the days of my life-第49章

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you　did　not　burn　it。　If　you　rewrite　it　slowly　with　your　right　hand　—　suppressing　much；　expanding　much；　making　every　chapter　a　picture　by　itself；　and　polishing　up　every　sentence　so　that　each　page　bears　testimony　to　the　power　of　its　producer　—　the　story　will　be　the　beginning　of　such　a　literary　career　as　I　conceive　you　to　be　desirous　of　running。　Get　the　better　of　the　mon　notion　that　novels　may　be　dashed　off　—　by　remembering　how　often　Lord　Lytton　rewrote　“Pelham；”　thinking　over　every　part　of　it；　now　pressing　and　now　expanding　the　narrative；　before　he　ventured　to　give　it　to　the　world。　Go　to　the　Charles　Dickens　rooms　in　the　S。　Kensington　Museum　and　observe　the　erasures；　the　insertions；　the　amendments　of　every　paragraph　of　his　writing　。　。　。　。
Here　follows　a　long　and　able　criticism　of　the　story。
Having　read　your　MS。　I　have　packed　it　and　will　do　anything　you　like　with　it　—　with　the　exception　of　sending　it　to　a　publisher　in　its　present　state。　You　will　succeed　in　literary　enterprise　if　it　will　be　your　ambition　to　do　so。
Your　story　disposes　me　to　think　you　have　that　ambition。　It　also　causes　me　to　hope　that　I　may　make　the　author’s　acquaintance。　If　you　call　on　me　when　you　are　in　town　I　shall　be　delighted　to　ask　your　pardon　for　writing　to　you　with　such　unmannerly　frankness　and　self…sufficiency。
Believe　me　to　be；　my　dear　sir；
Yours　very　sincerely；
John　Cordy　Jeaffreson。
What　an　extraordinarily　kind　heart　must　have　been　that　of　Mr。　Jeaffreson！　He　was　a　very　busy　man；　producing　as　he　did　works　of　fiction　and　of　biography；　in　addition　to　his　antiquarian　labours　that　involved　the　deciphering　of　thousands　of　old　documents；　by　means　of　all　which　toil　he　earned　a　moderate　ine。　Yet　he　found　time　on　behalf　of　an　individual　totally　unknown　to　him；　or　to　anybody　else　in　this　country；　to　labour　through　several　hundred　not　too　legible　sheets　of　manuscript；　and　to　write　a　masterly　criticism　of　their　contents。　Moreover；　for　all　this　trouble　he　refused　to　accept　any　reward。　Certainly　it　has　been　my　fortune　to　make　acquaintance　with　much　malice　in　the　world；　but　on　the　other　hand　I　have　met　with　signal　kindness　at　the　hands　of　those　engaged　in　literary　pursuits；　and　of　such　kindnesses　I　can　recall　no　more　striking　example　than　this　act　of　Mr。　Jeaffreson；　of　whom　I　shall　always　entertain　the　most　affectionate　memory。
Well；　I　took　his　advice。　From　a　tiny　note　on　the　first　page　of　the　manuscript　it　would　seem　that　I　began　to　rewrite　“Dawn”　or　“Angela；”　as　it　was　then　called；　on　May　15；　1883；　and　finished　the　last　of　the　four　hundred　and　niy…three　foolscap　sheets　on　September　5th　of　the　same　year。　That　is；　in　just　under　four　months；　in　addition　to　my　legal　studies　and　other　occupations　and　the　time　taken　in　attending　in　London　to　eat　my　dinners　at　Lincoln’s　Inn；　I　wrote　nearly　two　hundred　thousand　words。　Nowadays　the　average　length　of　a　novel　may　be　put　at　seventy…five　thousand　words；　or　even　less；　though　mine　are　longer。　But　in　the　early　eighties；　when　stories　were　brought　out　in　three　volumes　and　readers　had　more　patience　than　at　present；　it　was　otherwise。　I　toiled　at　that　book　morning；　noon；　and　night；　with　the　result　that　at　length　my　eyesight　gave　out；　and　I　was　obliged　to　finish　the　writing　of　it　in　a　darkened　room。
Still　I　did　finish　it　notwithstanding　the　pain　in　my　eyes；　and　then　went　to　London　to　see　an　oculist。　To　my　relief　he　told　me　I　was　not　going　blind　as　I　feared；　but　that　the　trouble　came　from　the　brain　which　was　overworked。　He　ordered　me　plete　rest　and　change；　during　which　I　was　not　to　read　anything。　So　we　went　for　a　month　to　Switzerland；　where　we　took　lodgings。　The　only　occupation　that　I　had　there　was　to　walk；　or；　when　this　was　not　feasible；　like　a　child　to　throw　a　ball　against　the　wall　of　the　room　and　see　how　often　I　could　catch　it　on　the　rebound。　However；　the　treatment　proved　effective。
The　book　being　finished；　or　nearly　finished；　and　the　heroine；　Angela；　rescued　from　the　untimely　death　to　which　she　was　consigned　in　the　first　version　and　happily　married　to　her　lover；　once　more　I　sought　the　assistance　of　Cordy　Jeaffreson；　who　gave　me　a　letter　introducing　me　to　Mr。　Arthur　Blackett　of　the　firm　of　Messrs。　Hurst　and　Blackett。　It　runs：
