the days of my life-第46部分

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he　total　of　the　patterns　that　these　can　form　is；　after　all；　but　limited。　With　all　the　world　explored　and　exhausted；　I　feel　sorry　for　the　romance　writers　of　the　future；　for　I　know　not　whither　they　will　turn　without　bringing　themselves　into　petition　with　the　efforts　of　dead　but　still　remembered　hands　and　exposing　themselves　to　the　sneers　of　the　hunters…out　of　“plagiarisms。”
History　remains　to　them；　it　is　true；　but　that　ground　has　already　been　well　tilled。　Also　historical　romances　seem　at　present　to　be　losing　their　hold；　perhaps　because　the　reader　of　today　fears　lest　he　should　be　acquiring　some　useful　information　against　his　will。　The　holiday　task；　or　reminiscences　of　it；　looms　largely　in　his　mind。　Still；　new　avenues　may　open　to　those　unborn　scribes　of　which　at　present　we　can　catch　no　glimpse。　In　a　day　to　e　there　may　even　be　romances　of　microbes　which　will　fix　the　attention　and　engage　the　imaginative　faculties　of　dim　and　distant　generations。
Now　as　to　the　method　of　romance…writing。　It　should；　in　my　judgment；　be　swift；　clear；　and　direct；　with　as　little　padding　and　as　few　trappings　as　possible。　The　story　is　the　thing；　and　every　word　in　the　book　should　be　a　brick　to　build　its　edifice。　Above　all；　no　obscurity　should　be　allowed。　Let　the　characters　be　definite；　even　at　the　cost　of　a　little　crudeness；　and　so　with　the　meaning　of　each　sentence。　Tricks　of　“style”　and　dark　allusions　may　please　the　superior　critic；　they　do　not　please　the　average　reader；　and　—　though　this　seems　to　be　a　fact　that　many　forget；　or　only　remember　to　deplore　—　a　book　is　written　that　it　may　be　read。　The　first　duty　of　a　story　is　to　keep　him　who　peruses　it　awake；　if　he　is　a　tired　man　and　it　succeeds　in　doing　this；　then；　within　its　limitations；　it　is　a　good　tale。　For　instance；　when　a　year　or　so　ago　Mr。　Kipling；　who　as　a　rule　goes　to　bed　early；　told　me　that　he　had　sat　up　to　I　know　not　what　hour　and　got　chilled　through　reading　“The　Ghost　Kings”　because　he　could　not　lay　it　down；　it　gave　me　a　higher　opinion　of　that　work　than　I　could　boast　before。　In　romance　“grip”　is　almost　everything。　Whatever　its　faults；　if　a　book　has　grip；　these　may　be　forgiven。
Again；　such　work　should　be　written　rapidly　and；　if　possible；　not　rewritten；　since　wine　of　this　character　loses　its　bouquet　when　it　is　poured　from　glass　to　glass。　It　should　be　remembered；　also；　that　the　writer　of　a　romance　must；　so　far　as　it　is　concerned；　live　during　its　progress　in　an　atmosphere　quite　alien　to　that　of　everyday　life。　Now　this　in　a　workaday　world　is　not　easy　to　grown　people；　who　perhaps　have　many　affairs　and　anxieties　to　distract　them；　even　if　they　possess　or　have　acquired　the　power　of　dividing　their　brains　into　more　or　less　watertight　partments。　Indeed；　for　longer　than　a　certain　period　it　bees　almost　impossible。　Therefore；　as　the　quality　of　the　resulting　story　will　depend　upon　the　preservation　of　this　atmosphere　of　romance　while　it　is　being　evolved；　it　is　highly　desirable　that　the　actual　period　of　evolution　should　be　short。　Personally　I　have　proved　this；　again　and　again；　almost　to　the　extent　that；　in　the　case　of　my　own　books；　I　can　judge　how　long　they　have　taken　to　ay　long　have　forgotten　the　amount　of　time　I　spent　on　each。
So　it　es　to　this：　the　way　to　write　a　good　romance　is　to　sit　down　and　write　it　almost　without　stopping。　Of　course　some　preliminary　reflection　is　desirable　to　realise　a　central　idea　round　which　the　story　must　revolve。　For　example；　in　“She”　that　central　idea　was　a　ortality；　but　who　found　that　her　passions　remained　immortal　too。　In　“The　Holy　Flower；”　which　I　finished　yesterday；　to　take　another　case；　the　central　idea　is　that　of　a　gorilla　which　is　worshipped　as　a　god　and　periodically　slays　the　king　who　holds　his　office　as　the　brute’s　priest　and　servant；　with　all　the　terrors　that　result　from　such　a　situation。　In　the　case　of　both　these　books；　as　of　many　others；　I　had　nothing　more　in　my　mind　when　I　set　myself　to　face　them。　Of　course　in　such　circumstances　beginnings　are　hard　—　c’est　le　premier　pas　qui　coute　—　but　after　the　thing　will　generally　evolve　itself。　It　is　merely　a　case　of　what　Anthony　Trollope　used　to　call　“cobbler’s　wax。”　Or；　if　it　“will　not　do　so；”　the　author　had　better　give　up　romance…writing　and　take　up　some　useful　occupation　that　is　more　congenial。
