The Prisoner of Zenda

CONTENTS

Title Page

History of Collins

Life & Times

Chapter 1 The Rassendylls—With a Word on the Elphbergs

Chapter 2 Concerning the Colour of Men’s Hair

Chapter 3 A Merry Evening with a Distant Relative

Chapter 4 The King Keeps His Appointment

Chapter 5 The Adventures of an Understudy

Chapter 6 The Secret of a Cellar

Chapter 7 His Majesty Sleeps in Strelsau

Chapter 8 A Fair Cousin and a Dark Brother

Chapter 9 A New Use for a Tea-table

Chapter 10 A Great Chance for a Villain

Chapter 11 Hunting a Very Big Boar

Chapter 12 I Receive a Visitor and Baita Hook

Chapter 13 An Improvement on Jacob’s Ladder

Chapter 14 A Night Outside the Castle

Chapter 15 I Talk with a Tempter

Chapter 16 A Desperate Plan

Chapter 17 Young Rupert’s Midnight Diversions

Chapter 18 The Forcing of the Trap

Chapter 19 Face to Face in the Forest

Chapter 20 The Prisoner and the King

Chapter 21 If Love Were All!

Chapter 22 Present, Past—and Future?

Classic Literature: Words and Phrases adapted from the Collins English Dictionary

Copyright

About the Publisher

History of Collins

In 1819, millworker William Collins from Glasgow, Scotland, set up a company for printing and publishing pamphlets, sermons, hymn books and prayer books. That company was Collins and was to mark the birth of HarperCollins Publishers as we know it today. The long tradition of Collins dictionary publishing can be traced back to the first dictionary William published in 1824, Greek and English Lexicon. Indeed, from 1840 onwards, he began to produce illustrated dictionaries and even obtained a licence to print and publish the Bible.

Soon after, William published the first Collins novel, Ready Reckoner, however it was the time of the Long Depression, where harvests were poor, prices were high, potato crops had failed and violence was erupting in Europe. As a result, many factories across the country were forced to close down and William chose to retire in 1846, partly due to the hardships he was facing.

Aged 30, William’s son, William II took over the business. A keen humanitarian with a warm heart and a generous spirit, William II was truly ‘Victorian’ in his outlook. He introduced new, up-to-date steam presses and published affordable editions of Shakespeare’s works and The Pilgrim’s Progress, making them available to the masses for the first time. A new demand for educational books meant that success came with the publication of travel books, scientific books, encyclopaedias and dictionaries. This demand to be educated led to the later publication of atlases and Collins also held the monopoly on scripture writing at the time.

In the 1860s Collins began to expand and diversify and the idea of ‘books for the millions’ was developed. Affordable editions of classical literature were published and in 1903 Collins introduced 10 titles in their Collins Handy Illustrated Pocket Novels. These proved so popular that a few years later this had increased to an output of 50 volumes, selling nearly half a million in their year of publication. In the same year, The Everyman’s Library was also instituted, with the idea of publishing an affordable library of the most important classical works, biographies, religious and philosophical treatments, plays, poems, travel and adventure. This series eclipsed all competition at the time and the introduction of paperback books in the 1950s helped to open that market and marked a high point in the industry.

HarperCollins is and has always been a champion of the classics and the current Collins Classics series follows in this tradition – publishing classical literature that is affordable and available to all. Beautifully packaged, highly collectible and intended to be reread and enjoyed at every opportunity.

Life & Times

Throughout literary history there have been many stories involving mistaken identity: Twelfth Night (c. 1601) by William Shakespeare, A Tale of Two Cities (1859) by Charles Dickens, The Prince and the Pauper (1881) by Mark Twain. Each of these examples uses the device in a different way, but it can almost be regarded as a genre. Sometimes it is used to heighten the sense of drama, at other times to inject an element of comedy. In The Prisoner of Zenda (1894) it is definitely the former, as it forms part of a counter-plot to prevent a king from being overthrown by his own brother.

