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read over the early part with you as I feel a good deal turns on adding energy to that； and on condensing。 The Menkara bit is A1； and Cyprus is good — did you take the wreck from the Odyssey at all？ I don’t see who they can say you stole your plot from。 They’ll say the parts from Plutarch are from Shakespeare； probably they never read Plutarch！
I do not know whether I cut out much from the chapters which Lang though too long。 Probably not； since I have always been a very bad hand at making alterations in what I have once put down； unless indeed I rewrite the entire work。 Moreover； at any rate in my books； this cutting out of passages resembles the pulling of bricks from a built wall； since it will be found that every or nearly every passage； even if it is of a reflective character； is developed or alluded to in some portion of what follows。 The pulling out of bricks may or may not improve the appearance of the wall； but it certainly decreases its stability。
In the Author’s Note at the mencement of “Cleopatra” I see that I wrote the following passage； evidently having Lang’s criticism in mind：
Unfortunately it is scarcely possible to write a book of this nature and period without introducing a certain amount of illustrative matter； for by no other means can the long dead past be made to live again before the reader’s eyes with all its accessories of faded pomp and forgotten mystery。 For such students as seek a story only； and are not interested in the Faith； ceremonies； or customs of the Mother of Religion and Civilisation； ancient Egypt； it is； however； respectfully suggested that they should exercise the art of skipping and open this tale at its second book。
I dedicated “Cleopatra” to my mother； because I thought it the best book I had written or was likely to write； although since then I have modified that opinion in favour or one or two that came after it。 The following letter from her was written not long before her death； and was； I think； the last I ever received from her。
Bradenham： June 29； 1889。
My dearest Rider； — I have only a few minutes to write and thank you for your charming gift； but I must not let the week pass over without my doing so。 I think it is got up as well as possible； and the Dedication is most successfully acplished； which must be as gratifying to you as to me。 I have not thoroughly looked at the illustrations； but see that they are very much more to be liked than those of the Illustrated News。 Thank you greatly for your excellent work； my dear son。 It certainly redounds greatly to you； dearest Rider； whatever the critics may say； and I have no doubt they will do their worst。 But I think posterity will do justice to your production。 I will write no more as I cannot easily add to this。
Your ever most affectionate Mother；
Ella Haggard。
There is also a letter from my father in which he says that my mother opened and looked at the book “not without tears。” Whether she ever read it herself I do not know； for by this time her sight was failing much。
A few months later I stood at her death…bed and received her last blessing。 But of that long…drawn out and very sad scene； even after the lapse of two…and…twenty years； I cannot bear to write。
“Cleopatra” ran serially through the Illustrated London News before its appearance in book form。 It is a work that has found many friends； but my recollection is that； as my mother foresaw； it was a good deal attacked by the critics who were angry that； after Shakespeare’s play； I should dare to write of Cleopatra。 However； I have not kept any of the notices； indeed I think I saw but few。 Of professional critics already I began to feel a certain repletion。 Little do these gentlemen know the harm that they do sometimes。 A story es into my mind in illustration of this truth。 One day； years later； I was in the little writing…room of the Savile Club； that on the first floor with fern…cases in the windows where one may not smoke。 At least； so things were when I ceased to be a member。 Presently Thomas Hardy entered and took up one of the leading weekly papers in which was a long review of his last novel。 He read it； then came to me — there were no others in the room — and pointed out a certain passage。
“There’s a nice thing to say about a man！” he exclaimed。 “Well； I’ll never write another novel。”
And he never did。 This happened quite fifteen years ago。 By the way； the Savile was a very pleasant club in the late ‘eighties。 There was a certain table in the corner； near the window； where a little band of us were wont to lunch on Saturdays： Lang； Gosse； Besant； A。 Ross； Loftie； Stevenson （the cousin of the writer）； Eustace Balfour； and some others。 Of this pany the most are dead； though I believe Gosse still lunches there。 He must feel himself to be a kind of monument erected over many graves。 The last time that I visited the club there was not a soul in the place whom I knew。 So feeling lonely and over…oppressed by sundry memories； I sent in my resignation of membership。 But often as I walk down Piccadilly I look at that table through the window and think of many things； and especially of the genial talk of Walter Besant； whose funeral I attended now so long ago。 Surely he was one of the best and kindest…hearted gentlemen that ever wrote a book。 Long may his memory remain green in the annals of literature for which he did so much。
I think that about this time I must have bee rather sickened of the novel…writing trade and despondent as regards my own powers。 This I conclude from an undated and unaddressed note which I find among Lang’s letters of the period。 It runs：
Dear Haggard； — If you jack up Literature； I shall jack up Reading。 Of course I know the stuff is the thing； but the ideal thing would be the perfection of stuff and the perfection of style； and we don’t often get that； except from Henry Fielding。 Yes； I believe in “Jess”； but you can’t expect me to be in love with all your women； the heart devoted to Ayesha has no room for more。 Probably I think more highly of your books than you do； and I was infinitely more anxious for your success than for my own； which is not an excitement to me。 But Lord love you； it would be log…ro