He wrote a short story that year which is notable mainly for the fact
that in it the telephone becomes a literary property, probably for the
first time. “The Loves of Alonzo Fitz-Clarence and Rosannah Ethelton”
employed in the consummation what was then a prospect, rather than a
reality--long-distance communication.
His work that summer consisted mainly of two extensive undertakings, one
of which he completed without delay. He still had the dramatic ambition,
and he believed that he was capable now of constructing a play entirely
from his own resources.
To Howells, in June, he wrote:
To-day I am deep in a comedy which I began this morning--principal
character an old detective. I skeletoned the first act and wrote the
second to-day, and am dog-tired now. Fifty-four pages of MS. in seven
hours.
Seven days later, the Fourth of July, he said:
I have piled up one hundred and fifty-one pages on my comedy. The first,
second and fourth acts are done, and done to my satisfaction, too.
To-morrow and next day will finish the third act, and the play. Never
had so much fun over anything in my life never such consuming interest
and delight. And just think! I had Sol Smith Russell in my mind's eye
for the old detective's part, and bang it! he has gone off pottering
with Oliver Optic, or else the papers lie.
He was working with enthusiasm, you see, believing in it with a faith
which, alas, was no warrant for its quality. Even Howells caught his
enthusiasm and became eager to see the play, and to have the story it
contained told for the Atlantic.
But in the end it proved a mistake. Dion Boucicault, when he read
the manuscript, pronounced it better than “Ah Sin,” but that was only
qualified praise. Actors who considered the play, anxious enough to
have Mark Twain's name on their posters and small bills, were obliged to
admit that, while it contained marvelous lines, it wouldn't “go.” John
Brougham wrote:
There is an absolute “embarrassment of riches” in your “Detective”
most assuredly, but the difficulty is to put it into profitable
form. The quartz is there in abundance, only requiring the
necessary manipulation to extract the gold.
In narrative structure the story would be full of life, character,
and the most exuberant fun, but it is altogether too diffuse in its
present condition for dramatic representation, and I confess I do
not feel sufficient confidence in my own experience (even if I had
the time, which on reflection I find I have not) to undertake what,
under different circumstances, would be a “labor of love.”
Yours sincerely, JOHN BROUGHAM.
That was frank, manly, and to the point; it covered the ground exactly.
“Simon Wheeler, the Amateur Detective,” had plenty of good material in
it--plenty of dialogue and situations; but the dialogue wouldn't play,
and the situations wouldn't act. Clemens realized that perhaps the drama
was not, after all, his forte; he dropped “Simon Wheeler,” lost his
interest in “Ah Sin,” even leased “Colonel Sellers” for the coming
season, and so, in a sort of fury, put theatrical matters out of his
mind.
He had entered upon what, for him, was a truer domain. One day he picked
up from among the books at the farm a little juvenile volume, an English
story of the thirteenth century by Charlotte M. Yonge, entitled, The
Prince and the Page. It was a story of Edward I. and his cousins,
Richard and Henry de Montfort; in part it told of the submerged
personality of the latter, picturing him as having dwelt in disguise as
a blind beggar for a period of years. It was a story of a sort and with
a setting that Mark Twain loved, and as he read there came a correlative
idea. Not only would he disguise a prince as a beggar, but a beggar as
a prince. He would have them change places in the world, and each learn
the burdens of the other's life.--[There is no point of resemblance
between the Prince and the Pauper and the tale that inspired it. No
one would ever guess that the one had grown out of the readings of the
other, and no comparison of any sort is possible between them.]
The plot presented physical difficulties. He still had some lurking
thought of stage performance, and saw in his mind a spectacular
presentation, with all the costumery of an early period as background
for a young and beautiful creature who would play the part of prince.
The old device of changelings in the cradle (later used in Pudd'nhead
Wilson) presented itself to him, but it could not provide the situations
he had in mind. Finally came the thought of a playful interchange of
raiment and state (with startling and unlooked-for consequence)--the
guise and personality of Tom Canty, of Offal Court, for those of the son
of Henry VIII., little Edward Tudor, more lately sixth English king of
that name. This little prince was not his first selection for the part.
His original idea had been to use the late King Edward VII. (then Prince
of Wales) at about fifteen, but he found that it would never answer
to lose a prince among the slums of modern London, and have his proud
estate denied and jeered at by a modern mob. He felt that he could not
make it seem real; so he followed back through history, looking along
for the proper time and prince, till he came to little Edward, who was
too young--but no matter, he would do.
He decided to begin his new venture in story form. He could dramatize
it later. The situation appealed to him immensely. The idea seemed
a brand-new one; it was delightful, it was fascinating, and he was
saturated with the atmosphere and literature and history--the data and
detail of that delightful old time. He put away all thought of cheap,
modern play-acting and writing, to begin one of the loveliest and most
entertaining and instructive tales of old English life. He decided to
be quite accurate in his picture of the period, and he posted himself
on old London very carefully. He bought a pocket-map which he studied in
the minutest detail.
He wrote about four hundred manuscript pages of the tale that summer;
then, as the inspiration seemed to lag a little, put it aside, as was
his habit, to wait until the ambition for it should be renewed. It was
a long wait, as usual. He did not touch it again for more than three
years.