night, to an admiring audience of family members, and pronounced as fit
for publication as anything of Dickens or Thackeray or Bulwer, who were
then in the full swing of their mighty capacities. Alas! I was a better
judge than my partial and amiable critics. I had very grave
doubts--'qualms,' I think they are called--and I had read that it was
uphill work to get a book published, and swagger through the world as a
real live being who had actually written a novel. There was a faint
hope, that was all; and so, with my MS. under my arm, I strolled into
the palatial premises of Messrs. Hurst & Blackett ('successors to Henry
Colburn' they proudly designated themselves at that period), laid my
heavy parcel on the counter, and waited, with fear and trembling, for
some one to emerge from the galleries of books and rows of desks beyond,
and inquire the nature of my business. And here ensued my first
surprise--quite a dramatic coincidence--for the tall, spare, middle-aged
gentleman who advanced from the shadows towards the counter, proved, to
my intense astonishment, to be a constant chess antagonist of mine at
Kling's Chess Rooms, round the corner, in New Oxford Street--rooms
which have long since disappeared, together with Horwitz, Harrwitz,
Loewenthal, Williams, and other great chess lights of those far-away
times, who were to be seen there, night after night, prepared for all
comers. Kling's was a great chess house, and I was a chess enthusiast,
as well as a youth who wanted to get into print. Failing literature, I
had made up my mind to become a chess champion, if possible, although I
knew already by quiet observation of my antagonists, that in that way
madness lay, sheer uncontrollable, raging madness--for me at any rate.
And the grave, middle-aged gentleman behind the counter of 13 Great
Marlborough Street, proved to be the cashier of the firm, and
used--being chess-mad with the rest of us--to spend his evenings at
'Kling's.' He was a player of my own strength, and for twelve months or
so had I skirmished with him over the chessboard, and fought innumerable
battles with him. He had never spoken of his occupation, nor I of my
restless ambitions--chess players never go far beyond the chequered
board.
[Illustration: ELMORE HOUSE]
'Hallo, Robinson!' he exclaimed in his surprise, 'you don't mean to say
that you---- '
And then he stopped and regarded my youthful appearance very critically.
'Yes, Mr. Kenny--it's a novel,' I said modestly; 'my first.'
'There's plenty of it,' he remarked dryly. 'I'll send it upstairs at
once. And I'll wish you luck, too; but,' he added, kindly preparing to
soften the shock of a future refusal, 'we have plenty of these come
in--about seven a day--and most of them go back to their writers again.'
[Illustration: AT THIRTY]
'Ye-es, I suppose so,' I answered, with a sigh.
For a while, however, I regarded the meeting as a happy augury--a lucky
coincidence. I even had the vain, hopeless notion that Mr. Kenny might
put in a good word for me, ask for special consideration, out of that
kindly feeling which we had for each other, and which chess antagonists
have invariably for each other, I am inclined to believe. But though we
met three or four times a week, from that day forth not one word
concerning the fate of my manuscript escaped the lips of Mr. Kenny. It
is probable the incident had passed from his memory; he had nothing to
do with the novel department itself, and the delivery of MSS. was a very
common everyday proceeding to him. I was too bashful, perhaps too
proud, an individual to ask any questions; but every evening that I
encountered him I used to wonder 'if he had heard anything,' if any news
of the book's fate had reached him, directly or indirectly; occasionally
even, as time went on, I was disposed to imagine that he was letting me
win the game out of kindness--for he was a gentle, kindly soul
always--in order to soften the shock of a disappointment which he knew
perfectly well was on its way towards me.
[Illustration: MR. ROBINSON'S LIBRARY]
[Illustration: THE GARDEN]
Some months afterwards, the fateful letter came to me from the firm,
regretting its inability to make use of the MS., and expressing many
thanks for a perusal of the same--a polite, concise, all-round kind of
epistle, which a publisher is compelled to keep in stock, and to send
out when rejected literature pours forth like a waterfall from the dusky
caverns of a publishing house in a large way of business. It was all
over, then--I had failed! From that hour I would turn chess player, and
soften my brain in a quest for silver cups or champion amateur stakes.
