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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
when I went through it some fi fteen years ago to correct it
for a new illustrated edition, I too have never reread it, and I
think that I never mean to do so. The thing is a living record
of our shame in South Africa, written by one by whom it was
endured. And therefore it lives, for it is a bit of history put into
tangible and human shape. At any rate, the other day the publishers kindly sent me a copy of the twenty-seventh edition
of the work, which of course has been circulated in countless
numbers in a cheap form. I believe that in South Africa they
think highly of “Jess”; even the Boers of the new generation
read it. I remember that when some of their trenches were
stormed in the last war, the special correspondents reported
that the only book found in them was “Jess.”
I returned to England by long sea, avoiding the train journey across Europe. This I undertook when I went out in order
to study the Egyptian collections at the Louvre and Turin. As
it happened I never saw that at Turin. When I arrived there,
purposing to spend an afternoon at the museum, my cabman
drove me to a distant circus, and when at length I did reach
the said museum, it was to fi nd that on this particular day it
was closed.
On my arrival in England what between success and attacks I found myself quite a celebrity, one whose name was in
everybody’s mouth. I made money; for instance I sold “Cleopatra” for a large sum in cash, and also “Colonel Quaritch, V.C.,”
a tale of English country life which Longman liked – it was
dedicated to him – and Lang hated it so much that I think he
called it the worst book that ever was written. Or perhaps it
was someone else who favoured it with that description. Some
311
H. RIDER HAGGARD
of this money I lost, for really I had not time to look after it,
and the investments suggested by kind friends connected with
the City were apt to prove disappointing. Some of it I spent in
paying off back debts and mortgages on our property, and in
doing up this house which it sadly needed, as well as countless
farm buildings, and a proportion was absorbed by our personal expenditure. For instance we moved into a larger house in
Radcliffe Square and there entertained a little, though not to
any great extent, for we never were extravagant. Also I became
what is called famous, which in practice means that people
are glad to ask you out to dinner, and when you enter a room
everyone turns to look at you. Also it means that bores of the
most appalling description write to you from all over the earth,
and expect answers.
Therefore, although I had the affection of my old friends
and made one or two new ones, such as Charles Longman,
with whom, to my great good fortune, I began to grow intimate
about this time, it came about that I was much envied and not
a little hated by many who made my life bitter with constant
attacks in the Press, which, being somewhat sensitive by nature, I was foolish enough to feel. Indeed there came a time
when for a good many years I would read no reviews of my
books, unless chance thrust them under my eyes. Therefore of
those years there are few literary records.
In addition to much worry, my work at this time was truly
overwhelming. The unfortunate agreement to which I have
already alluded, entered into with the fi rm in which I believe
Mr. Maxwell, the late husband of Miss Braddon, was a partner,
had been abrogated without a lawsuit, through the admirable
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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
efforts of my friend and agent, Mr. A. P. Watt. But this was done
at a price, and that price was that I should write them two
stories, which in addition to my other and more serious work
of course cost me time and labour. The tales that I wrote for
them were called respectively “Mr. Meeson’s Will” and “Allan’s Wife.” Ultimately, after various “business complications,”
in the course of which I lost some money that was due for royalties, together with “Dawn” and “The Witch’s Head,” they
passed into the hands of Messrs. Longmans.
Then I began “Cleopatra” on May 27, 1887, and, as the MS.
records, fi nished it on August 2nd of the same year. In order to
do this I fl ed from London to Ditchingham, because in town
there were so many distractions and calls upon my time that I
could not get on with my work. I remember my disgust when
on arrival there an invitation to be present in Westminster
Abbey on the occasion of the Jubilee of Queen Victoria was
forwarded too late for me to be able to avail myself of it. Although I do not greatly care for such pomp and circumstance,
that was a ceremony which I should have liked to see.
Charles Longman thought very highly indeed of “Cleopatra.” Also, he backed his opinion by buying the copyright of
the book for a large sum of money.
By the way, unluckily for myself, I also sold “Jess” outright
and not for a large sum. Messrs. Smith, Elder, however, behaved
extremely well to me, for when the novel proved such a great
success they sent me a second cheque of a like amount as that
they had given for the copyright, a thing which perhaps few
publishers would have done. Moreover, a dozen years or so
later, they offered to give me back a half interest in the book
313
H. RIDER HAGGARD
if I would write them another work. This I was very anxious
to do, as both for sentimental and business reasons I should
much have liked to regain a part proprietorship in “Jess.” But
when I wrote to Charles Longman on the subject he begged
me to abandon the idea, and as I could not hurt the feelings of
such an old and valued friend, I did so, with many sighs.
I should explain that at the time I published only with the
Longmans. Afterwards to my great sorrow I was obliged to
abandon this arrangement, for the reason that I found it impossible to place works serially unless I could give the book rights
as well. For a while I got over this diffi culty, or rather Messrs.
