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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,

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