I could play chess better than I could write fiction, I was sure. Still,
after some days of dead despair, I sent the MS. once more on its
travels--this time to Smith & Elder's, whose reader, Mr. Williams, had
leapt into singular prominence since his favourable judgment of
Charlotte Brontë's book, and to whom most MSS. flowed spontaneously for
many years afterwards. And in due course of time, Mr. Williams, acting
for Messrs. Smith & Elder, asked me to call upon him--_for the MS.!_--at
Cornhill, and there I received my first advice, my first thrill of
exultation. 'Presently, and probably, _and with perseverance_,' he said,
'you will succeed in literature, and if you will remember now, that to
write a good novel is a very considerable achievement. Years of short
story-writing is the best apprenticeship for you. Write and rewrite, and
spare no pains.' I thanked him, and I went home with tears in my eyes of
gratitude and consolation, though my big story had been declined with
thanks. But I did not write again. I put away my MS., and went on for
six or eight hours a day at chess for many idle months before I was in
the vein for composition, and then, with a sudden dash, I began 'The
House of Elmore.' It was half finished when another strange incident
occurred. I received one morning a letter from Lascelles Wraxall
(afterwards Sir Lascelles Wraxall, Bart., as the reader may be probably
aware), informing me that he was one of the readers for Messrs. Hurst &
Blackett, and that it had been his duty some time ago to decide
unfavourably against a story which I had submitted to the notice of his
firm, but that he had intended to write to me a private note urging me
to adopt literature as a profession. His principal object in writing at
that time was to suggest my trying the fortunes of the novel, which he
had already read, with Messrs. Routledge, and he kindly added a letter
of introduction to that firm in the Broadway--an introduction which, by
the way, never came to anything.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM]
Poor Lascelles Wraxall, clever writer and editor, press-man and literary
adviser, real Bohemian and true friend--indeed, everybody's friend but
his own--I look back at him with feelings of deep gratitude. He was a
rolling stone, and when I met him for the first time in my life, years
afterwards, he had left Marlborough Street for the Crimea; he had been
given a commission in the Turkish Contingent at Kertch; he had come back
anathematising the Service, and 'chock full' of grievances against the
Government, and he became once more editor and sub-editor, and
publisher's hack even, until he stepped into his baronetcy--an empty
title, for he had sold the reversion of the estates for a mere song long
ago--and became special correspondent in Austria for the _Daily
Telegraph_. And in Vienna he died, young in years still--not forty, I
think--closing a life that only wanted one turn more of 'application,' I
have often thought, to have achieved very great distinction. There are
still a few writing men about who remember Lascelles Wraxall, but they
are 'the boys of the old brigade.'
[Illustration: AT FORTY]
It was to Lascelles Wraxall I sent, when finished, 'The House of
Elmore,' as the reader may very easily guess. Wraxall had stepped so
much out of his groove--for the busy literary man that he was--to take
me by the hand, and point the way along 'the perilous road;' he had
given me so many kind words, that I wrote my hardest to complete my new
story before I should fade from his recollection. The book was finished
in five weeks, and in hot haste, and for months again I was left
wondering what the outcome of it all was to be; whether Wraxall was
reading my story, or whether--oh, horror!--some other reader less kindly
disposed, and more austere and critical, and hard to please, had been
told off to sit in judgment upon my second MS.
[Illustration: MR. ROBINSON AT WORK]
I went back to chess for a distraction till the fate of that book was
pronounced or sealed--it was always chess in the hours of my distress
and anxiety--and I once again faced Charles Kenny, and once again
wondered if he knew, and how much he knew, whilst he was deep in his
king's gambit or his giuoco piano; but he was not even aware that I had
sent in a second story, I learned afterwards. And then at last came the
judgment--the pleasant, if formal, notice from Marlborough Street that
the novel had been favourably reported upon by the reader, and that
Messrs. Hurst & Blackett would be pleased to see me at Marlborough
Street to talk the matter of its publication over with me. Ah! what a
letter that was!--what a surprise, after all!--what a good omen!
And some three months afterwards, at the end of the year 1854, my first
book--but my second novel--was launched into the reading world, and I
have hardly got over the feeling yet that I had actually a right to dub
myself a novelist!
