NOVELS AND NOVELISTS.
"The Lumley Entail"--"Gladys Fane"--My Experience in Novel Writing--About
Sad Endings--Imaginary Characters and Characters Drawn from Life--Visits
from William Black and Bret Harte--Black as an After-Dinner Sneaker--How
Bret Harte saw Haworth Parsonage, and was Roughly Entreated by a
Yorkshire Admirer--A Candid Opinion on the Brontë Monograph.
I now propose to hark back a little in order to bring together some
reminiscences and experiences that lie apart from the graver political
events with which I have been dealing. To begin with, I made a serious
attempt at novel-writing in 1883. Perhaps my friendship with William
Black and James Payn had some influence in leading me to revert to a kind
of work which in my youth had attracted me greatly. I had already, as I
have said, written one novel, "The Lumley Entail," published in the
_St. James's Magazine_, and long since forgotten by everybody,
including its author. I had begun half-a-dozen different stories at
various times, but had always failed to make much progress with them. One
or two short stories that had appeared in Christmas Numbers of the
_Leeds Mercury_ and sundry magazines had not been wholly
unsuccessful, and so, after long cogitation, in the year 1883 I wrote
"Gladys Fane: A Story of Two Lives." Of its merits I cannot speak, but it
gave me great pleasure to write it, and it had a friendly reception both
from the critics and the public. In this country it had a very large
sale, and in the United States a still larger. The strange thing is that
here the book still sells, and once a year I receive from the publisher,
Mr. Fisher Unwin, a modest sum in payment of the royalties due to me on
the sales.
Perhaps I may say something on the strength of my limited experience on
the subject of novel-writing. It may seem presumptuous to do so, seeing
that everybody nowadays either writes a novel or thinks that he or she
can do so. My own experience taught me that in novel-writing, as in most
descriptions of work, there is a particular knack to be acquired before
success can be attained. I think I must have been absolutely without this
knack when I began to write "Gladys Fane." I was a good descriptive
writer, and could describe either scenery or action sufficiently well,
but when I tried my hand at conversation I was utterly at sea. I could
not make my men and women talk as men and women do in real life. Before I
had finished the story I had got the knack, and if I were ever to write
another I have no doubt that I could manage the conversation fairly well.
Of course, even without the knack a writer may achieve, under certain
conditions, a great success; but to do so he must _feel_ his story;
that is to say, it must be as real to him as if it were something that
had actually happened. Undoubtedly I had this feeling about "Gladys
Fane," and this, I imagine, was the one merit which secured for the book
the degree of success that it attained. I remember that when I wrote the
closing chapter, in which the hero meets with a tragical death, I was
under the influence of as poignant an emotion as I should have
experienced if I had been standing by the deathbed of my dearest friend.
Great was my joy, after the story was published, to read a generous
review of the book in the _Standard_, in which the reviewer said
that he did not envy the man who could read that last chapter with a
steady voice and an undimmed eye. I saw that others had been infected by
the emotion which almost overwhelmed me as I penned the closing pages of
the book.
The sad ending which is so hateful to the ordinary reader is regarded by
some reviewers as a cheap device for enlisting popular attention, and
many complaints have been made of its having been used unnecessarily.
There may be some writers who deliberately make up their minds to bring
their stories to a tragical conclusion, but if such persons exist they
must be very bad artists. In my own case I certainly did not contemplate
a sad ending when I began to write my novel; but week by week, as I
wrote, I became more and more forcibly impressed with the feeling that
the doom of my hero was sealed. I tried to get away from this morbid
conclusion, and to wrench the story into another channel, but I failed
utterly in the attempt, so that at last I had to yield, though, as I have
said, I did so with keen regret. William Black, when discussing with me
one day the question of the sad ending, said, "People may say what they
like, but I know, as a matter of experience, that a book which ends
sorrowfully is always remembered far more vividly than one that winds up
in the usual fashion with the ringing of marriage-bells." This is quite
true, but the young novelist who wants his novels to sell, ought
carefully to avoid the tragical _dénouement_, for there are a great
many readers who deliberately refuse to read any book which ends sadly.
