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the days of my life-第60部分

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 beside us; while the Arab; streaming with perspiration; danced round and objurgated him and us in his native tongue until he was appeased with large baksheesh。 Brownrigg; who will never be nearer to a dreadful death than he was that day; told me afterwards that; strong as his head was; he found it impossible to attempt the descent face outwards; since the thickness of the cap hid the sides of the pyramid from his sight; so that all he saw beneath him was some three hundred feet of empty space。 Therefore he turned and soon found himself quite helpless; since he could neither find any foothold beneath him; nor could he reascend。 Had not the watchful Arab seen him and his case; in another few minutes he must have fallen and been dashed to pieces at our feet。 The memory of that scene still makes my back feel cold and my flesh creep。 I have tried to reproduce it in “Ayesha;” where Holly falls from the rock to the ice…covered river far beneath。
From Egypt I sailed to Cyprus in a tub of a ship; where a rat had its nest behind my bunk。 It was my first visit to that delightful and romantic isle; over which all the civilisations have poured in turn; wave by wave; till at length came the Turk; beneath whose foot “the grass does not grow;” and; by the special mercy of Providence; after the Turk the English。
Here I was the guest of my old chief; Sir Henry Bulwer; who at that time was High missioner for the island。
From Government House at Nicosia I made various delightful expeditions in the pany of Mrs。 Caldwell; Sir Henry Bulwer’s sister; and her daughters。 For instance we visited Famagusta; that marvellous mediaeval; walled town; built and fortified by the Veians; that the Turks took after a terrible siege; for the details of which I will refer the reader to my book; “A Winter Pilgrimage;” written many years later after a second visit to Cyprus。
In 1887; strange as it may seem; the debris of this siege were still very much in evidence。 Thus after about three centuries the balls fired by the Turkish cannon lay all over the place。 I hold one of them in my hand as I write; slightly pit…marked by the passage of time; or more probably by flaws in the casting。
Here in this beautiful island of Venus I trusted; before turning to my tasks again; to have a little real holiday after a good many years of very hard work。 But; as it happened; holidays have never been for me。 At the age of nieen; to say nothing of the preliminary toils of education; I began to labour; and at the age of fifty…six I still find myself labouring with the firm and; so far as I can judge; well…grounded prospect that I shall continue to labour on public and private business till health and intelligence fail me; or; as I hope; death overtakes me while these still remain。
Here I must go back a little。 In the winter of 1886; as I remember very much against my own will; I was worried into writing an article about “Fiction” for the Contemporary Review。
It is almost needless for me to say that for a young writer who had suddenly e into some kind of fame to spring a dissertation of this kind upon the literary world over his own name was very little short of madness。 Such views must necessarily make him enemies; secret or declared; by the hundred。 There are two bits of advice which I will offer to the youthful author of the future。 Never preach about your trade; and; above all; never criticise other practitioners of that trade; however profoundly you may disagree with them。 Heaven knows there are critics enough without your taking a hand in the business。 Do your work as well as you can and leave other people to do theirs; and the public to judge between them。 Secondly; unless you are absolutely driven to it; as of course may happen sometimes; never enter into a controversy with a newspaper。
To return: this unfortunate article about “Fiction” made me plenty of enemies; and the mere fact of my remarkable success made me plenty more。 Through no fault of mine; also; these foes found a very able leader in the person of Mr。 Stead; who at that time was the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette。 I should say; however; that of late years Mr。 Stead has quite changed his attitude towards me and has indeed bee very plimentary; both with reference to my literary and to my public work。 For my part; too; I have long ago forgiven his onslaughts; as I can honestly say I have forgiven everybody else for every harm that they have done; or tried to do me。
To go back to “Jess。” Being somewhat piqued by the frequent descriptions of myself as “a mere writer of romances and boys’ books;” I determined to try my hand at another novel (if one es to think of it “Dawn” and “The Witch’s Head” were novels; but these had been obliterated by “King Solomon’s Mines”)。 So after I had finished “Allan Quatermain” I set to as I have already described; and wrote “Jess。”
It is a gloomy story and painful to an Englishman; so gloomy and painful that Lang could scarcely read it; having a nature susceptible as a sensitive plant。 I feel this myself; for except when I went through it some fifteen years ago to correct it for a new illustrated edition; I too have never reread it; and I think that I never mean to do so。 The thing is a living record of our shame in South Africa; written by one by whom it was endured。 And therefore it lives; for it is a bit of history put into tangible and human shape。 At any rate; the other day the publishers kindly sent me a copy of the twenty…seventh edition of the work; which of course has been circulated in countless numbers in a cheap form。 I believe that in South Africa they think highly of “Jess”; even the Boers of the new generation read it。 I remember that when some of their trenches were stormed in the last war; the special correspondents reported that the only book found in them was “Jess。”
I returned to England by long sea; avoiding the train journey across Europe。 This I undertook when I went out in order to study the Egyptian collections at the Louvre and Turin。 As it happened I never saw that at Turin。 When I arrived there; purposing to spend an afternoon at the museum; my cabman drove me to a distant circus; and when at length I did reach the said museum; it was to find that on this particular day it was closed。
On my arrival in England what between success and attacks I found myself quite a celebrity; one whose name was in everybody’s mouth。 I made money; for instance I sold “Cleopatra” for a large sum in cash; and also “Colonel Quaritch; V。C。;” a tale of English country life which Longman liked — it was dedicated to him — and Lang hated it so much that I think he called it the worst book that ever was written。 Or perhaps it was someone else who favoured it with that description。 Some of this money I lost; for really I had not time to look after it; and the investments suggested by kind friends connected with the City were apt to prove disappointing。 Some of it I spent in paying off back debts and mortgages on our property; and in doing up this house which it sadly needed; as well as countless farm buildings; and a proportion was absorbed by our personal expenditure。 For instance we moved into a larger house in Radcliffe Square and there entertained a little; though not to any great extent; for we never were extravagant。 Also I became what is called famous; which in practice means that people are glad to ask you out to dinner; and when you enter a room everyone turns to look at you。 Also it means that bores of the most appalling description write to you from all over the earth; and expect answers。
Therefore; although I had the affection of my old friends and made one or two new ones; such as Charles Longman; with whom; to my great good fortune; I began to grow intimate about this time; it came about that I was much envied and not a little hated by many who made my life bitter with constant attacks in the Press; which; being somewhat sensitive by nature; I was foolish enough to feel。 Indeed there came a time when for a good many years I would read no reviews of my books; unless chance thrust them under my eyes。 Therefore of those years there are few literary records。
In addition to much worry; my work at this time was truly overwhelming。 The unf
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