the days of my life-第80部分

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　passing　away；　and　so　forth。
I　had　never　taken　a　major　anaesthetic　before；　and　I　must　say　I　did　not　find　the　process　pleasant。　I　can　still　see　the　face　of　my　friend　Dr。　Lyne　Stivens；　and　the　jovial；　rubicund　countenance　of　the　late　Professor　Rose；　bending　over　me　as　through　a　mist；　both　grown　so　strangely　solemn；　and　feel　the　grip　of　my　hand　tightening　upon　that　of　the　nurse　which　afterwards　it　proved　almost　impossible　to　free。
Then　came　the　whirling　pit　and　the　blackness。　I　suppose　that　it　was　like　death；　only　I　hope　that　death　is　not　quite　so　dark！
From　this　blackness　I　awoke　in　a　state　of　utter　intoxication　to　find　the　nurses　of　the　establishment　gathered　round　me　with　sheets　of　paper　and　the　familiar；　hateful　autograph　books　in　which；　even　in　that　place　and　hour；　they　insisted　I　should　write。　Heaven　knows　what　I　set　down　therein：　I　imagine　they　must　have　been　foolish　words；　which　mayhap　one　day　will　be　brought　up　against　me。
Another　question：　Why　cannot　the　public　authorities　establish　really　suitable　nursing　homes　for　paying　patients？　This　would　be　a　great　boon　to　thousands；　and；　I　should　imagine；　self…supporting。
However；　of　one　of　these　nurses　at　any　rate；　a　widow；　I　have　grateful　recollections。　I　amused　myself；　and；　I　trust；　her；　by　reading　“Ayesha”　aloud　to　her　during　my　long　wakeful　hours　—　for　she　was　a　night　nurse。
This　book　“Ayesha；”　which　was　published　while　I　was　in　the　nursing　home；　is　a　sequel　to　“She；”　which；　in　obedience　to　my　original　plan；　I　had　deliberately　waited　for　twenty　years　to　write。　As　is　almost　always　the　case；　it　suffered　somewhat　from　this　fact；　at　any　rate　at　the　hands　of　those　critics　with　whom　it　is　an　article　of　faith　to　declare　that　no　sequel　can　be　good。　Still；　I　have　met　and　heard　from　many　people　who　like　“Ayesha”　better　than　they　do　“She。”
Lang　was　very　doubtful　about　this　book。　He　wrote：
You　may　think　me　a　hound；　but　I　only　found　out　as　I　went　to　bed　last　night　that　“Ayesha”　was　in　the　drawing…room。　Awfully　good　of　you　to　make　me　such　a　nice　dedication；　grammar　right　too；　which　I　name　because　in　a　very　jolly　book　egalement　dedie　to　me　the　grammar　is　wrong；　but　I　could　not　point　that　out　to　the　author。
I　am　almost　afraid　to　read　“She；”　as　at　61；00000　one　has　no　longer　the　joyous　credulity　of　forty；　and　even　your　imagination　is　out　of　the　fifth　form。　However；　plenty　of　boys　are　about；　and　I　hope　they　will　be　victims　of　the　enchantress。　。　。　。
I　was　therefore　correspondingly　relieved；　believing　as　I　do　that　Lang’s　judgment　on　imaginative　fiction　was　the　soundest　of　any　man　of　his　time；　and　knowing　his　habit　of　declaring　the　faith　that　was　in　him　without　fear；　favour；　or　prejudice；　when　on　the　following　day　I　received　another　note　in　which　he　said：
It　is　all　right：　I　am　Thrilled：　so　much　obliged。　I　thought　I　was　too　Old；　but　the　Eternal　Boy　is　still　on　the　job。　Unluckily　I　think　the　dam　reviewers　never　were　boys　—　most　of　them　the　Editor’s　nieces。　May　it　be　done　into　Thibetan。　Dolmen　business　in　Chapter　I　all　right！
I　have　often　been　asked；　and　have　been　careful　never　to　answer　the　question；　as　to　what　I　considered　the　best　passages　in　my　own　humble　writings。　It　is　a　very　favourite　query　of　the　casual　correspondent；　from　whom　I　receive；　on　an　average；　a　letter　a　day；　and　sometimes　many；　many　more。　