When the first three notices of the book appeared, wild dreams of a
brilliant future beset me. They were all favourable notices--too
favourable; but _John Bull_, _The Press_, and _Bell's Messenger_ (I
think they were the papers) scattered favourable notices
indiscriminately at that time. Presently the _Athenæum_ sobered me a
little, but wound up with a kindly pat on the back, and the _Saturday
Review_, then in its seventh number, drenched me with vitriolic acid,
and brought me to a lower level altogether; and, finally, the _Morning
Herald_ blew a loud blast to my praise and glory--that last notice, I
believe, having been written by my old friend Sir Edward Clarke, then a
very young reviewer on the _Herald_ staff, with no dreams of becoming
Her Majesty's Solicitor-General just then! 'The House of Elmore'
actually paid its publishers' expenses, and left a balance, and brought
me in a little cheque; and thus my writing life began in sober earnest.
[Illustration: drawing by Geo. Hutchinson
signed: Very Truly Yours,
H. Rider Haggard]
'_DAWN_'
BY H. RIDER HAGGARD
[Illustration: THE FRONT GARDEN[B]]
I think that it was in an article by a fellow-scribe, where, doubtless
more in sorrow than in anger, that gentleman exposed the worthlessness
of the productions of sundry of his brother authors, in which I read
that whatever success I had met with as a writer of fiction was due to
my literary friends and 'nepotic criticism.' This is scarcely the case,
since when I began to write I do not think that I knew a single creature
who had published books--blue books alone excepted. Nobody was ever more
outside the ring, or less acquainted with the art of 'rolling logs,'
than the humble individual who pens these lines. But the reader shall
judge for himself.
To begin at the beginning: My very first attempt at imaginative writing
was made while I was a boy at school. One of the masters promised a
prize to that youth who should best describe on paper any incident, real
or imaginary. I entered the lists, and selected the scene at an
operation in a hospital as my subject. The fact that I had never seen an
operation, nor crossed the doors of a hospital, did not deter me from
this bold endeavour, which, however, was justified by its success. I was
declared to have won in the competition, though, probably through the
forgetfulness of the master, I remember that I never received the
promised prize. My next literary effort, written in 1876, was an account
of a Zulu war dance, which I witnessed when I was on the staff of the
Governor of Natal. It was published in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and
very kindly noticed in various papers. A year later I wrote another
article, entitled 'A Visit to the Chief Secocoeni,' which very nearly
got me into trouble. I was then serving on the staff of Sir Theophilus
Shepstone, and the article, signed with my initials, reached South
Africa in its printed form shortly after the annexation of the
Transvaal. Young men with a pen in their hands are proverbially
indiscreet, and in this instance I was no exception. In the course of my
article I had described the Transvaal Boer at home with a fidelity that
should be avoided by members of a diplomatic mission, and had even gone
the length of saying that most of the Dutch women were 'fat.' Needless
to say, my remarks were translated into the Africander papers, and
somewhat extensively read, especially by the ladies in question and
their male relatives; nor did the editors of those papers forbear to
comment on them in leading articles. Shortly afterwards, there was a
great and stormy meeting of Boers at Pretoria. As matters began to look
serious, somebody ventured among them to ascertain the exciting cause,
and returned with the pleasing intelligence that they were all talking
of what the Englishman had written about the physical proportions of
their womenkind and domestic habits, and threatening to take up arms to
avenge it. Of my feelings on learning this news I will not discourse,
but they were uncomfortable, to say the least of it. Happily, in the
end, the gathering broke up without bloodshed, but when the late Sir
Bartle Frere came to Pretoria, some months afterwards, he administered
to me a sound and well-deserved lecture on my indiscretion. I excused
myself by saying that I had set down nothing which was not strictly
true, and he replied to the effect that therein lay my fault. I quite
agree with him; indeed, there is little doubt but that these bald
statements of fact as to the stoutness of the Transvaal 'fraus,' and the
lack of cleanliness in their homes, went near to precipitating a result
that, as it chanced, was postponed for several years. Well, it is all
done with now, and I take this opportunity of apologising to such of the
ladies in question as may still be in the land of life.
