the days of my life-第55部分

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read　over　the　early　part　with　you　as　I　feel　a　good　deal　turns　on　adding　energy　to　that；　and　on　condensing。　The　Menkara　bit　is　A1；　and　Cyprus　is　good　—　did　you　take　the　wreck　from　the　Odyssey　at　all？　I　don’t　see　who　they　can　say　you　stole　your　plot　from。　They’ll　say　the　parts　from　Plutarch　are　from　Shakespeare；　probably　they　never　read　Plutarch！
I　do　not　know　whether　I　cut　out　much　from　the　chapters　which　Lang　though　too　long。　Probably　not；　since　I　have　always　been　a　very　bad　hand　at　making　alterations　in　what　I　have　once　put　down；　unless　indeed　I　rewrite　the　entire　work。　Moreover；　at　any　rate　in　my　books；　this　cutting　out　of　passages　resembles　the　pulling　of　bricks　from　a　built　wall；　since　it　will　be　found　that　every　or　nearly　every　passage；　even　if　it　is　of　a　reflective　character；　is　developed　or　alluded　to　in　some　portion　of　what　follows。　The　pulling　out　of　bricks　may　or　may　not　improve　the　appearance　of　the　wall；　but　it　certainly　decreases　its　stability。
In　the　Author’s　Note　at　the　mencement　of　“Cleopatra”　I　see　that　I　wrote　the　following　passage；　evidently　having　Lang’s　criticism　in　mind：
Unfortunately　it　is　scarcely　possible　to　write　a　book　of　this　nature　and　period　without　introducing　a　certain　amount　of　illustrative　matter；　for　by　no　other　means　can　the　long　dead　past　be　made　to　live　again　before　the　reader’s　eyes　with　all　its　accessories　of　faded　pomp　and　forgotten　mystery。　For　such　students　as　seek　a　story　only；　and　are　not　interested　in　the　Faith；　ceremonies；　or　customs　of　the　Mother　of　Religion　and　Civilisation；　ancient　Egypt；　it　is；　however；　respectfully　suggested　that　they　should　exercise　the　art　of　skipping　and　open　this　tale　at　its　second　book。
I　dedicated　“Cleopatra”　to　my　mother；　because　I　thought　it　the　best　book　I　had　written　or　was　likely　to　write；　although　since　then　I　have　modified　that　opinion　in　favour　or　one　or　two　that　came　after　it。　The　following　letter　from　her　was　written　not　long　before　her　death；　and　was；　I　think；　the　last　I　ever　received　from　her。
Bradenham：　June　29；　1889。
My　dearest　Rider；　—　I　have　only　a　few　minutes　to　write　and　thank　you　for　your　charming　gift；　but　I　must　not　let　the　week　pass　over　without　my　doing　so。　I　think　it　is　got　up　as　well　as　possible；　and　the　Dedication　is　most　successfully　acplished；　which　must　be　as　gratifying　to　you　as　to　me。　I　have　not　thoroughly　looked　at　the　illustrations；　but　see　that　they　are　very　much　more　to　be　liked　than　those　of　the　Illustrated　News。　Thank　you　greatly　for　your　excellent　work；　my　dear　son。　It　certainly　redounds　greatly　to　you；　dearest　Rider；　whatever　the　critics　may　say；　and　I　have　no　doubt　they　will　do　their　worst。　But　I　think　posterity　will　do　justice　to　your　production。　I　will　write　no　more　as　I　cannot　easily　add　to　this。
Your　ever　most　affectionate　Mother；
Ella　Haggard。
There　is　also　a　letter　from　my　father　in　which　he　says　that　my　mother　opened　and　looked　at　the　book　“not　without　tears。”　Whether　she　ever　read　it　herself　I　do　not　know；　for　by　this　time　her　sight　was　failing　much。
