Baroness Orczy.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 2, 12 January 1907, Page 33

Baroness Orczy.

THE AUTHORESS OF "THE M. ARLET PIMPERNEL,” BY HERSELF. I was born in Hungary. Not the Hungary- of political strife, of party intrigues, and anti-Geruian squabbles, but the beautiful country which lies between the Danube and the Theiss, where grows the finest wheat the earth can produce —the land of limitless plains, and the home of the Fata Morgana. ‘T have tried in my book, 'A Son of the People," to describe that peaceful land, which seems so far away from European civilisation and European strife. I revisited the scene- of my childhood this year, and was. above struck with the wonderful peace which pervaded this half-forgotten corner of Central Europe. My English readers will. I think, realise how strangely forgotten the Lowlands of Hungary are by the rest of the world when I tell them that my husband is the first Englishman who has ever been in that part of the country. Tarnaors is the name of the village and of the property belonging to my family. The house where I was born and which •under the name of Bideskut I have described in "A Son of the People" is a huge, rambling building, built in the shape of a quadrangle, with two covered gateways and a courtyard in the middle. One of my earliest recollections is of a profusion of roses; they grow in luxurious abundance in this part of Hungary. though very few other flowers will outlive the dry. torrid summers. Ami the house was surrounded with beds of standard rose-trees, and as a baby my joy consisted in counting and watching the many coloured glass balls which so quaintly adorned these trees. Families live in the grand old patriarchal style in those huge Hungarian castles. Grandfather and grandmother, father, mother, uncles, aunts, and cousins. we all lived at Tarnaors; we all had our separate suite of apartments and met at meal-times in the vast dininghall. We still live in feudal style in Hungary. We are not at all democratic, not at all advanced: civilisation lias only very lightly touch's! us with her golden wing. When I was about three years old. however, my father settled down on his property. Tiszaabad. on the banks of the Theiss. He was very keen on agricultural improvements. Modern methods were just beginning to find their way to these remove portions of the country, and my father wished to try some experiment- which he firmly believed would not only improve his own property, but greatly help the agricultural development of this wonderfully productive soil. But the peasantry on the estate watched these improvements with ever* growing hostility. When tire new threshers and reapers of English manufacture turned up at Tiszaabad they looked upon them as inventions of the deviL Up to this time the exquisite

turn- the finr-t llie world produce* had been respM. tbre-h.-d and giouud the mo-t primitive implement* imaginable. An I now my father built a steam mill, little gue*-ing the awful slot which was gathering over hi- head. English people who know nr have read about the terrible riot- occasioned in l-awca?»hire by the intnHliictioii of tin* mechanical l<M»m in eottua-weaving, will readily understand what fuHowv I. The peasant* vaguely understood that, inside the mill, com would lie ground to Hour, with do agency .-ave that of fire and f*moke. A superstitious terror got hold of them. They were quite sure that no one but the devil himself could grind com with tire and -moke. When the mill wa* ready for worn, the poor, superstitious folk completely lost their head*. It was just upon harvest time. Miles and miles of golden com. of rich maize and luiley. were ripening in the sun. In one awful night the peasantry set tire to the entire crop. Fields were set alight from every point of the compass simultaneously. They burnt like s!raw in the dry atmosphere of a Hungarian summer. And this terrible devastation is one of the earliest memories of my child” hood. 1 was little more than a baby then, but even now I can see before my mind"- eye the awful picture as I saw it then. The sky a vivid blood red. The Slames ris im* in sudden weird and hissing' columns as they caught now a fresh field of wheat, now a clump of ripening maize. I can remember rhe melancholy sound f»t the tiny village church bell ringing its -ad through the awful silence of that terrilde night. And then the poor beasts; The horses, the cows and bullocks. ? e -heep. all giving forth their cries •: terror. So terrible, so swift and -•.bi-lea was the conflagration that nothing c rd i l>e done to save the harvest. My father and the few faithful retainers w : . s:.M>d by him in ibis hour of dire calamity had to concentrate all their energ - _ stables a b?.t-:-. ar-I :he house itself. At fir-r rhe poor, misguided creatures who hs i .?o»ie this wicked deed held aloof j -t-a -ileace. But gradually when they saw what they had done, warn ‘ y realised the terrible devasta- :: *n < eh a--r of lofly had caused, they tri.-d t » make ameuds. but it was too late. N •' only were all the crops of that year completely destroyed, but the grai iries ontaining the huge storage of wheat and maize, many of the building-. — or.e of rhe bea-ts. alas.* and their -bed- were all reduced to ashes. The fire la-ie l many days and nights. T«» thoroughly understand the hopelessness of -uch a di-a-ter in that part of Hungary. English rentiers -hould realise that the only water available at any time i- that from the River I'heiss. but from the beginning of the dry season, and for —»ine months, the shallow bed of the river i- practically dry. And 1 will not inMilt my readers by even mentioning the word "insurance”: such a thing in the Lowlands »»f llungarv was in the early seventies absolutely unknown. Another very interesting and vivid recollection of my later chladhood is centred round the personality of my grandfather inv mother's father—fount Mass. He ha I been, in his early manhood, the friend an 1 vlo.-e a—<n.iate of Kossuth. and h o! played an important part in that -übli ne tragedy—the Hungarian revolution of '4B. Aly recollections from my stately home in Hungary go on to the quiet convent «ard»-n- of Brussels and Faris, when I continued my education. In that gentle, uneventful life I little though of a literary career. We were taught that novels were wicked things, and I di-tinctly remember the dear little podgy Mother Superior of the Dames de la Visitation in Bru-.-els saying to me one day: < ’e-t tres difficile, iny chere enfant, de lire un roman sans offender le bon Dim. I feel the remark is quite untranslatable, so 1 will not attempt it. In England we never talk aliout le bon Dieu; there are no words that would express the childlike guildessness of it. But the dear little nun thought that God disapproved of our reading novels. I often wonder what she would think if she knew that one of Lei former Hock actually wrote them. .Again ‘ the & eue is changed.”

