the days of my life-第2部分

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e　world　to　stare　at；　unless　indeed　such　a　person　were　prepared　to　order　the　resulting　book　to　be　buried　for　—　let　us　say　—　five　hundred　years。　Could　such　a　work　be　written　by　a　hand　adequate　to　the　task；　its　interest　as　a　human　document　would　be　supreme。　Also　it　would　be　beautiful　in　the　sense　that　the　naked　truth　is　always　beautiful；　even　when　it　tells　of　evil。　Yet　I　believe　that　it　will　never　be　written。　For　were　the　writer　mean　enough　to　draw　the　veil　from　the　failings　of　others；　he　would　certainly　keep　it　wrapped　about　his　own。　Only　one　man；　so　far　as　my　knowledge　goes；　has　set　down　the　absolute　verity　about　himself；　and　it　is　certain　that　he　did　not　intend　that　it　should　e　to　the　printing…press。　I　refer　to　Samuel　Pepys。
Still　an　enormous　amount　remains　of　which　a　man　may　write　without　injuring　or　hurting　the　feelings　of　anyone；　and　by　aid　of　my　memory　that；　although　weak　enough　in　many　ways；　is　strong　and　clear　where　essentials　are　concerned；　and　of　the　correspondence　which；　as　it　chances；　I　have　preserved　for　years；　with　some　of　this　matter　I　propose　to　deal。　After　all；　a　man　of　normal　ability　and　observation　who　has　touched　life　at　many　points；　cannot　pass　fifty…five　years　in　the　world　without　learning　much；　some　of　which　may　prove　of　use　to　others；　and　if　he　dies　leaving　his　experience　unrecorded；　then　like　water　thrown　upon　sand　it　sinks　into　the　grave　with　him　and　there　is　wasted。
Such　are　the　considerations　that　lead　me　to　attempt　this　task。
I　suppose　that　before　considering　it　further　the　first　question　that　I　should　ask　myself　and　try　to　answer　is；　not　to　what　extent　I　have　achieved　success；　but　by　how　much　I　have　escaped　failure　in　the　world。　No　positive　reply　seems　possible　to　this　query　until　I　have　been　dead　a　good　many　years；　for　in　such　matters　time　is　the　only　true　judge。　Yet　that　final　verdict　is　capable　of　a　certain　amount　of　intelligent；　though　possibly　erroneous　anticipation。
Although　all　my　life　I　have　been　more　or　less　connected　with　the　Law；　for　which　I　have　a　natural　liking；　first　as　the　Master　of　a　High　Court　and　subsequently　in　the　modest　but　I　trust　useful　office　of　the　Chairman　of　a　Bench　of　Magistrates；　I　have　done　nothing　at　all　at　my　profession　at　the　Bar。　In　an　unfortunate　hour；　considered　from　this　point　of　view；　I　employed　my　somewhat　ample　leisure　in　chambers　in　writing　“King　Solomon’s　Mines。”　That；　metaphorically；　settled　my　legal　hash。　Had　it　not　been　for　“King　Solomon’s　Mines；”　if　even　in　imagination　I　may　dwell　upon　such　splendour；　I　might　possibly　have　sat　some　day　where　sits　my　old　friend　and　instructor；　Sir　Henry　Bargrave　Deane；　as　a　judge　of　the　Court　of　Probate　and　Divorce；　in　which　I　proposed　to　practise　like　my　great…uncle；　Doctor　John　Haggard；　famous　for　his　Reports；　before　me。
Well　do　I　remember　how；　when　one　day　I　was　seated　in　this　Division　watching　a　case　or　devilling　for　somebody；　I　unconsciously　inscribed　my　name　on　the　nice　white　blotting…paper　before　me。　Presently　from　behind　me　I　heard　a　whisper　from　some　solicitor　—　I　think　that　was　his　calling　—　whom　business　had　brought　to　the　Court：
“Are　you　Rider　Haggard；　the　man　who　wrote　‘King　Solomon’s　Mines’？”　he　said；　staring　at　the　tell…tale　blotting…paper。
I　intimated　that　such　was　really　my　name。
“Then；　confound　you！　Sir；　you　kept　me　up　till　three　o’clock　this　morning。　But　what　are　you　doing　here　in　a　wig　and　gown　—　what　are　you　doing　here？”
Very　soon　I　found　cause　to　echo　the　question　and　to　answer　it　in　the　words；　“No　good。”　The　British　solicitor；　and　indeed　the　British　client；　cannot　be　induced　to　put　confidence　in　anyone　who　has　bee　well　known　as　an　author。　If　he　has　confined　his　attention　to　the　writing　of　law…books；　he　may　be　tolerated；　though　hardly；　but　if　his　efforts　have　been　on　the　imaginative　side　of　literature；　then　for　that　man　they　have　no　use。　That　such　a　person　should　bine　gifts　of　imagination　with　forensic　aptitude　and　sound　legal　knowledge　is　to　them　a　thing　past　all　belief。
A　page　or　so　back　I　said　that　my　experience　might　possibly　be　of　use　to　others；　and　already　the　suggestion　seems　in　the　way　of　proof。　If　what　I　write　should　prevent　even　one　young　barrister　who　hopes　to　make　a　mark　in　his　profession；　from　being　beguiled　into　the　fatal　paths　of　authorship；　I　shall　not　have　laboured　in　vain。
