IN FULL CAREER.
Never, certainly, did any man have a better chance of success in
literature than Jefferies about the year 1876. He had made himself, to
begin with, an authority on the most interesting of all subjects; he
knew more about farming--that is to say, farming in his own part of the
country--than any other man who could wield a pen; he had written papers
full of the most brilliant suggestions, as well as knowledge, as to the
future of agriculture and its possible developments; he had written
things which made people ask if there had truly arisen an agricultural
prophet in the land. And he was as yet only twenty-eight. Of all young
authors, he seems to have been the man most to be envied. Everything
that he had so long desired seemed now lying at his feet ready to be
picked up. To use the old parlance, the trumpet of fame was already
resounding in the heavens for him, and the crown of honour was already
being woven for his brows.
Some men would have made of this splendid commencement a golden ladder
of fortune. They would have come to town--the first step, whether one is
to become a millionnaire or a Laureate; they would have joined clubs;
they would have gone continually in and out among their fellow-men, and
especially those of their own craft or mystery; they would have been
seen as much as possible in society; they would have stood up to speak
on platforms; they would have sought to be mentioned in the papers; they
would have courted popularity in the ways very well known to all, and
commonly practised without concealment. Such a man as Jefferies might
have made himself, without much trouble, a great power in London.
Well, Jefferies did not become a power in London at all. He could not;
everything was against him, except the main fact that the way was open
to him. First, the air of the town choked and suffocated him; he panted
for the breath of the fields. Next, he had no knowledge or experience of
men; he never belonged to society at all, not even to the quiet society
of a London suburb; he had none of the conversation which belongs to
clubs and to club life; he never associated with literary men or London
journalists; he knew nobody. Thirdly, there was the reserve which clung
round him like a cloak which cannot be removed. He did not want to know
anybody; he was not only reserved, but he was self-contained. Therefore,
the success which he achieved did not mean to him what it should have
meant had he been a man of the world. On the other hand, it must be
conceded that no mere man of the world could write the things which
Jefferies subsequently wrote. Let us, therefore, content ourselves with
the reflection that his success proved in the end to be of a far higher
kind than a mere worldly success. This knowledge, if such things follow
beyond the grave, should be enough to make him happy.
He was himself contented--he was even happy--and desired nothing more
than to go on finding a ready market for his wares, a sufficient income
for the daily wants of his household, and that praise which means to
authors far more than it means to any other class of men. Nobody praises
the physician or the barrister: they go on their own way quite careless
of the world's praise. But an author wants it; I think that all authors
need praise. To work day after day, year after year, without
recognition, thanks, or appreciation, must in the end become destructive
to the highest genius. Praise makes a man write better. Praise gives him
that happy self-confidence which permits the flow, and helps the
expression, of his thoughts. Praise gives him audacity, a most useful
quality for an author. Jefferies could never have written his best
things but for the praise which he received. The chief reason, I verily
believe, why his work went on improving was that every year that he
lived after the appearance of the "Gamekeeper at Home" he received an
ever increasing share of praise, appreciation and encouragement.
It was somewhere about the year 1876 that I myself first fell upon some
of his work. I remember the delight with which I drank, as a bright and
refreshing draught from a clear spring-head, the story of the country
life as set forth by him, this writer, the like of whom I had never
before read. Why, we must have been blind all our lives; here were the
most wonderful things possible going on under our very noses, but we saw
them not. Nay, after reading all the books and all the papers--every
one--that Jefferies wrote between the years 1876 and 1887, after
learning from him all that he had to teach, I cannot yet see these
things. I see a hedge; I see wild rose, honeysuckle, black
briony--_herbe aux femmes battues_, the French poetically call
it--blackberry, hawthorn, and elder. I see on the banks sweet
wildflowers whose names I learn from year to year, and straightway
forget because they grow not in the streets. I know very well, because
Jefferies has told me so much, what I should be able to see in the hedge
and on the bank besides these simple things; but yet I cannot see them,
for all his teaching. Mine--alas!--are eyes which have looked into shop
windows and across crowded streets for half a century, save for certain
intervals every year; they are also eyes which need glasses; they are
slow to see things unexpected, ignorant of what should be expected; they
are helpless eyes when they are turned from men and women to flowers,
ferns, weeds, and grasses; they are, in fact, like unto the eyes of
those men with whom I mostly consort. None of us--poor street-struck
creatures!--can see the things we ought to see.