I was in my early trm« and we nune to England - my father. my mother, ami myself. My father wa» a beautiful musician: having b»*t a eon-iderable | tort ton of his fortune, he w i-hed to turw his tine talent to account, and I was to complete my education in l.otdon. I think mine i< an essentially restless disposition, and 1 d«>n‘t th nk that 1 could ever have had a real ‘•vocation** for literature. I never -eeu.e,l to <how tin* faintest desire to write, or any special talent in that direction. Whoa 1 look Istck on the many careers which as a small Held 1 mapped out for myself at different time*. I truly marvel how 1 came to accomplish* anything in life. At thirteen I was determined to renounce the world and become a nun ( had witnessed one of the religious ceremonies of "initiation” at the convent in Faris: the postulant lying on the floor of the chapel, the shroud spread over her. the psalm for the dead intoned round her. the chapel itself decislatcd with while flowers, symbolical of the }H>Mulant being henceforth dead ta the world. 1 was extremely impressionable; the ceremony had a polgnan meaning fot me. Then, when the po-tulant. now a full-fledged min. had retired, then reappeared with a wreath of roses over Iter veil, and walked round the claapct, giving to each of tin* sisters a kiss of peace. 1 thought that there was nothing in the world more beautiful than this supreme reiiunciatson this devotion of one's whole life to pray for the sins of other people. Rut this fervent mood did not last. In England 1 studied hard. My desire was to ISer»nne very teamed—a female philo-opber. I think. I devoured Darw in. I worshipped* Herbert >j»ejieei. < passed examinations, higher education fot women, matric.. and what not. I would have loved to go t«» Girton and take my 8.A.. but in hi- heart of hearts my dear father abhorr d a feminine bas bleu, and my scientih.. vra passed away. Some of the happiest day?s of my girt* hood were those during whiih I studied jointing. For the upshot of nil mtr dreams was that 1 would I- an at list. <>h! those merry day- at the Art Schools. We were all -o enthusiastic and io«‘k ourselves -• set ously! and we were all going to be pre*i’.vwt- of uie Royal Academy. I -:utlie»l for -me years at Heal r ley’s! The school wa* then • ailed by the flippant "The mutual admiration society.” we all admired one another's work so much! We were so loyal to the school and to our frtlov, -indents, and dear old Heatheiley. Icoking for all the world like IkHtoi Faust in the first acU. used to flit about the studio, making quaint, remark* a bo • our mighty efforts. My critics Lave often been k n I enough to say that my romances are always picturesque. Well, it is to my early art training that I attribute the love I have for what is picturesque. I always see my work now from a pic torial jHiiut of view. We were taught at Heatherley’s to look at everything liefore us as it were through the frame of a picture. I think that I saw every scene of The Scarlet Fimpernel Ijefore 1 wrote it. My husband, who it an artist, ant who collaborated with me in writing that play, feels just the same ns 1 do over that. It seems almost ridiculous to say so, but I distinctly believe that an art education is invaluable to a playwright. I place it next in importance to the one supreme training of nil. namely. that of the stage itself. T suppose by now my patient readers will begin to wonder how and why I took to writing at all. I ha,l been studying (tainting earnestly for some years: 1 was beginning to achieve a certain measure of -ticccss. My picture. ‘The -lolly Young Waterman, *’ in the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1802, attracted no small measure of attention. A year or two alter that 1 married. My husband soon made a considerable reputation as a water »olour aiti-t and as an illis.tr*tor, and be and I worked at art together for a few year* Then one fine day—it seems like a fairy* tale—l met some rather dull people who spent their -pare time in writing short stories for magazines Ono evening some of th. m read their literary effusiuna to me. And that commonplace little incident wm the turning point of my career.