Next；　I　have　never　been　able　to　gratify　a　very　earnest　ambition　of　my　younger　years；　namely；　to　enter　Parliament　and　shine　as　a　statesman。　Once　I　tried：　it　was　at　the　1895　election；　and　I　almost　carried　one　of　the　most　difficult　seats　in　England。　But　almost　is　not　quite；　and　the　awful　expense　attendant　upon　contesting　a　seat　in　Parliament　（in　a　county　division　it　costs；　or　used　to　cost；　over　2000　pounds）　showed　me　clearly　that；　unless　they　happen　to　be　Labour　members；　such　a　career　is　only　open　to　rich　men。　Also　I　came　to　understand　that　it　would　be　practically　impossible　for　me　both　to　earn　a　living　by　the　writing　of　books　and　to　plunge　eagerly　into　Parliamentary　work；　as　I　know　well　that　I　should　have　done。　Even　if　I　could　have　found　the　time　by　writing　in　the　mornings　—　which；　where　imaginative　effort　is　concerned；　has　always　been　distasteful　to　me　—　my　health　would　never　have　borne　the　double　strain。
So　that　dream　had　to　be　abandoned；　for　which　I　am　sorry。　Indeed；　a　legislative　career　is　about　the　only　one　of　which　the　doors　are　not　shut　to　the　writer　of　fiction；　as　is　proved　by　many　instances；　notably　that　of　Disraeli。
Thus　it　cames　about　that　on　these　lines　I　have　failed　to　make　any　mark。　Fate　has　shut　those　doors　in　my　face。　The　truth　is　that　“man　knoweth　not　his　own　way”：　he　must　go　where　his　destiny　leads　him。　Either　so　or　he　is　afloat　upon　an　ocean　of　chance；　driven　hither　and　thither　by　its　waves；　till　at　length　his　frail　bark　is　overset　or　sinks　worn　out。　This；　however；　I　do　not　believe。　If　everything　else　in　the　universe　is　governed　by　law；　why　should　the　lot　of　man　alone　be　excepted　from　the　workings　of　law？
However　this　may　be；　as　heralds　say　in　talking　of　a　doubtful　descent；　whether　through　appointment　or　accidentally；　it　has　so　e　about　that；　although　I　have　done　other　things；　I　must　earn　my　livelihood　by　the　pen。　Now　of　this　I　should　not　have　plained　had　I　been　in　a　position　to　choose　my　own　subjects。　But　unhappily　those　subjects　which　attract　me；　such　as　agricultural　and　social　research；　are　quite　unremunerative。　Everybody　talks　of　the　resulting　volumes；　which　receive　full　and　solemn　review　in　all　the　newspapers；　but　very　few　people　buy　them　in　these　days。　So　far　as　I　am　aware；　remunerative　books　may　be　divided　roughly　into　three　classes：　（1）　School　or　technical　works；　which　must　be　purchased　by　scholars　preparing　for　examinations；　or　for　the　purposes　of　their　profession；　（2）　religious　works；　purchased　by　scholars　preparing　themselves　for　a　prosperous　career　in　another　world；　and　（3）　works　of　fiction；　purchased　—　or　rather　borrowed　from　libraries　（if　they　cost　more　than　fourpence…halfpenny1）　—　by　persons　wishing　to　be　amused。　It　has　been　my　lot　to　cater　for　the　last　of　these　three　classes；　and　as　there　is　other　work　which　I　should　have　much　preferred　to　do；　I　will　not　pretend　that　I　have　found；　or　find；　the　occupation　altogether　congenial；　perhaps　because　at　the　bottom　of　my　heart　I　share　some　of　the　British　contempt　for　the　craft　of　story…writing。
1　Written　in　1911。　—　Ed。
I　remember　a　few　years　ago　discussing　this　matter　fully　with　my　friend　Mr。　Rudyard　Kipling；　a　most　eminent　practitioner　of　that　craft；　and　finding　that　our　views　upon　it　were　very　similar；　if　not　identical。　He　pointed　out；　I　recollect；　that　all　fiction　is　in　its　essence　an　appeal　to　the　emotions；　and　that　this　is　not　the　highest　class　of　appeal。　Here；　however；　we　have　a　subject　that　might　be　argued　interminably　and　from　many　points　of　view；　especially　when　we　bear　in　mind　that　there　are　various　classes　of　imaginative　literature。　So　far　as　I　am　concerned　the　issue　is　that　though　I　feel　myself　more　strongly　drawn　to　other　pursuits；　such　as　administration　or　politics　or　even　law；　I　have　been　called　upon　to　earn　the　bread　of　myself　and　others　out　of　a　kind　of　by…product　of　my　brain　which　chances　to　be　saleable；　namely；　the　writing　of　fiction。
It　is　fortunate　for　writers　that　they　do　not　depend　wholly　upon　the　verdict　of　a　hundred　or　so　of　contemporary　critics。　The　history　of　literature　and　art　goes　to　show　that　contemporary　criticism　seldom　makes　and　never　can　destroy　a　reputation；　in　short；　that　Time　is　the　only　true　critic；　and　that　its　verdict　is　the　one　we　have　to　fear。　It　is　in　the　light　of　this　axiom　that　I　proceed　to　consider　my　own　humble　contributions　to　the　sum　of　romantic　literature。　I　can　assure　the　reader　that　I　approach　this　not　unamusing　task　without　any　prejudice　in　my　own　favour。　The　test　of　work　is　whether　it　will　or　will　not　live；　whether　it　contains　within　itself　the　vital　germ　necessary　to　a　long…continued　existence。
Now；　although　it　may　seem　much　to　claim；　my　belief　is　that　some　of　my　tales　will　live。　Possibly　this　belief　is　quite　erroneous；　in　which　case　in　years　to　e　I　may　be　laughed　at　for　its　expression。　It　is　obvious　also　that　a　great　deal　of　what　I　have　written　is　doomed　to　swift　oblivion；　since；　even　if　it　were　all　equally　good；　in　the　crowded　days　that　are　to　e；　days　e