In a fictitious land named Ruritania, the heir apparent, Prince Rudolph, is about to become king, but he is drugged by his brother Michael on the eve of his coronation. Two of Rudolph’s attendants persuade his visiting cousin, also named Rudolph and strikingly similar in appearance, to stand in for Prince Rudolph, thereby preventing Michael from claiming the throne. Meanwhile, Prince Rudolph is abducted and held captive in a town named Zenda.

While attempts are made to rescue Prince Rudolph, his double assumes the role of king in every sense, including in matters of love. He finds himself in love with Princess Flavia, and she him, though he is unable to reveal his true identity. As unlikely as it may seem, Flavia suspects nothing, such is the physical similarity between the two Rudolphs. Eventually though, Prince Rudolph is liberated and the truth comes out. Flavia and the stand-in are torn apart but realize that duty must come before their affection for one another.

Although Ruritania is the invention of the author, Anthony Hope, it is geographically situated on the Balkan Peninsula, in southeastern Europe. The name Ruritania is sometimes used to refer to a generic example country when academics are discussing economic and political models. It has also been used in a mocking sense to describe the quaint and simplistic Britain that exists only in the imagination of those deluded by deference.

The Prisoner of Zenda is one of a trilogy of works penned by Hope, also comprising The Heart of Princess Osra (1896) and Rupert of Hentzau (1898). All three novels were very popular at the time of their publication, although their appeal has waned over the passing century, largely due to their want of depth. Hope was more of a storyteller than a novelist. He lacked the kind of intellect required to layer his prose with meaning. The Prisoner of Zenda has fared slightly better than the other two books, simply because it is a better yarn and has one of those titles that people remember, regardless of whether they have read the book. It has been frequently referenced and adapted for both the stage and screen a number of times, too.

The Prisoner of Zenda is perhaps best seen as children’s fiction rather than adult. The mistaken identity plot – much like those tales where the beautiful female love interest dresses like a boy and is readily accepted as such – stretches credulity to breaking point, demanding that we suspend our disbelief. To the adult reader it may seem preposterous, but the device works well for the less dissecting mind of a child.

Hope himself was a go-getter. He used a vanity press to get his first book published and kept on trying until he eventually scored a hit with The Prisoner of Zenda. He might be thought of as a prototype for thriller writer Jeffrey Archer (albeit without the scandal), for he also dabbled in politics and managed to secure a title for his efforts writing propaganda during the First World War.

He wrote many other stories but none was ever as successful as The Prisoner of Zenda. Like Archer, he treated his books as products, with the express intention of using them to generate income. This included his own stage adaptations. He wrote for the market which already existed, rather than for serious literary expression, which hopes to find an eager readership available.

As a result of this distinction, there is now a curious divide within fiction publishing. Serious novels are described as ‘literary’, as if to say that other, more mainstream novels might be thought of as ‘illiterary’ – i.e. devoid of any literary value. Many would argue that this is elitist nonsense. After all, where would we be without thrillers, adventures, mysteries, romances and fantasies? Fiction is, first and foremost, a medium for entertainment. If a book doesn’t entertain then it doesn’t engage the reader, regardless of whether there is literary depth or not.

Hope was certainly not the first commercially minded author, either. Charles Dickens, for example, exploited his books and resulting fame unashamedly, making frequent public appearances to read excerpts of his stories to paying audiences. This self-promotion greatly increased book sales, and so the modern age of publishing was ushered in, ready for the turn of the 20th century.

The world of book publishing was quick to realize that personality-led promotion was a very effective business strategy. Once an author cultivated a following it meant an expectation of sales when new books were published and it meant that fluctuations in writing quality could be bridged more effectively. It also meant that second-division writers could furnish careers for themselves on the strength of their personality. The ability to make a good public appearance, or do a good interview on radio or television, could make all the difference between success and failure.

