


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