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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
than of our future as a people and a great Empire, refusing to
bear those small burdens that would make us safe, and to support statesmen rather than politicians. Any who point out these
things are cried down as alarmists, or as persons seeking some
personal or party end, since the petty and the mean always see
their own colours refl ected in the eyes of others. Like the large
farmer who confi ded to him his conviction that I was travelling on my tour of agricultural investigation through England
in search of “free drinks,” these judge by their own low standards. “Free drinks,” or their equivalent, is what they want, and
therefore must be what you want, since otherwise why would
anyone work for nothing? And here comes the sorrow. The
little minds, Shakespeare’s multitude who “suckle fools and
chronicle small beer,” are in the vast majority. They have the
votes and give power to their chosen. The rest are but voices
crying in the wilderness. Well, there it is, and doubtless God
Almighty knows the way out. At any rate, it must be a part of
His plan, so why should we grumble?
Another small instance of imagination being justifi ed in my
own case is to be found in my tale, “Stella Fregelius,” where, for
the purposes of that mystical story, I invented an instrument
which I called the “aerophone,” whereby people could speak
with each other across a space of empty air. When I wrote this
story, about the year 1898, neither I nor anyone else had heard
of such a machine. Now I learn that it is working and patented under the same title, namely, “aerophone,” and doubtless
ere long it will be in general use. It is right, however, that, per
contra, I should chronicle a prophetic failure. In “Doctor Therne” I ventured to suggest that our general neglect of vac-
451
H. RIDER HAGGARD
cination would bring about some outburst of smallpox such
as in past days swept away our forefathers by the thousand,
and still sweeps away uninstructed peoples. As yet this has not
happened, but who can be bold enough to assert that it will
never happen?
Perhaps the most curious example of a literary coincidence
with which I have been personally concerned is to be found in
the case of my story, “Fair Margaret.” As it is fully and concisely
set out in the issue of the Spectator of October 19, 1907, I will
quote my letter published in that journal, leaving the reader to
form his own opinion on the matter.
Sir, – The following instance of imagination being verifi ed
by fact may interest students of such matters. Two years or so
ago I wrote an historical romance which has recently appeared
under the title of “Fair Margaret.” In that romance the name
of the hero is Peter Brome. The father of this Peter Brome
is represented in the tale as having been killed at Bosworth
Field. After the appearance of the book I received a letter from
Colonel Peter Brome Giles, the High Sheriff of Bucks, asking
me where I obtained the particulars concerning the said Peter
Brome. I answered – out of my own head. Indeed, I distinctly
remember inventing the name as being one that I had never
heard, and the fact of the father’s death on Bosworth Field I
introduced to suit the exigences of the story. In reply to my request for further particulars, Colonel Brome Giles kindly sent
me a letter, from which, in view of the curious interest of the
matter, I am sure he will forgive me for publishing the following extracts:
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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
“Your hero’s father was the son of Sir Thomas Brome,
the Secretary of Henry VI. He was, as you relate, killed
at Bosworth, but I never heard they had property in Essex, but had in Suffolk
1
and Norfolk.... One branch of the
family took the bird” [that is, as a coat-of-arms] “as you
describe.... The father of your hero was the fi rst Peter, and
was born 1437, and was 50 when killed.... Since the Peter
of 1437 there have always been Peter Bromes: my father
was, I am, and so is my boy. We assumed Giles in 1761.”
To this I sent the following answer:
“All I can say is that the coincidence is extremely curious (for I knew nothing of all this), so much so indeed
that, taken in conjunction with some similar instances
which have occurred to me, almost do I begin to believe in
retrospective second sight.”
If I may judge from my own experience, such coincidences (and, as anyone who has read the tale in question will admit, this is a very remarkable coincidence) are
by no means uncommon. Although the particulars are too
long to set out, four times at the very least have they happened to myself in the case of my own works of imagination. I do not know if any of your readers can suggest an
explanation. The odds against such exact similitudes seem
so tremendous that I confess I am unable to do so. I am,
Sir, etc.,
H. Rider Haggard.
1
My hero’s property was at Dedham, in Essex, a few miles over
the Suffolk border. – H. R. H.
453
H. RIDER HAGGARD
(It almost looks as if Mr. Rider Haggard when he thought
he was inventing was unconsciously receiving random and accidental brain-waves, a la Marconi, from Colonel Brome Giles.
