Novels and Plays—Little Lord Fauntleroy and his Origin—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A London Bachelor—A Pretty Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices are Written—The Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera.

IT is a surprise to the public that so many novelists are becoming dramatists.

The reason is simple enough: it is the natural evolution of romance. In the good old days of three-volume novels, works of fiction brought considerable grist to the mill of both author and publisher; after all it only cost a fraction more to print and bind a three-volume work which sold at thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does to-day to produce a book of almost as many words at six shillings.

Then again, half, even a quarter of, a century ago there were not anything like so many novelists, and those who wrote had naturally less competition; but all this is changed.

Novels pour forth on every side to-day, and money does not always pour in, in proportion. One of the[Pg 241] first novelists to make a large sum by a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote Little Lord Fauntleroy about 1885, it proved successful, and the book contained the element of an actable play. She dramatised the story, and she has probably made as many thousands of pounds by the play as hundreds by the book, in spite of its enormous circulation. I believe I am right in saying that Little Lord Fauntleroy has brought more money to its originator than any other combined novel and play, and the next most lucrative has probably been J. M. Barrie’s Little Minister.

Herein lies a moral lesson. Both are simple as books and plays, and both owe their success to that very simplicity and charm. They contain no problem, no sex question, nothing but a little story of human life and interest, and they have succeeded in English-speaking lands, and had almost a wider influence than the more elaborate physiological work and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero.

For twenty years Little Lord Fauntleroy has stirred all hearts, both on the stage and off, in England and America, adored by children and loved by grown-ups.

Being anxious to know how the idea of the play came about, I wrote to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a most characteristically modest letter:

“New York,    
“November 26th, 1902.

“Dear Mrs. Alec-Tweedie,

“I hope it is as agreeable as it sounds to be ’a-roaming in Spain.’ It gives one dreams of[Pg 242] finding one’s lost castles there. Concerning the play of Fauntleroy; after the publication of the book it struck me one day that if a real child could be found who could play naturally and ingenuously the leading part, a very unique little drama might be made of the story. I have since found that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, the reason being, I suppose, that only child emotions are concerned in the representation of the character. At that time, however, I did not realise what small persons could do, and by way of proving to myself that it could—or could not—be done with sufficient simplicity and convincingness, I asked my own little boy to pretend for me that he was Fauntleroy making his speech of thanks to the tenants on his birthday. The little boy in question was the one whose ingenuous characteristics had suggested to me the writing of the story, so I thought if it could be done he could do it. He had, of course, not been allowed to suspect that he himself had any personal connection with the character of Cedric. He was greatly interested in saying the speech for me, and he did it with such delightful warm-hearted naturalness that he removed my doubts as to whether a child-actor could say the lines without any air of sophistication—which was of course the point.

Shortly afterwards we went to Italy, and in Florence I began the dramatisation. I had, I think, about completed the first act when I received news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had made a dramatisation and was producing it. I travelled to London at once and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who[Pg 243] began a suit for me. I felt very strongly on the subject, not only because I was unfairly treated, but because it had been the custom to treat all writers in like manner, and it seemed a good idea to endeavour to find a defence. I was frightened because I could not have afforded to lose and pay costs—but I felt rather fierce, and made up my mind to face the risk. Fortunately Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr. Seebohm’s version was withdrawn and mine produced with success both in England and America—and, in fact, in various other countries. I never know dates, but I think it was produced in London in ’88. It has been played ever since, and is played for short engagements on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have not the least idea how many times it has been given. It is a queer little dear, that story—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays on for ever.’ I am glad I wrote it—I always loved it. I should have loved it if it had not brought me a penny. I am afraid I am not very satisfactory as a recorder of detail of a business nature. I never remember dates or figures. If we were talking together I should doubtless begin to recall incidents. It is the stimulating meanderings of conversation which stir the pools of memory.”

Mrs. Hodgson Burnett may indeed be proud of her success, although she writes of it in such a simple, unaffected manner. ’Twas well for her she faced the lawsuit, for ruin scowled on one side while fortune smiled on the other.

