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    The Prince and the Pauper
    The Prince and the Pauper
    The Prince and the Pauper
    Ebook264 pages4 hours

    The Prince and the Pauper

    By Mark Twain

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Mark Twain’s historical fable explores what happens when the Prince of Wales changes places with a young beggar

    Set in sixteenth-century England, The Prince and the Pauper follows two boys with vastly different lives: Tom Canty, the indigent child of an abusive, roustabout thief, and Prince Edward, the son of King Henry VIII and heir to the throne.
     
    One day, daydreaming while wandering near the king’s palace, Canty catches sight of the prince—and nearly catches a brutal beating from the royal guards. Prince Edward commands them to stop and invites the street urchin into his immaculate home. Both fascinated by their strikingly similar appearances, the two boys craft a plot that could unwittingly upend the monarchy: to temporarily switch clothes, thereby swapping lives. Through first-hand experience—and a series of humorous follies—the two discover that neither life is as carefree as they expected.
     
    In The Prince and the Pauper, Twain elevates the classic theme of mistaken identity with his inimitable storytelling to create something uniquely American: a historical fable.
     
    This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateFeb 24, 2015
    ISBN9781504005937
    Author

    Mark Twain

    Mark Twain (1835-1910), fæddur Samuel Langhorne Clemens, var bandarískur rithöfundur, húmoristi og fyrirlesari þekktur fyrir gáfur sínar og lifandi lýsingu á bandarísku lífi á 19. öld. Hann er almennt talinn einn merkasti bandaríski rithöfundurinn. Verk Twain kanna oft þemu um kynþátt, samfélag og siðferði. Meðal frægustu skáldsagna hans eru Ævintýri Tom Sawyer og Ævintýri Huckleberry Finns, sem þykja meistaraverk bandarískra bókmennta.

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    Reviews for The Prince and the Pauper

    3.5/5

    17 ratings5 reviews

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    • 2/5
      This is the first Open Road Media book I didn't care for. When I started reading, I thought it would be yet another Dystopian novel and Irona would overthrow the empire somehow. In a way, Irona believes this of herself as well, but that's not what happens at all. Perhaps that's the point of the story; not everyone is capable or even wants to start a revolution. The problem with that is it makes for a yawn of a story.

      I was interested in how Irona began working within the system she had hated all her life, but I continually wondered where the story was going and why I should care. By the 75% mark, I began to dislike Irona, and by 80%, I was thoroughly bored but determined to finish the book. It wasn't until I had only about 5% left that I finally found out where Irona fit in the grand scheme of things. She is the hero of the story, just not in the way you would think, and getting there made the book seem much longer than it is. On top of that, the author uses rape as a signifier of true evilness, and I'm a firm believer that there are better ways to write evil without having to resort to sexual assault. While the one rape scene wasn't exactly disturbing to me, it may trigger others, and it certainly wasn't necessary.

      Until today, the lowest rating I've given to an Open Road Media book was three stars (The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson). This one gets two stars. It just didn't have enough good storytelling for me to give it three. If you enjoy epic Greek or Roman style settings or political stories, and you don't take issue with sexual violence, maybe check Irona 700 out from the library and give it a chance. I wouldn't pay money for this book, though.
    • 5/5
      A sweeping odyssey about the in's and out's of civilization, this treaty on the sociological behaviors of humanity is both enlightening and at times heartbreaking.

      Irona is a woman selected by a goddess, or possibly by man, to a position of wealth and power. This is the story of her life, loves, and adventures. Dong what is 'right' is never the easy path...and it is often difficult to tell what is 'right' and what we want to be right.
    • 4/5
      if this story had a twenty something heroine who did not age much and a plot that progressed from coming of age thru trials and tribulations to happily ever after would we all jump for joy and up our ratings to five stars ? maybe we should ?

      bcs if you are looking for a fantasy action novel with a female protagonist who does ALL the normal hero stuff like fight and lead and intrigue and bide her time and politic AND all the normal fantasy heroine stuff like travel by land and sea and obtain the trapppings of wealth, and fall in love (twice) and dance and make love and bear children and see them grow and overcome terrible odds and show bravery it's all here - and that's actually quite a life for one woman to experience - but duncan doesn't stop there - this woman will also age and not always gracefully, she will rage and not always politely, she will feel not just a mother's protectiveness toward her child but also a mother's fears, despairs, disappointments. And who wants to read a book that ends with an old woman looking back on a less than fairy tale life amidst imperfect people ? even in (especially in ?) a fantasy story ? it's like a romantic tragedy version of glory road but with a girl in the driver's seat - i'm upping my star rating right now just for 1) young woman ages and old woman leads 2) female head of household with a mature fulfilled love relationship 3)no authority without politics accompanying 4) no violence without victims 5)no sea without drowning 6) no food without the starving 7) no sure thing !
    • 4/5
      Every year, a 16 year old child is chosen from the general population to begin one of the Chosen, the elite who govern. Irona, the daughter of an impoverished fisherman, is chosen as number 700. The book chronicles her life and her emergence as one of the most powerful rulers.

      I really enjoyed the concept behind this book. However, I wanted more. The gods were not explained very well and the author seemed to skip over everything but military battles. That being said, I would definitely read another book set in this universe.
    • 4/5
      Interesting!


      In some ways the storyline's premise becomes more intriguing as the plot continues. The charting of Irona 700's life is filled with flashes of brilliance, personal disappointments, hard slog, politicking and degenerate wars.
      Irona Matrinko, daughter of a fisherman, is chosen at an annual ceremony at the city of Benign, by the blind goddess Caprice. She becomes Chosen, Irona 700.
      A major question must be what part do the gods really play? Where does freedom of choice enter the equation? Is Irona chosen by the goddess or by chance and in this case can the two be really separated? After all look at the goddess' name!
      'Caprice was patron of the city, goddess of the sea, of chance, and the only divinity ever shown in human form. Caprice was worshiped. Most of the others were feared. Maleficence [is] God of evil.'
      Fitting into what turns out to be the top strata of society that is adept at politicking, moving up the rung of success by bribery, favours and sometimes villainy, it soon becomes apparent that to just survive Irona must learn the rules fast.
      Challenges are thrown in front of Irona and it seems Caprice (if one holds to her influence) just might have something in store for Irona.
      The disappearance of Irona's lover and father of her child is a dark mystery, one that certainly made Irona and made me wonder what really happened at Vult. The more I read, the more questions surround the presence of the enemy Maleficence. The suppositions become reality. Vult is a fortress, all that stands between the minions of Maleficience, 'the shapeless', and the Empire.
      Irona constantly sacrifices compassion for expediency it seems, all the time for the benefit of the governing of the Empire and inherent with that, her own path. She makes hard choices, impossible choices and they eat away at her.
      Irona brings to being a Chosen her childhood knowledge of a life outside the Empire, of the way of the sea, a life that knows about hardship and struggles and the ability to fight.
      Again was her being Chosen the work of the goddess Caprice, blind luck, or the more prosaic explanation of a bribe gone wrong--an accident of the moment?
      The repugnance of the creatures that surround Vult and the chaos of Maleficence is not to be disregarded. This made for unpleasant responses being as it were, drawn into that level of degenerateness. It definitely was not enchanting.
      I am unsure as to whether I actually enjoyed Irona 700 it but it certainly was in many aspects, food for thought.

      A NetGalley ARC

    Book preview

    The Prince and the Pauper - Mark Twain

    Chapter I. The Birth of the Prince and the Pauper.

    In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of Canty, who did not want him. On the same day another English child was born to a rich family of the name of Tudor, who did want him. All England wanted him too. England had so longed for him, and hoped for him, and prayed God for him, that, now that he was really come, the people went nearly mad for joy. Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried. Everybody took a holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and danced and sang, and got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and nights together. By day, London was a sight to see, with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop, and splendid pageants marching along. By night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at every corner, and its troops of revellers making merry around them. There was no talk in all England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, who lay lapped in silks and satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and not knowing that great lords and ladies were tending him and watching over him—and not caring, either. But there was no talk about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in his poor rags, except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to trouble with his presence.

    Chapter II. Tom’s Early Life.

