The Weavers: Introduction

Introduction

When I turn over the hundreds of pages of this book, I have a feeling
that I am looking upon something for which I have no particular
responsibility, though it has a strange contour of familiarity. It is as
though one looks upon a scene in which one had lived and moved, with the
friendly yet half-distant feeling that it once was one's own possession
but is so no longer. I should think the feeling to be much like that of
the old man whose sons, gone to distant places, have created their own
plantations of life and have themselves become the masters of
possessions. Also I suppose that when I read the story through again from
the first page to the last, I shall recreate the feeling in which I lived
when I wrote it, and it will become a part of my own identity again. That
distance between himself and his work, however, which immediately begins
to grow as soon as a book leaves the author's hands for those of the
public, is a thing which, I suppose, must come to one who produces a work
of the imagination. It is no doubt due to the fact that every piece of
art which has individuality and real likeness to the scenes and character
it is intended to depict is done in a kind of trance. The author, in
effect, self-hypnotises himself, has created an atmosphere which is
separate and apart from that of his daily surroundings, and by virtue of
his imagination becomes absorbed in that atmosphere. When the book is
finished and it goes forth, when the imagination is relaxed and the
concentration of mind is withdrawn, the atmosphere disappears, and then.
One experiences what I feel when I take up 'The Weavers' and, in a sense,
wonder how it was done, such as it is.

The frontispiece of the English edition represents a scene in the House
of Commons, and this brings to my mind a warning which was given me
similar to that on my entering new fields outside the one in which I
first made a reputation in fiction. When, in a certain year, I determined
that I would enter the House of Commons I had many friends who, in
effect, wailed and gnashed their teeth. They said that it would be the
death of my imaginative faculties; that I should never write anything any
more; that all the qualities which make literature living and compelling
would disappear. I thought this was all wrong then, and I know it is all
wrong now. Political life does certainly interfere with the amount of
work which an author may produce. He certainly cannot write a book every
year and do political work as well, but if he does not attempt to do the
two things on the same days, as it were, but in blocks of time devoted to
each separately and respectively, he will only find, as I have found,
that public life the conflict of it, the accompanying attrition of mind,
the searching for the things which will solve the problems of national
life, the multitudinous variations of character with which one comes in
contact, the big issues suddenly sprung upon the congregation of
responsible politicians, all are stimulating to the imagination,
invigorating to the mind, and marvellously freshening to every literary
instinct. No danger to the writer lies in doing political work, if it
does not sap his strength and destroy his health. Apart from that, he
should not suffer. The very spirit of statesmanship is imagination,
vision; and the same quality which enables an author to realise humanity
for a book is necessary for him to realise humanity in the crowded
chamber of a Parliament.

So far as I can remember, whatever was written of The Weavers, no critic
said that it lacked imagination. Some critics said it was too crowded
with incident; that there was enough incident in it for two novels; some
said that the sweep was too wide, but no critic of authority declared
that the book lacked vision or the vivacity of a living narrative. It is
not likely that I shall ever write again a novel of Egypt, but I have
made my contribution to Anglo-Egyptian literature, and I do not think I
failed completely in showing the greatness of soul which enabled one man
to keep the torch of civilisation, of truth, justice, and wholesome love
alight in surroundings as offensive to civilisation as was Egypt in the
last days of Ismail Pasha--a time which could be well typified by the
words put by Bulwer Lytton in the mouth of Cardinal Richelieu:

       "I found France rent asunder,
        Sloth in the mart and schism in the temple;
        Broils festering to rebellion; and weak laws
        Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
        I have re-created France; and, from the ashes
        Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase,
        Civilisation on her luminous wings
        Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove!"

Critics and readers have endeavoured to identify the main characteristics
of The Weavers with figures in Anglo-Egyptian and official public life.
David Claridge was, however, a creature of the imagination. It has been
said that he was drawn from General Gordon. I am not conscious of having
taken Gordon for David's prototype, though, as I was saturated with all
that had been written about Gordon, there is no doubt that something of
that great man may have found its way into the character of David
Claridge. The true origin of David Claridge, however, may be found in a
short story called 'All the World's Mad', in Donovan Pasha, which was
originally published by Lady Randolph Churchill in an ambitious but
defunct magazine called 'The Anglo-Saxon Review'. The truth is that David
Claridge had his origin in a fairly close understanding of, and interest
in, Quaker life. I had Quaker relatives through the marriage of a
connection of my mother, and the original of Benn Claridge, the uncle of
David, is still alive, a very old man, who in my boyhood days wore the
broad brim and the straight preacher-like coat of the old-fashioned
Quaker. The grandmother of my wife was also a Quaker, and used the "thee"
and "thou" until the day of her death.

Here let me say that criticism came to me from several quarters both in
England and America on the use of these words thee and thou, and
statements were made that the kind of speech which I put into David
Claridge's mouth was not Quaker speech. For instance, they would not have
it that a Quaker would say, "Thee will go with me"--as though they were
ashamed of the sweet inaccuracy of the objective pronoun being used in
the nominative; but hundreds of times I have myself heard Quakers use
"thee" in just such a way in England and America. The facts are, however,
that Quakers differ extensively in their habits, and there grew up in
England among the Quakers in certain districts a sense of shame for false
grammar which, to say the least, was very childish. To be deliberately
and boldly ungrammatical, when you serve both euphony and simplicity, is
merely to give archaic charm, not to be guilty of an offence. I have
friends in Derbyshire who still say "Thee thinks," etc., and I must
confess that the picture of a Quaker rampant over my deliberate use of
this well-authenticated form of speech produced to my mind only the
effect of an infuriated sheep, when I remembered the peaceful attribute
of Quaker life and character. From another quarter came the assurance
that I was wrong when I set up a tombstone with a name upon it in a
Quaker graveyard. I received a sarcastic letter from a lady on the
borders of Sussex and Surrey upon this point, and I immediately sent her
a first-class railway ticket to enable her to visit the Quaker churchyard
at Croydon, in Surrey, where dead and gone Quakers have tombstones by the
score, and inscriptions on them also. It is a good thing to be accurate;
it is desperately essential in a novel. The average reader, in his
triumph at discovering some slight error of detail, would consign a
masterpiece of imagination, knowledge of life and character to the
rubbish-heap.

I believe that 'The Weavers' represents a wider outlook of life, closer
understanding of the problems which perplex society, and a clearer view
of the verities than any previous book written by me, whatever its
popularity may have been. It appealed to the British public rather more
than 'The Right of Way', and the great public of America and the Oversea
Dominions gave it a welcome which enabled it to take its place beside
'The Right of Way', the success of which was unusual.




NOTE

This book is not intended to be an historical novel, nor are its
characters meant to be identified with well-known persons connected with
the history of England or of Egypt; but all that is essential in the tale
is based upon, and drawn from, the life of both countries. Though Egypt
has greatly changed during the past generation, away from Cairo and the
commercial centres the wheels of social progress have turned but slowly,
and much remains as it was in the days of which this book is a record in
the spirit of the life, at least.

G. P.

     "Dost thou spread the sail, throw the spear, swing the axe, lay
     thy hand upon the plough, attend the furnace door, shepherd the
     sheep upon the hills, gather corn from the field, or smite the
     rock in the quarry? Yet, whatever thy task, thou art even as
     one who twists the thread and throws the shuttle, weaving the
     web of Life. Ye are all weavers, and Allah the Merciful, does
     He not watch beside the loom?"

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