[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD AND HIS DAUGHTERS]
This unfortunate experience cooled my literary ardour, yet, as it
chanced, when some five years later I again took up my pen, it was in
connection with African affairs. These pages are no place for politics,
but I must allude to them in explanation. It will be remembered that the
Transvaal was annexed by Great Britain in 1877. In 1881 the Boers rose
in rebellion and administered several thrashings to our troops, whereon
the Government of this country came suddenly to the conclusion that a
wrong had been done to the victors, and, subject to some paper
restrictions, gave them back their independence. As it chanced, at the
time I was living on some African property belonging to me in the centre
of the operations, and so disgusted was I, in common with thousands of
others, at the turn which matters had taken, that I shook the dust of
South Africa off my feet and returned to England. Now, the first impulse
of an aggrieved Englishman is to write to the _Times_, and if I remember
right I took this course, but, my letter not being inserted, I enlarged
upon the idea and composed a book called 'Cetewayo and his White
Neighbours.' This semi-political work, or rather history, was very
carefully constructed from the records of some six years' experience,
and by the help of a shelf full of blue books that stare me in the face
as I write these words; and the fact that it still goes on selling seems
to show that it has some value in the eyes of students of South African
politics. But when I had written my book I was confronted by a
difficulty which I had not anticipated, being utterly without experience
in such affairs--that of finding somebody willing to publish it. I
remember that I purchased a copy of the _Athenæum_, and selecting the
names of various firms at hazard, wrote to them offering to submit my
manuscript, but, strange to say, none of them seemed anxious to peruse
it. At last--how I do not recollect--it came into the hands of Messrs.
Trübner, who, after consideration, wrote to say that they were willing
to bring it out on the half profit system, provided that I paid down
fifty pounds towards the cost of production. I did not at all like the
idea of parting with the fifty pounds, but I believed in my book, and
was anxious to put my views on the Transvaal rebellion and other African
questions before the world. So I consented to the terms, and in due
course 'Cetewayo' was published in a neat green binding. Somewhat to my
astonishment, it proved a success from a literary point of view. It was
not largely purchased--indeed, that fifty pounds took several years on
its return journey to my pocket, but it was favourably, and in some
instances almost enthusiastically, reviewed, especially in the colonial
papers.
[Illustration: THE HALL]
About this time the face of a girl whom I saw in a church at Norwood
gave me the idea of writing a novel. The face was so perfectly
beautiful, and at the same time so refined, that I felt I could fit a
story to it which should be worthy of a heroine similarly endowed. When
next I saw Mr. Trübner I consulted him on the subject.
'You can write--it is certain that you can write. Yes, do it, and I will
get the book published for you,' he answered.
Thus encouraged I set to work. How to compose a novel I knew not, so I
wrote straight on, trusting to the light of nature to guide me. My main
object was to produce the picture of a woman perfect in mind and body,
and to show her character ripening and growing spiritual, under the
pressure of various afflictions. Of course, there is a vast gulf between
a novice's aspiration and his attainment, and I do not contend that
Angela as she appears in 'Dawn' fulfils this ideal; also, such a person
in real life might, and probably would, be a bore--
Something too bright and good
For human nature's daily food.
[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD'S STUDY]
Still, this was the end I aimed at. Indeed, before I had done with her,
I became so deeply attached to my heroine that, in a literary sense, I
have never quite got over it. I worked very hard at this novel during
the next six months or so, but at length it was finished and despatched
to Mr. Trübner, who, as his firm did not deal in this class of book,
submitted it to five or six of the best publishers of fiction. One and
all they declined it, so that by degrees it became clear to me that I
might as well have saved my labour. Mr. Trübner, however, had confidence
in my work, and submitted the manuscript to Mr. John Cordy Jeaffreson
for report; and here I may pause to say that I think there is more
kindness in the hearts of literary men than is common in the world. It
is not a pleasant task, in the face of repeated failure, again and again
to attempt the adventure of persuading brother publishers to undertake
the maiden effort of an unknown man. Still less pleasant is it, as I can
vouch from experience, to wade through a lengthy and not particularly
legible manuscript, and write an elaborate opinion thereon for the
benefit of a stranger. Yet Mr. Trübner and Mr. Jeaffreson did these
things for me without fee or reward. Mr. Jeaffreson's report I have lost
or mislaid, but I remember its purport well. It was to the effect that
there was a great deal of power in the novel, but that it required to be
entirely rewritten. The first part he thought so good that he advised me
to expand it, and the unhappy ending he could not agree with. If I
killed the heroine, it would kill the book, he said. He may have been
right, but I still hold to my first conception, according to which
Angela was doomed to an early and pathetic end, as the fittest crown to
her career. That the story needed rewriting there is no doubt, but I
believe that it would have been better as a work of art if I had dealt
with it on the old lines, especially as the expansion of the beginning,
in accordance with the advice of my kindly critic, took the tale back
through the history of another generation--always a most dangerous
experiment. Still, I did as I was told, not presuming to set up a
judgment of my own in the matter. If I had worked hard at the first
draft of the novel, I worked much harder at the second, especially as I
could not give all my leisure to it, being engaged at the time in
reading for the Bar. So hard did I work that at length my eyesight gave
out, and I was obliged to complete the last hundred sheets in a darkened
room. But let my eyes ache as they might, I would not give up till it
was finished, within about three months from the date of its
commencement. Recently, I went through this book to prepare it for a new
edition, chiefly in order to cut out some of the mysticism and tall
writing, for which it is too remarkable, and was pleased to find that it
still interested me. But if a writer may be allowed to criticise his own
work, it is two books, not one. Also, the hero is a very poor creature.
