the days of my life-第75部分

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s　of　illusion　which　es　to　me　in　an　oft…repeated　vision　of　the　mind。　Who　does　not　know　that　order　of　dream　wherein　we　seem　to　move　among　the　dead　and　in　their　pany；　with　eager　yet　trembling　feet；　to　try　the　cold　waters　of　the　stream　of　Death？
Well；　through　the　ivory　gates　of　such　a　dream　as　this　at　times　I　seem　to　see　my　spiritual　heritage　spread　large　before　me　in　a　world　of　pictured　silence。　There；　at　the　back　of　the　picture；　rises　the　mighty　cliff　whereon；　at　intervals；　the　great　golden　figures；　which　I　take　it　are　images　and　not　alive；　seem　to　keep　watch　and　ward　over　the　illimitable　lands　beneath；　while　between　them；　also　at　intervals　of　scores　or　hundreds　of　leagues；　pour　the　cataracts　gathered　I　know　not　whence。　In　a　fold　of　that　cliff　lie　the　blue　waters　of　the　Holy　Lake；　surrounded　by　wide　cedars　and　huge；　immemorial　pines　that　spring　two　hundred　feet　without　a　bough　and；　at　their　crown；　end　always　in　a　single　bent　plume　of　green；　as　though　up　on　high　some　strong　wind　shaped　them　with　a　steady　hand。　Along　the　foot　of　the　cliff　runs　a　great　river　that；　like　the　Nile；　floods　the　lands　at　certain　seasons；　and　makes　them　bear　a　hundredfold。　Winding　almost　at　right　angles　from　the　mountain　slope；　it　flows　across　the　boundless　plain；　past　a　white　and　wonderful　city　whose　domes　and　palaces　I　only　see　from　far　away；　for　here　my　guide　has　never　led　me。　There　on　its　banks　soar　gracious　palms；　there　willows　weep；　there　spread　aspens　with　leaves　just　about　to　quiver；　and　there；　through　the　sparse　woodlands；　roam　the　wild　things　of　the　New　Creation；　seeking　their　food　from　God　and　fearing　no　hurt　from　aught　that　serves　Him。　Facing　this　river；　to　the　right　as　I　see　it；　but　far　across　the　plain；　are　lovely　mountains　not　so　very　lofty；　where；　from　the　other　river　of　the　lake；　amidst　slender　ferns；　rush　waterfalls　that　descend　in　bursts　of　stirless　spray。
There；　too；　in　the　east　—　can　it　be　the　east；　I　wonder？　—　is　the　very　well　and　fount　of　light：　a　soft　but　radiant　light　that　casts　no　shadow；　since　it　grows　and　flows　above；　beneath；　around；　and　everywhere。　Its　shape　is　that　of　a　luminous　fan。　While　the　day　increases　—　how　long　that　day　is　I　do　not　know　—　so　does　the　glory　of　that　fan　extend　till　it　fills　all　those　celestial　skies：　till　it　bends　across　them　beyond　the　mighty　cliff　where　stand　the　golden　guards；　as　in　the　funeral　paintings　of　Old　Egypt　the　image　of　the　goddess　Nout　bends　across　the　heavens　and　holds　the　earth　in　her　embracing　arms。　Then；　as　at　length　the　night　draws　on；　this　wondrous　fan　folds　itself　again　to　a　cluster　of　jewelled　stars；　large　as　young　moons　and　of　every　lovely　hue；　varying　from　that　of　a　kind　of　shining　blackness　to　those　of　steel　blue；　and　scarlet；　and　red　fire；　that　girdle　the　firmament　with　a　glittering　belt　as　might　do　the　Milky　Way　drawn　near。
Overlooking　all　these　wonders；　at　the　foot　of　the　cliff；　beyond　the　borders　of　the　lake　but　at　a　lower　level；　in　this　fantastic　dream　of　mine　stands　a　strange　and　silent　house　built　for　me　by　hands　that　I　have　known。　I　see　its　central　hall；　where　all　those　I　loved　or　love　in　life　steal　in　and　out。　I　see　a　certain　chamber；　low　and　large；　which　overlooks　the　dreaming　landscape；　and；　more　nearly；　the　walks　of　garden　trees　hung　with　bells　of　white　and　purple　blossom；　with　unknown；　golden　fruits　and　creeping　strands　of　vine。　Standing　in　the　recessed　doorway　of　this　chamber；　I　see　in　its　far　corner；　seated　at　a　desk　above　a　covered　terrace；　myself；　younger　than　I　am　now；　wearing　some　sort　of　white　garments　and　bending　over　the　desk　at　work；　with　papers　spread　before　me。
At　the　sight　a　kind　of　terror　seizes　me　lest　this　fair　place　should　be　but　a　scented　purgatory　where；　in　payment　for　my　sins；　I　am　doomed　to　write　fiction　for　ever　and　a　day！
“At　what　do　I　work？”　I　ask；　alarmed；　of　the　guide　who；　shining　steadily；　stands　at　my　side　and　shows　me　all。
“You　write　the　history　of　a　world”　（or　was　it　“of　the　world”？　—　I　am　not　sure）；　is　the　answer；　and　in　my　dream　I　breathe　again。
For　truly　it　would　be　a　horrible　fate　to　be　doomed　from　aeon　to　countless　aeons　to　the　position　of　romance。
Of　course　what　I　have　set　down　is　but　a　fancy　such　as　might　e　to　an　imaginative　child。　Still；　that　landscape；　which　I　know　as　well　as；　if　not　better　than；　any　on　the　earth；　has　charms　and　glories　of　its　own。　Therefore　I　have　wasted　half　an　hour　of　my　time　and　some　few　minutes　of　my　reader’s　in　attempting　very　briefly　to　describe　that　which　in　truth　no　words　can　carry。
I　confess　that　in　any　other　life　I　should　prefer　some　change　of　employment；　but　if　I　should　be　doomed　to　write　there　I　hope　that　the　subject…matter　of　my　toil　may；　as　in　the　vision；　prove　to　be　not　fiction　but　history；　which　I　love。　In　all　the　worlds　above　us　there　must　be　much　history　to　record。　Also　there　must　be　much　good　work　to　do；　which　is　fortunate。　At　least　I　can　conceive　no　idle　heaven　—　where　it　“is　always　afternoon。”　To　me　such　a　place　would　be　the　reverse　of　heaven。　To　me　happiness　and　work　well　done；　or　service　faithfully　acplished；　are　words　with　a　like　meaning。
And　now；　with　many　apologies；　I　will　turn　to　mundane　things　again。　Before　I　do　so；　however；　as　I　dare　say　I　shall　allude　to　the　subject　no　more；　I　will　add　a　word　on　the　general　matter　of　the　writing　of　romances。　This；　I　gather；　from　remarks　that　have　been　made　to　me　and　many　letters　that　I　have　received；　is　supposed　to　be　a　very　easy　art；　if　indeed　it　is　worthy　to　be　classified　under　that　high　name。　As　a　matter　of　fact　it　is　difficult。　In　a　novel；　as　the　word　is　generally　understood；　the　author　may　discourse　upon　a　thousand　topics；　nothing；　or　at　any　rate　very　little；　is　barred　to　him。　He　may　burrow　in　the　obscene　depths　of　human　nature；　he　may　discuss　politics；　religion；　metaphysics；　socialism；　“love”　in　all　its　forms；　the　elemental　or　artificial　divisions　between　the　sexes　—　oh！　what　is　there　that　he　may　not　and　does　not　discuss？　Nothing　that　appears　in　the　columns　of　the　daily　papers；　nothing　that　is　within　the　range　of　the　human　intellect；　lies　beyond　his　legitimate；　or　illegitimate；　scope。
In　romance　all　this　is　different；　the　lines　between　which　he　must　move　are　by　parison　extremely　narrow：　as　I　remember；　Besant　put　it　admirably　when　answering　some　onslaught　on　myself　in　connection　with　“Montezuma’s　Daughter”：　“There　is　but　one　bag　of　tricks　in　romance。”
The　love　interest；　at　least　among　the　English…speaking　peoples；　must　be　limited　and　restrained　in　tone；　must　follow　the　accepted　lines　of　thought　and　what　is　defined　as　morality。　Indeed　it　may　even　be　omitted；　sometimes　with　advantage。　The　really　needful　things　are　adventure　—　how　impossible　it　matters　not　at　all；　provided　it　is　made　to　appear　possible　—　and　imagination；　together　with　a　clever　use　of　coincidence　and　an　ordered　development　of　the　plot；　which　should；　if　possible；　have　a　happy　ending；　since　few　folk　like　to　be　saddened　by　what　they　read。　If　they　seek　melancholy；　it　can　be　found　in　ample　measure　in　real　life　or　in　the　daily　papers。　Still；　the　rule　of　the　happy　ending　is　one　that　may　be　broken　at　times；　at　least　I　have　dared　to　do　so　on　some　occasions；　and　notably　in　the　instance　of　“Eric　Brighteyes。”　I　remember　that　Charles　Longman　remonstrated　with　me　on　this　matter　at　the　time；　but　I　showed　him　that　the　story　demanded　it　—　that；　although　I　too　wept　over　the　evil　necessity；　it　must　be　so！
Now　adventure　in　this　narrow　world　of　ours　is　a　limited　quantity；　and　imagination；　after　all；　is　hemmed　in　by　deductions　from　experience。　When　we　try　to　travel　beyond　these　the　results　bee　so　unfamiliar　that　they　are　apt　to　lack　interest　to　the　ordinary　mind。　I　think　I　am　right　in　saying　that　no　one　has　ever　written　a　really　first…class　romance　dwelling　solely；　for　example；　upon　the　utterly　alien　life　of　another　world　or　pla　with　which　human　beings　cannot　possibly　have　any　touch。　Homer　and　others　bring　such　supernormal　life　into　the　circle　of　our　own　surroundings　and　vivify　it　by　contact；　or　by　contrast；　with　the　play　of　human　nature　as　exemplified　in　their　characters。　But　it　will　not　stand　alone。　We　are　not　strong　and　skilled　enough　to　carve　out　of　quite　unknown　material　figures　so　life…like　that　even　in　a　dreaming　hour　they　can　pass　as　real。　I　repeat；　therefore；　that　the　lines　which　close　in　the　kingdom　of　romance　are　very　narrow；　and　that　the　material　which　must　be　used　is　so　much　handled　that　nowadays　it　has　bee　difficult　to　fashion　from　it　any　shape　that　is　novel　enough；　or　sufficiently　striking　to　catch　the　attention　of　the　world。
What　is　there　that　has　not　been　used？　Who；　to　take　a　single　instance；　can　hope　to　repeat　the　effect　of　Robinson　Crusoe　on　his　desert　island；　or　the　thrill　of　that　naked　footprint　in　the　sand？　Defoe　exhausted　these　long　ago；　everything　of　the　sort　that　follows　must　be　a　mere　pastiche。
To　pass　over　other　salient　and　familiar　examples；　I　may　with　humility　remark　that　even　a　second　“She”　would　offer　difficulties　to　her　originator。　In　my　own　day　some　have　been　tried；　and　proved　very　ephemeral　creations。　The　stock　of　such　ideas；　in　short；　is　being　rapidly　used　up。　There　are　only　a　certain　number　of　pieces　of　glass　in　the　kaleidoscope；　and　the　total　of　the　patterns　that　these　can　form　is；　after　all；　but　limited。　With　all　the　world　explored