Добавил:
ivanov666
Опубликованный материал нарушает ваши авторские права? Сообщите нам.
Вуз:
Предмет:
Файл:The Days of My Life
.pdf
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
state. The third is the view of Niagara as we saw it in one wintry dawn. The train pulled up to allow us to inspect the Falls,
and for a while we stood almost on the brink of the cataract
watching the great ice boulders thunder to the depths below.
It was a mighty and majestic scene, which the loneliness of the
hour did much to enhance.
From New York we took ship for Liverpool, where we arrived without accident in due course. I was not well at the time,
having again been attacked by infl uenza on the voyage. Needless to say, our homecoming was very sad. After, I think, only
one night in London we came to Ditchingham, where I found
my two little girls dressed in black and – a grave.
421
CHAPTER 15
ANDREW LANG
The day on which I commence this chapter of my reminiscences – July 22, 1912 – is a sad one for me, since the fi rst
thing I saw on opening my eyes this morning was the news of
the sudden death of my dear friend, Andrew Lang. It is odd
that only last Thursday, when I was in London, some vague
anxiety concerning him prompted me to make an effort to see
Lang. Having an hour to spare before my train left, I took a
taxi-cab and drove to his house in Marloes Road, to fi nd which
his direction of many years ago used to be, “Walk down Cromwell Road till you drop, then turn to the right!”
I found the house shut up, and the Scotch girl, arriving
from the lower regions, informed me that her master had left
for Scotland on Tuesday. I gave my card, asking her to forward
it, then called to the girl as she was shutting the door to ask
how Lang was. She replied that he had been unwell, but was
much better. So, perhaps for the last time, I departed from that
house with which I used to be so familiar in the old days, fi lled
with such sad thoughts and apprehensions that on my return
home I mentioned them to Miss Hector, my secretary.
Perhaps these were due to the drawn, death-suggesting
blinds, perhaps to the knowledge that Lang had suffered much
from melancholy of late – contrary to the general idea, his was
422
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
always a nature full of sadness – perhaps to some more subtle
reason. At any rate, it was so.
I have not seen much of Andrew Lang of late years, for the
reason that we lived totally different lives in totally different
localities. The last time we met was about a year ago at a meeting of the Dickens Centenary Fund Committee, after which I
walked far with him on his homeward way, and we talked as
we used to talk in the days when we were so much together.
The time before that was about two years ago, when I dined
alone with him and Mrs. Lang at Marloes Road, and we passed
a delightful evening.
Letters, too, have been scarce between us for some years,
though I have hundreds of the earlier times. Here are extracts
from one or two of the last which have a melancholy interest
now.
October 18, 1911.
Dear Rider, – Thanks for the Hare [this refers to my
tale of “The Mahatma and the Hare”].... I bar chevying
hares, but we are all hunted from birth to death by impecunious relations, disease, care, and every horror. The hare
is not hunted half so much or half so endlessly. However,
anyway, I have not chevied a hare since I was nine, and
that only on my two little legs, all alone!
Yours ever,
A. Lang.
If I were the Red-faced Man I’d say that from the beginning
all my forbears were hunters, that it got into the blood, and
went out of the blood with advancing age, so that perhaps it
423
H. RIDER HAGGARD
might go out altogether, though I hardly think it will. And ask
WHO made it so!
By some chance there is a copy of my answer to this letter,
also of two subsequent ones which deal with what might have
been a business matter.
October 19, 1911.
My dear Andrew, – Yes, I have hinted at this hunting
of Man on p. 135, and at a probable reason. You are right:
hunted we are, and by a large pack! Still I don’t know that
this justifi es us in hunting other things. At any rate the idea
came to me and I expressed it. But I might as well have
kept it to myself. I doubt whether the papers will touch
the thing: to notice an attack on blood sports might not be
popular!
As one grows old, I think the sadness of the world impresses one more and more. If there is nothing beyond it is
indeed a tragedy. But, thank Heaven! I can’t think that. I
think it less and less. I am engaged on writing (for publication AFTER I have walked “the Great White Road”) my
reminiscences of my early life in Africa, etc. It is a sad job.
