OUR AT-HOMES: THE YOUNG AUTHORS WHO ARE NOW GREAT AUTHORS
OF all the men who used to come to 32, Addison Mansions from our having
met them at the Idler teas, none were more identified with the success
of Jerome’s two periodicals _The Idler_ and _To-day_ than Arthur Conan
Doyle and Israel Zangwill. Doyle had been writing for ten years before
he achieved commanding success. Be that as it may, he was undoubtedly
the most successful of the younger authors who were familiar figures in
that Vagabond and Idler set. Doyle, who was the son of that exquisite
artist, Charles Doyle, and grandson of the famous caricaturist H. B.,
and nephew of Dicky Doyle of _Punch_, ought to have been granted a
royaller road to success, for he had enjoyed a very early connection
with literature, having sat as a little child on the knee of the
immortal Thackeray. Thackeray’s old publishers, Smith, Elder & Co., have
been his, but he had travelled to the Arctic regions and to the tropics
and practised for eight years as a doctor at Southsea before he charmed
the world with his famous novels _The White Company_ in 1890, and _The
Refugees_ in 1891, and astonished it with the _Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes_ in the latter year. He was a doctor at Norwood when I first made
his acquaintance. He was a little over thirty then, and a keen
cricketer, being nearly county form (indeed, he did actually play once
for Hampshire, and might at one time have played regularly for Hampshire
as an Association back). It was not until late in life, however, that he
found time enough to get much practise at games. Then for some years he
played occasional first-class cricket, having an average of thirty-two
against Kent, Derbyshire and other good teams; in the last year he
played for the M.C.C. That was after the war, when he was over forty. He
played a hard Association match in his forty-fourth year.
From an early stage in his literary career he enjoyed the admiration and
the deepest respect of all his fellows in the craft, and for years past
has undoubtedly been morally the head of the profession. Upon him has
fallen the mantle of Sir Walter Besant. In saying this, I am not
instituting any comparison between the merits of his various lines of
work, which in their own line are quite unexcelled, and those of the
other leading authors, but he is not only among the handful who may be
called the very best authors of the day, he is the man to whom the
profession would undoubtedly look for a lead in any crisis.
Say, for instance, that the idea, so often debated recently, of authors
combining with publishers to fix the price of a novel at ten and
sixpence, and refusing to work for or sell their goods to any one who
would not abide by this decision, were put to a vote in the literary
profession, what Doyle thought would count most. The profession as an
army would range themselves under his banner. Suppose a question, like
the insurance question which has been threatening the livelihood of
thousands of doctors, were to arise for authors, they would look to
Doyle for a lead. If the decision which he made benefited authors as a
whole, but cost him half or three-quarters of his income, and a
syndicate approached him with a huge offer to abandon the camp, nobody
could suppose for one moment that Doyle would listen to them. His moral
courage, his loyalty, his generosity, his patriotism, added to his
wonderful literary gifts, have confered upon him a commanding position.
Of his gifts I shall speak lower down. It is as the patriot that one
must always consider him first. He is not naturally a party man, though
he happens to have contested Edinburgh as a Liberal Unionist, and the
Hawick boroughs as a Tariff Reformer. There have been moments when he
has been openly opposed to some measure of the Unionist Party. He really
belongs to the Public Service party. He made notable sacrifices for his
country at the time of the Boer War. First he gave up his literary work
to serve unpaid on the staff of the Langman Field Hospital and
afterwards to write the pamphlet on _The Cause and Conduct of the War_,
an attempt to place the true facts before the people of Europe, which
brought him nothing but great expense and the undying gratitude and
respect of his fellow-countrymen. That he cares nothing for popularity
where principles are concerned is shown by the attitude he took over the
famous horse-maiming case, or his acceptance of the Presidency of the
Divorce Law Reform Union.
[Illustration:
SIR A. CONAN DOYLE
_Drawn by Yoshio Markino_
]
His sturdy character is reflected in his physique, and there are few
people in London who do not know that unusually big and strong frame,
that round head, with prominent cheek-bones, and dauntless blue eyes,
the bluff, good-humoured face: for his sonorous voice is frequently
heard from the chair of public meetings where some protest for the
public good has to be raised, or at a dinner-table on the guest nights
of clubs. Sir Arthur, for he was knighted in 1902, is a most popular
speaker; hearty, engaging, amusing, in his lighter moods, most trenchant
and convincing in a crisis, of all the authors of the day he merits most
the title of a great man.
