“In a letter to Mr. Howells of the Atlantic Monthly, Mark
Twain describes the reception of the new comedy 'Ali Sin,'
and then goes on to say:” etc.
Beginning at the star with the words, “The criticisms were just.” Mrs.
Clemens says, “Don't ask that of Mr. Howells--it will be disagreeable
to him.” I hadn't thought of it, but I will bet two to one on the
correctness of her instinct. We shall see.
Will you cut that paragraph out of this letter and precede it with the
remarks suggested (or with better ones,) and send it to the Globe or
some other paper? You can't do me a bigger favor; and yet if it is in
the least disagreeable, you mustn't think of it. But let me know, right
away, for I want to correct this thing before it grows stale again. I
explained myself to only one critic (the World)--the consequence was a
noble notice of the play. This one called on me, else I shouldn't have
explained myself to him.
I have been putting in a deal of hard work on that play in New York, but
it is full of incurable defects.
My old Plunkett family seemed wonderfully coarse and vulgar on the
stage, but it was because they were played in such an outrageously and
inexcusably coarse way. The Chinaman is killingly funny. I don't know
when I have enjoyed anything as much as I did him. The people say there
isn't enough of him in the piece. That's a triumph--there'll never be
any more of him in it.
John Brougham said, “Read the list of things which the critics have
condemned in the piece, and you have unassailable proofs that the play
contains all the requirements of success and a long life.”
That is true. Nearly every time the audience roared I knew it was over
something that would be condemned in the morning (justly, too) but
must be left in--for low comedies are written for the drawing-room, the
kitchen and the stable, and if you cut out the kitchen and the stable
the drawing-room can't support the play by itself.
There was as much money in the house the first two nights as in the
first ten of Sellers. Haven't heard from the third--I came away.
Yrs ever,
MARK.
In a former letter we have seen how Mark Twain, working on a story
that was to stand as an example of his best work, and become one of
his surest claims to immortality (The Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn), displayed little enthusiasm in his undertaking. In the
following letter, which relates the conclusion of his detective
comedy, we find him at the other extreme, on very tiptoe with
enthusiasm over something wholly without literary value or dramatic
possibility. One of the hall-marks of genius is the inability to
discriminate as to the value of its output. “Simon Wheeler, Amateur
Detective” was a dreary, absurd, impossible performance, as wild and
unconvincing in incident and dialogue as anything out of an asylum
could well be. The title which he first chose for it, “Balaam's
Ass,” was properly in keeping with the general scheme. Yet Mark
Twain, still warm with the creative fever, had the fullest faith in
it as a work of art and a winner of fortune. It would never see the
light of production, of course. We shall see presently that the
distinguished playwright, Dion Boucicault, good-naturedly
complimented it as being better than “Ahi Sin.” One must wonder
what that skilled artist really thought, and how he could do even
this violence to his conscience.
*****
To W. D. Howells, in Boston: