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[Illustration: (signature of author) From a drawing by W. Rothenstein.]
A Subjective Autobiography (1860-1922)
By John St. Loe Strachey Editor of The Spectator
"We carry with us the wonders we seek without us; there is all Africa and her prodigies in us; we are that bold and adventurous piece of Nature, which he that studies wisely learns in a compendium what others labour at in a divided piece and endless volume." SIR THOMAS BROWNE
You who know something of the irony of life in general, and still moreof it in the present particular, will not be surprised that, having madetwo strict rules for my guidance in the writing of this book, I breakthem both in the first page! Indeed, I can hear you say, though withoutany touch of the satirical, that it was only natural that I should doso.
The first of my two rules, heartily approved by you, let me add, is that
I should not mention you in my autobiography.—We both deem it foolish
as well as unseemly to violate in print the freemasonry of marriage.—
The second, not unlike the first, is not to write about living people.
And here am I hard at it in both cases!
Yet, after all, I have kept to my resolve in the spirit, if not in theletter:—and this though it has cost me some very good "copy,"—copy,too, which would have afforded me the pleasantest of memories. There arethings seen by us together which I much regret to leave unchronicled,but these must wait for another occasion. Many of them are quitesuitable to be recorded in one's lifetime. For example, I should dearlylike to set forth our ride from Jerusalem to Damascus, together withsome circumstances, as an old-fashioned traveller might have said,concerning the Garden of the Jews at Jahoni, and the strange andbeautiful creature we found therein.
I count myself happy indeed to have seen half the delightful and notablethings I have seen during my life, in your company. Do you remember theturbulent magnificence of our winter passage of the Splügen, not in asnowstorm, but in something much more thrilling—a fierce windstorm in agreat frost? The whirling, stinging, white dust darkened the air andcoated our sledges, our horses, and our faces. We shall neither of usever forget how just below the Hospice your sledge was actually blownover by the mere fury of the blizzard; how we tramped through thedrifts, and how all ended in "the welcome of an inn" on the summit; thehot soup and the Côtelettes de Veau. It was together, too, thatwe watched the sunrise from the Citadel at Cairo and saw the Pyramidstipped with rose and saffron. Ours, too, was the desert mirage that, inspite of reason and experience, almost betrayed us in our ride to theFayum. You shared with me what was certainly an adventure of the spirit,though not of the body, when for the first time we saw the fateful andwell-loved shores of America. The lights danced like fireflies in thegreat towers of New York, while behind them glowed in sombre splendourthe fiery Bastions of a November sunset.
But, of course, none of all this affords the reason why I dedicate mybook to you. That reason will perhaps be fully understood only by me andby our children. It can also be found in certain wise and cunning littlehearts, inscrutable as those of kings, in a London nursery. Susan,Charlotte, and Christopher c