Therefore, though art may require such an ending, from the commercial
side of literature it is a huge mistake. Mr. Forster came to me at the
time when "Gladys Fane" was in the flush of its first success, and told
me with his usual kindly bluntness that he was not going to read it. "My
wife has read it, and likes it, but I am not going to make myself
miserable by reading any story that ends sadly. You must write another
that I _can_ read." And it was this chance remark that led to my
next essay in fiction, of which more hereafter.
I had one curious experience in writing "Gladys Fane" that may or may not
be common to most novelists. Certain of the characters were founded upon
real men and women. I painted no portraits, of course, but I undoubtedly
took hints from people whom I knew. My heroine, for example, had a
prototype in real life, who served for the first sketch, but as I wrote I
made her character develop until she was a wholly different woman from
her model. Black, criticising the story in a letter, remarked that the
further the heroine was removed from all likeness to the original, the
more natural and real she became. But still more striking was the fact
that most of my critics agreed that the most real characters in the book,
those that struck them as being most lifelike and individual, were purely
imaginary creations of my own. "I like your villain," wrote Lord
Houghton. "He is the most impressive figure in the book. Wherever did you
meet him?" As a matter of fact, I had met him nowhere, and could not
charge myself with having taken even a hint in drawing his portrait from
anybody whom I knew or had heard of. Some of the minor characters were
unhesitatingly described by critics as portraits evidently drawn from
life. In no single instance had they been so drawn. I had imagined them
simply. It would be interesting to know if this is the experience of
other writers of romance. I am bound to speak with modesty and
diffidence, because of my very limited experience in this kind of work. I
have only touched upon the subject, indeed, because I think it may
interest my readers to know something of the secrets of the workshop of
even the humblest literary artist.
There is just one other point that I may mention in connection with
"Gladys Fane." Whilst I was writing the book, I was doing my full work as
editor of the _Leeds Mercury_, and was not only editing the paper,
but was writing for it an average of twelve columns a week. "Gladys Fane"
is a long story, containing a hundred and sixty thousand words. I wrote
it during my scanty leisure in exactly sixteen weeks, or at the rate of
ten thousand words a week. This, I imagine, is a speed which only the
unfaltering pen of the typical lady novelist usually attains. Before
beginning any chapter which had not shaped itself clearly in my mind, I
used to take a long country walk, during the course of which I found that
I could beat out the whole narrative, and solve any small problem in the
construction that had troubled me.
About this time I was seeing a good deal of my literary friends. Amongst
others, William Black and Bret Harte visited me at Leeds, and I have
amusing recollections of both visits. Black came to me, if I remember
aright, on his way to Scotland. It was his first visit to Leeds, and I
thought he was entitled to something more than the welcome given to a
private guest. Not many writers of distinction had found their way to
Leeds whilst I was living there, and it was my earnest desire that those
who came should receive a greeting that would satisfy them that even
business communities could value real worth in literature. Accordingly, I
gave a large dinner party at the Liberal Club in Black's honour, and
invited to it a number of the leading citizens. They were all anxious to
come, and to share in the welcome to my distinguished guest.
Unfortunately, however, the dinner involved a speech from Black. I knew
how much he hated speech-making, and did my best to steel him for the
ordeal. But no efforts of mine, or of any other man, would have converted
Black into an orator. His response to the toast of his health, which had
been drunk with genuine enthusiasm, was as follows: "When I left London,
I thought I was going to Yorkshire, but the way in which you have treated
me shows that I have made a mistake and that I have really got into
Scotland." And forthwith he sat down, leaving us to realise the subtle
compliment conveyed in his brief speech.
And here I am reminded of another occasion on which I heard him make an
attempt at after-dinner oratory. A certain Lord Mayor of London
distinguished himself by giving a dinner to the representatives of
literature. I had the honour of being invited to the feast, and shared
Black's cab in the drive to the Mansion House. On the way thither he told
me that he was one of those who had to respond for fiction: "but," he
added, "I am all right, for Blackmore is to speak before me, and I shall
get up when he sits down, and simply say 'I say ditto to Mr. Blackmore,'"
Comforted with this idea, he was able to enjoy the Lord Mayor's turtle.
But alas! when Blackmore rose to address the company, he confined himself
to the statement that, never having made a speech before, he must leave
it to a much more distinguished man, his friend Mr. William Black, to
respond to the toast. It was obvious to Black that he could not say ditto
to this speech, and he had, accordingly, to make a serious attempt to
reply for fiction.