Of　course　these　are　only　my　views；　but　they　are　based　upon　an　experience　that　is　now　painfully　extended。　Other　men　may　have　other　and　better　methods　so　far　as　they　are　concerned。　They　presuppose；　however；　that　the　writer　is　to　a　sufficient　degree　possessed　by　the　Spirit　of　Romance；　without　which　he　will　do　nothing　of　any　permanent　or　even　of　immediate　value。　The　faculty　of　imaginative　insight　must　be　a　part　of　his　intellectual　outfit。　He　must　be　able；　as　he　creates；　to　summon　each　scene　whereof　he　treats　before　the　eyes　of　his　mind。　He　must　see　the　characters　and　their　surroundings：　the　lion　springing；　the　Zulu　regiments　rushing　with　uplifted　spears；　the　fire　eating　into　the　grass　of　the　hillside；　while　before　it　the　scorched　snakes　glide　and　hiss。　He　must　share　the　every　hope　and　care　of　those　whom　he　begets：　the　rich；　low　voice　of　Ayesha　must　thrill　his　nerves；　he　must　discern　her　enthralling　and　unearthly　beauty；　and　look　into　the　mingled　grandeurs　of　her　blasted　soul！
And　so　on；　and　on；　for　if　he；　the　creator；　does　not　know　the　beings　and　things　which　he　creates　—　if　the　details　of　them　are　as　blurred　as　the　images　in　a　defective　glass　—　how　can　he　expect　to　convey　a　clear　picture　to　his　reader？　At　the　best　that　reader　must　help　him　out；　must　be　the　possessor　of　a　certain　receptive　power　and　able　to　fill　in　a　thousand　minutiae　of　character　and　so　forth；　for　to　attempt　to　state　these　would　overload　the　story；　which；　be　it　remembered；　should　consist　of　action；　action；　action　from　the　first　page　to　the　last。　For　the　rest；　little　matters。　Even　if　the　writer　does　not　know　what　is　ing　next　the　circumstance　is　of　no　importance；　for　it　will　e　when　it　is　wanted。　There　are　even　advantages　in　this；　since；　if　he　does　not　know；　it　is　quite　certain　that　his　reader　must　remain　in　equal　ignorance　—　a　thing　to　be　desired。
Such　is　the　whole　art　of　romance…writing　as　it　is　understood　by　me　—　who；　critics　may　say；　per　contra；　do　not　understand　it　at　all。　To　such　as　have　sufficient　experience　of　life　and　adventure　in　far　lands；　or　sufficient　vision　to　enable　them　to　re…create　the　past；　the　gift　is　to　be　had　for　the　taking　—　by　those　who　can　take。　To　such　as　lack　these　qualifications　it　is　somewhat　hard　to　grasp　and　hold。　But　even　if　he　possesses　all　this　equipment　I　would　warn　the　future　artist　not　to　expect　too　much　success；　since　a　perfect　specimen　of　the　true　breed　of　the　beautiful　butterfly；　Romance；　is　rarely　to　be　caught。　After　the　searcher　has　hunted　all　his　life；　if　he　finds　two　or　three　of　them　in　his　cabi　he　will　have　done　very　well　indeed；　and　even　at　these；　connoisseurs　who　sit　at　home　and　do　not　hunt　themselves　will　be　found　to　cavil。　In　old　days　such　specimens　were　perhaps　more　mon；　though　but　few　have　survived　the　rust　and　damp　of　time。　But　then　their　breeding…grounds　in　the　dank　tropical　marshes　or　the　lion…haunted　forests　were　less　known；　and　those　who　devoted　themselves　to　this　chase　were　few　in　number　and　supremely　qualified　for　the　business。　Now　travelling　is　cheap；　hundreds　handle　the　；　and　all　e　home　with　something　that　is　offered　for　sale　under　the　ancient　label。
It　is　curious　how　often　imagination　is　verified　by　fact　—　perhaps；　as　I　said　at　the　beginning　of　this　screed；　because　the　lines　in　which　it　must　work　are　narrow　and　after　all　based　on　fact；　perhaps　because　it　does　possess　some　spiritual　insight　of　its　own。　Many　instances　have　e　within　my　own　experience　of　which　I　will　quote　a　few　that　I　chance　to　remember。