Watt, my agents, did, by selling serial rights to the two great
illustrated papers. But in course of time, I suppose as they began to feel the pressure of the competition of the new sixpenny
magazines, they gave up publishing serials, or at any rate paying much for them. So I had to go to those who would run the
serial if, and only if, they were given the book rights also.
Lang did not think quite so highly of “Cleopatra” as Longman, at any rate at fi rst, as the following letter shows:
You will loathe me for the advice, but if I were you I’d put
“Cleopatra” away for as long as possible, and then read it as a
member of the public. You will fi nd, I think, that between chapters 3 and 8 it is too long, too full of antiquarian detail, and too
slow in movement to carry the general public with it. I am pretty
certain of this. The style is very well kept up, but it is not an advantage for a story to be told in an archaic style (this of course
is unavoidable). For that reason I would condense a good deal
and it could be done. You’ll fi nd that when you come fresh to
it again. The topic is horribly diffi cult: there is a kind of living
314
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
life in the modern Introduction which must of the rest wants, as
far as I have gone. I see pretty clearly where and how the condensing could be done. You don’t want a reader’s interest to fall
asleep, and now it would in places. I am writing with perfect
frankness because, of course, I want it to be A1 in its genre – a
dreadfully diffi cult genre it is. As far as I have read I have made
a few verbal notes where the style occasionally is not consistent.
But the main thing is, at any expense, to hurry on more – to give
the impression of solemnity, but at more speed, and with much
fewer strokes. I know you hate altering, so it is a prendre ou a
laisser, this long screed of opinion. Of course I see it is a book you
have written for yourself. But the B.P. must also be thought of.
In a second letter, written about the same time, he says:
I gave all my morning to “Cleopatra” and return her. After
Chapter 8 she’ll do! I have marked a good many minutiae of
style, or expression. In a few places, a judicious shortening of
moral refl ections by Harmachis would give him more point to
my mind. Unluckily neither Harmachis nor Cleopatra is sympathetic. Can’t be helped. I think even more than before that
you should lighten the ship by greatly shortening between
chapters 3 and 8. I can estimate this, because today I read slick
on rapidly and was interested all the way. In the earlier part
my attention fl agged over all the preparation, and many a
traveller would not have persevered. I like Antony, but don’t
feel that that inexplicable person has had full justice done him.
The inevitably archaic style will not make it more popular, but
that can’t possibly be helped. As a whole I think the manner is
very well kept up. I venture to suggest some alterations where
modern words come in out of tune.
315
H. RIDER HAGGARD
Screw it a little tighter, and I think it is undeniably an artistic piece of work. The imagination kindles up after the killing
of Paulus. Before, it is not always up to your level of wakefulness and energy. At least that’s my impression. What an awful
piece of romance the end is! I like Charmion to turn on him
for his bullying the queen. The absence of any business for the
other girl, Iras, strikes me as rather a pity. I’d like, if you don’t
mind, to 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 refl ective
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 commencement 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
316
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
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 modifi ed 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
accomplished, 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.
317
H. RIDER 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 comes 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 fi rst fl oor
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 fi fteen years ago. By
the way, the Savile was a very pleasant club in the late ‘eighties.
318
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
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 company 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 become 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 fi nd 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 infi nitely more
anxious for your success than for my own, which is not
319
H. RIDER HAGGARD
an excitement to me. But Lord love you, it would be logrollery to say that in a review.
Yours ever,
A. L.
I have not the faintest idea of the genesis of this note. I presume, however, that Lang had aimed some of his barbed shafts
at me, probably in conversation, and that I had written to him
petulantly. Anyhow his answer is most kind and nice.
The next letter in the bunch, dated May 9th (year missing),
says:
I am much grieved by the death of Umslopogaas. I have
written his epitaph in Greek and in English verses. [N.B. –
These fi ne verses now appear upon the title-page of “Allan
Quatermain.” I remember Mrs. Lang telling me that “Andrew had wasted an entire day in their composition.”]
“Allan Quatermain,” after running through Long-
mans’ Magazine, came out about the end of June 1887.
Charles Longman, in a letter dated June 20th, writes:
You have broken the record – at least so I am told.
We have subscribed over 10,000 copies of “Quatermain”
in London, which they say is more than has ever been
subscribed of a 6 – novel before.... We printed 20,000 of
“Quatermain,” as you know and we are now ordering paper in readiness for another lot.
This tale proved, and has remained, a general favourite, the
Zulu in it, old Umslopogaas, being a very popular character
with all classes of readers, and especially among boys.
Here is a letter from one who was a boy then, but has since
become a very famous man, namely Mr. Winston Churchill,
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