Now　in　acknowledgment　of　them　all　I　reply　—　Ignosi’s　chant　in　“King　Solomon’s　Mines；”　as　it　appears　in　the　later　editions　of　that　book　（the　same　that　Stevenson　called　“a　very　noble　imitation”）；　the　somewhat　similar　chant　to　the　Sun　in　“Allan　Quatermain”；　the　scene　where　Eric　Brighteyes　finds　his　mother　dead　—　which　Lang　declared　was　“as　good　as　Homer”　—　and　the　subsequent　fight　in　the　hall　at　Middlehof；　the　description　of　the　wolves　springing　up　at　the　dead　body　in　the　cave　in　“Nada　the　Lily”；　the　transformation　in　the　chapter　called　“The　Change”　and　“The　Loosing　of　the　Powers”　in　“Ayesha”；　a　speech　made　by　the　heroine　Mameena　as　she　dies；　in　an　unpublished　work　called　“Child　of　Storm；”　with　the　rest　of　her　death　scene；　the　account　of　the　passion　of　John　and　Jess　as　they　swung　together　wrapt　in　each　other’s　arms　in　the　sinking　waggon　on　the　waters　of　the　flooded　Vaal；　and；　oh！　I　know　not　what　besides。　When　one　has　written　some　fifty　books　the　memory　is　scarce　equal　to　the　task　of　searching　for　plums　amidst　the　dough。　Also；　when　one　has　found　them；　they　seem　on　consideration　to　be　but　poor　plums　at　best。　Also　one　thinks　differently　of　their　relative　merits　or　demerits　at　different　times。　For　instance；　how　about　“She’s”　speech　before　she　enters　the　fire？　and　the　holding　of　the　stair　by　old　Umslopogaas？　and　the　escape　of　the　ship　in　“Fair　Margaret”？　or　the　battle　of　Crecy　in　“Red　Eve”？　If　I　am　asked　what　book　of　mine　I　think　the　best　as　a　whole；　I　answer　that　one；　yet　unpublished；　to　my　mind　is　the　most　artistic。　At　any　rate；　to　some　extent；　it　satisfies　my　literary　conscience。　It　is　the　book　named　“Child　of　Storm；”　to　which　I　have　alluded　above；　and　is　a　chapter　in　the　history　of　“Allan　Quatermain。”　Of　Allan；　for　obvious　reasons；　I　can　always　write；　and　of　Zulus；　whose　true　inwardness　I　understand　by　the　light　of　Nature；　I　can　always　write；　and　—　well；　the　result　pleases　at　least　one　reader　—　myself。　Whether　it　will　please　others　is　a　different　matter。
So；　at　last　I　have　tried　to　answer　the　inquiries　of　the　all…pervading　casual　correspondent　in　a　somewhat　superficial　fashion。　To　do　so　thoroughly　would　involve　weeks　of　reading　of　much　that　I　now　forget。
When　I　escaped　from　that　nursing　home；　very　feeble　and　with　much…shattered　nerves；　I　went　to　stay　with　my　friend　Lyne　Stivens　to　recuperate；　and　then　for　a　day　or　two　to　Kipling’s。　Here　I　remember　we　pounded　the　plot　of　“The　Ghost　Kings”　together；　writing　down　our　ideas　in　alternate　sentences　upon　the　same　sheet　of　foolscap。
Among　my　pleasantest　recollections　during　the　last　few　years　are　those　of　my　visits　to　the　Kiplings；　and　one　that　they　paid　me　here；　during　which　we　discussed　everything　in　heaven　above　and　earth　beneath。　It　is；　I　think；　good　for　a　man　of　rather　solitary　habits　now　and　again　to　have　the　opportunity　of　familiar　converse　with　a　brilliant　and　creative　mind。　Also　we　do　not　fidget　each　other。　Thus　only　last　year　Kipling　informed　me　that　he　could　work　as　well　when　I　was　sitting　in　the　room　as　though　he　were　alone；　whereas　generally　the　presence　of　another　person　while　he　was　writing　would　drive　him　almost　mad。　He　added　that　he　supposed　the　explanation　to　be　that　we　were　both　of　a　trade；　and　I　dare　say　he　is　right。　I　imagine；　however；　that　sympathy　has　much　to　do　with　the　matter。
Of　late　years　Kipling　has　been　much　attacked；　a　fate　with　which　I　was　once　most　familiar；　since　at　one　time　or　the　other　it　overtakes　the　majority　of　those　who　have　met　with　any　measure　of　literary；　or　indeed　of　other　success　—　unless　they　happen　to　be　Scotchmen；　when　they　are　sure　of　enthusiastic　support　from　their　patriots　always　and　everywhere。　The　English；　it　seems　to　me；　lack　this　clan　feeling；　and　are　generally　prepared　to　rend　each　other　to　pieces　in　all　walks　of　life；　perhaps　because　our　race　is　of　such　mixed　origin。　In　Kipling’s　case　some　of　these　onslaughts　are　doubtless　provoked　by　his　strong　party　feeling　and　pronouncements；　though　the　form　they　take　is　for　the　most　part　criticism　of　his　work。　Even　on　the　supposition　that　this　is　not　ale　quality；　such　treatment　strikes　me　as　ungenerous。　No　man　is　continually　at　his　best；　and　the　writer　of　“Recessional”　and　other　noble　and　beautiful　things　should　be　spared　these　scourgings。　However；　I　have　no　doubt　it　will　all　e　right　in　the　end；　and　I　hope　that　when　this　book　is　published　he　may　be　wearing　the　Order　of　Merit。
