XIV
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motor cars and other fruits of success, which suddenly withered when the announcement was made that the play was to be withdrawn after a few performances.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.