During one of those periods when I deliberately broke the chains of
regular journalism in order to enjoy the dangerous liberty of a free
lance, I made a bid for fortune by writing some one-act plays, and one
three-act play.
I had gained some knowledge of stage technique and of that high mystery
known as “construction,” as a dramatic critic, when, for six months,
I acted for William Archer, the master critic, during his absence
in the United States. This knowledge, I may say at once, was not of
the slightest use to me, because technique cannot take the place of
inspiration--Barrie and others have exploded its traditions--and I
suffered the usual disappointments of the novice in that most difficult
art.
To some extent I had the wires greased for me by my brother, Cosmo
Hamilton, and it was his influence, and his expert touches to my little
drama “Menders of Nets,” which caused it to be produced at the Royalty
Theater, with a distinguished cast, including the beautiful Beryl Faber
and that great actor Arthur Holmes-Gore. It was well received, and I
had visions of motor cars and other fruits of success, which suddenly
withered when the announcement was made that the play was to be
withdrawn after a few performances. What had happened was an ultimatum
presented to Otho Stuart, the manager of the Royalty Theater, by Albert
Chevalier who, in the same bill, was playing another one-act drama,
called “The House.” My “Menders of Nets” played for something over an
hour, and ended in a tragic scene in a fisherman’s cottage. When the
curtain rang up again for Albert Chevalier, the second play began with
gloom and tragedy in the same key as mine, and the audience had had
enough of this kind of atmosphere. “Either ‘Menders of Nets’ must be
changed,” said Chevalier, “or I withdraw ‘The House.’” That, anyhow,
was the explanation given to me, and off came my piece.
This blow was followed by another, more amazing. Three other one-act
plays of mine were accepted by a gentleman reputed to be enormously
rich, who took one of the London theaters for a “triple bill” season.
Unfortunately, before the production of my little plays, he was
overwhelmed in debt, abandoned his theatrical schemes, and departed for
the Continent with the only copies of my three efforts, which I have
not seen or heard of from that day to this.
Drama seemed to me too hazardous an adventure for a man who has to pay
the current expenses of life, and I turned to other forms of writing to
keep the little old pot boiling on the domestic hearth. I became for a
time a literary “ghost.”
It is ironical and amusing that three books of mine which achieved
considerable financial success and obtained great and favorable
publicity were published under another man’s name. He wanted _kudos_,
and I wanted a certain amount of ready cash, in order to pay the rent
and other necessities of life. I agreed readily to write a book for
him--and afterward two more--for a certain fixed sum. As it happened, I
think he not only obtained the _kudos_, but a fair profit as well. As I
had been well paid, I was perfectly content.
Some friends of mine, to whom I have mentioned this secret, without
giving away the name of the man who assumed the title of author, charge
me with having been guilty of an immoral and scandalous transaction. My
conscience does not prick me very sharply. As far as I was concerned,
I was guilty of no deceit, and no dishonesty. I provided a certain
amount of work, for which I was adequately paid, on condition that my
name was not attached to it. Journalists do the same thing day by day,
and the editor of the journal gets the credit. It is the other man who
must have felt uneasy and conscience-stricken, sometimes, because he
was a masquerader. But his sense of humor, his charm of personality,
and his generosity, made me take a lenient view of his literary
camouflage.
I wrote another book, for another man, but in that case he was far more
entitled to the credit, because it was actually his narrative, and the
record of his own amazing adventures told to me, partly in French and
partly in broken English. This was a story of the sea, called _Fifteen
Thousand Miles in a Ketch_, by Captain Raymond Rallier du Baty,
published in England by Nelson’s.
This young Frenchman is one of the most charming and courageous souls
I have ever met, and I look back with pleasure to the days when we
used to motor out to Windsor Forest and there, under the old oaks,
he used to spread out his charts and describe his amazing voyage in
a little fishing ketch, with his brother and a crew of six, from
Boulogne-sur-mer to Sidney, in Australia, stopping six months on the
way at the desert island of Kerguelen in the South Pacific, where they
lived like primitive men of the Paleolithic age, fighting sea lions
with clubs, to obtain their blubbers, and having strange and desperate
adventures in their exploration of this mountainous island. The
narrative I wrote from his spoken story was widely and enthusiastically
reviewed, and I remember _The Spectator_ went so far as to say that “it
was worthy to have a place on the bookshelf by the side of Robinson
Crusoe.”