Was Colonel Brome Giles, we wonder, working at pedigree
questions at the time when Mr. Rider Haggard was planning
his novel? – Ed., Spectator.)
Another very curious imaginative parallel occurs in my
novel, “The Way of the Spirit.” In this tale, the scene of which
is laid in Egypt of today, I introduced fi ve weird native musicians, whom I named the Wandering Players, three of whom
performed on pipes and two upon drums. Thrice did the hero,
Rupert Ullershaw, meet this band in the deserts of the Sudan,
but never could he speak with them, since they would answer
no questions and accept no baksheesh. They simply appeared
and disappeared mysteriously, and the sound of their sad music always proved the herald of misfortune to poor Rupert –
the suggestion being that they were not quite canny in their
origin. These musicians were a pure effort of invention so far
as I am concerned. I had never read or heard that any such
folk were supposed to haunt this very desert of which I was
writing.
Imagine, therefore, my astonishment when, in a copy of his
“Notes de Voyage” for 1909 which Sir Gaston Maspero kindly
sent me – “The Way of the Spirit” was written in 1905 – I
found the following passage:
Ces quatre-la sont-ils allies aux quatre afrites musiciens,
deux joueurs de fl ute et deux joueurs de tambourin ou
de darabouka, qui hantent le desert dans les memes parages?
454
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
Ils jouent sur le passage des voyageurs et c’est toujours un mauvais presage que de les rencontrer: si on s’eloigne vite sans leur
adresser la parole et, autant que possible, sans les regarder, on
a quelque chance d’echapper au mauvais sort, sinon l’on est
perdu.
It will be observed that here everything is the same, mise en
scene, misfortune, all. There is but one difference. Of Sir Gaston’s afrites, or musical ghosts, there were four; of my wandering players, fi ve. I have added a third fl utist by way of interest
on the capital of the true legend.
Perhaps these examples of literary coincidence in my own
books may suffi ce, though I think there are more. Indeed I recall two in connection with “Heart of the World” and “Ayesha”
respectively, which are curious enough in their way. Also as I
write it comes back to me that there are yet two others which,
as I am on the subject, I may as well state quite briefl y.
The fi rst of these is to be found in “Montezuma’s Daughter.” Here the hero, a certain Thomas Wingfi eld, is stated to
have lived near Bungay in the reign of Elizabeth, and to have
been a doctor by trade, having learned his business from another leech in this immediate neighbourhood. After many adventures he dies here a rich man and leaves charities to the
poor. Certainly I did think it strange when, subsequent to the
writing of the book, I discovered from Mr. Herbert Hartcup,
the lawyer, who is a trustee of the Bungay Charities, that a man
called Thomas Wingfi eld did live and die at that exact time,
that he was a doctor who served his apprenticeship with another local leech, that in some way or other he did accumulate
wealth of which he bequeathed a portion to the poor that they
455
H. RIDER HAGGARD
enjoy to this day, and that his will, which I have since seen,
was just such a one as might have been written by the imaginary Thomas. Almost am I tempted to believe that the true
Wingfi eld must have visited Mexico in the days of Cortes, and
that, if one were to dig up his bones, among them would be
found the necklace of great emeralds which was given to him
by Guatemoc in the hiding-place of Montezuma’s treasure.
The last specimen is very simple. While visiting an old
church in Suffolk I conceived the idea of my novel, “Joan Haste,”
of which it is unnecessary to set out the plot. After reading it a
connection of mine remarked that he had been much interested by the book, though he did not think that the A.-Z.‘s, whom
he knew well, would altogether appreciate such an accurate
report of a passage in their family history whereof they did not
often speak. Also he was nervous lest it should be supposed by
them that he had told me a story which was communicated to
him in confi dence. On further investigation it transpired that
these A.-Z.‘s were buried in the very churchyard where I had
imagined my tale, and that their family owned and still own
all the land by which it is surrounded.
It needs no great stretch of fancy to believe that in some
subtle way the bones beneath the soil of that churchyard had
imparted some of their history to my mind while, touched
by the place, I stood there evolving the material for another
book.