There before me are the letters from those dear old friends
of my youth, Shepstone, Osborn, Clarke and many others,
and nearly every one of them is dead! But I don’t believe
that I shall never see them more; indeed I seem to grow
nearer to them.
When I was a lad at Scoones’ I had an intimate friend
named Sheil. When I returned from Africa I found that he
had become a Trappist monk. We corresponded and I went
to see him. (He too is long dead.) In one of his letters I fi nd
424
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
this sentence written over thirty years ago: “What I wish is
that we may all go home together and be together always.”
This exactly expresses my sentiments towards the few
for whom I care – dead or living.
Ever your friend,
H. Rider Haggard.
October 20, 1911.
Dear Rider, – I expect we shall meet our dogs and cats.
They have ghosts! I don’t much bar fox-hunting: it needs
pluck, and the fox, a sportsman himself, only takes his
chances and often gets away. It’s all a matter of thinking.
Scott was a humane man, but devoted to coursing, which
I abominate. Wordsworth never thought of harm in troutfi shing, with fl y. Now I was born to be ruthful to trout,
as a kid, and sinned against light, but I could not use the
worm.
Why on earth do you keep letters? I have a very few
sealed up, but dare not look on them....
A little later, either at Charles Longman’s suggestion or
with his approval, it occurred to me to try to cheer Lang
up and take him out of himself a little by getting him to
collaborate, or at any rate to think over collaboration, in
another romance. To this end I wrote to him as follows:
November 10, 1911.
My dear Andrew, – I have come across a scheme we
had (about a quarter of a century ago) for collaboration
in a novel of Old Kor.
425
H. RIDER HAGGARD
I think it has been in bottle long enough and should be
decanted.
What say you? Have you any ideas? I see stuff in it, but
could not really tackle it just at present. It would be rather
jolly to do another job with you, old fellow.
After all “The World’s Desire,” about which you were
rather melancholy, has stood the test of time fairly well
and many people still like it much.
Ever yours,
H. Rider Haggard.
Here is the answer, written from St. Andrews:
November 11th.
Dear Rider, – Faire des objections c’est collaborer, but
I don’t think that I could do more. Had I any ideas of Kor
long ago? “She,” I think, is not easily to be raised again
unless she drops her [word illegible] for some prehistoric
admirer. I like Kor, but have no precise conception of it,
unless the Egyptians came thence.
The W.D. [“World’s Desire”] took in despite of my illomened name; I brought you worse luck than you would
have had alone.
Yours ever,
A. Lang.
Do you bar ferreting rabbits? I think it damnable.
The answer to this is dated November 13, 1911.
November 13, 1911.
My dear Andrew, – All right, you shall “faire des ob-
jections,” i.e. if we ever live to get at the thing, which I
can’t do at present.
426
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
I think Kor was the mother of Egypt, which kept up
a fi lial correspondence with her oracles. “She” smashed
the place in a rage because they tried her for the murder
of Kallikrates. Foundation of history – papyrus records
brought home by Holly and sent with “Ayesha” MS. Entered up by that old priest Junis, or someone.
Yes, ferreting rabbits is beastly, especially when the fer-
ret freezes on to the rabbit in the hole. But one must get
rid of rabbits somehow. Now coursing – but you know my
views on the matter.
Ever yours,
H. Rider Haggard.
I fi nd among my copies of letters one written to Lang in 1907,
which also deals with the question of a further collaboration that
we contemplated at this time. I had quite forgotten the matter, but
now I remember that it came to nothing. Lang suggested one of the
old Greek legends that ended in the most horrible all-round tragedy – I do not at the moment recall which of them it was, though I
could easily discover by consulting his letters of the period.
I said that it would not do: that a twentieth-century audience would require something a little more cheerful. I think
he was rather cross with me about it – if he could be cross with
me, for no shadow of real difference ever came between us. At
any rate the idea fell through, for which, too late, I am very
sorry now. Here is my letter:
Ditchingham House, Norfolk:
December 28, 1907.
My dear Andrew, – I’d like to do another book with you
before we skip – awfully. I think you were a bit discour-
427
H. RIDER HAGGARD
aged about the “W. Desire” because a lot of ignorant fools
slated it, but in my opinion you were wrong. That work I
believe will last. It is extraordinarily liked by many who
can understand. I told you about the American Egyptologist I met, for instance, who reads it every night!