Raymond du Baty, that handsome, brown-eyed, quiet, and noble young
seaman of France, felt the call of the wild again after my acquaintance
with him, and returned to the desert island for further exploration.
After six months of solitude cut off from all the world and its news,
a steamer came to the island and brought with it tidings of a world
gone mad. It was Armageddon. Germany and Austria, Turkey and Bulgaria
were at war with France, Great Britain, and Russia. Other nations were
getting dragged in. The fields of Europe were drenched in the blood of
the world’s youth. France was sorely stricken, but holding out with
heroic endurance....
Imagine the effect of that news on a young Frenchman who had heard
no whisper of it, until its horror burst with full force upon him in
his island of eternal peace! He abandoned Kerguelen and went back to
France. Within a fortnight he had gained his pilot’s certificate as an
aviator, and was flying over the German lines with shrapnel bursting
about his wings.
That, however, is later history, and takes me away from that second
period of free lancing in London when I did many different kinds of
work, and, on the whole, enjoyed the game.
One little enterprise at this time which interested me a good deal
and enabled me to earn a considerable sum of money with hardly any
labor--a rare achievement!--was an idea which I proposed to _The Daily
Graphic_--for their correspondence column. My suggestion was to obtain
from well-known people their views and ideals on the subject of “The
Simple Life.” A further part of my amiable suggestion was that I should
be paid a certain fee for every column of the kind which I obtained
for the paper. The proposal was accepted, and my wife and I made a
careful selection of names, including princes and princesses, dukes and
duchesses, famous actors and actresses, society beauties, and, indeed,
celebrities of all kinds. I then drafted a letter in which I suggested,
in all sincerity, that our modern civilization had become too complex
and too materialistic, and expressed the hope that I might be favored
with an opinion on the possibility and advantages of a return to “The
Simple Life.”
The response to these letters was amazing. Instinctively I had struck
a little note which caused a lively vibration of emotion and sympathy
in many minds. It was before the war or the shadow of war had fallen
over Europe, and when great numbers of people were alarmed by the lack
of idealism, the gross materialism, the frivolity, the decadence of
our social state. There was also a revolt of the spirit against the
artificiality of city life, a yearning for that “return to nature”
which was so strong a sentiment in France before the Revolution,
especially among the aristocratic and intellectual classes.
Something of the sort was acting like yeast in the imagination
of similar classes in England and other countries. I received an
immense number of answers to my inquiry, and many of them were
extremely interesting and valuable as the revelation of that craving
for simplicity in ideals and conduct of life, and for a closer
touch with primitive nature and the beauty of eternal things. It
was characteristic, I think, that people of high rank and easy
circumstances were the warmest advocates of “The Simple Life.” The
correspondence continued for weeks and months, and my title became a
catchword on the stage, in _Punch_, and in private society. One of
the most beautiful letters I received--it contained more than three
thousand words--was from “Carmen Sylva,” describing a day in her
life as Queen of Roumania. Afterward a selection of the letters was
published in book form, and had a great success.
Another task I undertook more for love than lucre (I received only
a nominal fee) was to help in the organization of the Shakespeare
Memorial Committee. A considerable sum of money had been bequeathed
by certain philanthropists for the purpose of honoring the memory of
Shakespeare and encouraging the study of his works, by some national
memorial worthy of his genius, as the world’s tribute to his immortal
spirit. The honorary secretary and most ardent promoter of this scheme
was Israel Gollancz--since knighted--a little professor at Oxford
and London, with an immense range of scholarship in Anglo-Saxon
and mediæval literature, and an insatiable capacity for organizing
committees, societies, academies, and other groups devoted to the
advancement of learning, and, anyhow, to agreeable social intercourse
and intellectual rendezvous. Meeting the professor in a bun shop, I
became enthusiastic with the idea of the Shakespeare Memorial, and
willingly offered to help him get his first General Committee and
organize a great public meeting at the Mansion House, to place the idea
of the Memorial before the nation with an appeal for funds.