I confess I was very sorry for him. He started well by telling a story
about an experience of his when visiting the United States. He was
entertained at dinner by some New York club, not, I imagine, a literary
one, and the president proposed his health in gushing terms, the
peroration of the speech being, "I now ask you, gentlemen, to drink to
the health of the greatest of living novelists, Mr. William Black, the
author of that immortal work, 'Lorna Doone.'" Now this is an excellent
story, and if Black had only been able to tell it, he would have
delighted his audience, and would have secured a very genuine triumph.
But alas! the acoustic properties of the Egyptian Hall are, to say the
least of it, not good, and Black was so nervous that he was almost
inaudible, more especially when he reached the point of his little tale.
The result was that to the vast majority of those who heard him, his
speech seemed to be a simple announcement of the fact that he had once
been described at a dinner in New York as the greatest of living
novelists. Happily, Black was not dependent upon his oratorical gifts for
his power of influencing the public.
When Bret Harte visited me at Leeds in the early 'eighties, his arrival
caused what the reporters describe as a "sensation" in the town. To begin
with, Harte had not been long resident in this country, and the author of
"The Heathen Chinee" was still something of a mythical personage to the
average Englishman. Then he still affected the style of dress which
Buffalo Bill afterwards made familiar, and with his broad sombrero hat,
his flowing locks, and ample fur-lined overcoat, cut a conspicuous figure
in the streets. It is no exaggeration to say that everybody turned to
look at him, and that more than once he had a small mob at his heels.
Greatly interested, like most of his fellow-countrymen, in the story of
the Brontës, he got me to accompany him on a pilgrimage to Haworth, to
see the world-famed parsonage and church. Shortly before this time, I had
been concerned in raising an agitation against the destruction of the
church, and had, in consequence, incurred the hostility of the incumbent,
a certain Mr. Wade, who was anxious to replace the venerable fabric in
which the Brontës had worshipped for so many years by a handsome modern
edifice. Mr. Shepard, the American Consul at Bradford, was the companion
of Harte and myself in our visit; but somewhat to our annoyance, we were
joined at a wayside station by a young man, who was known to Shepard, and
who seemed very anxious to accompany a celebrity like Bret Harte. We duly
reached the grey old village among the moors, and for the last time I saw
the quaint interior of Haworth Church, and sat once more in Charlotte
Brontë's seat in the old-fashioned pew at the foot of the clumsy
three-decker pulpit.
When we had seen the church, and inspected the signature of Charlotte
Brontë in the register of marriages, Harte declared that he could not
leave without visiting the parsonage. I warned him that he was not likely
to be admitted, as Mr. Wade was known to object to the intrusion of
strangers into his house. Harte, however, maintained that as an American
author, Mr. Wade would certainly not refuse him if he sought admittance,
and persisted in visiting the parsonage. Remembering my controversy with
Mr. Wade, I discreetly withdrew from the company, and retired to the
Black Bull Inn, where I smoked a cigar in the chair in which Branwell
Brontë had too often sat. After some time had elapsed, my friends--Harte,
Shepard, and the young man, whom I will call M.---- returned. "Did you
really get admittance?" I asked, and Harte replied in the affirmative.
"Well," I said, "you may congratulate yourself, for it was a remarkable
achievement."
Harte did not seem to respond very willingly to this remark, so Shepard
took up the tale, and told me what had really happened. "When we got to
the door, Harte sent in his card to Mr. Wade, and enquired if he could
see him. We were left standing on the doorstep until Mr. Wade made his
appearance, Harte's card in his hand. The expression of his face was not
encouraging. He asked what we wanted, and Harte said, 'You perhaps may
know my name. I am an American author.' Mr. Wade looked at the card, and
said, 'Yes, he had heard the name. What did Mr. Harte want?' Then Harte
introduced me, as American Consul at Bradford, and explained that we were
both most anxious to be allowed to see the interior of Charlotte Brontë's
old home. Upon this Mr. Wade, in very plain language, declared that it
was impossible, that he made it a rule not to admit strangers to his
house, and could make no exception. Harte seemed very much annoyed, and I
put in a word to explain who his visitor was, and what he had done in
literature. But the old gentleman was quite obdurate, and we were about
to turn away when young M. stepped forward, and said, 'Mr. Wade, my name
is M. and I come from So-and-so.' 'What!' said Mr. Wade, his whole manner
changing at once, 'are you related to my old friend, Mr. M., of the firm
of M. & N.?' 'I am his son,' replied M. 'Come in, sir,' cried Mr. Wade,
with effusion. 'I shall be delighted to see you in my house, and you may
bring your friends with you.'" And this was the fashion in which Bret
Harte saw Haworth Parsonage.