    Let us skip a number of years.

    London was fifteen hundred years old, and was a great town—for that day. It had a hundred thousand inhabitants—some think double as many. The streets were very narrow, and crooked, and dirty, especially in the part where Tom Canty lived, which was not far from London Bridge. The houses were of wood, with the second story projecting over the first, and the third sticking its elbows out beyond the second. The higher the houses grew, the broader they grew. They were skeletons of strong criss-cross beams, with solid material between, coated with plaster. The beams were painted red or blue or black, according to the owner’s taste, and this gave the houses a very picturesque look. The windows were small, glazed with little diamond-shaped panes, and they opened outward, on hinges, like doors.

    The house which Tom’s father lived in was up a foul little pocket called Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane. It was small, decayed, and rickety, but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families. Canty’s tribe occupied a room on the third floor. The mother and father had a sort of bedstead in the corner; but Tom, his grandmother, and his two sisters, Bet and Nan, were not restricted—they had all the floor to themselves, and might sleep where they chose. There were the remains of a blanket or two, and some bundles of ancient and dirty straw, but these could not rightly be called beds, for they were not organised; they were kicked into a general pile, mornings, and selections made from the mass at night, for service.

    Bet and Nan were fifteen years old—twins. They were good-hearted girls, unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant. Their mother was like them. But the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends. They got drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody else who came in the way; they cursed and swore always, drunk or sober; John Canty was a thief, and his mother a beggar. They made beggars of the children, but failed to make thieves of them. Among, but not of, the dreadful rabble that inhabited the house, was a good old priest whom the King had turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings, and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways secretly. Father Andrew also taught Tom a little Latin, and how to read and write; and would have done the same with the girls, but they were afraid of the jeers of their friends, who could not have endured such a queer accomplishment in them.

    All Offal Court was just such another hive as Canty’s house. Drunkenness, riot and brawling were the order, there, every night and nearly all night long. Broken heads were as common as hunger in that place. Yet little Tom was not unhappy. He had a hard time of it, but did not know it. It was the sort of time that all the Offal Court boys had, therefore he supposed it was the correct and comfortable thing. When he came home empty-handed at night, he knew his father would curse him and thrash him first, and that when he was done the awful grandmother would do it all over again and improve on it; and that away in the night his starving mother would slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap or crust she had been able to save for him by going hungry herself, notwithstanding she was often caught in that sort of treason and soundly beaten for it by her husband.

    No, Tom’s life went along well enough, especially in summer. He only begged just enough to save himself, for the laws against mendicancy were stringent, and the penalties heavy; so he put in a good deal of his time listening to good Father Andrew’s charming old tales and legends about giants and fairies, dwarfs and genii, and enchanted castles, and gorgeous kings and princes. His head grew to be full of these wonderful things, and many a night as he lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw, tired, hungry, and smarting from a thrashing, he unleashed his imagination and soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings to himself of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace. One desire came in time to haunt him day and night: it was to see a real prince, with his own eyes. He spoke of it once to some of his Offal Court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that he was glad to keep his dream to himself after that.

    He often read the priest’s old books and got him to explain and enlarge upon them. His dreamings and readings worked certain changes in him, by-and-by. His dream-people were so fine that he grew to lament his shabby clothing and his dirt, and to wish to be clean and better clad. He went on playing in the mud just the same, and enjoying it, too; but, instead of splashing around in the Thames solely for the fun of it, he began to find an added value in it because of the washings and cleansings it afforded.

    Tom could always find something going on around the Maypole in Cheapside, and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of London had a chance to see a military parade when some famous unfortunate was carried prisoner to the Tower, by land or boat. One summer’s day he saw poor Anne Askew and three men burned at the stake in Smithfield, and heard an ex-Bishop preach a sermon to them which did not interest him. Yes, Tom’s life was varied and pleasant enough, on the whole.