Evidently I was too much occupied with my heroines to give much thought
to him; moreover, women are so much easier and more interesting to write
about, for whereas no two of them are alike, in modern men, or rather,
in young men of the middle and upper classes, there is a paralysing
sameness. As a candid friend once said to me, 'There is nothing manly
about that chap, Arthur'--he is the hero--'except his bull-dog!' With
Angela herself I am still in love; only she ought to have died, which,
on the whole, would have been a better fate than being married to
Arthur, more especially if he was anything like the illustrator's
conception of him in the current edition.
In its new shape 'Dawn' was submitted to Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, and
at once accepted by that firm. Why it was called 'Dawn' I am not now
quite clear, but I think it was because I could find no other title
acceptable to the publishers. The discovery of suitable titles is a more
difficult matter than people who do not write romances would suppose,
most of the good ones having been used already and copyrighted. In due
course the novel was published in three fat volumes, and a pretty green
cover, and I sat down to await events. At the best I did not expect to
win a fortune out of it, as if every one of the five hundred copies
printed were sold, I could only make fifty pounds under my
agreement--not an extravagant reward for a great deal of labour. As a
matter of fact, but four hundred and fifty sold, so the net proceeds of
the venture amounted to ten pounds only, and forty surplus copies of the
book, which I bored my friends by presenting to them. But as the
copyright of the work reverted to me at the expiration of a year, I
cannot grumble at this result. The reader may think that it was
mercenary of me to consider my first book from this financial point of
view, but to be frank, though the story interested me much in its
writing, and I had a sneaking belief in its merits, it never occurred to
me that I, an utterly inexperienced beginner, could hope to make any
mark in competition with the many brilliant writers of fiction who were
already before the public. Therefore, so far as I was concerned, any
reward in the way of literary reputation seemed to be beyond my reach.
[Illustration: SOME CURIOS]
It was on the occasion of the publication of this novel that I made my
first and last attempt to 'roll a log,' with somewhat amusing results.
Almost the only person of influence whom I knew in the world of letters
was the editor of a certain society paper. I had not seen him for ten
years, but at this crisis I ventured to recall myself to his memory, and
to ask him, not for a favourable notice, but that the book should be
reviewed in his journal. He acceded to my prayer; it was reviewed, but
after a fashion for which I did not bargain. This little incident taught
me a lesson, and the moral of it is: never trouble an editor about your
immortal works; he can so easily be even with you. I commend it to all
literary tiros. Even if you are in a position to command 'puffs,' the
public will find you out in the second edition, and revenge itself upon
your next book. Here is a story that illustrates the accuracy of this
statement; it came to me on good authority, and I believe it to be true.
A good many years ago, the relation of an editor of a great paper
published a novel. It was a bad novel, but a desperate effort was made
to force it upon the public, and in many of the leading journals
appeared notices so laudatory that readers fell into the trap, and the
book went through several editions. Encouraged by success, the writer
published a second book, but the public had found her out, and it fell
flat. Being a person of resource, she brought out a third work under a
_nom de plume_, which, as at first, was accorded an enthusiastic
reception by previous arrangement, and forced into circulation. A fourth
followed under the same name, but again the public had found her out,
and her career as a novelist came to an end.