the land of footprints-第1章

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The　Land　of　Footprints

by　Stewart　Edward　White






I。　ON　BOOKS　OF　ADVENTURE

Books　of　sporting；　travel；　and　adventure　in　countries　little　known　to　the　average　reader　naturally　fall　in　two　classes…neither；　with　a　very　few　exceptions；　of　great　value。　One　class　is　perhaps　the　logical　result　of　the　other。

Of　the　first　type　is　the　book　that　is　written　to　make　the　most　of　far　travels；　to　extract　from　adventure　the　last　thrill；　to　impress　the　awestricken　reader　with　a　full　sense　of　the　danger　and　hardship　the　writer　has　undergone。　Thus；　if　the　latter　takes　out　quite　an　ordinary　routine　permit　to　go　into　certain　districts；　he　makes　the　most　of　travelling　in　〃closed　territory；〃　implying　that　he　has　obtained　an　especial　privilege；　and　has　penetrated　where　few　have　gone　before　him。　As　a　matter　of　fact；　the　permit　is　issued　merely　that　the　authorities　may　keep　track　of　who　is　where。　Anybody　can　get　one。　This　class　of　writer　tells　of　shooting　beasts　at　customary　ranges　of　four　and　five　hundred　yards。　I　remember　one　in　especial　who　airily　and　as　a　matter　of　fact　killed　all　his　antelope　at　such　ranges。　Most　men　have　shot　occasional　beasts　at　a　quarter　mile　or　so；　but　not　airily　nor　as　a　matter　of　fact：　rather　with　thanksgiving　and　a　certain　amount　of　surprise。　The　gentleman　of　whom　I　speak　mentioned　getting　an　eland　at　seven　hundred　and　fifty　yards。　By　chance　I　happened　to　mention　this　to　a　native　Africander。

〃Yes；〃　said　he；　〃I　remember　that；　I　was　there。〃

This　interested　me…and　I　said　so。

〃He　made　a　long　shot；〃　said　I。

〃A　GOOD　long　shot；〃　replied　the　Africander。

〃Did　you　pace　the　distance？〃

He　laughed。　〃No；〃　said　he；　〃the　old　chap　was　immensely　delighted。　'Eight　hundred　yards　if　it　was　an　inch！'　he　cried。〃

〃How　far　was　it？〃

〃About　three　hundred　and　fifty。　But　it　was　a　long　shot；　all　right。〃

And　it　was！　Three　hundred　and　fifty　yards　is　a　very　long　shot。　It　is　over　four　city　blocks…New　York　size。　But　if　you　talk　often　enough　and　glibly　enough　of　〃four　and　five　hundred　yards；〃　it　does　not　sound　like　much；　does　it？

The　same　class　of　writer　always　gets　all　the　thrills。　He　speaks　of　〃blanched　cheeks；〃　of　the　〃thrilling　suspense；〃　and　so　on　down　the　gamut　of　the　shilling　shocker。　His　stuff　makes　good　reading；　there　is　no　doubt　of　that。　The　spellbound　public　likes　it；　and　to　that　extent　it　has　fulfilled　its　mission。　Also；　the　reader　believes　it　to　the　letter…why　should　he　not？　Only　there　is　this　curious　result：　he　carries　away　in　his　mind　the　impression　of　unreality；　of　a　country　impossible　to　be　understood　and　gauged　and　savoured　by　the　ordinary　human　mental　equipment。　It　is　interesting；　just　as　are　historical　novels；　or　the　copper…riveted　heroes　of　modern　fiction；　but　it　has　no　real　relation　with　human　life。　In　the　last　analysis　the　inherent　untruth　of　the　thing　forces　itself　on　him。　He　believes；　but　he　does　not　apprehend；　he　acknowledges　the　fact；　but　he　cannot　grasp　its　human　quality。　The　affair　is　interesting；　but　it　is　more　or　less　concocted　of　pasteboard　for　his　amusement。　Thus　essential　truth　asserts　its　right。

All　this；　you　must　understand；　is　probably　not　a　deliberate　attempt　to　deceive。　It　is　merely　the　recrudescence　under　the　stimulus　of　a　brand…new　environment　of　the　boyish　desire　to　be　a　hero。　When　a　man　jumps　back　into　the　Pleistocene　he　digs　up　some　of　his　ancestors'　cave…qualities。　Among　these　is　the　desire　for　personal　adornment。　His　modern　development　of　taste　precludes　skewers　in　the　ears　and　polished　wire　around　the　neck；　so　he　adorns　himself　in　qualities　instead。　It　is　quite　an　engaging　and　diverting　trait　of　character。　The　attitude　of　mind　it　both　presupposes　and　helps　to　bring　about　is　too　complicated　for　my　brief　analysis。　In　itself　it　is　no　more　blameworthy　than　the　small　boy's　pretence　at　Indians　in　the　back　yard；　and　no　more　praiseworthy　than　infantile　decoration　with　feathers。

In　its　results；　however；　we　are　more　concerned。　Probably　each　of　us　has　his　mental　picture　that　passes　as　a　symbol　rather　than　an　idea　of　the　different　continents。　This　is　usually　a　single　picture…a　deep　river；　with　forest；　hanging　snaky　vines；　anacondas　and　monkeys　for　the　east　coast　of　South　America；　for　example。　It　is　built　up　in　youth　by　chance　reading　and　chance　pictures；　and　does　as　well　as　a　pink　place　on　the　map　to　stand　for　a　part　of　the　world　concerning　which　we　know　nothing　at　all。　As　time　goes　on　we　extend；　expand；　and　modify　this　picture　in　the　light　of　what　knowledge　we　may　acquire。　So　the　reading　of　many　books　modifies　and　expands　our　first　crude　notions　of　Equatorial　Africa。　And　the　result　is；　if　we　read　enough　of　the　sort　I　describe　above；　we　build　the　idea　of　an　exciting；　dangerous；　extra…human　continent；　visited　by　half…real　people　of　the　texture　of　the　historical…fiction　hero；　who　have　strange　and　interesting　adventures　which　we　could　not　possibly　imagine　happening　to　ourselves。

This　type　of　book　is　directly　responsible　for　the　second　sort。　The　author　of　this　is　deadly　afraid　of　being　thought　to　brag　of　his　adventures。　He　feels　constantly　on　him　the　amusedly　critical　eye　of　the　old…timer。　When　he　comes　to　describe　the　first　time　a　rhino　dashed　in　his　direction；　he　remembers　that　old　hunters；　who　have　been　so　charged　hundreds　of　times；　may　read　the　book。　Suddenly；　in　that　light；　the　adventure　becomes　pitifully　unimportant。　He　sets　down　the　fact　that　〃we　met　a　rhino　that　turned　a　bit　nasty；　but　after　a　shot　in　the　shoulder　decided　to　leave　us　alone。〃　Throughout　he　keeps　before　his　mind's　eye　the　imaginary　audience　of　those　who　have　done。　He　writes　for　them；　to　please　them；　to　convince　them　that　he　is　not　〃swelled　head；〃　nor　〃cocky；〃　nor　〃fancies　himself；〃　nor　thinks　he　has　done；　been；　or　seen　anything　wonderful。　It　is　a　good；　healthy　frame　of　mind　to　be　in；　but　it；　no　more　than　the　other　type；　can　produce　books　that　leave　on　the　minds　of　the　general　public　any　impression　of　a　country　in　relation　to　a　real　human　being。

As　a　matter　of　fact；　the　same　trouble　is　at　the　bottom　of　both　failures。　The　adventure　writer；　half　unconsciously　perhaps；　has　been　too　much　occupied　play…acting　himself　into　half…forgotten　boyhood　heroics。　The　more　modest　man；　with　even　more　self…consciousness；　has　been　thinking　of　how　he　is　going　to　appear　in　the　eyes　of　the　expert。　Both　have　thought　of　themselves　before　their　work。　This　aspect　of　the　matter　would　probably　vastly　astonish　the　modest　writer。

If；　then；　one　is　to　formulate　an　ideal　toward　which　to　write；　he　might　express　it　exactly　in　terms　of　man　and　environment。　Those　readers　desiring　sheer　exploration　can　get　it　in　any　library：　those　in　search　of　sheer　romantic　adventure　can　purchase　plenty　of　it　at　any　book…stall。　But　the　majority　want　something　different　from　either　of　these。　They　want；　first　of　all；　to　know　what　the　country　is　like…not　in　vague　and　grandiose　〃word　paintings；〃　nor　in　strange　and　foreign　sounding　words　and　phrases；　but　in　comparison　with　something　they　know。　What　is　it　nearest　like…Arizona？　Surrey？　Upper　New　York？　Canada？　Mexico？　Or　is　it　totally　different　from　anything；　as　is　the　Grand　Canyon？　When　you　look　out　from　your　camp…any　one　camp…how　far　do　you　see；　and　what　do　you　see？…mountains　in　the　distance；　or　a　screen　of　vines　or　bamboo　near　hand；　or　what？　When　you　get　up　in　the　morning；　what　is　the　first　thing　to　do？　What　does　a　rhino　look　like；　where　he　lives；　and　what　did　you　do　the　first　time　one　came　at　you？　I　don't　want　you　to　tell　me　as　though　I　were　either　an　old　hunter　or　an　admiring　audience；　or　as　though　you　were　afraid　somebody　might　think　you　were　making　too　much　of　the　matter。　I　want　to　know　how　you　REALLY　felt。　Were　you　scared　or　nervous？　or　did　you　become　cool？　Tell　me　frankly　just　how　it　was；　so　I　can　see　the　thing　as　happening　to　a　common　everyday　human　being。　Then；　even　at　second…hand　and　at　ten　thousand　miles　distance；　I　can　enjoy　it　actually；　humanly；　even　though　vicariously；　speculating　a　bit　over　my　pipe　as　to　how　I　would　have　liked　it　myself。

Obviously；　to　write　such　a　book　the　author　must　at　the　same　time　sink　his　ego　and　exhibit　frankly　his　personality。　The　paradox　in　this　is　only　apparent。　He　must　forget　either　to　strut　or　to　blush　with　diffidence。　Neither　audience　should　be　forgotten；　and　nei