Nowadays　everything　is　in　extremes；　and　the　over…praised　of　one　year　are　the　over…depreciated　of　the　next；　since；　as　much　or　more　than　most　people；　critics；　or　the　papers　that　employ　them；　like　to　be　in　the　fashion。　It　is　fortunate　that；　however　much　it　may　be　influenced　at　the　time；　the　ultimate　judgment　lies　with　the　general　public；　which；　in　the　issue；　is　for　the　most　part　just。　It　is　fortunate　also　that　only　a　man’s　best　work　will　e　before　this　final　court；　since　in　our　crowded　age　the　rest　must　soon　evaporate。
The　next　important　event　that　happened　to　me　was　my　nomination　in　the　year　1906　as　a　member　of　the　Royal　mission　on　Coast　Erosion。　It　happened　thus。　Seeing　that　such　a　mission　was　to　be　appointed；　I　wrote　to　Mr。　Lloyd　George；　who　was　then　the　President　of　the　Board　of　Trade　in　the　new　Radical　Government；　explaining　to　him　a　method　I　had　adopted　of　keeping　back　the　sea　by　the　planting　of　Marram　grass。　This　plan　had　proved　most　successful　so　far　as　the　frontage　of　my　house；　Kessingland　Grange；　near　Lowestoft；　was　concerned；　and　I　suggested　that　it　might　with　advantage　be　more　widely　followed。
Mr。　Lloyd　George　asked　me　to　e　to　see　him；　which　I　did；　with　the　result　that　ultimately　I　found　myself　a　member　of　the　Royal　mission　whereof　Lord　Ashby　St。　Ledgers；　then　Mr。　Ivor　Guest；　was　the　Chairman。　Lord　Ashby　St。　Ledgers　　I　liked　very　much；　and　with　whom　I　got　on　extremely　well；　indeed　he　was　always　most　kind　and　considerate　to　me。　So　far　he　has　been　extraordinarily　fortunate　in　life；　and　I　hope　that　his　good　chance　may　continue。　Born　to　great　wealth；　while　still　young　he　finds　himself　a　member　of　the　Government；　a　Privy　Councillor；　and　a　peer　in　his　own　right　without　the　necessity　of　waiting　for　his　father’s　title。　Truly　the　ball　is　at　his　feet　and；　with　his　considerable　business　abilities；　he　should　be　able　to　kick　it　far；　as　I　hope　he　may。
How　strangely　do　the　lots　of　men　vary；　especially　in　this　old…established　land！　One　toils　all　his　life　to　attain　in　old　age；　or　more　probably　not　to　attain　at　all；　what　another　steps　into　from　the　beginning　as　a　natural　right　and　almost　without　effort　on　his　part。　One　man　misfortune　follows　fast　and　death　follows　faster；　another　seems　to　pass　from　childhood　to　a　very　distance　grave　without　a　heartache　or　a　stumble；　neither　he　nor　those　connected　with　him　are　called　upon　to　face　work；　or　want；　or　struggle；　or　to　know　any　kind　of　human　loss　or　suffering　or　anxiety　of　the　soul　—　that　is；　so　far　as　we　can　judge。
Almost　am　I　inclined　to　think　that　the　Prince　Fortunatus　of　this　character；　of　whom　everybody　will　know　several；　must　have　behaved　himself　very　well　in　a　previous　incarnation　and　now　be　reaping　the　harvest　of　reward。　Or　maybe　—　this　is　a　more　unpleasant　idea　—　his　good　things　are　appointed　to　him　here　like　those　of　Dives　in　the　Bible；　and　—　there　are　breakers　ahead。　Unless　the　world　is　regulated　by　pure　chance；　there　must　be　some　explanation　of　these　startling　differences　of　fate。　Or　perhaps　the　fortunate　ones　have　their　own　bitternesses　which　are　invisible　to　other　eyes。　Well；　one　may　speculate　on　such　problems；　but　to　do　the　work　that　es　to　one’s　hand　thoroughly；　to　thank　God　for　and　be　content　with　what　one　has　and　to　envy　no　man　—　these　are　the　only　real　recipes　for　such　satisfaction　and　happiness　as　are　allowed　to　us　in　our　mortal　pilgrimage。　Such；　at　least；　is　my　attitude；　though　I　must　say　I　agree　with　Disraeli　that　life　has　more　to　offer　to　those　who　begin　it　with　3000　pounds　a　year；　and　with　Becky　Sharp　who　remarked　safely　that　in　these　circumstances　it　was　easier　to　be