_THE SHADOW OF A CRIME_ AND _A SON OF HAGAR_
After the death of Rossetti, Hall Caine spent eighteen months in daily
journalism in London writing his Rossetti recollections, and reviewing
books, etc., for the _Academy_ and _Athenæum_. He was also employed as
a leader-writer on the _Liverpool Mercury_ at a salary beginning at a
hundred pounds per annum. This life, honourable and fascinating as it
was, did not satisfy him, however. He was beginning to look further
afield. Besides, he was being dominated by the legend which was to be the
germ of his first novel.
So, in order to obtain complete immunity from all interruption, social
and professional, he “settled in a little bungalow of three rooms in a
garden near the beach at Sandown in the Isle of Wight.” In the meantime
he had married, and at the time of settling at Sandown he had enough
money to keep him going for about four months. But his story was deeply
rooted in his mind and heart, and he feared nothing—not even failure. The
legend that so dominated him was as follows. (I quote from _The Idler_,
to which magazine Mr Caine contributed an article entitled _My First
Book_):—
“One of the oldest legends of the Lake mountains tells of the time of the
plague. The people were afraid to go to market, afraid to meet at church
and afraid to pass on the highway. When any lonely body was ill, the
nearest neighbour left meat and drink at the door of the afflicted house,
and knocked and ran away. In these days a widow and two sons lived in one
of the darkest of the valleys. The younger son died, and the body had to
be carried over the mountains to be buried. Its course lay across Sty
Head Pass, a bleak and ‘brant’ place, where the winds are often high. The
eldest son, a strong-hearted lad, undertook the duty. He strapped the
coffin on to the back of a young horse, and they started away. The day
was wild, and on the top of the pass, where the path dips into Wastdale,
between the breast of Great Gable and the heights of Scawfell, the wind
rose to a gale. The horse was terrified. It broke away and galloped over
the fells, carrying its burden with it. The lad followed and searched for
it, but in vain, and he had to go home at last, unsatisfied.
“This was in the spring, and nearly all the summer through the surviving
son of the widow was out on the mountains, trying to recover the runaway
horse, but never once did he catch sight of it, though sometimes, as he
turned homeward at night, he thought he heard, in the gathering darkness,
above the sough of the wind, the horse’s neigh. Then winter came, and
the mother died. Once more the dead body had to be carried over the
fells for burial, and once again the coffin was strapped on the back of
a horse. It was an old mare that was chosen this time, the mother of the
young one that had been lost. The snow lay deep on the pass, and from
the cliffs of the Scawfell pikes it hung in great toppling masses. All
went well with the little funeral party until they came to the top of
the pass, and though the day was dead calm the son held the rein with a
hand that was like a vice. But just as the mare reached the spot where
the wind had frightened the young horse, there was a terrific noise. An
immense body of the snow had parted at that instant from the beetling
heights overhead, and rushed down into the valley with the movement as
of a mighty earthquake, and the deafening sound as of a peal of thunder.
The dale echoed and re-echoed from side to side, and from height to
height. The old mare was affrighted; she reared, leapt, flung her master
away, and galloped off. When they had recovered from their consternation,
the funeral party gave chase, and at length, down in a hollow place,
they thought they saw what they were in search of. It was a horse with
something strapped on its back. When they came up with it they found it
was the _young_ horse, with the coffin of the younger son. They led it
away, and buried the body that it had carried so long, but the old mare
they never recovered, and the body of the mother never found sepulchre.”
It will be seen at a glance that this legend contains great dramatic and
imaginative possibilities, but for Hall Caine its fascination lay in its
“shadow and suggestion of the supernatural.” When Rossetti was still
alive, Mr Caine had discussed with him its merits as the foundation for
a novel; but the poet, as we have seen, was against the idea. He did
not see the possibility of getting any sympathy into it. This judgment,
coming from so expert and experienced a quarter, disheartened the younger
man, and he “let the idea go back to the dark chambers of memory.” But
it was of no use, the ghost would not be laid. The idea recurred to him
at intervals, and each time it impressed him more and more. At last,
when settled in the Isle of Wight, he thought he had found a way of
evading Rossetti’s criticism. “The sympathy was to be got out of the
elder son. He was to think God’s hand was upon him. But whom God’s
hand rested on had God at his right hand; so the elder son was to be a
splendid fellow—brave, strong, calm, patient, long-suffering, a victim of
unrequited love, a man standing square on his legs against all weathers.”