It happened unto me--by grace and special favour, I may call it--that in
the course of my earthly pilgrimage I had for a great many years certain
business transactions at regular short intervals with one who knew
Jefferies well, because he married his only sister. The habit began, as
soon as I learned that fact, of talking about Richard Jefferies as soon
as our business was completed. Henceforward, therefore, week by week, I
followed the fortunes of this man, and read not only his books and his
papers, but learned his personal history, and heard what he was doing,
and watched him curiously, unknown and unsuspected by himself. To be
sure, his own people knew little, except in general terms, about his
intentions or projects. It was not in Jefferies' nature to consult them.
Another thing I knew not, because, with characteristic pride and
reserve, he did not suffer even his brother-in-law or his sister to know
it--viz., the terrible poverty of his later days.
I have never looked upon the face of Richard Jefferies. This, now that
it is too late, is to me a deep and abiding sorrow. I always hoped some
day to see him--there seemed so much time ahead--and to tell him, face
to face, what one _ought_ to tell such a man--it is a plain duty to tell
this truth to such a man--how greatly I admired and valued his work,
with what joy I received it, with what eagerness I expected it, what
splendid qualities I found in it, what instruction and elevation of soul
I derived from it. I have never even seen this man. I was not a friend
of his--I was not even a casual acquaintance--and yet I am writing his
life. Perhaps, in this strange way, by reading all that he wrote, by
connecting his work continually with what I learned of his life and
habits, and by learning, day by day, all the things which happened to
him, I may have learned to know him more intimately even than some of
those who rejoiced in being called his friends.
As for his personal habits, Jefferies was extremely simple and regular,
even methodical. He breakfasted always at eight o'clock, often on
nothing but dry toast and tea. After breakfast he went to his study,
where he remained writing until half-past eleven. At that hour he always
went out, whatever the weather and in all seasons, and walked until one
o'clock. This morning walk was an absolute necessity for him. At one
o'clock he returned and took an early dinner, which was his only
substantial meal. His tastes were simple. He liked to have a plain roast
or boiled joint, with abundance of vegetables, of which he was very
fond, especially asparagus, sea-kale, and mushrooms. He would have
preferred ale, but he found that light claret or burgundy suited him
better, and therefore he drank daily a little of one or the other.
Dinner over, he read his daily paper, and slept for an hour by the
fireside. Perhaps this after-dinner sleep may be taken as a sign of
physical weakness. A young man of thirty ought not to want an hour's
sleep in the middle of the day. At three o'clock he awoke, and went for
another walk, coming home at half-past four. He thus walked for three
hours every day, which, for a quick walker, gives a distance of twelve
miles--a very good allowance of fresh air. Men of all kinds, who have to
keep the brain in constant activity, have found that the active exercise
of walking is more valuable than any other way of recreation in
promoting a healthy activity of the brain. To talk with children is a
rest; to visit picture-galleries changes the current of thought; to play
lawn tennis diverts the brain; but to walk both rests the brain and
stimulates it. Jefferies acquired the habit of noting down in his walks,
and storing away, those thousands of little things which make his
writings the despair of people who think themselves minute observers. He
took tea at five, and then worked again in his study till half-past
eight, when he commonly finished work for the day. In other words, he
gave up five hours of the solid day to work. It is, I think, impossible
for a man to carry on literary work of any but the humblest kind for
more than five hours a day; three hours remained for exercise, and the
rest for food, rest, and reading. He took a little supper at nine, of
cold meat and bread, with a glass of claret, and then read or conversed
until eleven, when he went to bed. He took tobacco very rarely.
He had not a large library, because the works which he most wished to
procure were generally beyond his means. For instance, he was always
desirous, but never able, to purchase Sowerby's "English Wild-Flowers."
