Hall Caine, the Man and the Novelist. C. Fred Kenyon
there is a kind of plot which is inspired, which has for its centre of radiation a spiritual idea of truth and beauty. And this is the kind of plot with which Hall Caine has sympathy. Take The Deemster, for instance. What is it but a modern version of the Prodigal Son? The abstract idea of repentance and self-purification after a life of dissolute conduct. Again, The Bondman is the story of Esau and Jacob, with the sympathy of the reader being drawn to Esau. The Scapegoat is the story of Eli and his sons, a girl taking the place of Samuel; and The Manxman is a modern version of David and Uriah.
The root idea of each of these stories is not one that depends for its interest on any particular time or place; it is for all times and all places. The mise-en-scène, the atmosphere, the characters are but accidents—the necessary accidents for the presentment of the moral and spiritual drama. The Christian and The Eternal City, it is true, depend on their presentment for a great deal of their interest: they are the outcome of the strenuous and conflicting times in which we live. But still, in these books also, the eternal spiritual questions are clearly indicated and clearly discernible. It seems to me Mr. Caine believes that if a novelist or poet does not seek to elevate his fellow-creatures by his work, there can be no reason for his continuing to write. It cheers and strengthens the reader to have a noble character put before him, for he thinks to himself, “I could be like that if I tried;” and in many cases he does try, and the result achieved is the greatest reward a writer can receive. The hero must not be too good; he must be human, faulty maybe; but still pure and noble. Otherwise, the reader says, “Such a character never existed. He is utterly beyond me. Try how I might I could never be like that” No! a noble nature is rarely without sin, and it is the small faults of disposition, temperament and character which make him real and human. In this connection I think of the noble-hearted Dan of The Deemster, that tortured soul who, though a forger and a murderer, yet remains one of the purest and most lovable characters in modern fiction.
Before closing this introductory chapter, I should like to say something of Mr. Caine as he impresses one in conversation. It has been my privilege to have met him several times, and I have spent many unforgettable hours in his company alone. First of all, he is one of the very few men I have met who impressed me, almost at the first glance, with the conviction that he had genius. As soon as he speaks his face lights up, his eyes shine, and his soul is laid bare. That is no manner of speaking: it is the simple truth. One knows that whatever he may say it is exactly what he feels. There is no “smartness” in his conversation, no epigrammatic fireworks, no talking for mere cleverness’ sake. He speaks convincingly because what he says he believes to be the truth. His delivery is dramatic and realistic. He rarely gesticulates, but when he does it is with the discrimination of the born actor; one feels, indeed, that the stage has lost a man who would surely have become one of its most notable figures. His knowledge of men and things is both deep and wide. Nothing escapes his observation. He has travelled in many countries—America, Russia, Poland, Iceland, Italy and Morocco, and wherever he has been he has studied, first of all, humanity, and secondly, humanity, and yet again humanity. And so, throughout the busy years of his life, when he was engaged in journalism, study, novel-writing, travelling, lecturing, he was all the time adding to his knowledge of his fellow-creatures, quietly observing not only the great men of the earth with whom he came in contact, but also the boy who brought the newspaper in the morning, the fishermen at their nets, and the hundred-and-one seemingly commonplace people whom one meets in the street day by day. Still, with all this knowledge of humanity he is never eager to express opinions on notable men and women. He is silent concerning those he dislikes for fear lest he has misjudged them; he will not speak of his friends because he sets so high a value on their friendship. But on all the problems that have come under his immediate notice, he is willing—nay, anxious—to hear the opinion of other people, no matter if their knowledge be merely superficial.
Mr. Caine is of average height, well-made and erect. His brow is fine and broad, his eyes large and luminous. His head is the head of a poet, a thinker, a prophet. It is suggestive of most of the portraits—ideal and otherwise—of Shakespeare; there is the same noble forehead, and the same large, passionate eyes. In manner he is quiet and, except among friends, somewhat reserved; but when his interest is aroused he asserts himself at once, speaking passionately and with consummate fluency. He is, perhaps, one of the best raconteurs living, and has a vast store of personal anecdote with which to illustrate any point which may crop up in conversation. He has a particularly keen sense of the humorous, and his manner of relating a funny story is equal to that of his fellow-countryman, the late Thomas Edward Brown.
His home life is simple and unaffected; it is a life of plain living and high thinking. He is the friend of every cottager round about Greeba, and the fishermen of Peel are his comrades. I remember an old woman from Crosby talking of him to me three or four years ago. “Terrible kind he is,” she said, “and simple. Aw, but you should have seen him makin’ hay on the curragh—laughin’ and jokin’ and all that.” And whatever sentence she began, it always ended with the same words, “terrible kind he is.”
CHAPTER II
HALL CAINE’S CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH
Thomas Henry Hall Caine was born in Runcorn, Lancashire, on May 14, 1853. Runcorn is by no means a romantic town, and, fortunately for the future novelist, he only spent ten days of his life within its precincts. His father was a Manxman, and his mother a native of Cumberland. They were both of the people—hard-working, poor and thrifty; but they must have possessed some remarkable qualities of mind and heart if we are to give any credence to the theory of heredity, for not only has Hall Caine made his mark upon his generation, but his sister, Miss Lily Hall Caine, has won a by no means unimportant place in the theatrical world, and his brother, Mr. Ralph Hall Caine, is, within limits, a charming writer of talent and ability. Caine is a Celtic name; Hall, his mother’s maiden name, is Norse, and is very commonly met with still in Iceland. The novelist himself has inherited the physical characteristics of his maternal ancestors, for, like the Norsemen, his beard and hair are red, and although he is the reverse of a strong man, his clearly-defined and well-developed features indicate to some extent the physical robustness of the Norsemen. His forefathers were farmers and fishermen, an old hardy family of great strength and physical endurance.
Though born in Runcorn, and resident whilst a very young child in Liverpool, Hall Caine’s earliest recollections are of the Isle of Man, of his grandmother’s cottage “Ballavolley,” Ballaugh, in the north of Manxland. It speaks much for his early development that even as a little child he loved the island which, in future years, was to be dearer to him than any spot on earth. “There is no place in America, Italy, Russia, Iceland, Morocco, or any other country I have visited, that is quite so beautiful as my own little island in its own little way,” he said to me only a month or two ago. And what he thinks to-day he has always thought.
There is a subtle, elusive charm about the Isle of Man which is obvious to the least observant of men, but there are few who are able to define its particular character, or who are able to define from what source it is derived. Once become a lover of that narrow stretch of land, and you are eternally lost; its beauty, its freshness and its fragrance will haunt you for ever, and each year when June comes round you will be impelled, by an irresistible desire, to tread once more the heights of Snaefell and Barrule, and wander again through the glens of Sulby and the Dhoon. It were worse than useless for me to attempt to paint any of the beautiful scenes which Manxland possesses, but the explanation of its distinctive charm lies in this, that it is an island. For not only is it an island, but a nation—a nation with manners and customs peculiar to itself—a nation that is, for the most part, occupied with itself and its own affairs. Its very aloofness attracts. It is in the world, but not of it; it lies apart surrounded by the ever-changing seas, and covered by a firmament which seems to be a part of its very self. The dim outline of the hills of other lands—England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales—only emphasises this sense of remoteness. It is only the vessels out at sea creeping steadily along the horizon, that act as a reminder of the existence of other lands, and not the far-off lands themselves. These vessels are the only disturbing influence of the island’s peace: they