Anthony Hope was among the first wave of personality authors. The biographer Roger Lancelyn Green (1918–87) described Hope as a first-class amateur, but second-class professional writer. It seems fair to say that The Prisoner of Zenda might never have seen the light of day had Hope not been blessed with the personality to make connections and manage his own publicity. By exploiting his social skills, his best effort as an author enjoyed an unlikely level of success.

That isn’t to say that The Prisoner of Zenda is not a good novel, only that there are doubtless many equally good stories still languishing unpublished in desk drawers, because their authors have lacked Hope’s determination and powers of persuasion. A little charm, wit, and personality can be very attractive to an industry where the product is not a necessity, but an indulgence. If a publisher can advertise the author as well as the book, then the potential readership is far more likely to oblige.

CHAPTER 1

The Rassendylls—With a Word on the Elphbergs

“I wonder when in the world you’re going to do anything, Rudolf?” said my brother’s wife.

“My dear Rose,” I answered, laying down my egg-spoon, “why in the world should I do anything? My position is a comfortable one. I have an income nearly sufficient for my wants (no one’s income is ever quite sufficient, you know), I enjoy an enviable social position: I am brother to Lord Burlesdon, and brother-in-law to that charming lady, his countess. Behold, it is enough!”

“You are nine-and-twenty,” she observed, “and you’ve done nothing but—”

“Knock about? It is true. Our family doesn’t need to do things.”

This remark of mine rather annoyed Rose, for everybody knows (and therefore there can be no harm in referring to the fact) that, pretty and accomplished as she herself is, her family is hardly of the same standing as the Rassendylls. Besides her attractions, she possessed a large fortune, and my brother Robert was wise enough not to mind about her ancestry. Ancestry is, in fact, a matter concerning which the next observation of Rose’s has some truth.

“Good families are generally worse than any others,” she said.

Upon this I stroked my hair: I knew quite well what she meant.

“I’m so glad Robert’s is black!” she cried.

At this moment Robert (who rises at seven and works before breakfast) came in. He glanced at his wife: her cheek was slightly flushed; he patted it caressingly.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked.

“She objects to my doing nothing and having red hair,” said I, in an injured tone.

“Oh! of course he can’t help his hair,” admitted Rose.

“It generally crops out once in a generation,” said my brother. “So does the nose. Rudolf has got them both.”

“I wish they didn’t crop out,” said Rose, still flushed.

“I rather like them myself,” said I, and, rising, I bowed to the portrait of Countess Amelia.

My brother’s wife uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“I wish you’d take that picture away, Robert,” said she.

“My dear!” he cried.

“Good heavens!” I added.

“Then it might be forgotten,” she continued.

“Hardly—with Rudolf about,” said Robert, shaking his head.

“Why should it be forgotten?” I asked.

“Rudolf!” exclaimed my brother’s wife, blushing very prettily.

I laughed, and went on with my egg. At least I had shelved the question of what (if anything) I ought to do. And, by way of closing the discussion—and also, I must admit, of exasperating my strict little sister-in-law a trifle more—I observed:

“I rather like being an Elphberg myself.”

When I read a story, I skip the explanations; yet the moment I begin to write one, I find that I must have an explanation. For it is manifest that I must explain why my sister-in-law was vexed with my nose and hair, and why I ventured to call myself an Elphberg. For eminent as, I must protest, the Rassendylls have been for many generations, yet participation in their blood of course does not, at first sight, justify the boast of a connection with the grander stock of the Elphbergs or a claim to be one of that Royal House. For what relationship is there between Ruritania and Burlesdon, between the Palace at Strelsau or the Castle of Zenda and Number 305 Park Lane, W.?

