The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3. Peter J. Heck
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I had found employment with a famous writer, or that I was meeting important people in the world of literature. So the invitation to accompany Mr. Clemens to Europe came as something of a godsend.
“I’ve talked Henry Rogers into sponsoring a European tour starting in November,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon I can wrap up my affairs here in a week or so, and jump on the first boat leaving after that. If you can come on down to New York by Monday, I’ll have plenty of work for you. And maybe this time we can manage to take a trip without anybody getting murdered.”
“I certainly hope so,” I said. One of the unexpected duties of my position as Mr. Clemens’s traveling secretary had been my participation in the resolution of two murder cases—one that began in New York and came to its conclusion aboard a Mississippi riverboat, and another involving two deaths among the New Orleans aristocracy.
“I’m in the Union Square Hotel again,” said my employer. “I’ll tell them to reserve you a room starting Monday night. Pack your trunk—we’ll probably be gone right up till spring. And if you know any French or German or Italian, brush up on it now. I reckon we’ll see most of the continent before we’re done.”
“I’ll start packing right away,” I said, excited that my dreams of foreign travel were at last about to come true. “Look for me midmorning on Monday.”
I broke the connection, and turned to see my mother standing behind me, a sad expression on her face. Her arms were folded across her bosom, and she had on an old, dark blue dress that in the dim light of the hallway seemed to emphasize her melancholy. “So, you’re leaving again,” she said quietly. “Your father will be very disappointed, William.” She and my father were almost the only people I knew who called me by my first name. It made me feel like a small child, despite my being a good ten inches taller than Mother.
“How else am I to see Europe?” I asked. “If it weren’t for Mr. Clemens, I’d never have been out of New England.”
“Your father and I have never been to Europe, and it has not hurt us in the least. Besides, if it weren’t for Mr. Clemens, you’d never have been in jail,” she said accusingly. My parents had been deeply shocked to learn of my having spent several hours in a New Orleans jail cell following a duel with pistols. (I had done my best to keep the knowledge from them, but some well-meaning person had seen the New Orleans newspaper accounts and passed on the story.) She cocked her head to one side and looked up at me. “I don’t think that man is a good influence on you. Mr. Digby tells me that his books are unwholesome and that he openly mocks respectable people of our sort.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” I said. Mr. Digby was the minister at our church, and my mother put great stock in his opinion on all subjects. I personally found his manner rather pompous, but had generally refrained from criticizing him in my mother’s presence. “I can only tell you that Mr. Clemens’s circle of acquaintance includes some of the most eminent people in the country. If Mr. Digby had spent as much time in his company as I have, I hope he would be of a different opinion.” As I said this, the image of my employer came to me, puffing great clouds of cigar smoke, knocking back full bumpers of Scotch whisky, and swearing like a stevedore. Perhaps it was just as well that Mr. Digby had not made his acquaintance. . . .
“I see I am wasting my time talking to you,” said my mother. “Your father will have something to say about this when he comes home.” She raised her chin, then turned and walked away.
“I am sure he will,” I said, as calmly as I could manage. I was angry at her opposition to my plans, but I had no desire to hurt her. “But if I don’t take this opportunity now, it may never come again.”
She turned and looked at me, and I could see a hint of moisture around her eyes. “And what opportunities are you passing up in favor of this notion of seeing Europe? Why not settle down and make a fair start at establishing yourself in some worthwhile profession? You know how your father is eating his heart out at your refusal to follow him into the practice of law. But I think he would be satisfied by your commitment to any steady and respectable occupation.”
“Perhaps he would,” I said. “But I have made my commitment to Europe, and to Mr. Clemens.”
When all was said and done, my parents had no choice but to acquiesce in my continued employment as Mr. Clemens’s secretary. After all, I was a grown man and in full possession of my senses. In fact, my father’s attempt to get me to listen to reason—or, more precisely, to my mother’s pleas—seemed almost perfunctory. It made me wonder whether he might not have his own unfulfilled wish to see some of the world, even if it didn’t qualify as a steady and respectable occupation.
In any case, the following Monday found me once again in New York City, in the lobby of the Union Square Hotel, where I had first learned what it meant to be part of a police investigation. Mr. Clemens had reserved a room for me adjacent to his own, and within an hour of my arrival I was immersed in the now-familiar business of helping him with his correspondence, and taking care of last-minute arrangements for our journey to Europe. It felt good to be busy again, and to be a part of the great world beyond Connecticut.
My employer lounged in a comfortable easy chair, his feet propped up and a pipe between his teeth. The hotel had sent up an urn of hot coffee and some sweet buns for our late-morning refreshment. I sipped at my coffee in between scribbling down Mr. Clemens’s instructions. Fortunately, his slow speech made it easy to keep up with him; my education had included many things, but instruction in shorthand was not among them.
“I’ve been in touch with my English publishers,” said Mr. Clemens. “They’re anxious for my new book, and if I get a little work done on the boat, it’ll be just about ready for the press. I’m planning on meeting Livy in London, so she can go over the manuscript—she’s the only editor I really trust—and then I’ll hand it in and start to see some money from it.”
“I’m surprised you wouldn’t publish it first in this country,” I said. “Don’t your fellow Americans deserve first look at your writings? I’m sure they’d support your work as well as the British would.” I was a little taken aback by his intention; it seemed out of character for a staunch admirer of all things American.
“I’m sure they would, but there’s the damned copyright problem,” he growled. “It’s been the plague of my existence, Wentworth. The English won’t recognize copyright for any book first published elsewhere, so I have to let the stiff-necked swindlers put it out before the American edition, even if it’s only by twenty-four hours. Otherwise, I’d never see a penny from England.”
“That’s dreadful! I can imagine the difficulties it must create,” I said. “Still, with today’s fast ships, and the transatlantic telegraph, it ought be considerably easier to coordinate the two editions, shouldn’t it? Why can’t you simply send your corrected manuscript directly to New York, once the English have finished with it?”
Mr. Clemens knocked the ash out of his pipe and shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it, Wentworth. The fast ships cause more trouble than they prevent. With a couple of my books, the Canadians got hold of the English edition and ran off pirated copies for sale in the U.S before my American publishers had the type set. They cost me thousands in royalties, and thousands more trying to stop their goddamned thievery. Howells and George Putnam and I went to Congress a few years ago, and we convinced them to plug up some of the loopholes. But there’s still no guarantee I’ll get the benefit of my labors unless I pay attention to every jot and tittle of the law. Writing’s hard enough work, without having to be a damned lawyer, as well.”
“I can believe you,” I told him, recalling my own efforts at turning my notes into something resembling passible prose. I thought I had a solid grounding in the use of my native tongue, but while my sentences were correctly formed, to my eye they lacked a certain vigor. I had expected my employment with Mr. Clemens to bring about some improvement in my writing, but my carefully revised pages looked even less presentable to me now than they had when I was still a student.
“We’ll be traveling on the City of Baltimore,” said Mr. Clemens, standing up and