The Slave of the Lamp Part 1

The Slave Of The Lamp.

by Henry Seton Merriman.

PREFACE

Henry Seton Merriman published his first novel, "Young Mistley," in 1888, when he was twenty-six years old. Messrs. Bentley's reader, in his critique on the book, spoke of its "powerful situations" and unconventionality of treatment: and, while dwelling at much greater length on its failings, declared, in effect, its faults to be the right faults, and added that, if "Young Mistley" was not in itself a good novel, its author was one who might hereafter certainly write good novels.

"Young Mistley" was followed in quick succession by "The Phantom Future," "Suspense," and "Prisoners and Captives." Some years later, considering them crude and immature works, the author, at some difficulty and with no little pecuniary loss, withdrew all these four first books from circulation in England. Their republication in America he was powerless to prevent. He therefore revised and abbreviated them, "conscious," as he said himself in a preface, "of a hundred defects which the most careful revision cannot eliminate." He was perhaps then, as he was ever, too severe a critic of his own works. But though these four early books have, added to youthful failings, the youthful merits of freshness, vigour and imagination, their author was undoubtedly right to suppress them. By writing them he learnt, it is true, the technique of his art: but no author wishes--or no author should wish--to give his copy-books to the world. It is as well then--it is certainly as he himself desired--that these four books do not form part of the present edition. It may, however, be noted that both "Young Mistley" and "Prisoners and Captives" dealt, as did "The Sowers" hereafter, with Russian subjects: "Suspense" is the story of a war-correspondent in the Russo-Turkish War of 1877: and "The Phantom Future" is the only novel of Merriman's in which the scene is laid entirely in his own country.

In 1892 he produced "The Slave of the Lamp," which had run serially through the _Cornhill Magazine_, then under the editorship of Mr.

James Payn.

To Mr. Payn, Merriman always felt that he owed a debt of grat.i.tude for much shrewd and kindly advice and encouragement. But one item of that advice he neglected with, as Mr. Payn always generously owned, great advantage. Mr. Payn believed that the insular nature of the ordinary Briton made it, as a general rule, highly undesirable that the scene of any novel should be laid outside the British Isles.

After 1892 all Merriman's books, with the single exception of "Flotsam,"

which appeared serially in _Longman's Magazine_, and was, at first, produced in book form by Messrs. Longman, were published by the firm of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co.

His long and serene connection with the great and honourable house which had produced the works of such masters of literature as Thackeray, Charlotte Bronte, and Robert Browning, was always a source of sincere pleasure to him. He often expressed the opinion that, from the moment when, as an inexperienced and perfectly unknown author, he sent "Young Mistley" to Messrs. Bentley, until the time when, as a very successful one, he was publishing his later novels with Messrs. Smith, Elder, he had invariably received from his publishers an entirely just and upright treatment.

Also in 1892 he produced "From One Generation to Another": and, two years later, the first of his really successful novels, "With Edged Tools." It is the only one of his books of which he never visited the _mise-en-scene_--West Africa: but he had so completely imbued himself with the scenery and the spirit of the country that few, if any, of his critics detected that he did not write of it from personal experience. Many of his readers were firmly convinced of the reality of the precious plant, Simiacine, on whose discovery the action of the plot turns. More than one correspondent wrote to express a wish to take shares in the Simiacine Company!

"With Edged Tools" was closely followed by "The Grey Lady." Some practical experience of a seafaring life, a strong love of it, and a great fellow-feeling for all those whose business is in great waters, helped the reality of the characters of the sailor brothers and of the sea-scenes generally. The author was for some years, and at the time "The Grey Lady" was written, an underwriter at Lloyd's, so that on the subject of ship insurance--a subject on which it will be remembered part of the plot hinges--he was _en pays de connaissance_. For the purpose of this story, he travelled in the Balearic Islands, having, earlier, made the first of many visits to Spain.

