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 ï¬rst 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 ï¬rst 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 âVictorian' in his outlook. He introduced new, up-to-date steam presses and published affordable editions of Shakespeare's works and
The P
ilgrim's Progress
, making them available to the masses for the ï¬rst time. A new demand for educational books meant that success came with the publication of travel books, scientiï¬c 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 âbooks 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 â 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 â much like those tales where the beautiful female love interest dresses like a boy and is readily accepted as such â 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 âliterary', as if to say that other, more mainstream novels might be thought of as âilliterary' â 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 (1918â87) 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 RassendyllsâWith 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 butâ”

“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.

BOOK: The Prisoner of Zenda

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