Well now: I don’t care much for your Covenanter who
would speak Scotch, etc. (i.e. at fi rst sight). He would not have
much of a public or enlist the heart. Can you not think of
something “big and beautiful,” something that has an idea in
it? Something for choice that has to do with old Greece (which
you know) and with old Egypt (which I know?). Something
with room in it for a few of your beautiful verses (I am not
laying it on, old fellow, only saying the truth). In short, a
real poeticalromance such as we might both be proud of. Now
don’t toss this aside, but think. You know all the old world
legends: there must be some that would lend themselves to this
general scheme: that of the quest for the divine which must
(for the purpose of story) be symbolised by woman. You see
the thing must have a heart; mere adventures are not enough:
I can turn them out by the peck. A motive, friend, a motive!
that’s what we need, and one that the world knows of.
How about a variant of the Faust legend? How about
the Sons of God and the Daughters of Men? Something
grand and pure and simple, something to lift up! Now
don’t be discouraged, for though we are both antique, I
know that we can do it, if only we can fi nd the theme.
Where is our Hypatia? Let’s do a big thing for once and
die happy! Please answer.
Yours ever,
H. Rider Haggard.
428
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
The last notes I ever received from him were written in
February of the present year, just before I went to Egypt, and
in somewhat better spirits than those that I have quoted. For
instance, one begins “Cher Monsieur le Chevalier.”
At Longman’s request I had suggested to Lang, half-jokingly, that we should go together on a lecture tour to South Africa, as to which some proposals had been made to Longman.
“Me go to South Africa to lecture!” he answered. “Why,
going from London to Upp” – Longman’s place in Hertfordshire – “knocks me up.”
Evidently so long ago as February he was not feeling strong.
I may add that a week or two since I met our mutual friend, Sir
William Richmond, to whom “The World’s Desire” was dedicated. He told me that he thought seriously of Lang’s health –
that he seemed very anxious to see his friends, but when he did
see them spoke but little.
Looking through Lang’s letters to me I fi nd one, written
from St. Andrews on February 20, 1896, that tells me of the
death of his brother in moving terms. In that letter appears
the following passage, which on this sad day I quote with pride
and gratitude:
“You have been more to me of what the dead friends of my
youth were, than any other man, and I take the chance to say
it, though not given to speaking of such matters.”
With this letter is a draft of my answer, rough and cut
about, from which I extract a passage or two.
“No, there is nothing to be said, except what I once put into
the mouth of a character in ‘Montezuma’ – that no affection is
perfect until it is sealed and sanctifi ed by death.”
429
H. RIDER HAGGARD
(I feel the truth of that statement today when dear Lang
seems nearer to me than he has been for many a year – than
he has ever been!)
After all, what is it, this death? As I grow older I seem to
understand the hope and beauty of it, and though doubtless
I shall recoil afraid, to rejoice that life should close so soon.
Better to die than to see those we love die. For to most of us
existence here at the best is unhappy. Goodness and the desire
to better the state of others are the only happy things in it,
and the fi rst in our half-brutal nature is hard to attain. But I
think it can be attained if opportunity and space endure, and
then, our many past sins, errors and foulness of thought and
deed notwithstanding, why should we fear to die? Surely those
men are mad who in their little day reject the offerings of religion, for through faith the communion of the creature with
his Maker is real and possible to him who seeks it, whatever
the fashion of his seeking, and without that communion light
is not. Love also is real and immortal, not lust, but the love
of children and friends and fellow-beings – that light shall
always shine. For myself I hope to live long enough to win suffi cient success and money to do some little good to others. If I
fail in the attempt... may the earnest endeavour be accepted! At
least we should try, since all we have, intelligence, attributes,
means, is but lent to us. I wonder if you will set me down as a
simple religious enthusiast or as a little mad with my notions
of the effi cacy of faith and prayer. Perhaps I am the latter –
sorrow breeds it – but at least my madness is a star to follow....
My dear Lang, that friendship to which you make such
touching allusion always has been, is and will be returned by
myself. I will say no more.
430
Соседние файлы в предмете [НЕСОРТИРОВАННОЕ]