One of the strongest characteristics in his nature, as it is certainly one of the strongest characteristics in his books, was his sympathy with, and, in consequence, his understanding of, the mind of the foreigner. For him, indeed, there were no alien countries. He learnt the character of the stranger as quickly as he learnt his language. His greatest delight was to merge himself completely in the life and interests of the country he was visiting--to stay at the mean _venta_, or the _auberge_ where the tourist was never seen--to sit in the local cafes of an evening and listen to local politics and gossip; to read for the time nothing but the native newspapers, and no literature but the literature, past and present, of the land where he was sojourning; to follow the native customs, and to see Spain, Poland or Russia with the eyes and from the point of view of the Spaniard, the Pole or the Russian.

The difficulties--sometimes there were even serious difficulties--of visiting places where there was neither provision nor protection made for the stranger, always acted upon him not as deterrent but incentive: he liked something to overcome, and found the safe, comfortable, convenient resting-places as uncongenial to his nature as they were unproductive for the purposes of his work.

In 1896 "The Sowers" was published. Merriman's travels in Russia had taken place some years before--before, in fact, the publication of "Young Mistley"--but time had not at all weakened the strong and sombre impression which that great country and its unhappy people had left upon him. The most popular of all his books with his English public, Merriman himself did not consider it his best. It early received the compliment of being banned by the Russian censor: very recently, a Russian woman told the present writers that "The Sowers" is still the first book the travelling Russian buys in the Tauchnitz edition, as soon as he is out of his own country--"we like to hear the truth about ourselves."

In the same year as "The Sowers," Merriman produced "Flotsam." It is not, strictly speaking, a romance: some of its main incidents were taken from the life of a young officer of the 44th Regiment in Early Victorian days. The character of Harry Wylam is, as a whole, faithful to its prototype; and the last scene in the book, recording Harry's death in the Orange Free State, as he was being taken in a waggon to the missionary station by the Bishop of the State, is literally accurate.

Merriman had visited India as a boy; so here, too, the scenery is from the brush of an eye-witness.

His next novel, "In Kedar's Tents," was his first Spanish novel--pure and simple: the action of "The Grey Lady" taking place chiefly in Majorca.

All the country mentioned in "In Kedar's Tents" Merriman visited personally--riding, as did Frederick Conyngham and Concepcion Vara, from Algeciras to Ronda, then a difficult ride through a wild, beautiful and not too safe district, the accommodation at Algeciras and Ronda being at that time of an entirely primitive description. Spain had for Merriman ever a peculiar attraction: the character of the Spanish gentleman--proud, courteous, dignified--particularly appealed to him.

The next country in which he sought inspiration was Holland. "Roden's Corner," published in 1898, broke new ground: its plot, it will be remembered, turns on a commercial enterprise. The t.i.tle and the main idea of the story were taken from Merriman's earliest literary venture, the beginning of a novel--there were only a few chapters of it--which he had written before "Young Mistley," and which he had discarded, dissatisfied.

The novel "Dross" was produced in America in 1899, having appeared serially in this country in a well-known newspaper. Written during a period of ill-health, Merriman thought it beneath his best work, and, true to that principle which ruled his life as an author, to give to the public so far as he could of that best, and of that best only, he declined (of course to his own monetary disadvantage) to permit its publication in England in book form.

Its _mise-en-scene_ is France and Suffolk; its period the Second Empire--the period of "The Last Hope." Napoleon III., a character by whom Merriman was always peculiarly attracted, shadows it: in it appears John Turner, the English banker of Paris, of "The Last Hope"; an admirable and amusing sketch of a young Frenchman; and an excellent description of the magnificent scenery about Saint Martin Lantosque, in the Maritime Alps.

For the benefit of "The Isle of Unrest," his next book, Merriman had travelled through Corsica--not the Corsica of fashionable hotels and health-resorts, but the wild and unknown parts of that lawless and magnificent island. For "The Velvet Glove" he visited Pampeluna, Saragossa, and Lerida. The country of "The Vultures"--Warsaw and its neighbourhood--he saw in company with his friend, Mr. Stanley Weyman.

The pleasure of another trip, the one he took in western France--Angouleme, Cognac, and the country of the Charente--for the scenery of "The Last Hope," was also doubled by Mr. Weyman's presence.

In Dantzig--the Dantzig of "Barlasch of the Guard"--Merriman made a stay in a bitter mid-winter, visiting also Vilna and Konigsberg; part of the route of the Great Retreat from Moscow he traced himself. He was inclined to consider--and if an author is not quite the worst judge of his own work he is generally quite the best--that in "Barlasch" he reached his high-water mark. The short stories, comprised in the volume ent.i.tled "Tomaso's Fortune," were published after his death. In every case, the _locale_ they describe was known to Merriman personally.

At the Monastery of Montserrat--whence the monk in "A Small World" saw the accident to the diligencia--the author had made a stay of some days.

The Farlingford of "The Last Hope" is Orford in Suffolk: the French scenes, as has been said, Merriman had visited with Mr. Weyman, whose "Abbess of Vlaye" they also suggested. The curious may still find the original of the Hotel Gemosac in Paris--not far from the Palais d'Orsay Hotel--"between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain."

"The Last Hope" was not, in a sense, Merriman's last novel. He left at his death about a dozen completed chapters, and the whole plot carefully mapped out, of yet another Spanish book, which dealt with the Spain of the Peninsular War of 1808-14. These chapters, which were destroyed by the author's desire, were of excellent promise, and written with great vigour and spirit. His last trip was taken, in connection with this book, to the country of Sir Arthur Wellesley's exploits. The plot of the story was concerned with a case of mistaken ident.i.ty; the sketch of a Guerilla leader, Pedro--bearing some affinity to the Concepcion Vara of "In Kedar's Tents"--was especially happy.

It has been seen that Merriman was not the cla.s.s of author who "sits in Fleet Street and writes news from the front." He strongly believed in the value of personal impressions, and scarcely less in the value of first impressions. In his own case, the correctness of his first impressions--what he himself called laughingly his _"coup d'oeil"_--is in a measure proved by a note-book, now lying before the writers, in which he recorded his views of Bastia and the Corsicans after a very brief acquaintance--that view requiring scarcely any modification when first impressions had been exchanged for real knowledge and experience.

As to his methods of writing, in the case of all his novels, except the four early suppressed ones, he invariably followed the plan of drawing out the whole plot and a complete synopsis of every chapter before he began to write the book at all.

Partly as a result of this plan perhaps, but more as a result of great natural facility in writing, his ma.n.u.scripts were often without a single erasure for many pages; and a typewriter was really a superfluity.

It is certainly true to say that no author ever had more pleasure in his art than Merriman. The fever and the worry which accompany many literary productions he never knew.

Among the professional critics he had neither personal friends nor personal foes; and accepted their criticisms--hostile or favourable--with perfect serenity and open-mindedness. He was, perhaps, if anything, only too ready to alter his work in accordance with their advice: he always said that he owed them much; and admired their perspicuity in detecting a promise in his earliest books, which he denied finding there himself. His invincible modesty made him ready to accept not only professional criticism but--a harder thing--the advice of critics on the hearth. It was out of compliance with such a domestic criticism that the _denouement_ in "The Sowers" was re-written as it now stands, the scene of the attack on the Castle being at first wholly different.

The jealousy and bitterness which are supposed to be inseparable from the literary life certainly never affected Merriman's. He had no trace of such feelings in his nature. Of one who is known to the public exclusively through his writings, it may seem strange--but it is not the less true--to say that his natural bent was not to the life of a literary man, but to a life of action, and that it was fate, rather than inclination, which made him express himself in words instead of deeds. A writer's books are generally his best biography: the "strong, quiet man," whose forte was to do much and say nothing; who, like Marcos Sarrion, loved the free and plain life of the field and the open, was a natural hero for Merriman, "as finding there unconsciously some image of himself."

To any other biography he was strongly opposed. His dislike of the advertis.e.m.e.nt and the self-advertis.e.m.e.nt of the interview and the personal paragraph deepened with time. He held strongly and consistently, as he held all his opinions, that a writer should be known to the public by his books, and by his books only. One of his last expressed wishes was that there should be no record of his private life.

It is respect for that wish which here stays the present writers' pen.

E.F.S.

S.G.T.

_July_ 1909.

CHAPTER I

IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE

It was, not so many years ago, called the Rue de l'Empire, but republics are proverbially sensitive. Once they are established they become morbidly desirous of obliterating a past wherein no republic flourished. The street is therefore dedicated to St. Gingolphe to-day.

To-morrow? Who can tell?

It is presumably safe to take it for granted that you are located in the neighbourhood of the Louvre, on the north side of the river which is so unimportant a factor to Paris. For all good Englishmen have been, or hope in the near future to be, located near this spot. All good Americans, we are told, relegate the sojourn to a more distant future.

The bridge to cross is that of the Holy Fathers. So called to-day. Once upon a time--but no matter. Bridges are peculiarly liable to change in troubled times. The Rue St. Gingolphe is situated between the Boulevard St. Germain and Quai Voltaire. One hears with equal facility the low-toned boom of the steamers' whistle upon the river, and the crack of whips in the boulevard. Once across the bridge, turn to the right, and go along the Quay, between the lime-trees and the bookstalls. You will probably go slowly because of the bookstalls. No one worth talking to could help doing so. Then turn to the left, and after a few paces you will find upon your right hand the Rue St. Gingolphe. It is noted in the Directory "Botot" that this street is one hundred and forty-five metres long; and who would care to contradict "Botot," or even to throw the faintest shadow of a doubt upon his statement? He has probably measured.

If your fair and economical spouse should think of repairing to the Bon-Marche to secure some of those wonderful linen pillow-cases (at one franc forty) with your august initial embroidered on the centre with a view of impressing the sleeper's cheek, she will pa.s.s the end of the Rue St. Gingolphe on her way--provided the cabman be honest. There! You cannot help finding it now.

The street itself is a typical Parisian street of one hundred and forty-five metres. There is room for a baker's, a cafe, a bootmaker's, and a tobacconist who sells very few stamps. The Parisians do not write many letters. They say they have not time. But the tobacconist makes up for the meanness of his contribution to the inland revenue of one department by a generous aid to the other. He sells a vast number of cigarettes and cigars of the very worst quality. And it is upon the worst quality that the Government makes the largest profit. It is in every sense of the word a weed which grows as l.u.s.tily as any of its compeers in and around Oran, Algiers, and Bonah.

The Rue St. Gingolphe is within a stone's-throw of the ecole des Beaux-Arts, and in the very centre of a remarkably cheap and yet respectable quarter. Thus there are many young men occupying apartments in close proximity--and young men do not mind much what they smoke, especially provincial young men living in Paris. They feel it inc.u.mbent upon them to be constantly smoking something--just to show that they are Parisians, true sons of the pavement, knowing how to live. And their brightest hopes are in all truth realised, because theirs is certainly a reckless life, flavoured as it is with "number one" tobacco, and those "little corporal" cigarettes which are enveloped in the blue paper.

The tobacconist's shop is singularly convenient. It has, namely, an entrance at the back, as well as that giving on to the street of St.

Gingolphe. This entrance is through a little courtyard, in which is the stable and coach-house combined, where Madame Perinere, a lady who paints the magic word "Modes" beneath her name on the door-post of number seventeen, keeps the dapper little cart and pony which carry her bonnets to the farthest corner of Paris.

The tobacconist is a large man, much given to perspiration. In fact, one may safely make the statement that he perspires annually from the middle of April to the second or even third week in October. In consequence of this habit he wears no collar, and a man without a collar does not start fairly on the social race. It is always best to make inquiries before condemning a man who wears no collar. There is probably a very good reason, as in the case of Mr. Jacquetot, but it is to be feared that few pause to seek it. One need not seek the reason with much a.s.siduity in this instance, because the tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe is always prepared to explain it at length. French people are thus. They talk of things, and take pleasure in so doing, which we, on this side of the Channel, treat with a larger discretion.