Then he began to write; but he was faced by a thousand difficulties.
It was his desire to grip the reader’s interest from the very outset,
and it took him a fortnight’s hard work to make what he judged to be a
satisfactory beginning. Within three months it was practically finished.
He showed it first to Mr J. S. Cotton, an old and valued friend and at
that time editor of the _Academy_. “His rapid mind saw a new opportunity.
‘You want _peine forte et dure_,’ he said. ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘An
old punishment—a beautiful thing,’ he answered. ‘Where’s my dear old
Blackstone?’ and the statute concerning the punishment for standing mute
was read to me. It was just the thing I wanted for my hero, and I was in
rapture, but I was also in despair. To work this fresh interest into my
theme half of what I had written would need to be destroyed!”
But destroyed it was, and after two months’ arduous labour, he took it to
the late John Lovell, editor of the _Liverpool Mercury_. “It’s crude,”
he said. “But it only wants sub-editing.” Imagine the young author’s
feelings! Sub-editing, indeed! But again he re-wrote it, and this time to
some purpose, for Mr Lovell offered him a hundred pounds for the serial
right in the _Liverpool Weekly Mercury_. This offer was, of course,
accepted.
Mr Caine was now living in rooms on the fourth floor of New Court, in
Lincoln’s Inn. He called upon several publishers with the object of
getting his novel issued in volume form; eventually Chatto & Windus
made him an offer which he accepted, and at this date the book has gone
through more editions than I care to count. It was an immediate and
undoubted success, and the only thing that Mr Caine regrets with regard
to it is the fact that he was forced to sell it outright instead of on
the royalty system. Hard cash was what he wanted, though the amount he
received in ready money would have been trebled many times over if he had
been paid according to the number of copies sold.
As the first novel of a young man (and, at this time, Mr Caine was
quite painfully young) _The Shadow of a Crime_ shows little evidence
of crudity. It is coherent, cohesive and mature. It is true, the
melodramatic interest is often too insistent, and that the novelist
expects too much from the credulity of the reader; but these faults
apart, the book is the book of a grown man and a practised writer. It
evinces an intimate knowledge of Cumberland life and dialect, and has the
dignity and strength of a work of genius.
After the publication of _The Shadow of a Crime_ a time of need ensued.
He canvassed many publishers and offered himself as reader, but he was
invariably turned away. Whatever indignity and humiliation was thrust
upon him only made him more determined to succeed. He never knew when
he was beaten. He never _was_ beaten, for he never withdrew from his
hand-to-hand fight with the world, but struggled on with the passionate
conviction that he would one day come off the winner. So, undaunted, he
set about the writing of a new work, _A Son of Hagar_.
When this book was nearing completion, he expressed a wish to Mr Richard
Gowing to dedicate it to Mr R. D. Blackmore, the author of _Lorna Doone_.
Mr Gowing, who was a friend of Mr Blackmore’s, immediately communicated
with him and received the following reply:—
“TEDDINGTON, _December 21, 1886_.
“MY DEAR MR GOWING,—It will give me great pleasure to find a work
of Mr Hall Caine’s inscribed to myself. I have not read any book
of his, although I have wished to do so. _The Shadow of a Crime_
slipped by me somehow, when I was very busy; but I know that
it was a fine work. My name is not of such repute that he need
entertain any fear of misconstruction. His own work will lead him
on; if he shows the proper value for it, in the care which makes
it good—as I gather from his letter that he does. Please to tell
him that I am proud of his goodwill and approval. I hope that you
are doing well, and offer my best wishes for the Christmas, and
the coming year.
