlike herself in many ways.  Her health seemed to be gradually failing, and she renewed the old interest in mental science, always with the approval of her parents.  Clemens had great faith in mind over matter, and Mrs. Clemens also believed that Susy’s high-strung nature was especially calculated to receive benefit from a serene and confident mental attitude.  From Bombay, in January, she wrote Mrs. Crane: