Produced by David Widger
THE WEAVERS
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS
BOOK I
I. AS THE SPIRIT MOVED
II. THE GATES OF THE WORLD
III. BANISHED
IV. THE CALL
BOOK II
V. THE WIDER WAY
VI. “HAST THOU NEVER BILLED A MANY”
VII. THE COMPACT
VIII. FOR HIS SOUL’S SAKE AND THE LAND’S SAKE
IX. THE LETTER, THE NIGHT, AND THE WOMAN
X. THE FOUR WHO KNEW
XI. AGAINST THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT
XII. THE JEHAD AND THE LIONS
XIII. ACHMET THE ROPEMAKER STRIKES
XIV. BEYOND THE PALE
BOOK III
XV. SOOLSBY’S HAND UPON THE CURTAIN
XVI. THE DEBT AND THE ACCOUNTING
XVII. THE WOMAN OF THE CROSS-ROADS
XVIII. TIME, THE IDOL-BREAKER
XIX. SHARPER THAN A SWORD
XX. EACH AFTER HIS OWN ORDER
XXI. “THERE IS NOTHING HIDDEN WHICH SHALL NOT BE REVEALED”
XXII. AS IN A GLASS DARKLY
XXIII. THE TENTS OF CUSHAN
XXIV. THE QUESTIONER
XXV. THE VOICE THROUGH THE DOOR
XXVI. “I OWE YOU NOTHING”
XXVII. THE AWAKENING
BOOK IV
XXVIII. NAHOUM TURNS THE SCREW
XXIX. THE RECOIL
XXX. LACEY MOVES
XXXI. THE STRUGGLE IN THE DESERT
XXXII. FORTY STRIPES SAVE ONE
XXXIII. THE DARK INDENTURE
XXXIV. NAHOUM DROPS THE MASK
BOOK V
XXXV. THE FLIGHT OF THE WOUNDED
XXXVI. “IS IT ALWAYS SO-IN LIFE?”
XXXVII. THE FLYING SHUTTLE
XXXVIII. JASPER KIMBER SPEAKS
XXXIX. FAITH JOURNEYS TO LONDON
BOOK VI
XL. HYLDA SEEKS NAHOUM
XLI. IN THE LAND OF SHINAR
XLII. THE LOOM OF DESTINY
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?”
CHAPTER I. AS THE SPIRIT MOVED
The village lay in a valley which had been the bed of a great river in
the far-off days when Ireland, Wales and Brittany were joined together
and the Thames flowed into the Seine. The place had never known turmoil
or stir. For generations it had lived serenely.
Three buildings in the village stood out insistently, more by the
authority of their appearance and position than by their size. One was a
square, red-brick mansion in the centre of the village, surrounded by a
high, redbrick wall enclosing a garden. Another was a big, low, graceful
building with wings. It had once been a monastery. It was covered
with ivy, which grew thick and hungry upon it, and it was called the
Cloistered House. The last of the three was of wood, and of no great
size--a severely plain but dignified structure, looking like some
council-hall of a past era. Its heavy oak doors and windows with
diamond panes, and its air of order, cleanliness and serenity, gave it
a commanding influence in the picture. It was the key to the history of
the village--a Quaker Meeting-house.
Involuntarily the village had built itself in such a way that it made
a wide avenue from the common at one end to the Meeting-house on the
gorse-grown upland at the other. With a demure resistance to the will
of its makers the village had made itself decorative. The people were
unconscious of any attractiveness in themselves or in their village.
There were, however, a few who felt the beauty stirring around them.
These few, for their knowledge and for the pleasure which it brought,
paid the accustomed price. The records of their lives were the only
notable history of the place since the days when their forefathers
suffered for the faith.
One of these was a girl--for she was still but a child when she died;
and she had lived in the Red Mansion with the tall porch, the wide
garden behind, and the wall of apricots and peaches and clustering
grapes. Her story was not to cease when she was laid away in the stiff
graveyard behind the Meeting-house. It was to go on in the life of her
son, whom to bring into the world she had suffered undeserved, and loved
with a passion more in keeping with the beauty of the vale in which she
lived than with the piety found on the high-backed seats in the Quaker
Meeting-house. The name given her on the register of death was Mercy
Claridge, and a line beneath said that she was the daughter of Luke
Claridge, that her age at passing was nineteen years, and that “her soul
was with the Lord.”
Another whose life had given pages to the village history was one of
noble birth, the Earl of Eglington. He had died twenty years after the
time when Luke Claridge, against the then custom of the Quakers, set up
a tombstone to Mercy Claridge’s memory behind the Meeting-house. Only
thrice in those twenty years had he slept in a room of the Cloistered
House. One of those occasions was the day on which Luke Claridge put up
the grey stone in the graveyard, three years after his daughter’s death.
On the night of that day these two men met face to face in the garden of
the Cloistered House. It was said by a passer-by, who had involuntarily
overheard, that Luke Claridge had used harsh and profane words to Lord
Eglington, though he had no inkling of the subject of the bitter talk.
He supposed, however, that Luke had gone to reprove the other for a
wasteful and wandering existence; for desertion of that Quaker religion
to which his grandfather, the third Earl of Eglington, had turned in
the second half of his life, never visiting his estates in Ireland, and
residing here among his new friends to his last day. This listener--John
Fairley was his name--kept his own counsel. On two other occasions had
Lord Eglington visited the Cloistered House in the years that passed,
and remained many months. Once he brought his wife and child. The former
was a cold, blue-eyed Saxon of an old family, who smiled distantly upon
the Quaker village; the latter, a round-headed, warm-faced youth, with a
bold, menacing eye, who probed into this and that, rushed here and there
as did his father; now built a miniature mill; now experimented at some
peril in the laboratory which had been arranged in the Cloistered House
for scientific experiments; now shot partridges in the fields where
partridges had not been shot for years; and was as little in the picture
as his adventurous father, though he wore a broad-brimmed hat, smiling
the while at the pain it gave to the simple folk around him.
And yet once more the owner of the Cloistered House returned alone. The
blue-eyed lady was gone to her grave; the youth was abroad. This time
he came to die. He was found lying on the floor of his laboratory with
a broken retort in fragments beside him. With his servant, Luke
Claridge was the first to look upon him lying in the wreck of his last
experiment, a spirit-lamp still burning above him, in the grey light
of a winter’s morning. Luke Claridge closed the eyes, straightened
the body, and crossed the hands over the breast which had been the
laboratory of many conflicting passions of life.
The dead man had left instructions that his body should be buried in the
Quaker graveyard, but Luke Claridge and the Elders prevented that--he
had no right to the privileges of a Friend; and, as the only son was
afar, and no near relatives pressed the late Earl’s wishes, the ancient
family tomb in Ireland received all that was left of the owner of the
Cloistered House, which, with the estates in Ireland and the title,
passed to the wandering son.