“For myself, I met with an accident last June, which crippled
me for several months; but at last I begin to plod again, and
renew my acquaintance with plant and tree. They are all in great
tribulation now, and many will never see the coming year.—Believe
me, with kind regards, very truly yours,
“R. D. BLACKMORE.”
Three months later he wrote the following letter to Mr Caine himself:—
“TEDDINGTON, _March 14, 1887_.
“MY DEAR MR CAINE,—Your publishers have kindly sent me a copy
of _The Shadow of a Crime_, and I am reading it carefully. Your
style does not permit any skipping; no work that does so is of
much value. So far as I can yet judge, the book is full of power
and true imagination. To the critical gift I have no claim; but I
seem to myself to know when I come across genuine matter. And you
have also that respect for yourself and your readers which is a
_sine qua non_ for the achievement of great work. However, I will
not show my own deficiency in that quality by offering premature
remarks; only I am eager to express my impressions of pleasure
and admiration.
“I hope that your health will soon be restored, and your mind
refreshed with total change. I find myself much under par, with
long bronchial attack.
“Your second work, _A Son of Hagar_, will be looked for by me
with eager anticipation; but _The Shadow of a Crime_ will hold me
for at least a week, in my present state; as I can only read at
night, and am bound just now to keep early hours.
“I have not heard a word about _Springhaven_, whether it goes, or
sticks fast; except that an extract from the _Whitehall Review_
of last week has been sent to me.
“With many thanks for your kind words, and all good wishes for
your work,—I am, always truly yours,
“R. D. BLACKMORE.”
_A Son of Hagar_ was completed in 1886, as was also a life of Coleridge
which was written in three weeks. The former brought him three hundred
pounds; the latter thirty pounds. Coleridge had always been a favourite
study of Hall Caine’s; we have seen that as a young man in Liverpool he
was particularly attracted towards his work, and the incidents of the
great poet’s life had received his careful and unremitting attention. But
the series for which it was written was one devoted to brief biographies
only, and Mr Caine was unable to make use of the vast store of knowledge
which he had so patiently acquired. Still, the biography was one of the
best of the series, and though it brought neither fame nor fortune
to its author, it undoubtedly did something towards establishing his
reputation as an original and thoughtful critic.
_A Son of Hagar_ was written on somewhat the same lines as _The Shadow
of a Crime_; that is to say, there is the same knowledge of the life
of the Cumberland people of the “statesman” class, the same intimate
acquaintance with Cumberland dialect, and the same partiality for
melodrama and, one must acknowledge, improbable incident. Judged by
present-day standards, this book achieved what would be called remarkable
popular success; but the success was not sufficient to satisfy the
consuming ambition of the young novelist. He said to himself, “I will
write one more book. I will put into it all the work that is in me, and
if the public still remains indifferent, I will never write another.”
These words, uttered in the heat of the moment, must be taken _cum grano
salis_; for I feel convinced that if Mr Caine had written ten or a dozen
unsuccessful works, he would still have continued faithful to the novel
as a means of expressing his own personality and his views of the complex
individual and social life as he has found it, not only in history, but
in these hot, passionate days of a new century. Yet, the fact remains,
that what he chose to consider his limited success did not satisfy him.
I am privileged to give the following letters written by Mr Blackmore to
Mr Caine during the year 1887.
“TEDDINGTON.
“MY DEAR MR CAINE,—I thank you heartily for your kind letter, and
look forward to the pleasure of reading your new work, which I
have not seen as yet.
“From what Mr Gowing said, I feared that you were not at present
in strong health, and I trust that you will not allow yourself
to be worried by doubts about your work, or distressed by too
zealous exertion. However untidy your garden may be—and it can
scarcely be worse than mine—the _Son of Hagar_ should be expelled
for some hours daily from that quiet spot.”