    By-and-by Tom’s reading and dreaming about princely life wrought such a strong effect upon him that he began to act the prince, unconsciously. His speech and manners became curiously ceremonious and courtly, to the vast admiration and amusement of his intimates. But Tom’s influence among these young people began to grow now, day by day; and in time he came to be looked up to, by them, with a sort of wondering awe, as a superior being. He seemed to know so much! and he could do and say such marvellous things! and withal, he was so deep and wise! Tom’s remarks, and Tom’s performances, were reported by the boys to their elders; and these, also, presently began to discuss Tom Canty, and to regard him as a most gifted and extraordinary creature. Full-grown people brought their perplexities to Tom for solution, and were often astonished at the wit and wisdom of his decisions. In fact he was become a hero to all who knew him except his own family—these, only, saw nothing in him.

    Privately, after a while, Tom organised a royal court! He was the prince; his special comrades were guards, chamberlains, equerries, lords and ladies in waiting, and the royal family. Daily the mock prince was received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom from his romantic readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom were discussed in the royal council, and daily his mimic highness issued decrees to his imaginary armies, navies, and viceroyalties.

    After which, he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings, eat his poor crust, take his customary cuffs and abuse, and then stretch himself upon his handful of foul straw, and resume his empty grandeurs in his dreams.

    And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince, in the flesh, grew upon him, day by day, and week by week, until at last it absorbed all other desires, and became the one passion of his life.

    One January day, on his usual begging tour, he tramped despondently up and down the region round about Mincing Lane and Little East Cheap, hour after hour, bare-footed and cold, looking in at cook-shop windows and longing for the dreadful pork-pies and other deadly inventions displayed there—for to him these were dainties fit for the angels; that is, judging by the smell, they were—for it had never been his good luck to own and eat one. There was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was murky; it was a melancholy day. At night Tom reached home so wet and tired and hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother to observe his forlorn condition and not be moved—after their fashion; wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed. For a long time his pain and hunger, and the swearing and fighting going on in the building, kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to far, romantic lands, and he fell asleep in the company of jewelled and gilded princelings who live in vast palaces, and had servants salaaming before them or flying to execute their orders. And then, as usual, he dreamed that he was a princeling himself.

    All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he moved among great lords and ladies, in a blaze of light, breathing perfumes, drinking in delicious music, and answering the reverent obeisances of the glittering throng as it parted to make way for him, with here a smile, and there a nod of his princely head.

    And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness about him, his dream had had its usual effect—it had intensified the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold. Then came bitterness, and heart-break, and tears.

    Chapter III. Tom’s Meeting with the Prince.

    Tom got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his thoughts busy with the shadowy splendours of his night’s dreams. He wandered here and there in the city, hardly noticing where he was going, or what was happening around him. People jostled him, and some gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. By-and-by he found himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from home he had ever travelled in that direction. He stopped and considered a moment, then fell into his imaginings again, and passed on outside the walls of London. The Strand had ceased to be a country-road then, and regarded itself as a street, but by a strained construction; for, though there was a tolerably compact row of houses on one side of it, there were only some scattered great buildings on the other, these being palaces of rich nobles, with ample and beautiful grounds stretching to the river—grounds that are now closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone.

    Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great cardinal’s stately palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond—Westminster. Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry, the wide-spreading wings, the frowning bastions and turrets, the huge stone gateway, with its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions, and other the signs and symbols of English royalty. Was the desire of his soul to be satisfied at last? Here, indeed, was a king’s palace. Might he not hope to see a prince now—a prince of flesh and blood, if Heaven were willing?

    At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue—that is to say, an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from head to heel in shining steel armour. At a respectful distance were many country folk, and people from the city, waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that might offer. Splendid carriages, with splendid people in them and splendid servants outside, were arriving and departing by several other noble gateways that pierced the royal enclosure.

    Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy, tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises, whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at his hip a little jewelled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near—his servants, without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince—a prince, a living prince, a real prince—without the shadow of a question; and the prayer of the pauper-boy’s heart was answered at last.

    Tom’s breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes grew big with wonder and delight. Everything gave way in his mind instantly to one desire: that was to get close to the prince, and have a good, devouring look at him. Before he knew what he was about, he had his face against the gate-bars. The next instant one of the soldiers snatched him rudely away, and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country gawks and London idlers. The soldier said,—

    Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!