I had, I confess, a kindlier feeling towards our youthful companion on
the return journey than that which I had entertained towards him before
this incident; but ere we reached Leeds he again annoyed me. Whilst we
were waiting for our train in Keighley Station, M. disappeared from our
side. Presently we became aware that he was going to and fro upon the
platform telling everybody who Bret Harte was; so that in a short time we
found ourselves surrounded by a staring crowd. Fortunately the train came
up, and we were able to escape; but a man known to M. entered the
compartment, and the exuberant youth, in spite of the frowns of Shepard
and myself, was unable to restrain himself. We heard him, in a stage
whisper, announce that Bret Harte was there. Harte, who was boiling over
with indignation, thrust his head out of the window to escape the
stranger's stare. The latter ejaculated, "Bret Harte! Where?" M. pointed
to the window, and instantly the sturdy Yorkshireman sprang from his
seat, and seizing Harte by the shoulders, forced him back into his seat,
whilst he thrust himself half out of the window, and eagerly searched the
platform for the missing celebrity. "I can't see him nowhere," he
ejaculated, as the train moved off, and he once more pushed Harte
violently aside, as he strode back to his own seat. When at last, by
expressive pantomime, M. had conveyed the truth to his friend's mind, it
was difficult to decide whether Harte or the hero-worshipper betrayed the
greater degree of embarrassment.
It was about this time that I had an amusing experience of my own in
connection with Haworth and the Brontës. I was staying with my wife and
children at a country inn at Burnsall, a delightful spot on the Upper
Wharfe above Bolton Abbey. The inn was a small one, and by arrangement
with the landlord I had, in addition to a sitting-room, the exclusive use
of the coffee-room when my family partook of meals. The truth was that
the "Red Lion" had but few visitors, at any rate of the coffee-room
class. Coming down to breakfast one morning, the landlord met me with a
perturbed countenance. "There's a young gentleman from London in the
coffee-room, sir," he said, "and though I've told him the room is
engaged, he won't go out, but insists upon having his breakfast there." I
assured the landlord that I did not in the least object to his doing so,
and accordingly the young man breakfasted at the same table as myself and
my family. I found he was an entire stranger to the district, and he
volunteered the statement that he had never been in Yorkshire before his
present visit. An enthusiast upon Yorkshire scenery, I was anxious to
know what he had seen of the beautiful broad shire. "I've been nowhere,"
he replied, "except to a little place called Haworth."
Now what attraction could there be in such a place as Haworth for a
stranger from London unless it were the attraction of the Brontës? So I
reasoned; and reasoned, as it appeared, most erroneously. "Oh, no," he
said, in reply to my question, "I didn't go to Haworth because of the
Brontës. In fact, I knew nothing about them when I went there, but my
friends gave me a book to read about them, and I tried to read it. It was
written by somebody called Wemyss Reid, but I thought it a poor book." I
knew that my friend the landlord was quite certain to tell the stranger
my name, and I thought it better to take the bull by the horns, and
reveal the truth to him. So, as gently as I could, and with a keen
appreciation of the good story with which I saw that he had furnished me,
I made him understand that I was the culprit who had produced that poor
book. He took the revelation so much to heart that I really regretted
having made it, and it was not until after more than an hour's talk on
irrelevant topics that I eased him, as I hope, of his pain and
mortification, and induced him to join me in laughing at the
extraordinary stroke of ill-fortune by which I was the first person to
whom he innocently revealed his bad opinion of my book. Perhaps the
incident taught him to be more cautious ever afterwards in the expression
of his literary verdicts, at all events when in the company of a chance
acquaintance. It must be confessed that in this case the doctrine of
coincidences upon which I have touched in a former chapter was not so
pleasant in its application as it usually is. For my part, I have always
recalled that breakfast with keen delight.