I　pass　over　“King　Solomon’s　Mines；”　a　work　of　pure　imagination；　for　in　my　day　very　little　was　known　of　the　regions　wherein　its　scenes　were　laid；　many　details　of　which　have　been　verified　by　subsequent　discovery。　In　its　sequel；　“Allan　Quatermain；”　however；　occurs　a　fine　example　of　the　literary　coincidence。　In　this　book　I　invented　a　mission　station　at　an　unexplored　spot　on　the　Tana　River；　which　station　I　caused　to　be　attacked　by　the　Masai。　In　subsequent　editions　of　the　work　I　inserted　the　following　note；　which　explains　itself：
By　a　very　strange　and　sad　coincidence；　since　the　above　was　written；　the　Masai；　in　April　1886；　massacred　a　missionary　and　his　wife；　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Houghton　—　on　this　same　Tana　River；　and　at　the　spot　described。　These　are；　I　believe；　the　first　white　people　who　are　known　to　have　fallen　victims　to　this　cruel　tribe。
Again；　in　a　tale　called　“Maiwa’s　Revenge；”　I　gave　an　elaborate　description　of　a　certain　escape　of　Allan　Quatermain　from　pursuing　savages；　who　hunted　him　up　the　face　of　a　cliff　and　seized　hold　of　his　ankles。　He　freed　himself　from　their　attentions　by　firing　down　on　them　along　the　line　of　his　leg　with　a　pistol。　Some　years　later　a　gentleman　arrived　at　this　house　whose　name；　I　think；　was　Ebbage；　and　on　whose　card　was　printed　the　vague　and　remote　address；　“Matabeleland。”　He　informed　me　that　he　had　travelled　specially　from　London　to　inquire　how　on　earth　I　had　learned　the　details　of　his　escape　from　certain　savages；　as　he　had　never　mentioned　them　to　a　single　soul。　Before　he　left　I　satisfied　myself　that　his　adventure　and　that　invented　by　myself　and　described　in　the　tale；　which　I　had　thought　one　of　a　somewhat　original　sort；　were　in　every　particular　identical。
Again；　in　“Mr。　Meeson’s　Will”　I　set　out　very　fully　indeed；　the　circumstances　under　which　a　new　and　splendid　liner　was　lost　at　sea；　and　the　great　majority　of　those　on　board　of　her　were　drowned　owing　to　lack　of　boats　to　acmodate　them。　In　a　preface　to　this　story；　written　in　the　year　1888；　I　make　the　following　remark：
The　only　part　of　this　humble　skit；　however；　that　is　meant　to　be　taken　seriously　is　the　chapter　which　tells　of　the　loss　of　the　R。M。S。　Kangaroo。　I　believe　it　to　be　a　fair　and；　in　the　main；　accurate　account　of　what　must　and　one　day　will　happen　upon　a　large　and　crowded　liner　in　the　event　of　such　a　collision　as　that　described；　or　of　her　rapid　foundering　from　any　other　cause。　It　is　a　remarkable　thing　that　people　who　for　the　most　part　set　a　sufficient　value　on　their　lives；　daily　consent　to　go　to　sea　in　ships　the　boats　of　which　could　not　on　emergency　possibly　contain　half　their　number。
During　the　present　year　this　prophecy；　and　indeed　the　whole　scene　of　the　sinking　of　the　Kangaroo；　has　been　fearfully　fulfilled　in　the　instance　of　the　great　White　Star　liner　Titanic。　If　I　could　think　of　and　foresee　such　things；　how　is　it　that　those　who　are　responsible　for　the　public　safety　have　proved　themselves　so　lacking　in　prevision　—　that　section　of　the　Board　of　Trade；　for　instance；　whose　duty　it　is　to　attend　to　such　matters？
I　fear　we　must　seek　the　answer　in　the　character　of　our　nation；　whose　peculiarity　it　is　to　ignore　or　underrate　dangers　that　are　not　immediately　visible；　and　therefore　never　be　ready　to　meet　them。　If　anyone　doubts　this；　let　him　study　the　history　of　our　wars　during　the　last　sixty　years　or　so；　and　even　earlier。　The　Crimea；　the　Abyssinian　Expedition；　the　first　Boer　War；　the　Zulu　War；　the　second　Boer　War；　which　was　the　child　of　the　last　two；　the　Egyptian　Wars；　have　all　told　the　same　tale。　With　the　details　of　three　of　these　I　have　been　acquainted；　and　they　are　awful。　Only　our　wealth　has　brought　us　out　of　them　—　I　will　not　say　with　honour；　but　in　safety。　We　declare　proudly　that　“we　always　muddle　through；”　but　this；　after　all；　is　a　boast　that　only　fits　the　lips　of　the　inpetent。　What　will　happen　when　we　are　called　upon　to　meet　a　nation；　or　nations；　of　equal　or　greater　strength；　that　are　petent？24　One　can　only　hope　for　the　best；　and　that　the　genius　of　our　people；　or　of　individuals　among　them；　may　carry　us　through　in　the　future　as　it　has　done　in　the　past。　Meanwhile　we　blunder　on。　England；　in　lives　and　treasure；　pays　the　bill　out　of　her　ample　but　not　bottomless　pocket；　and　everything　ends　in　a　rocket…burst　of　decorations　conferred　amid　the　shouts　of　the　devotees　of　music…halls。
