It makes 82,500 words—­12,000 more than Huck Finn.  But I don’t know what to do with it.  Mrs. Clemens thinks it wouldn’t do to go to the Am.  Pub.  Co. or anywhere outside of our own house; we have no subscription machinery, and a book in the trade is a book thrown away, as far as money-profit goes.  I am in a quandary.  Give me a lift out of it.

I will mail the book to you and get you to examine it and see if it is good or if it is bad.  I think it is good, and I thought the Claimant bad, when I saw it in print; but as for real judgment, I think I am destitute of it.

I am writing a companion to the Prince and Pauper, which is half done and will make 200,000 words; and I have had the idea that if it were gotten up in handsome style, with many illustrations and put at a high enough price maybe the L. A. L. canvassers would take it and run it with that book.  Would they?  It could be priced anywhere from $4 up to $10, according to how it was gotten up, I suppose.

I don’t want it to go into a magazine. 
                                             S. L. C.

I am having several short things type-"writered.”  I will send them to you presently.  I like the Century and Harper’s, but I don’t know that I have any business to object to the Cosmopolitan if they pay as good rates.  I suppose a man ought to stick to one magazine, but that may be only superstition.  What do you think? 
                                             S. L. C.

“The companion to The Prince and the Pauper,” mentioned in this letter, was the story of Joan of Arc, perhaps the most finished of Mark Twain’s literary productions.  His interest in Joan had been first awakened when, as a printer’s apprentice in Hannibal, he had found blowing along the street a stray leaf from some printed story of her life.  That fragment of history had pictured Joan in prison, insulted and mistreated by ruffians.  It had aroused all the sympathy and indignation in the boy, Sam Clemens; also, it had awakened his interest in history, and, indeed, in all literature.

His love for the character of Joan had grown with the years, until in time he had conceived the idea of writing her story.  As far back as the early eighties he had collected material for it, and had begun to make the notes.  One thing and another had interfered, and he had found no opportunity for such a story.  Now, however, in Florence, in the ancient villa, and in the quiet garden, looking across the vineyards and olive groves to the dream city along the Arno, he felt moved to take up the tale of the shepherd girl of France, the soldier maid, or, as he called her, “The noble child, the most innocent, the most lovely, the most adorable the ages have produced.”  His surroundings and background would seem to have been perfect, and he must have written with considerable ease to have completed a hundred thousand words in a period of not more than six weeks.