The curious thing is that although every one knows how much he respects
Doyle as a great man, and every one is aware that he is one of the most
popular, if not the most popular, of the authors of the day, not every
one has analysed the soundness of his literary fame. In my opinion, of
all very popular authors, Doyle deserves his popularity as an author
most. No man living has written better historical novels, judged from
the standpoint of eloquence, accuracy or thrill. Doyle has carried the
accuracy of the man of science into all his studies, and his power to
thrill with eloquence and incident is beyond question. His detective
stories are equal to the best that have ever been written. His history
of the South African War is not only the best history of the war, but it
is a model of contemporary history, always the most difficult kind to
write, because only the eye of intuition can distinguish respective
values amid contemporary incidents. He has been highly successful as a
playwright too. His _House_ _of Temperley_ is the best Prize-Ring play
in the language, as his novel, _Rodney Stone_, which had no lady-love
heroine, was the best Prize-Ring novel, and his play on Waterloo,
produced by Sir Henry Irving, has become a classic. I have alluded
elsewhere to the dramatisation of his _Sherlock Holmes_ which has been
played thousands of times. Doyle not only was present at our at-homes at
32 Addison Mansions, but, living out of town, once stayed with us there,
as we stayed with him at Hindhead on another occasion. But owing to his
living out of town, he was a great deal less familiar figure at
receptions than most of the other younger authors of the first rank,
except Rudyard Kipling and J. M. Barrie, both of whom cordially hate
“functions” of any kind. Doyle, placed in the same circumstances as they
are, forces himself to go to many functions for which he has less time
than they have, for his literary output is infinitely greater, and he
has so many other duties to perform, and always performs them.
When I asked Doyle what first turned him to writing, he said—
“All the art that is in our family—my grandfather, three uncles, and
father were all artists—ran in my blood, and took a turn towards
letters. At six I was writing stories; I fancy my mother has them yet.
At school I was, though I say it, a famous story-teller; at both schools
I was at I edited a magazine, and practically wrote the whole of it
also.
“When I started studying medicine, the family affairs were very
straitened. My father’s health was bad, and he earned little. I tried to
earn something, which I did by going out as medical assistant half the
year. Then I tried stories. In 1878, when I was nineteen years old, I
sent _The Mystery of the Sassasa Valley_ to Chambers. I got three
guineas. It was 1880 before I got another accepted. It was by _London
Society_. From then until 1888 I averaged about fifty pounds a year,
getting about three pounds a story. My first decent price was
twenty-eight pounds from the Cornhill for _Habakuk Jephson’s Statement_
in 1886. Then at New Year, 1888, Ward, Lock & Co. brought out _A Study
in_ _Scarlet_, paying twenty-five pounds for all rights. I have never
had another penny from that book; I wonder how much they have had? Then
came _Micah Clarke_ at the end of 1888, which got me a more solid
public. It was not until 1902 that I was strong enough to be able to
entirely abandon medical practice. Of course, it was the Holmes stories
in the _Strand_ which gave me my popular vogue, but _The White Company_,
which has been through fifty editions, has sold far more as a book than
any of the Holmes books.”
Kipling I regard as the genius of the junction of the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries, and England owes an incalculable debt to his
patriotism and eloquence. If Doyle is the voice of the literary
profession, Kipling is the voice of the country. He speaks for the
manhood of England in a crisis. All through the African War a letter or
a poem from Kipling was the trumpet voice of national feeling. No poet
who has written in English has ever inspired his countrymen like
Kipling. His poems, though they have not the poetical quality of those
of our great standard poets, have the prophetical quality, which is just
as important in poetry, in a higher degree than any of them. They are
Rembrandt poems, not Raphael poems, and they will remain without loss of
prestige, an armoury for every patriotic or manful writer and speaker to
quote from. I reviewed Kipling’s poems when they were first published in
America for the leading Canadian paper. I am thankful that I hailed them
as the work of genius, and it was a proud moment when I first shook
hands with him in the early ’nineties. Though his short stories are the
best in the language, I always think of him as a poet, because he is our
_vates_.
It is best to mention Barrie, our other genius, here, though I have
little to say about him. On the rare occasions when he speaks in public,
he speaks admirably, and he enjoys universal respect. As far as
literature is concerned, no man’s lines have been laid in pleasanter
places. Unlike Doyle, Anthony Hope, Stanley Weyman and others, Barrie
did not have to wait for recognition. It is notorious that from the very
beginning he never had the proverbial manuscript in the drawer; in other
words, that he always found an immediate sale for whatever he wrote. He
began as a journalist.
Anthony Hope I first met at an Idler tea. He was one of the brilliant
band of younger authors whom Jerome was among the first to recognise. In
those days he kept the distinction between “Anthony Hope” the writer,
and Anthony Hope Hawkins the barrister, most rigidly. Being the son of a
famous London clergyman, Mr. Hawkins, of St. Bride’s, Fleet Street, a
cousin of Mr. Justice Hawkins, a scholar of Balliol, and an eloquent
speaker, his prospects at the Bar were very good. There was an idea that
they would suffer if it were known that he indulged in anything so
frivolous as writing love-stories. These were the days when he was
composing his immortal “Dolly Dialogues” for the _Westminster Gazette_,
and when he was just beginning the succession of witty and delicate
novels which made his fame. He had, I have always understood, been
writing for some years, before he could make any impression on the
public, and even then he had no hope of making a living by literature. I
made one of his early novels my book of the week in _The Queen_, in a
most enthusiastic review, and incidentally mentioned his real name. His
friends, perhaps they were officious, entreated me not to do it again,
lest it should injure his prospects. A year or two afterwards there was
no question off which profession he was to make a living, though as he
coquetted with politics, and contested a constituency or two, he
probably kept up the legal fiction of his being at the Bar for some time
longer.