Before I fi nally leave the subject of romance-writing I
should like to say a few words upon a certain point. I have
been a good deal attacked because there is much fi ghting in
many of my more imaginative works, which fi ghting necessar-
456
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE
ily involves the death of men, the inference being that to write
of such things is not desirable. I would ask, Why not? However
painful the fact, it remains true that man is a fi ghting animal,
and that from the time of Homer down, and probably for tens
of thousands of years before it, some of his fi nest qualities –
such as patriotism, courage, obedience to authority, patience
in disaster, fi delity to friends and a noble cause, endurance,
and so forth – have been evolved in the presence of war, as
we need go no further than the pages of the Old Testament to
learn. Is it not better to write of hard, clean, honest fi ghting
than, for instance, of treacherous and sickening murder? Will
any young man be the worse for the lesson that his hands were
given him to defend his head, and, if need be, his country’s
honour, with that of all who are dear to him? I think not.
It is true that in such a book as “Nada the Lily” there is
much slaughter. But all this is a matter of history. A tale of the
days of Chaka which left out his slayings and battles would
be false to the facts and merely ludicrous. Omelets cannot be
made without the breaking of eggs. Would such critics then
argue that this tale and others like it should be left untold? If
so, I hold that they are wrong, since these give a picture which,
from the circumstances of my youth, perhaps I alone in the
world can paint, not only of some very remarkable men, but of
a state of savage society which has now passed away and may
never recur.
Further, is there not some hypocrisy in such cavilling in
an age when all the great nations of the world are arming
themselves to the teeth for that Armageddon which one day
must come? And do not some of the very papers in which it ap-
457
H. RIDER HAGGARD
pears fi ll their columns with nauseous and most particular accounts of dreadful and degrading crimes, such as the betrayal
and butchery of a defenceless woman, dilating on them from
day to day till the reader is sickened? Of which is it the more
harmful to read – of a fi ght between the splendid Zulu impis,
faithful to death; of old Umslopogaas holding the stair against
overpowering odds; or, let us say, of the dismemberment of a
wife or the massacre of little children by some human brute
or lunatic?
Personally I hate war, and all killing, down to the destruction of the lower animals for the sake of sport, has become
abominable to me. But while the battle-clouds bank up I do
not think that any can be harmed by reading of heroic deeds
or of frays in which brave men lose their lives.
What I deem undesirable are the tales of lust, crime, and
moral perversion with which the bookstalls are strewn by dozens.
458
CHAPTER 17
POLITICS AND TOWN LIFE
Ever since I came to manhood I have taken an interest in
politics, though at fi rst it was the foreign branch of the subject
that attracted me most. Like most country squires my father
was a Tory to the backbone, and, although one of them broke
away, all his sons were brought up in the strictest sect of that
somewhat fossilised creed. People generally remain in the political fold wherein they chance to be born, much as they generally remain Protestants or Roman Catholics, or Wesleyans
or Unitarians, according to the faith of their fathers. Now I
understand that I never was a real Tory – that, in short, as a
party man I am the most miserable failure. As a politician I
should have been useless from any whip’s point of view. He
would – well, have struck me off his list as neither hot nor
cold, as a dangerous and undesirable individual who, refusing
to swallow the shibboleths of his tribe with shut eyes, actually
dared to think for himself and to possess that hateful thing, “a
cross-bench mind.”
I believe in conscription. I think it would be the grandest
gift that Heaven could give to Britain; that it would lighten
the terrible burden of anxiety which haunts many of us1 by at
1
Written in 1912.
459
H. RIDER HAGGARD
least one-half; that it would make men of tens of thousands
among us who are now but loafers without ambition, without
prospects, save such as the relief that State or private charity
may afford; that it would inculcate patriotism and the sense
of discipline, lacking which every country must in time come
to an inglorious end. Indeed my greatest grudge against Mr.
Balfour and his colleagues is that they did not take the opportunity given to them during the dark days of the South African War to introduce this reform, which would then, I believe,
have been passed without a murmur. Of course I understand
that they feared lest a bold step of the sort should tell against
them at the polls. How superfl uous were their fears was shown
by the ultimate disaster to which their do-nothing policy led
the party at last. At the best, failure was in front of them; and
it would have been better to fail with something done, if such
should prove their fate, leaving a great name behind them
which ere long their country would have crowned with the
honour it deserved.
These are sentiments which, however much they were
disapproved of by the party manager on the hunt for votes,
would, if adequately presented, probably provoke a cheer from
a Conservative audience. But suppose that I were the speaker
on such an occasion, and followed that up by stating that I
had grave misgivings as to the authorised programme of Protection, alias Tariff Reform? Suppose I pointed out that in my
view, which is possibly quite erroneous, duties on food-stuffs
are scarcely practicable in this land of city-dwellers, who not
unnaturally object to paying more for the necessaries of life,
460
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