23　This　was　written　in　1912；　and　has　been　lying　in　Messrs。　Longmans’　safe　without　the　author　having　access　to　it　since　that　date。　—　Ed。
Probably　the　blame　is　to　be　laid　at　the　door　of　our　national　lack　of　imagination：　we　cannot　embody　in　our　minds　or　provide　against　that　of　which　we　have　had　no　recent　experience。　We　live　from　hand　to　mouth；　and　think　more　of　the　next　elections　than　of　our　future　as　a　people　and　a　great　Empire；　refusing　to　bear　those　small　burdens　that　would　make　us　safe；　and　to　support　statesmen　rather　than　politicians。　Any　who　point　out　these　things　are　cried　down　as　alarmists；　or　as　persons　seeking　some　personal　or　party　end；　since　the　petty　and　the　mean　always　see　their　own　colours　reflected　in　the　eyes　of　others。　Like　the　large　farmer　who　confided　to　him　his　conviction　that　I　was　travelling　on　my　tour　of　agricultural　investigation　through　England　in　search　of　“free　drinks；”　these　judge　by　their　own　low　standards。　“Free　drinks；”　or　their　equivalent；　is　what　they　want；　and　therefore　must　be　what　you　want；　since　otherwise　why　would　anyone　work　for　nothing？　And　here　es　the　sorrow。　The　little　minds；　Shakespeare’s　multitude　who　“suckle　fools　and　chronicle　small　beer；”　are　in　the　vast　majority。　They　have　the　votes　and　give　power　to　their　chosen。　The　rest　are　but　voices　crying　in　the　wilderness。　Well；　there　it　is；　and　doubtless　God　Almighty　knows　the　way　out。　At　any　rate；　it　must　be　a　part　of　His　plan；　so　why　should　we　grumble？
Another　small　instance　of　imagination　being　justified　in　my　own　case　is　to　be　found　in　my　tale；　“Stella　Fregelius；”　where；　for　the　purposes　of　that　mystical　story；　I　invented　an　instrument　which　I　called　the　“aerophone；”　whereby　people　could　speak　with　each　other　across　a　space　of　empty　air。　When　I　wrote　this　story；　about　the　year　1898；　neither　I　nor　anyone　else　had　heard　of　such　a　machine。　Now　I　learn　that　it　is　working　and　patented　under　the　same　title；　namely；　“aerophone；”　and　doubtless　ere　long　it　will　be　in　general　use。　It　is　right；　however；　that；　per　contra；　I　should　chronicle　a　prophetic　failure。　In　“Doctor　Therne”　I　ventured　to　suggest　that　our　general　neglect　of　vaccination　would　bring　about　some　outburst　of　smallpox　such　as　in　past　days　swept　away　our　forefathers　by　the　thousand；　and　still　sweeps　away　uninstructed　peoples。　As　yet　this　has　not　happened；　but　who　can　be　bold　enough　to　assert　that　it　will　never　happen？
Perhaps　the　most　curious　example　of　a　literary　coincidence　with　which　I　have　been　personally　concerned　is　to　be　found　in　the　case　of　my　story；　“Fair　Margaret。”　As　it　is　fully　and　concisely　set　out　in　the　issue　of　the　Spectator　of　October　19；　1907；　I　y　letter　published　in　that　journal；　leaving　the　reader　to　form　his　own　opinion　on　the　matter。
Sir；　—　The　following　instance　of　imagination　being　verified　by　fact　may　interest　students　of　such　matters。　Two　years　or　so　ago　I　wrote　an　historical　romance　which　has　recently　appeared　under　the　title　of　“Fair　Margaret。”　In　that　romance　the　name　of　the　hero　is　Peter　Brome。　The　father　of　this　Peter　Brome　is　represented　in　the　tale　as　having　been　killed　at　Bosworth　Field。　After　the　appearance　of　the　book　I　received　a　letter　from　Colonel　Peter　Brome　Giles；　the　High　Sheriff　of　Bucks；　asking　me　where　I　obtained　the　particulars　concerning　the　said　Peter