    The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with indignation, and cried out,—

    How dar’st thou use a poor lad like that? How dar’st thou use the King my father’s meanest subject so? Open the gates, and let him in!

    You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. You should have heard them cheer, and shout, Long live the Prince of Wales!

    The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates, and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in his fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless Plenty.

    Edward Tudor said—

    Thou lookest tired and hungry: thou’st been treated ill. Come with me.

    Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to—I don’t know what; interfere, no doubt. But they were waved aside with a right royal gesture, and they stopped stock still where they were, like so many statues. Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace, which he called his cabinet. By his command a repast was brought such as Tom had never encountered before except in books. The prince, with princely delicacy and breeding, sent away the servants, so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by their critical presence; then he sat near by, and asked questions while Tom ate.

    What is thy name, lad?

    Tom Canty, an’ it please thee, sir.

    ’Tis an odd one. Where dost live?

    In the city, please thee, sir. Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane.

    Offal Court! Truly ’tis another odd one. Hast parents?

    Parents have I, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offence to say it—also twin sisters, Nan and Bet.

    Then is thy grand-dam not over kind to thee, I take it?

    Neither to any other is she, so please your worship. She hath a wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days.

    Doth she mistreat thee?

    There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings.

    A fierce look came into the little prince’s eyes, and he cried out—

    What! Beatings?

    Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir.

    "Beatings!—and thou so frail and little. Hark ye: before the night come, she shall hie her to the Tower. The King my father"—

    In sooth, you forget, sir, her low degree. The Tower is for the great alone.

    True, indeed. I had not thought of that. I will consider of her punishment. Is thy father kind to thee?

    Not more than Gammer Canty, sir.

    Fathers be alike, mayhap. Mine hath not a doll’s temper. He smiteth with a heavy hand, yet spareth me: he spareth me not always with his tongue, though, sooth to say. How doth thy mother use thee?

    She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any sort. And Nan and Bet are like to her in this.

    How old be these?

    Fifteen, an’ it please you, sir.

    The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and the Lady Jane Grey, my cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious withal; but my sister the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and—Look you: do thy sisters forbid their servants to smile, lest the sin destroy their souls?

    "They? Oh, dost think, sir, that they have servants?"

    The little prince contemplated the little pauper gravely a moment, then said—

    And prithee, why not? Who helpeth them undress at night? Who attireth them when they rise?

    None, sir. Would’st have them take off their garment, and sleep without—like the beasts?

    Their garment! Have they but one?

    Ah, good your worship, what would they do with more? Truly they have not two bodies each.

    It is a quaint and marvellous thought! Thy pardon, I had not meant to laugh. But thy good Nan and thy Bet shall have raiment and lackeys enow, and that soon, too: my cofferer shall look to it. No, thank me not; ’tis nothing. Thou speakest well; thou hast an easy grace in it. Art learned?

    I know not if I am or not, sir. The good priest that is called Father Andrew taught me, of his kindness, from his books.

    Know’st thou the Latin?

    But scantly, sir, I doubt.

    Learn it, lad: ’tis hard only at first. The Greek is harder; but neither these nor any tongues else, I think, are hard to the Lady Elizabeth and my cousin. Thou should’st hear those damsels at it! But tell me of thy Offal Court. Hast thou a pleasant life there?

    In truth, yes, so please you, sir, save when one is hungry. There be Punch-and-Judy shows, and monkeys—oh such antic creatures! and so bravely dressed!—and there be plays wherein they that play do shout and fight till all are slain, and ’tis so fine to see, and costeth but a farthing—albeit ’tis main hard to get the farthing, please your worship.

    Tell me more.

    We lads of Offal Court do strive against each other with the cudgel, like to the fashion of the ’prentices, sometimes.

    The prince’s eyes flashed. Said he—

    Marry, that would not I mislike. Tell me more.

    We strive in races, sir, to see who of us shall be fleetest.

    That would I like also. Speak on.

    In summer, sir, we wade and swim in the canals and in the river, and each doth duck his neighbour, and splatter him with water, and dive and shout and tumble and—

    ’Twould be worth my father’s kingdom but to enjoy it once! Prithee go on.

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