As he had enjoyed the distinction of being President of the Oxford
Union, he was a practised speaker before he came to London. He had
plenty of opportunities of exercising his skill without waiting for
briefs, for he became a frequent speaker at Club dinners. The charm of
his voice and his delivery, the polish and wit of his speeches were
recognised at once, and his popularity as a speaker has been undisputed
from that day to this.
It was noticed that, though he was so brilliant and fluent, when making
a speech, he was rather a silent man at receptions, except where
politeness demanded that he should exert himself. But this is a common
trait in the more considerable authors. They are frequently not only
rather silent, but ill at ease. In those days one could count the
authors who were both brilliant socially and brilliant writers, on one’s
fingers.
One legal habit Anthony Hope retained; he went to chambers to do his
writing as he had been accustomed, and lived in other chambers, and was
regarded as a confirmed bachelor till he married. He came to Addison
Mansions very frequently in the ’nineties. The incident I remember best
was his loss of presence of mind when I tried to save him from a
terrific American bore, a middle-aged lady. Somebody had brought her; I
had not met her before, and she was having a systematic lion-hunt. She
thought that A. H. H. was Anthony Hope, but she was not certain, and
said to me, “Is that _Anthony Hope_? I must know _Anthony Hope_.”
Wishing to save him from the infliction, because he was always rather
distrait with bores, I said, “That is Mr. Hawkins.” I didn’t think she
knew enough about literature to be aware of the identity, nor did she,
but he had unfortunately caught the words “Anthony Hope,” and smiled,
and started forward, and was lost. As he had unconsciously convicted me
of falsehood, I left him to his fate.
Generous to needy brother authors, punctilious in the performance of the
duties to the literary profession, which his eminence confers on him (in
such matters as the Authors’ Society and literary clubs), wonderfully
patient and courteous, an admirable literary craftsman, who never turns
out slipshod work, as well as a brilliant romancer and witty dialogist,
Anthony Hope Hawkins deserves every particle of his popularity and
success.
I have not dilated on his plays, though he has achieved great success on
the stage, because dramatists tell me that he is not going to write for
it any more.
The popularity of our at-homes was at its height before Frankfort Moore
had decided to come over to England, giving up the editorial post he
held in Ireland, to devote all his time to novel-writing. He and his
delightful wife, the sister of Mrs. Bram Stoker, took lodgings at Kew,
and were ready for many receptions, so that he might meet his
fellow-authors in London. As Bram Stoker had then for years been
Irving’s right hand, they had an excellent introduction ready-made, but
they brought letters of introduction to us, and, up to the time of his
leaving London, he was among our most intimate literary friends.
Frankfort Moore’s success in London was instantaneous, as well it might
have been, since he was a brilliant and witty speaker, as well as a
writer of brilliant, witty and very charming books. Hutchinson eagerly
took up the publication of his works, and the literary clubs soon
learned to depend upon him as one of the best after-dinner speakers. In
about ten years he made a fortune, and retired to take things in a more
leisurely way at an old house in Sussex, where he was able to adequately
house his fine collection of old oak, old brass, old engravings and old
china, in which he was a noted connoisseur.
His immediate success justified his giving up his lodgings at Kew, and
taking a nice, old-fashioned house in Pembroke Road, which he soon began
to transform with his panelling, and his collections. His retirement
from London left a great gap in many social circles. He was a universal
favourite—a man of real eminence, although he regarded his achievements
so modestly.
One of the most valued of our visitors was the celebrated Father
Stanton, of St. Alban’s, Holborn, who introduced himself to me when he
was on his way to Syracuse with F. E. Sidney, with whom he went to
Seville on that expedition which resulted in the publication of the
latter’s _Anglican Innocents in Spain_, the book which aroused such
anger among Roman Catholics. We were the only two occupants of a
sleeping compartment on the Italian railways. He was not wearing
clerical dress, and I had no notion who he was until the conclusion of
our journey, when Sidney, who had joined us, informed me. We did a lot
of sight-seeing in Syracuse together, especially in the cathedral (built
into an entire Greek temple, ascribed to Pallas Athene). Both Stanton
and Sidney were experts in old gilt, in which Sicily is very rich—the
organ at Syracuse is an example. From that time until Stanton’s death we
constantly met at the house of Sidney, who has the best collection of
sixteenth-century stained glass in England, and built a house in Frognal
with the proper windows to receive it. Though Stanton and I did not
agree in Church matters, we were yet staunch friends, and I was an
immense admirer of one who did so much for the regeneration of the poor
in one of the worst districts of London.
The greatest compliment we ever received at our at-homes was when Lord
Dundonald, who had known us for some years, and had just come back from
his famous relief of Ladysmith with his irregular cavalry, came and
spent the best part of the afternoon with us. He looked worn and very
sunburnt, but it was one of the events of our lifetimes to hear the
stirring details of England’s greatest military drama in this
generation, direct from the lips of the man who had given it its happy
termination.
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