This work brought me into touch with many interesting people, apart
from Sir Israel himself, for whom I have always had an affectionate
regard, and among them I remember one of the grand old men of
England--Doctor Furnivall, editor of the Leopold Shakespeare. He was
over eighty years of age when I first met him, but he had the heart of
a boy, the gayety of D’Artagnan, the Musketeer, and the debonnair look
of an ancient cavalier. Every Sunday he used, even at that age, to take
out an eight of shopgirls on old Father Thames, and once every week
he held a reception at the top of a tea shop in Oxford Street, when
scholars old and young, journalists, and pretty ladies used to crowd
round him, enamored by his silvery grace, his exquisite courtesy, the
wit that played about his words like the mellow sunshine of an autumn
day. He was always very kind to me, and I loved the sight of him.
I came to know another grand old man--of another type--in connection
with that work for the Shakespeare Committee. The first time I met
Lord Roberts, that little white falcon of England, whom often I had
seen riding in royal processions through the streets of London, with a
roar of cheers following him, was in his house in Portland Place when
I “touched” him for a donation to the Shakespeare Fund and persuaded
him to join the General Committee. He was going to a reception that
evening, and I remember him now, as he stood before me, a little old
soldier, in full uniform, with rows and rows of medals and stars, all
a-glitter, but not brighter than his keen eyes beneath their shaggy
brows. After listening to my explanation, he spoke of his love of
Shakespeare as a man might speak of his best comrade, and declared his
willingness to do any service for his sake.
The next time I saw Lord Roberts was at one of those early aviation
meetings which I have described. I stood by his side, and he chatted to
me about the marvel of this coming conquest of the air. As he spoke an
aëroplane danced over the turf and rose and soared away, and the little
old man, cheering like a schoolboy, ran after it a little way with the
rest of the crowd, as young in spirit as any man there, sixty years his
junior.
Toward the end of his life a shadow darkened his spirit, though it
did not dim his eyes or the fire that still burnt in him, as when,
half a century before, he blew up the gates of Delhi and brought
relief to the beleaguered survivors. He saw very clearly the approach
of the German menace to Europe and that war in which we should be
involved, unprepared, without a national army, with untrained men.
Again and again he tried to warn the nation of its impending peril, of
the tremendous forces preparing the destruction of its youth, and he
devoted the last years of his life in another attempt to induce Great
Britain to adopt some form of compulsory military service, without
avail.
I remember traveling down to his house at Ascot on the morning
following one of those speeches in the House of Lords. I went to
ask him to write some reminiscences for a weekly paper. He would not
listen to that, and when we sat together in a first-class carriage on
the way to town (I had a third-class ticket!) he buried himself behind
_The Times_, and was disinclined to talk. But I was inclined to talk,
because it is not often that I should sit alone with “Our Bobs,” and
when I caught his eye over the top of _The Times_, I ventured a remark
which I thought might please him.
“Powerful speech of yours, sir, last night!”
He put down _The Times_, and stared at me, moodily.
“Do you think so? Shall I tell you what the British people think of me?”
“What is that, sir?”
“They think I’m a damned old fool, scare mongering and raising silly
bogies. That’s what they think of my speech.”
And it was true, and to some extent I agreed with them, as I must
confess, not believing much in the German menace, and believing anyhow
that by wise diplomacy, a little tact, friendly demonstrations to a
friendly folk, we might disarm the power of the military caste and
insure peace.
“All the same,” said Lord Roberts, “I talk of what I know. Germany is
preparing for war--and we have no army such as we shall need when it
happens.”
It was to my brother, Cosmo Hamilton, then editor of _The World_ in
London, that Lord Roberts detailed his scheme of military service. A
series of articles, published anonymously in that paper, attracted
considerable interest among the small crowd who believed in a big army
of defense, but no one knew that every word of them was dictated by
Lord Roberts to my brother, as his last message to the nation--before
the storm broke.