Mr Blackmore then proceeds to give vent to the irritation which he felt
towards humanity in general, and his publisher’s corrector of proofs in
particular. This latter gentleman seems to have had his own ideas as to
correct grammar and punctuation; these ideas, however, did not coincide
with those of Mr Blackmore. He adds:—
“The main point is to take them easily; even as one does the
supernatural wisdom of Reviewers.
“With the best wishes for your new story—may the Son be the child
of promise!—I am, dear sir, very truly yours,
“R. D. BLACKMORE.”
“HALL CAINE, Esq.”
The second letter was written concerning Caine’s _Life of
Coleridge_—interesting for its reference to the first reviews of _Lorna
Doone_.
“TEDDINGTON, _May 7, 1887_.
“MY DEAR MR CAINE,—I am deeply engaged with your interesting
book, and thank you for so kindly sending it. The _Son of
Hagar_ has not come this way yet, and I put him vainly upon my
book-list. However, it is good not to have one’s pleasures too
abundantly—_commendat rarior usus_.
“Have you ever dealt at all with ⸺, the great ‘organiser’
of Newspaper novels? He has asked me more than once to be
distributed in that way; but hitherto I have declined. His terms
are fair—so far as I can judge—and he seems a sharp man of
business. Writers of higher repute than mine have marched under
his standard; but I doubt me whether my ‘politics’ would suit his
mighty horde.
“I conclude that you have left the Isle of Man, and hope you are
working at a book of the _quocunque jeceris stabit_. Any work
of yours will now command a larger circle than the critics; to
whom (like myself) you owe little. If the matter were of more
interest, I would print the _first notices of Lorna Doone_, which
they now quote as a standard. I have them somewhere, and a damp
bed they are to smother a shy guest in. But you know well enough
how these men fumble the keys of an open door.
“I must now be off to my pipes and Coleridge. I am heartily glad
to find you [1] against that far inferior—and, to my mind, prosy
fellow—Southey.—With kind regards, I am very truly yours,
“R. D. BLACKMORE.”
“HALL CAINE, Esq.”
[1] Word undecipherable.
Mr Caine has inscribed this note at the head of the following. “This
letter was written about _A Son of Hagar_, which was dedicated to
Blackmore. The censorious part of it is very just.—H. C.”
“TEDDINGTON, _August 25, 1887_.
“MY DEAR MR CAINE,—I would not write again until I had read your
book, which I have now done with great care. My opinion is of
very little value, but so far as I can distinctly form one, it
is nearly as follows. There is any amount of vigour and power,
and some real pathos (which is, of course, a part of power), also
there are many other merits—strong English style, great knowledge
of character, keen observation, and much originality.
“But I think you will improve upon this book vastly, as
experience grows. The incidents appear to me to be huddled,
without sense of proportion now and then, and there is much
strain upon credulity. But I am loth to find fault, knowing that
I am not a skilled workman myself.
“We are just leaving home, in the hope—probably a vain one—of
doing some good to my helpless hand, whose failure is a great
loss to me in every branch of garden work. I think of invading T.
Hardy’s land—Swanage or the neighbourhood, almost the only part
of the southern coast unknown to me. Further I would gladly go,
but my wife cannot bear a long journey, or changes of conveyance.
After our return I shall be very glad to see you, though I cannot
advise much about Wales. North Wales is, of course, much the more
picturesque, and the style of the natives more Cymric; whereas
I am chiefly acquainted with the south. The love of truth seems
to have been overlooked in the composition of Welsh character.
The lower classes do not even resent the charge of lying, and
consider it disgraceful mainly as a blot upon their intellect.
But I must not be hard upon them, as my mother’s family, though
English in the main, possessed many veins of Taffic fluid.
“I hope that you are now in strong health again, after the
passing of the solid hot waves. As a fruit-grower, I have
suffered bitter woes, some of my trees having shed all their
fruit and none having fine crop as they promised. The rain came
in earnest last week, but too late, and now we could take as much
again.—With all good wishes, I am, truly yours,
“R. D. BLACKMORE.”