Evening star., 1937-03-06
By Mary-Carter Roberts.

HIS is his autobiography.
.s,.4 He began it. so he tells US.
when he was 10. He made no
50 L announcements" of the un-
-4dertaking No one knew of the manu-
script during his lifetime. From certain
turns OF phrase in the last chapter
the inference must needs be made that
he did not intend himself to see 1t ap-
pear in print. There is something sad
@deaing about taking up any work pro-
.dlced with such a reservation.
It is about what one familiar with
him would expect 1t is simple. per-
Sectly written statement.
It Is a writer's story, not mans, ana
that, of course, is as 1t should be. For
the world knew him as a writer, and
he. for his part, knew the world simply
as writer's stuff. His art was oo]ec-
tivity. As a man he avoided and re-
fused as far as possible any public
manner of existence.
He has less need of Interpreters"
than any modern writer who comes to
mind. But Interpreters" there will be.
without a doubt. even as there have
already been His death a year ago
called forth brief rash of them in the
press, and such was their accomplish
rnent that one was forced TO conclude
that few had read any work OF his ex-
cept THE Jungle Book. "Recessional'
and THE Widow at Windsor" Even
while he lay in state there was a gen.
eral grudging unwillingnesS to refer to
the incompatible beauty of his prose.
and q corresponding insistence on the
orthodox sentiment of his poetry.
The reviewer, observing these things,
was put in mind of time when she
asked a learned man why, in general,
the English were hated by the rest OF
the peoples of Europe and the learned
man replied: In general, because they
are successful and happy" Kiping
was successful as few writer's have
been in the entire history of the world
And he was, until the last years OF his
life, by his own confession, happy. The
moral needs no pointing. 1t is to be
expected. human nature being what it
Is, that interpreting" will continue, for
some years at least.
But here we have his own word for
himself. forestalling literary opportun-
lists to some degree at least. Here he
writes OF how he came to be the writer
that he was. One remembers, as one
reads his work, the repeated refer
ences that were made in his last years
to his failing powers" He never wrote
better than in this brief book. 1t is
prose to be dreamed of.
LIE BEGINS with his very early
childhood in Lahore. when, as he
records, he thought and dreamed ir
the vernacular, and spoke English only
when summoned to the presence of his
parents, and then with difficulty. CA
great deal of kim is here.) He goes
on from this to his young boyhood in
England, where he was left in the
charge of a woman who made busi-
ness of boarding-and an art of tortur-
ing-the children of officers stationed
in India. (See "Baa, Baa, Black
Sheep" and the first of THE Light
That Failed") Then came his school
days, when "Stalky and Company" was
a reality in his life and, contrary to the
experience of the opposition, he found
not only innocent friendships but
sound education. Then, at is, he re-
turned to India to become fifty per
cent of the staff of a small white
newspaper. at which work, he says, he
spent seven years hard"-seven years,
that is, writing every day for task
masters of the most eXacting stand.
ards. He was sick much of the time.
but, he writes, Il learned that man
can work with a temperature Of l04,
even though next day he has to ask the
Office who wrote the article q. From
! the modern point OF view suppose
the life was not fit for dog, but my
world was filled with boys but few
years older than who lived utterly
alone, and died from typhoid mostly
at the regulation age Of 22,'
At the end of this period he sold his
"Plain Tales From the Hills" for so
pounds, the collected stories which he
had contributed to his paper for 200,
and Departmental Ditties' for an
amount which he subsequently forgot,
and turned his face to the conquest of
England. 1t is history that, before he
was 25, he was one of the most
spectacular successes of which literary
history has any record.
OF this Intoxicating triumph he
writes SWeetly enough. Il was plenti-
fully assured" he says, 'vive voce and
in the press cuttings-which is drug
that do not recommend to the young
that nothing since Dickens COM
pared with my 'meteoric rise to fame
etc. (But I was more or less inocu-
lated, if not immune to the coarser
sorts Of print.) And there was my
Academy as notoriety. (But had
a Muhammedans objection to having
my face taken, as likely to draw the
evil eye. So was not too puffed up)
And there we're letters and letters of
all sorts of tendencies. (But if I
answered them all I might as we'll be
back at my old table, And there
were proposals from certain people OF
Importance, insistent and unscru-
pulous as horse-copers, telling me
how the ball was at my feet and that
had only to kick it-by repeating
the notes had already struck and
trailing characters I had already
: created through impossible scenes
to achieve all sorts of desirable things
But had seen men as well as horses
foundered in my lost world behind
me. One thing only stood fast through
this welter. was making money
much more than four hundred rupees
a month-and when my bank book
told me I had one Thousand whole
pounds saved, the Strand was hardly
wide enough for my triumph. had
intended book TO take advantage Of
the market This I had just sense
enough to countermand."