A　few　months　later　I　stood　at　her　death…bed　and　received　her　last　blessing。　But　of　that　long…drawn　out　and　very　sad　scene；　even　after　the　lapse　of　two…and…twenty　years；　I　cannot　bear　to　write。
“Cleopatra”　ran　serially　through　the　Illustrated　London　News　before　its　appearance　in　book　form。　It　is　a　work　that　has　found　many　friends；　but　my　recollection　is　that；　as　my　mother　foresaw；　it　was　a　good　deal　attacked　by　the　critics　who　were　angry　that；　after　Shakespeare’s　play；　I　should　dare　to　write　of　Cleopatra。　However；　I　have　not　kept　any　of　the　notices；　indeed　I　think　I　saw　but　few。　Of　professional　critics　already　I　began　to　feel　a　certain　repletion。　Little　do　these　gentlemen　know　the　harm　that　they　do　sometimes。　A　story　es　into　my　mind　in　illustration　of　this　truth。　One　day；　years　later；　I　was　in　the　little　writing…room　of　the　Savile　Club；　that　on　the　first　floor　with　fern…cases　in　the　windows　where　one　may　not　smoke。　At　least；　so　things　were　when　I　ceased　to　be　a　member。　Presently　Thomas　Hardy　entered　and　took　up　one　of　the　leading　weekly　papers　in　which　was　a　long　review　of　his　last　novel。　He　read　it；　then　came　to　me　—　there　were　no　others　in　the　room　—　and　pointed　out　a　certain　passage。
“There’s　a　nice　thing　to　say　about　a　man！”　he　exclaimed。　“Well；　I’ll　never　write　another　novel。”
And　he　never　did。　This　happened　quite　fifteen　years　ago。　By　the　way；　the　Savile　was　a　very　pleasant　club　in　the　late　‘eighties。　There　was　a　certain　table　in　the　corner；　near　the　window；　where　a　little　band　of　us　were　wont　to　lunch　on　Saturdays：　Lang；　Gosse；　Besant；　A。　Ross；　Loftie；　Stevenson　（the　cousin　of　the　writer）；　Eustace　Balfour；　and　some　others。　Of　this　pany　the　most　are　dead；　though　I　believe　Gosse　still　lunches　there。　He　must　feel　himself　to　be　a　kind　of　monument　erected　over　many　graves。　The　last　time　that　I　visited　the　club　there　was　not　a　soul　in　the　place　whom　I　knew。　So　feeling　lonely　and　over…oppressed　by　sundry　memories；　I　sent　in　my　resignation　of　membership。　But　often　as　I　walk　down　Piccadilly　I　look　at　that　table　through　the　window　and　think　of　many　things；　and　especially　of　the　genial　talk　of　Walter　Besant；　whose　funeral　I　attended　now　so　long　ago。　Surely　he　was　one　of　the　best　and　kindest…hearted　gentlemen　that　ever　wrote　a　book。　Long　may　his　memory　remain　green　in　the　annals　of　literature　for　which　he　did　so　much。
I　think　that　about　this　time　I　must　have　bee　rather　sickened　of　the　novel…writing　trade　and　despondent　as　regards　my　own　powers。　This　I　conclude　from　an　undated　and　unaddressed　note　which　I　find　among　Lang’s　letters　of　the　period。　It　runs：
Dear　Haggard；　—　If　you　jack　up　Literature；　I　shall　jack　up　Reading。　Of　course　I　know　the　stuff　is　the　thing；　but　the　ideal　thing　would　be　the　perfection　of　stuff　and　the　perfection　of　style；　and　we　don’t　often　get　that；　except　from　Henry　Fielding。　Yes；　I　believe　in　“Jess”；　but　you　can’t　expect　me　to　be　in　love　with　all　your　women；　the　heart　devoted　to　Ayesha　has　no　room　for　more。　Probably　I　think　more　highly　of　your　books　than　you　do；　and　I　was　infinitely　more　anxious　for　your　success　than　for　my　own；　which　is　not　an　excitement　to　me。　But　Lord　love　you；　it　would　be　log…rollery　to　say　that　in　a　review。
Yours　ever；
A。　L。
I　have　not　the　faintest　idea　of　the　genesis　of　this　note。　I　presume；　however；　that　Lang　had　aimed　some　of　his　barbed　shafts　at　me；　probably　in　conversation；　and　that　I　had　written　to　him　petulantly。　Anyhow　his　answer　is　most　kind　and　nice。
The　next　letter　in　the　bunch；　dated　May　9th　（year　missing）；　says：
I　am　much　grieved　by　the　death　of　Umslopogaas。　I　have　written　his　epitaph　in　Greek　and　in　English　verses。　＇N。B。　—　These　fine　verses　now　appear　upon　the　title…page　of　“Allan　Quatermain。”　I　remember　Mrs。　Lang　telling　me　that　“Andrew　had　wasted　an　entire　day　in　their　position。”＇
“Allan　Quatermain；”　after　running　through　Longmans’　Magazine；　came　out　about　the　end　of　June　1887。　Charles　Longman；　in　a　letter　dated　June　20th；　writes：
You　have　broken　the　record　—　at　least　so　I　am　told。　We　have　subscribed　over　10；000　copies　of　“Quatermain”　in　London；　which　they　say　is　more　than　has　ever　been　subscribed　of　a　6　—　novel　before。　。　。　。　We　printed　20；000　of　“Quatermain；”　as　you　know　and　we　are　now　ordering　paper　in　readiness　for　another　lot。
This　tale　proved；　and　has　remained；　a　general　favourite；　the　Zulu　in　it；　old　Umslopogaas；　being　a　very　popular　character　with　all　classes　of　readers；　and　especially　among　boys。
Here　is　a　letter　from　one　who　was　a　boy　then；　but　has　since　bee　a　very　famous　man；　namely　Mr。　Winston　Churchill；　in　which　he　expresses　his　critical　opinion　of　the　work。　To　this　I　append　a　letter　from　his　aunt；　Lady　Leslie；　whom　I　used　to　know　well；　in　which　she　expresses　her　critical　opinion　of　Mr。　Winston　Churchill　in　his　youth。　I　am　sorry　to　say　that　I　cannot　remember　whether　the　meeting　she　was　trying　to　arrange　did　or　did　not　take　place。
46　Grosvenor　Square；　W。
Dear　Mr。　Haggard；　—　Thank　you　so　much　for　sending　me　“Allan　Quatermain；”　it　was　so　good　of　you。　I　like　“A。　Q。”　better　than　“King　Solomon’s　Mines”；　it　is　more　amusing。
I　hope　you　will　write　a　great　many　more　books。
I　remain；
Yours　truly；
Winston　S。　Churchill。
11　Stratford　Place；　W。
February　11；　1888。
Dear　Mr。　Haggard；　—　The　little　boy　Winston　came　here　yesterday　morning；　not　having　been　in　London　on　Sunday；　and　beseeching　me　to　take　him　to　see　you　before　he　returns　to　school　at　the　end　of　the　month。　I　don’t　wish　to　bore　so　busy　a　man　as　yourself；　but　will　you；　when　you　have　time；　please　tell　me；　shall　I　bring　him　on　Wednesday　next；　when　Mrs。　Haggard　said　she　would　be　at　home？　Or　do　you　prefer　settling　to　e　here　some　afternoon　when　I　could　have　the　boy　to　meet　you？　He　really　is　a　very　interesting　being；　though　temporarily　uppish　from　the　restraining　parental　hand　being　in　Russia。
Yours　very　truly；
Constance　Leslie。
By　one　of　the　saddest　of　all　coincidences；　if　such　things　are　pure　coincidence；　“Allan　Quatermain”　opens　with　a　description　of　the　death　of　Quatermain’s　only　son。　I　dedicated　it　to　my　only　son；　and　shortly　afterwards　that　fate　overtook　him　also！
I　find　letters　from　Lang　imploring　me　not　to　kill　Allan　Quatermain。　But　when　he　wrote　Allan　had　already　been　kil