[Pg 244]

No novelist’s works have sold more freely than those of Hall Caine and Miss Marie Corelli. Both are highly dramatic in style, but Miss Corelli has not taken to play-writing, preferring the novel as a means of expression.

Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been tempted by the allurements of the stage. When I asked him why he took up literature as a profession, he replied:

“I write a novel because I love the motive, or the story, or the characters, or the scene, or all four, and I dramatise it because I like to see my subject on the stage. If more material considerations sometimes influence me, more spiritual ones are, I trust, not always absent. I don’t think the time occupied in writing a book or a play has ever entered into my calculations, nor do I quite know which gives me most trouble.”

Continuing the subject, I ventured to ask him whether he thought drama or fiction the higher art.

“I like both the narrative and the dramatic forms of art, but perhaps I think the art of fiction is a higher and better art than the art of a drama, inasmuch as it is more natural, more free, and more various, and yet capable of equal unity. On the other hand, I think the art of the drama is in some respects more difficult, because it is more artificial and more limited, and always hampered by material conditions which concern the stage, the scenery, the actors, and even the audience. I think,” he continued, “the novel and the drama have their separate joys for the[Pg 245] novelist and dramatist, and also their separate pains and penalties.

“On the whole, I find it difficult to compare things so different, and all I can say for myself is that, notwithstanding my great love of the theatre, I find it so trying in various ways—owing, perhaps, to my limitations—that I do not grudge any one the success he achieves as a dramatist, and I deeply sympathise with the man who fails in that character.”

How true that is! By far the most lenient critics are the workers. It is the man who never wrote a book who criticises most severely, the man who never painted a picture who is the hardest to please.

Speaking about the dramatic element of the modern novel, Mr. Caine continued:

“But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has so encroached upon the domain of the drama, and become so dramatic in form that the author who has ‘the sense of the theatre’ may express himself fairly well without tempting his fate in that most fascinating but often most fatal little world.”

Such was Mr. Caine’s opinion on the novelist as dramatist.

Hall Caine’s personality is too well known to need describing; but his handwriting is a marvel. He gets more into a page than any one I know, unless it be Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. Mr. Caine’s calligraphy at a little distance looks like Chinese, it is beautifully neat and tidy—but most difficult to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le Gallienne, and a host of others, he scribbles with a small pad in his[Pg 246] hand, or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in queer positions, cramped for room—others, on the contrary, require huge tables and vast space.

“John Oliver Hobbes” is the uneuphonious pseudonym chosen by Pearl Teresa Craigie, another of our novel-dramatists. She has hardly been as successful with her plays as with her brilliant books, and therefore it seems unlikely that she will discard the latter for the former. The world has smiled on Mrs. Craigie, for she was born of rich parents. Although an American she lives in London (Lancaster Gate), and has a charming house in the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so is more or less independent, can travel about and do as she likes, therefore her thoughtful work and industry are all the more praiseworthy. Ability will out.

Mrs. Craigie is an extremely good-looking woman. She is petite, with chestnut hair and eyes; is always dressed in the latest gowns from Paris; has a charming voice; is musical and devoted to chess.

J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful of our novel dramatists, is most reticent about his work. He is a shy, retiring little man with a big brain and a charitable heart; but he dislikes publicity in every form. He seems almost ashamed to own that he writes, and he cannot bear his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays for publication; if it were not so I should do as you suggest with pleasure,” one’s hand is tied, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable opinion on the novel and the drama is lost.

[Pg 247]

It was a difficult problem to decide. Naturally the public expect much mention of J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the day, for had he not four pieces running at London theatres at the same moment? But to make mention means to offend Mr. Barrie and lose a friend.

This famous author creates and writes, but no one must write about him. Whether his simple childhood, passed in a quaint little Scotch village, is the source of this reticence, or whether it is caused by the oppression of the fortune he has accumulated by his plays, no one discourses upon Mr. Barrie except at the risk of earning his grave displeasure. He is probably the most fantastic writer of the day, and most of the accounts of him have been as fantastic as his work. Thus the curtain cannot be lifted, while he smokes and dreams delicately pitiless sentiment behind the scenes so far as this volume is concerned.

“Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He began his career as a barrister, tried for Parliamentary honours, and failed; took to writing novels and succeeded, and now seems likely to end his days in the forefront of British dramatists.

He was educated at Marlborough, became a scholar of Balliol College, Oxford, where he gained first-class Mods. and first-class Lit. Hum., so he has gone through the educational mill with distinction, and is now inclined to turn aside from novels of pure romance to more psychological studies. This is particularly noticeable in Quisanté and Tristram of Blent.

[Pg 248]

The author of The Prisoner of Zenda is one of the best-known men in London society. He loves our great city. Mr. Hope is most sociable by nature; not only does he dine out incessantly, but as a bachelor was one of those delightful men who took the trouble to entertain his lady friends. Charming little dinners and luncheons were given by this man of letters, and as he had chambers near one of our largest hotels, he generally took the guests over to his flat after the meal for coffee and cigars. Many can vouch what pleasant evenings those were; the geniality of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the generally brilliant conversation made those bachelor entertainments things to be remembered. His charming sister-in-law often played the r?le of hostess for him; she is a Norwegian by birth, and an intimate friend of the Scandinavian writer Bj?rnstjerne-Bj?rnson, whose personality impressed me more than that of any other author I ever met.

The bachelor life has come to an end.

From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.

MR. ANTHONY HOPE.

Nearly twenty years ago Anthony Hope began to write novels with red-haired heroines—The Prisoner of Zenda is perhaps the best-known of the series. No one could doubt that he admired warm-coloured hair, for auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One fine day an auburn-haired goddess crossed his path. She was young and beautiful, and just the living girl he had described so often in fiction. Anthony Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was conquered by the American maid. A very short engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in the [Pg 249]summer of 1903, at that quaint old city church, St. Bride’s, where his father has been Rector so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove along the Embankment, through a labyrinth of printing offices and early newspaper carts, to the door of the church. All the bustle and heat of the city outside was forgotten in the cool shade of the handsome old building, decorated for the occasion with stately palms. Never was there a prettier wedding or a more lovely bride, and all the most beautiful women in London seemed to be present.

The bridegroom, who was wearing a red rosebud which blossomed somewhat alarmingly during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he led the realisation of twenty years’ romance down the aisle.

“Anthony Hope” is not his real name, and yet it is, which may appear paradoxical. He was born a Hawkins, being the second son of the Rev. E. C. Hawkins, and nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron Brampton. The child was christened Anthony Hope, and when he took to literature to fill in the gaps in his legal income, he apparently thought it better for the struggling barrister not to be identified with the budding journalist, and consequently dropped the latter part of his name. Thus it was he won his spurs as Anthony Hope, and many people know him by no other title, although he always signs himself Hawkins, and calls himself by that nomenclature in private life. Rather amusing incidents have been the result. People when first[Pg 250] introduced seldom realise the connection, and discuss “Lady Ursula,” or other books, very frankly with their new acquaintance. Their consequent embarrassment or amusement may be better imagined than described! Aliases often lead to awkward moments.

Literary men are not, as a rule, famed for “speechifying,” but Mr. Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago an indifferent orator, and returned a good one. This was the result of a lecturing tour—one of those expeditions of many thousand miles of travel and daily discourse in different towns. Literary men are not generally more orderly at their writing-tables than they are good at delivering a speech, but here again Anthony Hope is an exception. His desk is so neat and precise it reminds one irresistibly of a punctilious old maid (I trust he will forgive the simile?), so methodical are his arrangements. He writes everything with his own hand, and replies to letters almost by return of post, although he is a busy man, for he not only writes for four or five hours a day, but attends endless charity meetings, and takes an energetic part among other things in the working of the Society of Authors, of which he is chairman. He does nothing by halves; everything he undertakes he is sure to see through, being most conscientious in all his work. In many ways Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, both alike ever ready to help a colleague in distress, ever willing to aid by council or advice those in need, and untiring so far as[Pg 251] literary work for themselves, or helping others, is concerned.

Mr. Hawkins is generally calm and collected, but I remember an occasion when he was quite the reverse. It was the first performance of one of his plays, and he stoo............