Well then—and I must premise that I am going, perforce, to rake up the very scandal which my dear Lady Burlesdon wishes forgotten—in the year 1733, George II. sitting then on the throne, peace reigning for the moment, and the King and the Prince of Wales being not yet at loggerheads, there came on a visit to the English Court a certain prince, who was afterwards known to history as Rudolf the Third of Ruritania. The prince was a tall, handsome young fellow, marked (maybe marred, it is not for me to say) by a somewhat unusually long, sharp and straight nose, and a mass of dark-red hair—in fact, the nose and the hair which have stamped the Elphbergs time out of mind. He stayed some months in England, where he was most courteously received; yet, in the end, he left rather under a cloud. For he fought a duel (it was considered highly well bred of him to waive all question of his rank) with a nobleman, well known in the society of the day, not only for his own merits, but as the husband of a very beautiful wife. In that duel Prince Rudolf received a severe wound, and, recovering therefrom, was adroitly smuggled off by the Ruritanian ambassador, who had found him a pretty handful. The nobleman was not wounded in the duel; but the morning being raw and damp on the occasion of the meeting, he contracted a severe chill, and, failing to throw it off, he died some six months after the departure of Prince Rudolf, without having found leisure to adjust his relations with his wife—who, after another two months, bore an heir to the title and estates of the family of Burlesdon. This lady was the Countess Amelia, whose picture my sister-in-law wished to remove from the drawing-room in Park Lane; and her husband was James, fifth Earl of Burlesdon and twenty-second Baron Rassendyll, both in the peerage of England, and a Knight of the Garter. As for Rudolf, he went back to Ruritania, married a wife, and ascended the throne, whereon his progeny in the direct line have sat from then till this very hour—with one short interval. And, finally, if you walk through the picture galleries at Burlesdon, among the fifty portraits or so of the last century and a half, you will find five or six, including that of the sixth earl, distinguished by long, sharp, straight noses and a quantity of dark-red hair; these five or six have also blue eyes, whereas among the Rassendylls dark eyes are the commoner.

That is the explanation, and I am glad to have finished it: the blemishes on honourable lineage are a delicate subject, and certainly this heredity we hear so much about is the finest scandalmonger in the world; it laughs at discretion, and writes strange entries between the lines of the “Peerages”.

It will be observed that my sister-in-law, with a want of logic that must have been peculiar to herself (since we are no longer allowed to lay it to the charge of her sex), treated my complexion almost as an offence for which I was responsible, hastening to assume from that external sign inward qualities of which I protest my entire innocence; and this unjust inference she sought to buttress by pointing to the uselessness of the life I had led. Well, be that as it may, I had picked up a good deal of pleasure and a good deal of knowledge. I had been to a German school and a German university, and spoke German as readily and perfectly as English; I was thoroughly at home in French; I had a smattering of Italian and enough Spanish to swear by. I was, I believe, a strong, though hardly fine swordsman and a good shot. I could ride anything that had a back to sit on; and my head was as cool a one as you could find, for all its flaming cover. If you say that I ought to have spent my time in useful labour, I am out of Court and have nothing to say, save that my parents had no business to leave me two thousand pounds a year and a roving disposition.

“The difference between you and Robert,” said my sister-in-law, who often (bless her!) speaks on a platform, and oftener still as if she were on one, “is that he recognizes the duties of his position, and you see the opportunities of yours.”

“To a man of spirit, my dear Rose,” I answered, “opportunities are duties.”

“Nonsense!” said she, tossing her head; and after a moment she went on: “Now, here’s Sir Jacob Borrodaile offering you exactly what you might be equal to.”

“A thousand thanks!” I murmured.

“He’s to have an Embassy in six months, and Robert says he is sure that he’ll take you as an attache. Do take it, Rudolf—to please me.”

Now, when my sister-in-law puts the matter in that way, wrinkling her pretty brows, twisting her little hands, and growing wistful in the eyes, all on account of an idle scamp like myself, for whom she has no natural responsibility, I am visited with compunction. Moreover, I thought it possible that I could pass the time in the position suggested with some tolerable amusement. Therefore I said:

“My dear sister, if in six months’ time no unforeseen obstacle has arisen, and Sir Jacob invites me, hang me if I don’t go with Sir Jacob!”