His favourite novelists were Scott and Charles Reade. The conjunction of
these two names gives me singular pleasure, as to one who admires the
great qualities of Reade. He also liked the works of Ouida and Miss
Braddon. He never cared greatly for Charles Dickens. I think the reason
why Dickens did not touch him was that the kind of lower middle-class
life which Dickens knew so well, and loved to portray, belonged
exclusively to the town, which Jefferies did not know, and not to the
country, which he did. He was never tired of Goethe's "Faust," which was
always new to him. He loved old ballads, and among the poets, Dryden's
works were his favourite reading. In one thing he was imperious: the
house must be kept quiet--absolutely quiet--while he was at work. Any
household operations that made the least noise had to be postponed till
he went out for his walk.
I have before me a great number of note-books filled with observations,
remarks, ideas, hints, and suggestions of all kinds by him. He carried
them about during his walks, and while he was always watching the
infinite wealth and variety of Nature, the multitudinous forms of life,
he was always noting down what he saw. To read these note-books is like
reading an unclassified index to the works of Nature. And since they
throw so much light upon his methods, and prove--if that wanted any
proof--how careful he was to set down nothing that had not been noted
and proved by himself, I have copied some few pages, which are here
reproduced. Observe that these extracts are taken almost at random from
two or three note-books. The writing is cramped, and in parts very
difficult to make out.
"_Oct. 16, 1878._--Wasp and very large blue-fly struggling,
wrestling on leaf. In a few seconds wasp got the mastery, brought
his tail round, and stung twice or thrice; then bit off the fly's
proboscis, then the legs, then bit behind the head, then snipped
off the wings, then fell off leaf, but flew with burden to the
next, rolled the fly round, and literally devoured its intestines.
Dropped off the leaf in its eager haste, got on third leaf, and
continued till nothing was left but a small part of the body--the
head had been snipped off before. This was one of those large black
flies--a little blue underneath--not like meat flies, but bigger
and squarer, that go to the ivy. Ivy in bloom close by, where,
doubtless, the robber found his prey and seized it.
"While the other leaves fall, the thick foliage of the fir supports
the leaves that have been wafted to it, so that the fir's branches
are thickly sprinkled with other leaves."
"_Surrey, Oct. 27._--Red-wings numerous, and good many fieldfares.
"Ivy, brown reddish leaves, and pale-green ribs."
"_Oct. 29._--Saw hawk perched on telegraph line out of
railway-carriage window. Train passed by within ten yards; hawk did
not move.
"Street mist, London, not fog, but on clear day comes up about
two-thirds the height of the houses."
"_Nov. 3._--The horse-chestnut buds at end of boughs; tree quite
bare of leaves; all sticky, colour of deep varnish, strongly
adhesive. These showed on this tree very fully.
"Golden-crested wren, pair together Nov. 3; 'cheep-cheep' as they
slipped about maple bush, and along and up oak bough; motions like
the tree-climber up a bough; the crest triangular, point towards
beak, spot of yellow on wing.
"Still day; the earth holds its breath."
"_Nov. 11._--Gold-crested wren and tom-tit on furze clinging to the
very spikes, and apparently busy on the tiny green buds now showing
thickly on the prickles.
"The contemplation of the star, the sun, the tree raises the soul
into a trance of inner sight of nature."
"_Nov. 17._--Sycamore leaves--some few still on--spotted with
intensely black spots an inch across. Willow buds showing."
"_Nov. 23._--Oaks most beautiful in sun--elms nearly leafless, also
beech and willow--but oaks still in full leaf, some light-brown,
still trace of green, some brown, some buff, and tawny almost, save
in background, toned by shadow, a trace of red. The elms hid them
in summer; now the oaks stand out the most prominent objects
everywhere, and are seen to be three times as numerous as
expected."
"_Nov. 25._--Thrushes singing again; a mild day after week or two
cold."
"_Dec. 23._--Red-wings came within a yard, Velt (?) came within
ten, wood-pigeon the same. Weasel hunting hedge under snow;
under-ground in ivy as busy as possible; good time for them."
"_Jan. 6._--Very sharp frost, calm, some sun in morning, dull at
noon."
"_Jan. 7._--Frost, wind, dull."
"_Jan. 8._--Frost light, strong N.E. wind."
"_Jan. 9._--Frost light, some little snow, wind N.E., light."
"_Jan. 10._--Very fine, sunny, N.E. wind, sharp frosty morning.
"Orange moss on old tiles on cattle-sheds and barns a beautiful
colour; a picture."
"_Feb. 7._--Larks soaring and singing the first time; one to an
immense height; rain in morning, afternoon mild but a strong wind
from west; catkins on hazel, and buds on some hazel-bushes;
missel-thrush singing in copse; spring seems to have burst on us
all at once; chaffinches pairing, or trying to; fighting."
"_Feb. 8._--Numerous larks soaring; copse quite musical; now the
dull clouds of six weeks have cleared away, we see the sun has got
up quite high in the sky at noon."
"_Feb. 12._--Rooks, five, wading into flood in meadow, almost up to
their breasts; lark soaring and singing at half-past five, evening;
light declining; partridges have paired.
"No blue geranium in Surrey that I have seen."
"_Feb. 17._--Rooks busy at nests, jackdaws at steeple; sliding down
with wings extended, 4.50, to gardens below at great speed."
"_Feb. 20._--Ploughs at work again; have not seen them for three
months almost."
"_Feb. 21._--Snow three or four inches; broom bent down; the green
stalks that stand up bent right down; afterwards bright sunshine
for some hours, and then clouded again."
"_Feb. 22._--Berries on wild ivy on birch-tree, round and
fully-formed and plentiful; berries not formed on garden ivy."
"_Feb. 27._--Snow on ground since morning of 21st; four wild ducks
going over to east; first seen here for two years; larks fighting
and singing over snow; thawing; snow disappeared during day; tomtit
at birch-tree buds; pigeons still in large flocks."
"_March 7._--Splendid day; warm sun, scarcely any wind;
wood-pigeons calling in copse here."
"_April 16._--Elms beginning to get green with leaf-buds; apple
leaf-buds opening green."
"_May 12._--A real May-day at last; warm, west wind, sunshine;
birds singing as if hearts would burst; four or five blackbirds all
in hearing at once; butterfly, small white, tipped with yellowish
red; song of thrush more varied even than nightingale; if rare,
people would go miles to hear it, never the same in same bird, and
every bird different; fearless, too; _operatic_ singer.
"More stitchwort; now common; it looks like ten petals, but is
really five; the top of the petal divided, which gives the
appearance; a delicate, beautiful white; leaves in pairs, pointed.
"Humble-bees do suck cowslips."
"_May 14._--Lark singing beautifully in the still dark and clouded
sky at a quarter to three o'clock in the morning; about twenty
minutes afterwards the first thrush; thought I heard distant
cuckoo--not sure; and ten minutes after that the copse by garden
perfectly ringing with the music. A beautiful May morning;
thoroughly English morning: southerly wind, warm light breeze,
smart showers of warm rain, and intervals of brilliant sunshine;
the leaves in copse beautiful delicate green, refreshed, cleaned,
and a still more lovely green from the shower; behind them the blue
sky, and above the bright sun; white detached clouds sailing past.
That is the morning; afternoon more cloudy.
"More swifts later in evening. The first was flying low down
against wind; seemed to progress from tip to tip of wing,
alternately throwing himself along, now one tip downwards, now the
other, like hand-over-hand swimming. Furze-chat, first in furze
opposite, perched on high branch of furze above the golden blossom
thick on that branch; a way of shaking wings while perched;
'chat-chat' low; head and part of neck black, white ring or band
below, brownish general colour. Nightingale singing on
elm-branch--a large, thick branch, projecting over the green by
roadside--perched some twenty-five feet high. Yellow-hammer noticed
a day or two ago perched on branch lengthwise, not across. Oaks:
more oaks out. Ash: thought I saw one with the large black buds
enlarged and lengthened, but not yet burst."
"_May 18._--The white-throat feeds on the brink of the ditch,
perching on fallen sticks or small bushes; there is then no
appearance of a crest; afterwards he flies up to the topmost twig
of the bush, or on a sapling tree, and immediately he begins to
sing, and the feathers on the top of his head are all ruffled up,
as if brushed the wrong way."
"_May 20._--Coo of dove in copse first."
"_May 21._--The flies teased in the lane to-day--the first time."
Such a man as Jefferies, with his necessities of fresh air and solitude,
should have been adopted and tenderly nursed by some rich man; or he
should have been piloted by some agent who would have transacted all his
business for him, placed his articles in the most advantageous way,
procured him the best price possible for his books, and relieved him
from the trouble of haggling and bargaining--a necessary business to one
who lives by his pen, but to one of his disposition an intolerable
trouble. It would, again, one thinks, have proved a profitable
speculation if some publisher had given him a small solid income in
return for having all his work. Consider: for the truly beautiful papers
on the country life which Jefferies wrote, there were the magazines in
which they might first appear, both American and English, and there was
the volume form afterwards. Would four hundred pounds a year--to
Jefferies it would have seemed affluence--have been too much to pay for
such a man? I think that from a commercial point of view, even including
the year when he was too ill to do any work, it might have paid so to
run Jefferies. As it was, he had no one to advise him. He drifted
helplessly from publisher to publisher. His name stood high, and rose
steadily higher, yet he made no more money by his books. The value of
his work rose no higher--it even fell lower. This curious fact--that
increase of fame should not bring increase of money--Jefferies did not
and could not understand. It constantly irritated and annoyed him. He
thought that he was being defrauded out of his just dues. On this point
I will, however, speak again immediately.
The young couple remained at Swindon until February, 1877, when
Jefferies thought himself justified in giving up his post on the _North
Wilts Herald_, and in removing nearer London. But it must not be too
near London. He must only be near in the sense of ready access by train.
Therefore he took a house at Surbiton--it was at No. 2, Woodside. At
this semi-rural place one is near to the river, the fields, and the
woods. It is not altogether a desertion of the country. Jefferies
_could_ not leave the country altogether. It was necessary for him to
breathe the fresh air of the turf and the fragrance of the newly-turned
clods. He could not live, much less work, unless he did this. As for his
work, that was daily suggested and stimulated by this continual
communing with Nature. Poverty might prick him--it might make him uneasy
for the moment--it never made him unhappy--but unless his brain was full
to overflowing, he could not work. Out of the abundance of his heart his
mouth spoke. It seems, indeed, futile to regret that such a man as this
did not make a more practical advantage to himself out of his success.
He could not. If a man cannot, he cannot. Just as in scientific
observation there is a personal equation, so in the conduct of life
there is a personal limitation. Some unknown force holds back a man when
he has reached a certain point. The life of every man, rightly studied,
shows his personal limitation. But without the whole life of a man
spread out before us, it is not easy to understand where this personal
limitation begins. There is no more to be said when this is once
understood. It is a matter of personal limitation. Those kindly people
who continually occupy themselves with the concerns of their neighbours,
constantly go wrong because they do not understand the personal
limitation. What we call fate is often another word for limitation. Why
do I not write better English, and why have I not a nobler style, and
why cannot I become the greatest writer who ever lived? Because I cannot
rise above a certain level. If I am a wise man, I find out that level; I
reach it, and am content therewith. Why did not Jefferies make himself
rich with the opportunities he had? Because he could not. Because to
grasp an opportunity and to turn it to his own material interest was a
thing beyond his personal limitation. To seize Time by the forelock,
though he go ever so slowly, is to some men impossible. For while they
look on and hesitate, another steps in before them; or the world is
looking on and observes the situation, ready to sneer and snigger, and
there seems a kind of meanness in the act--very likely there _is_
meanness; or to do so one must trample on one's neighbours; or one must
desert one's habits of life, throw over all that one loves, and make a
change of which the least that can be said is that it is certain to make
one uncomfortable for the remainder of life.
Therefore, Jefferies suffered that forelock to be plucked by another,
and continued to wander about the fields. He had now indeed attained the
object of his ambition. He was not only a recognised and successful
writer, but his work was also looked for and loved. Happy that author
who knows that his work is expected before it is ready, and is loved
when it appears. Henceforth he made no more mistakes. He understood by
this time his personal limitation. His work, as well as his days, must
be concerning the fields and the wild life. Year after year that work
becomes more beautiful until the end. As for an income, it was mainly
secured by his contributions to the magazines and journals. He wrote,
during the last ten years of his life, for nearly all the magazines,
but especially for _Longman's_. He also contributed to the _Standard_,
the _St. James's_, the _Pall Mall_, the _Graphic_, the _World_, and
other papers. Most of these articles he gathered together as soon as
there were enough of them, and published them in a volume. In this way
he made a little more out of them. He even contrived to save a little
money. But his income was never very great.
The first five of the works on the country life were published by
Messrs. Smith and Elder. These were the "Gamekeeper at Home," "Wild Life
in a Southern County," "The Amateur Poacher," "Greene Ferne Farm," and
"Round About a Great Estate." Then he did either a very foolish or a
very unfortunate thing. He left Messrs. Smith and Elder, and for the
rest of his life he went about continually changing his publisher,
always in the hope of getting a better price for his volumes, and always
chafing at the smallness of the pecuniary result. An author should never
change his publisher, unless he is compelled to do so by the misfortune
of starting with a shark, a thing which has happened unto many. The
very fact of having all his works in the same hands greatly assists
their sale. A reader who is delighted, for instance, with "Red Deer,"
and would wish to get other books by the same author, finds the name of
Longmans on the back, but no list of those books published by Smith and
Elder, Chatto and Windus, Cassell and Co., and Sampson Low and Co. I
have myself found it very difficult to get a complete set of Jefferies'
books. At the London Library, even, they do not possess a complete set.
Then that reader lays down his book, and presently forgets his purpose.
I suppose that there are very few, even of Jefferies' greatest admirers,
who actually possess all his works.
He was, as I have already said, bitter against publishers for the small
sums they offered him. He made the not uncommon mistake of supposing
that, because the reviews spoke of his works in terms so laudatory,
which, indeed, no reviewers could refrain from doing, the public were
eagerly buying them. I have, myself, had perhaps an exceptional
experience of authors, their grumblings, and their grievances, and I
know that this confusion of thought--this unwarranted conclusion--is
very widespread. An author, that is to say, reads a highly-complimentary
review of his work, and looks for an immense and immediate demand in
consequence for that work. Well, every good review helps a book,
undoubtedly, but to a much smaller extent, from the pecuniary point of
view, than is generally believed. The demand for a book is created in
quite other ways; partly by the author's previous works, which, little
by little, or, if he is lucky, at a single bound, create a _clientele_
of those who like his style; partly by the talk of people who tell each
other what they have read, and recommend this or that book. Then, since
most books are read from the circulating library, and that kind of
personal recommendation, especially with a new writer, takes time, the
libraries are able to get along with a comparatively small number of
copies; in fact, an author may have a very considerable name, and yet
make, even with the honourable houses, quite a small sum of money by any
work. Again, this is not, one sorrowfully owns, a country which buys
books. My compatriots will buy everything and anything, except books.
They will lavish their money in every conceivable manner, except
one--they never commit extravagances in buying books. For the greater
part, the three-guinea subscription to the library is the whole of the
family expenditure for the greatest, the only unfailing, delight that
life has to offer them.
Again, in the case of Richard Jefferies, the demand for his books was
confined to a comparatively small number of readers. I do not suppose
that his work will ever be widely popular, and yet I am certain that his
reputation will grow and increase. Of all modern writers, I know of none
of whom one can predict with such absolute certainty that he will live.
He will surely live. He draws, as no other writer has done, the actual
life of rural England under Queen Victoria. For the very fidelity of
these pictures alone he must live. No other writers, except Jefferies
and Thomas Hardy, have been able to depict this life. And, what is even
more, as the hills, and fields, and woods, and streams are ever with
us, whether we are savages or civilized beings, whatever our manners,
dress, fashions, laws or customs, the man who speaks with truth of these
speaks for all time and for all mankind.
Yet he is not, and will never be, widely popular. There are many
persons, presumably persons of culture, who cannot read Jefferies. A
country parson--poor man!--observed to me in Swindon itself, that he
hoped the biography of Richard Jefferies would not prove so dry as the
works of Richard Jefferies. These, he said, with the cheerful dogmatism
of his kind, were as dry as a stick, and impossible to read. Now, this
good man was probably in some sort a scholar. He lives in the Jefferies
county. All round him are the hills and downs described in these works.
To us those hills and downs are now filled with life, beauty, and all
kinds of delightful things, entirely through those very books. The good
vicar finds them so dry that he cannot read them. Others there are who
complain that Jefferies is always "cataloguing." One understands what is
meant. To some of us the picture is always being improved by the
addition of another blade of grass, another dead leaf, or the ear of a
hare visible among the turnip-tops; others are fatigued by these little
details. Jefferies is too full for them.
Another thing against him in the minds of the frivolous is that you
cannot skip in reading Jefferies. To take up a volume is to read it
right through from beginning to end. You can no more skip Jefferies than
you can skip Emerson. Now, most readers like to rush a volume. You
cannot rush Jefferies. I defy the most rapid reader to rush Jefferies.
You might as well try to rush the Proof of the Binomial Theorem. Others
there are who like to be made to laugh or to cry. This man never laughs.
You may, perhaps, put down the book and smile at the incongruities of
the rustic talk, but you do not laugh. Hardy's rustics will make you
laugh a whole summer's day through, but Jefferies' rustics never. He is
always in earnest. Hardy is a humorist; Jefferies is not. And, worst sin
of all in him who courts popularity, he makes his readers think. Men
who live alone, who walk about alone, who commune with Nature all day
long, do not laugh, and do not make others laugh.
For these reasons, then, among others, Jefferies was never popular,
despite the laudatory reviews and the readiness with which editors
welcomed his work.
As to the remuneration which he received. With these considerations in
our minds, let us next remember that publishing is a business
undertaken, not for love of literature or of authors, but for profit,
for a livelihood, for making money. It is, therefore, conducted upon
"business principles." Now, in business of every kind, the first rule is
that the business man must "make a profit on every transaction." You
must pay your publisher, if you engage one, just as you must pay your
solicitor. This is fair, just, and honest. You must pay him for his time
and his trouble. He must be paid either by the author, or out of the
books which he sells. The only question, therefore, not including
certain awkward points into which we need not here enter--I am speaking
only of honourable houses--is what proportion of a book's returns, or
what sum, should be paid to a publisher for his trouble. Now, I have
learned enough of the sale of Jefferies' books, and of the sums which he
received for them, to be satisfied that his publishers' services were by
no means exorbitantly paid by the sale of his books, and that no more,
from a business point of view, could have been given. That is to say, if
more had been given, it would have been as a free gift, or act of
charity, which this author would have spurned. All these things,
however, he could not understand, perhaps because they were never
explained to him.
I have been told by one who knew Jefferies from boyhood that he was
indolent, and would never have worked had it not been for necessity. His
writings do not convey to me the idea of an indolent man. On the
contrary, they are those of a man of an intellect so active that he must
have been compelled to work. Yet one can understand that he could not
work, after making the grand discovery of what his work should be, until
his brain was overflowing with the subject. Generally it was a single
and a simple subject round which he wove his tapestry. The subject once
conceived, he could do nothing until his brain was charged and possessed
with it.
His life has henceforth no incidents to record, except those of work and
illness. He worked, he walked, he wrote, he walked again, he read, he
watched and observed, he thought. That is his life, until illness fell
upon him. Always a silent man, always a man of few friends, always a man
of simple habits, in all weathers delighting to be out of doors,
refusing to put on a great-coat or to carry an umbrella.
He changed his residence several times. From Surbiton, where he stayed
for five years, he went to West Brighton, to a house called "Savernake."
Did he himself christen it after the forest which he knew so well?
Thence, in 1884, he went to Eltham, where he took a house in the
Victoria Road. Then, I suppose, an irresistible yearning for some place
far from men seized him, for he moved again, and went to live at a
cottage two miles and a half from Crowborough Station, near Crowborough
Hill, the highest spot in Sussex. Again he stayed for a few weeks on
the Quantock Hills, Somerset. Lastly, he went to live at a house called
Sea View, at Goring, where he died.