It was fitting that the little old soldier whose life covered a great
span of our imperial history in so many wars, which now some of us
look back to without much pride except in the ceaseless courage and
the gay adventurous spirit of our officers and men, should die, if not
on the field of battle, then at least at General Headquarters within
sound of the guns. He had been a prophet of this war. Perhaps if we had
believed him more, and if our statesmen and people had realized the
frightful menace ahead, it might never have happened. But those “ifs”
belong to the irrevocable tragedy of history.
I was a war correspondent in France when he died, but I came back to
England to attend his funeral and write my tribute to this great and
gallant old man who, in spite of a life of war, or because of it, had
a great tenderness in his heart for humanity, a love of peace, and
the chivalry which belonged, at least in ideal, to the old code of
knighthood.
Going back to the subject of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater, it is
amusing to me to remember an interview I had which, at the time, was
rather painful. We were anxious to obtain the support of Alverstone,
the Lord Chief Justice, on the General Committee, and I drove up in a
hansom to his house in Kensington, to put the request before him.
I wore that day a “topper” and a tail coat, and looked so extremely
respectable that I impressed the critical eyes of his lordship’s
footman. He explained that Lord Alverstone had been away on circuit but
was due back very shortly that afternoon. Perhaps I might like to wait
for him. I agreed, and was shown into the Lord Chief’s study, where I
waited for something like an hour.
During that time I became aware that if I were of a curious and
dishonorable mind, I might learn many strange secrets in this room.
Bundles of letters and documents were lying on the Lord Chief’s desk.
The drawers were unlocked, as I could see by papers revealed in
them. A “crook” in this room might get hold of the seals, the writing
paper, the signature, and the private correspondence of the Lord Chief
Justice of England, and play a great game with them. It seemed to me
extraordinary that a footman should put an unknown visitor, on unknown
business, into this private room, and leave him there for nearly an
hour.
The Lord Chief thought so, too. Just as I was becoming uneasy at my
position to the point of ringing the bell and going away, there was a
bang at the front door, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. Then
I heard a deep and angry voice say, “Who is he?” A moment later the
door of the study was flung open and the great and rather terrifying
figure of Lord Alverstone strode in. He stared at me as though about to
sentence me to death, and I blenched under his gaze.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked, with a growl of rage and suspicion.
“What the devil do you mean by taking possession of my study?”
“Why did your footman show me in, and what do you mean by speaking
to me like that?” I answered, suddenly angered by his extraordinary
discourtesy.
It was not a good introduction to the subject of Shakespeare. Nor was
it a respectful way of address to the Lord Chief Justice of England.
But my reply seemed to reassure him as to my respectability. He
breathed heavily for a moment, and then, in a mild voice, requested to
know my business. When I told him I wished to enlist his aid on the
Committee of the Shakespeare Memorial, a twinkle of humor came into his
eyes, and he asked me to sit down and have a cigar while we chatted
over the subject. He agreed to give his name and a subscription. Before
I left, he made a half apology for his burst of anger at the sight of
me.
“There are lots of papers about this room.... I have to be careful.”
Then he put his heavy hand in a friendly way on my shoulder and said,
“Glad you came.”
I was jolly glad to go, but I thought in case of any accident that
might happen to me later it would be useful to have the favor of the
Lord Chief. I thought so when I saw him sitting below the sword of
justice, in all his terrible power.
From the little flat in Overstrand Mansions my wife and I and a small
boy aged four sent out thousands of invitations on behalf of the
committee which included his name, to a general public meeting at the
Mansion House. The small boy trundled those bundles of letters in his
wheelbarrow to the pillar box and insisted upon being lifted up to
thrust them into the red mouth of that receptacle. We stuffed it full,
to the great annoyance, I imagine, of the postman.
The public meeting was a splendid success. Israel Gollancz was happy,
Beerbohm Tree was brilliant. Anthony Hope made one of his charming
speeches. Bernard Shaw was surprisingly kind to Shakespeare. There were
columns about it in the newspapers. But though many years have passed,
the Shakespeare Memorial is still in the air, the Committee is still
quarreling with one another as to the best way of using their funds,
and Sir Israel Gollancz is still honorary secretary, trying in his
genial way to compromise between a hundred conflicting plans.