That same evening I said to my husband, “If these |Mn>ple can write stories, why shouldn’t 1?” And 1 did. 1 had turned thirty then; 1 had never thought of writing, never imagined 1 had any talent for it. And yet 1 may almost say mi literally 1 woke one morning ami found myself famous. 1 began by writing a vmiple of short stories and sent them to “Pearson’s Magazine.’’

They were accepted ami published. This was vert a inly ciiomraging. Very soon after that I wrote a series of detective stories known as “The Ohl Man in the Corner.” But I had a burning ambition to write for the stage. 1 used to see pictures Indore my mind which I knew would look well across the footlights. There is a good proverb, is there not? about angels fearing to tread (the first pa it of it is very rude). But although 1 read over and uver again the irrefutable statements made by various critics that it is absolutely impossible for anyone to attempt to write for the stage, who has not had years and years of experience of stage craft and technique. I rushed in where angels fear to treat!.

I got up one morning ami, enlisting my' husband’s help and collaboration, began to write The Scarlet Pimpernel. Four weeks later the play was ready : three months later the contract for its production was signed with Mr and Mrs Terry, and nine months a tier 1 first put pen to paper in connection with any work for the <tage at all. ’ The Scarlet Pimpernel” w as produced.

Well! the critics (some of them) will have it to this day that the play is a poor play. May 1 never write a worse one. say 1. The public took it to its heart, and every section of society from the occupants of the Royal box to those of the shilling gallery loved it. The novel itself was an adaptation from the play. and in connection with this it may interest students of “higher criticism” to know that of the play the dramatic critics said (some of them) that it has nothing to recommend it. and is not graced by y.y literary style whatever: of the novel all the literary critics said, with absolute unanimity, that its extremely interesting plot was further enhanced by charming literary style. Xow the novel was word for word the same as the play, with the nevc-sary addition of descriptive passage*. A* a rule the days of one’s youth mean the outset of one’s career. It was not so with me. My early youth is behind me. ami my literary and dramatic carver only dates back five or six years. My novel “A Son of the People” is a description of my home in Hungary, which by a curious and romantic coincidence ha* now become my property, through the sudden death of my uncle. The nowl had attracted considerable attention in Hungary itself, and the lawyers in charge of the winding up of my late unt ie’* estate sudenly realised that the author of the book could be none other than the heiress to the property. I had lived so long in England and my father died here without returning to his old home. so that my very existence bad been almost forgotten. 1 re-visited the country of my birth last spring. 1 loved its tine, old patriarchal mansions, the fields of beautiful wheat and ripening maize, the lovely horse* bred on the great pusztas. For a moment the desire seized me to return there for gootl. once more to become the chatelaine of Tarnaors. and in the pride ami joy of owning these fine tracts of rich-growing corn, forget tnp success of “Tin Scarlet Pimpernel” or the failure of •'The ''in of William Jackson.” But it can t lie done. An artistic sueces* onve achieved grips you. and -will not let you give up your career. I left Hungaiv again, determined to sell my property, ami came back to London to ■write my new novvl. “I will Repay .” The bon«l which ties me to England proved stronger than that, of my childhood** hoii>e.