Dear　Blackett；　—　Some　months　since　I　read　the　MS。　of　a　novel　of　which　the　bearer　of　these　presents；　Mr。　Rider　Haggard　of　Ditchingham　House；　Bungay；　is　looking　for　a　publisher。　Mr。　Haggard　having　distinguished　himself　in　another　field　of　literature；　I　was　not　surprised　to　find　his　first　essay　in　prose　fiction　a　thing　of　no　ordinary　power。　It　was　a　tale　of　character；　pathos；　incident；　and　new　ground：　so　good　that　had　it　been　less　I　should　have　advised　him　to　publish　it　as　it　came　to　me。　The　goodness　of　the　story；　however；　made　me　urge　him　to　rewrite　it；　so　that　every　chapter　should　be　in　harmony　with　its　best　and　strongest　parts。　He　has　acted　on　my　advice；　and　if　the　result　of　his　renewed　labour　answers　my　anticipation；　he　has　produced　a　work　that　will　make　your　reader　rub　his　hands　and　say　“This　will　do。”　。　。　。
Messrs。　Hurst　and　Blackett　wrote　to　me；　and　well　do　I　remember　the　jubilation　with　which　I　read　the　letter：
We　shall　be　very　happy　to　undertake　the　publication　of　your　novel　on　the　following　terms。　To　produce　the　work　at　our　own　expense　and　risk。　To　pay　you　the　sum　of　40　pounds　on　the　sale　of　four　hundred　copies　and　30　pounds　on　the　sale　of　every　hundred　copies　after。　The　title　“Angela”　has　been　used　before　。　。　。　。
Needless　to　say　I　accepted　the　offer　with　gratitude　and　promised　to　find　another　title。　Three　days　later　the　agreement　arrived　under　which　I　sold　the　copyright　to　Messrs。　Hurst　and　Blackett　for　a　period　of　one　year　only　from　the　date　of　publication。　In　their　covering　letter　they　informed　me　that　they　only　proposed　to　print　five　hundred　copies　in　the　three…volume　form；　leaving　me　at　liberty　to　make　any　arrangements　I　liked　for　a　cheap　edition；　if　one　should　be　demanded。
About　this　time；　namely　just　after　he　had　read　the　MS。　of　“Angela；”　I　received　the　following　interesting　but　undated　letter　from　Mr。　Jeaffreson：
Dear　Sir；　—　Can’t　you　arrange　to　dine　with　us　at　seven　o’clock　on　the　10th　of　next　month？　We　could　talk　all　round　the　literary　question　over　a　cigar　in　my　study　after　dinner。　Could　you　succeed　in　literature？　Certainly　up　to　a　certain　point：　unquestionably　up　to　the　point　you　indicate；　though　you　might　never　earn　as　much　money　as　the　two　novelists　you　mention；　for　in　that　respect　they　have　been　singularly　fortunate。　But　you　may　not　hope　to　succeed　in　a　day。　You　might　bee　famous　in　a　morning；　but　you　may　not　entertain　the　hope　of　doing　so。　You　must　hope　only　to　succeed　by　degrees；　—　by　steady　work；　slow　advances；　and　after　several　disappointments。　Moderate　success　in　literature　is　easily　attainable　by　a　man　of　energy；　culture；　and　resoluteness　who　can　afford　to　work　steadily　and　play　a　waiting　game。　At　twenty…one　a　man　is　necessarily　impatient；　at　twenty…six　a　man　has　neither　the　excuse　of　youth　nor　the　excuse　of　advancing　age　for　impatience。　How　I　envy　you　for　being　only　twenty…six。　I　am　old　enough　to　be　your　father。　I　could　not　have　written　as　good　a　novel　as　Angela’s　story　when　I　was　twenty…six。　I　have　already　perused　your　“Cetewayo。”　It　is　a　far　more　difficult　thing　to　interest　readers　in　imaginary　persons　and　incidents　than　to　entertain　them　with　writing　about　facts　and　characters　in　which　they　are　already　interested。　It　was　because　I　saw　you　really　knew　your　characters　that　I　urged　you　to　make　the　most　of　them。　Do　e　and　see　me。
Yours　cordially；
John　Cordy　Jeaffreson。
The　following　letter　from　myself　to　my　sister　Mary；　which　she　found　and　returned　to　me　a　few　years　ago；　throws　some　light　upon　the　above：
Ditchingham　House：　May　5　＇1883＇。
My　dearest　Mary；　—　The　enclosed　letters　may　interest　you。　I　consider　Jeaffreson’s　very　encouraging　on　the　whole；　though　he　is　inflicting　a　lot　of　extra　labour　on　me。　However；　after　I　have　been　up　for　this　examination　I　will　go　at　it；　and　hope　to　finish　the　book　in　from　two　to　three　months。　I　do　not　altogether　agree　with　Mr。　Jeaffreson’s　ideas　as　to　changing　the　end　of　the　book；　indeed　my　own　sentiments　about　it　are　much　the　same　as　those　expressed　by　Miss　Barber　＇a　schoolfellow　of　my　wife’s　who　was　more　or　less　livin