“Oh, Rudolf, how good of you! I am glad!”

“Where’s he going to?”

“He doesn’t know yet; but it’s sure to be a good Embassy.”

“Madame,” said I, “for your sake I’ll go, if it’s no more than a beggarly Legation. When I do a thing, I don’t do it by halves.”

My promise, then, was given; but six months are six months, and seem an eternity, and, inasmuch as they stretched between me and my prospective industry (I suppose attaches are industrious; but I know not, for I never became attache to Sir Jacob or anybody else), I cast about for some desirable mode of spending them. And it occurred to me suddenly that I would visit Ruritania. It may seem strange that I had never visited that country yet; but my father (in spite of a sneaking fondness for the Elphbergs, which led him to give me, his second son, the famous Elphberg name of Rudolf) had always been averse from my going, and, since his death, my brother, prompted by Rose, had accepted the family tradition which taught that a wide berth was to be given to that country. But the moment Ruritania had come into my head I was eaten up with a curiosity to see it. After all, red hair and long noses are not confined to the House of Elphberg, and the old story seemed a preposterously insufficient reason for debarring myself from acquaintance with a highly interesting and important kingdom, one which had played no small part in European history, and might do the like again under the sway of a young and vigorous ruler, such as the new King was rumoured to be. My determination was clinched by reading in The Times that Rudolf the Fifth was to be crowned at Strelsau in the course of the next three weeks, and that great magnificence was to mark the occasion. At once I made up my mind to be present, and began my preparations. But, inasmuch as it has never been my practice to furnish my relatives with an itinerary of my journeys and in this case I anticipated opposition to my wishes, I gave out that I was going for a ramble in the Tyrol—an old haunt of mine—and propitiated Rose’s wrath by declaring that I intended to study the political and social problems of the interesting community which dwells in that neighbourhood.

“Perhaps,” I hinted darkly, “there may be an outcome of the expedition.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well,” said I carelessly, “there seems a gap that might be filled by an exhaustive work on—”

“Oh! will you write a book?” she cried, clapping her hands. “That would be splendid, wouldn’t it, Robert?”

“It’s the best of introductions to political life nowadays,” observed my brother, who has, by the way, introduced himself in this manner several times over. Burlesdon on Ancient Theories and Modern Facts and The Ultimate Outcome, by a Political Student, are both works of recognized eminence.

“I believe you are right, Bob, my boy,” said I.

“Now promise you’ll do it,” said Rose earnestly.

“No, I won’t promise; but if I find enough material, I will.”

“That’s fair enough,” said Robert.

“Oh, material doesn’t matter!” she said, pouting.

But this time she could get no more than a qualified promise out of me. To tell the truth, I would have wagered a handsome sum that the story of my expedition that summer would stain no paper and spoil not a single pen. And that shows how little we know what the future holds; for here I am, fulfilling my qualified promise, and writing, as I never thought to write, a book—though it will hardly serve as an introduction to political life, and has not a jot to do with the Tyrol.

Neither would it, I fear, please Lady Burlesdon, if I were to submit it to her critical eye—a step which I have no intention of taking.

CHAPTER 2

Concerning the Colour of Men’s Hair

It was a maxim of my Uncle William’s that no man should pass through Paris without spending four-and-twenty hours there. My uncle spoke out of a ripe experience of the world, and I honoured his advice by putting up for a day and a night at “The Continental” on my way to—the Tyrol. I called on George Featherly at the Embassy, and we had a bit of dinner together at Durand’s, and afterwards dropped in to the Opera; and after that we had a little supper, and after that we called on Bertram Bertrand, a versifier of some repute and Paris correspondent to The Critic. He had a very comfortable suite of rooms, and we found some pleasant fellows smoking and talking. It struck me, however, that Bertram himself was absent and in low spirits, and when everybody except ourselves had gone, I rallied him on his moping preoccupation. He fenced with me for a while, but at last, flinging himself on a sofa, he exclaimed: