Here the written record of my friend's life ends, though it clearly
was not part of his design that this should be its end. Thanks to Mrs.
Blades, I have a record of the date of Freydon's last writing. It came
two days before his own end. He died alone, and, by the estimate of
the doctor from Peterborough, at about daybreak. The doctor thought it
likely that he passed away in his sleep; of all ends, the one he would
have chosen.
So far as my own observation informs me, the death of Nicholas Freydon
was noted by no more than three English journals: two of the oldest
morning newspapers in London, and that literary weekly which, despite
the commercial fret and fume of our time, has so far preserved itself
from the indignity of any attempted blending of books with
haberdashery or 'fancy goods.' Had Freydon died in England, I
apprehend that a somewhat larger circle of newspaper readers might
have been advertised of the fact. But I would not willingly be
understood to suggest any kind of reproach in this.
It would probably be correct to say that the writings of Nicholas
Freydon never have reached the many-headed public, whose favour gives
an author's name weight in circulating libraries and among the
gentlemen of 'The Trade.' He had no illusions on this point, and of
late years at all events cherished no dreams of fame or immortality.
But it is equally correct to say that he was genuinely a man of
letters, and there is a circle of more or less fastidious readers who
are aware that everything published under Freydon's name was, from the
literary standpoint, worth while.
For me the news of Freydon's end had something more than literary
significance. There was a period during which we shared an office
room, and I recall with peculiar satisfaction the fact that it was no
kind of friction or difficulty between us which brought an end to that
working companionship. The much longer period over which our
friendship extended was marred by no quarrel, nor even by any lapse
into mutual indifference. And it may be admitted, in all affectionate
respect, that Freydon was not exactly of those who are said to 'get on
with any one.'
In the matter of my own recent journey to Australia, the thing which I
looked forward to with keenest interest was the opportunity I thought
it would afford me of seeing and talking with Freydon, in his chosen
retreat in the Antipodes, and judging of his welfare there. And then,
on the eve of my departure, came the news that he was no more.
Under the modest roof which had sheltered him, on the coast of
northern New South Wales, I presently spent two quiet and thoughtful
weeks, given for the most part to the perusal of his papers, which,
along with his other personal effects, he had bequeathed to me. (His
remaining property was left to the friend whose name is given here as
Sidney Heron.)
Before I left that lonely, sunny spot, I had practically decided to
pass on to such members of the reading world as might be interested
therein what seemed to me the more salient and important of these
papers: the bulky document which forms a record of its writer's life.
Afterwards, as was inevitable, came much reflection, and at times some
hesitancy. But, when all is done, and the proof sheets lie before me,
my conviction is that I decided rightly out there in the bush; and
that something is inherent in these last writings of Nicholas
Freydon's which, properly understood, demands and deserves the test of
publication. Therefore, they are made available to the public, in the
belief that some may be the richer and the kindlier for reading them.
But, for revising, altering, dove-tailing, or shaping these papers,
with a view to the attainment of an orthodox form of literary
production, whether in the guise of autobiography, life-story,
dramatic fiction, or what not, I desire explicitly to disclaim all
thought of such a pretension. As I see it, that would have been an
impertinence. I cannot claim to know what Freydon's intentions may
have been regarding the ultimate disposition of these papers, having
literally no other information on the point than they themselves
furnish. Needless to say they would not be published now if I had any
kind of reason to believe, or to suspect, that my friend would have
resented such a course.
But I will say that, in the writing, I do not think Freydon had
considered the question of publication. I do not think that in these
last exercises of his pen he wrote consciously for the printer and the
public. As those who know his published work are aware, he was much
given to literary allusiveness and to quotation. In these papers such
characteristic pages did occur, it is true, but in practically every
case they had been scrawled over in pencil, and have been studiously
omitted by me in my preparation of the manuscript for the press. Here
and there it was clear that entire pages had been removed and
apparently destroyed by their writer.
Again, in this record, Freydon--always in his writings for the press,
literary and journalistic, meticulous in the matter of constructive
detail--clearly gave no thought to the arrangement of chapters or
other divisions. He wrote of his life, as he has said, to enable
himself to see it as a whole. For my part I have felt a natural
delicacy about intruding so far as to introduce chapter headings or
the like. It was easy for me to note the points at which the writer
had laid aside his pen, presumably at the day's end, for there a
portion of a sheet was left blank, and sometimes a zig-zag line was
drawn. At these points then, where the writer himself paused, I have
allowed the pause to appear. And this, in effect, represents the sum
of my small contribution to the volume; for I have altered nothing,
added nothing, and taken nothing away, beyond those previously
mentioned passages (literary rather than documentary) which the
author's own pencil had marked for deletion; the removal, where these
occurred, of references to myself; and the substitution, where that
seemed desirable, of imaginary proper names for the names of actual
places and living people as written by my friend.
Two other points, and the task which for me has certainly been a
labour of love, is done.
Nicholas Freydon was perfectly correct in his belief that he might
have wooed and won the lady who is referred to in these pages as Mrs.
Oldcastle. In this, as in other episodes of his life which happen to
be known to me, the motives behind his self-abnegation were in the
highest degree creditable to him. This I have been asked to say, and I
am glad to say it.
Among Freydon's papers was one which, for a time, greatly puzzled me.
Once I had learned precisely what this paper meant, it became for me
most deeply significant, knowing as I did that it must have been lying
where I found it, in a drawer of Freydon's work-table, while he wrote,
immediately before his last illness, the final sections of this work,
including its penultimate chapter; including, therefore, such passages
as these:
_Over and above all this I deliberately chose my 'way out,' and it is
good. I am assured the life of this my hermitage is one better suited
to the man I am to-day than any other life I could hope to lead
elsewhere.... And if I, my inner self, cannot find peace here, where
peace so clearly is, what should it profit me to go seeking it where
peace is not visible at all, and where all that is visible is turmoil,
hurry, and fret.... And, in short, _Je suis, je reste!_ ... England!
Of all the place names, the names of countries that the world has ever
known, was ever one so simply magic as this--England? ..._
This document was a certificate entitling Freydon to a passage to
England by an Orient line steamer. Upon inquiry at the offices of the
line in Sydney, I found that, twenty-eight days before his death, my
friend had booked and paid for a passage to London. At his request no
berth had been allotted, and no date fixed. But, by virtue of the
payment then made, he was assured of a passage home when he should
choose to claim it. To my mind this discovery was one of peculiar
interest, considered in the light of the concluding pages of that
record of Nicholas Freydon's thoughts and experiences which is
presented in this volume.