the days of my life-第56章

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39　Paternoster　Row：
November　28；　1894。
My　dear　Rider；　—　I　will　get　hold　of　the　Saturday　Review　and　Spectator　reviews　of　“Beatrice。”　I　have　not　heard　anything　from　Liverpool　yet　about　that　person；　but　I　will　let　you　hear　as　soon　as　I　can。　I　will　not　write　fully　yet　on　the　subject；　but　I　may　say　that　the　idea　that　the　character　of　Beatrice　could　lead　someone　into　vice　is　preposterous。　Still　less　is　the　example　of　Bingham　likely　to　throw　an　unnatural　glamour　over　seduction：　in　the　first　place；　he　was　man　enough　to　resist　temptation；　in　the　next　place；　both　he　and　Beatrice　were　most　unmercifully　punished。　Do　not　let　this　matter　worry　you。　I　assure　you　there　is　nothing　you　need　regret。
Longman　also　wrote：
Christmas　Day；　1894。
I　like　the　Preface　to　“Beatrice”　much　better　as　amended。　Lang　is　quite　right：　your　feelings　in　the　matter　did　infinite　credit　to　your　heart；　but　you　disturbed　yourself　unnecessarily。　I　am　glad　we　inquired　into　that　Liverpool　story　and　pricked　the　bubble。　I　will　send　you　a　review　of　the　Preface。　I　return　Lang’s　letter。
I　have　now　found　this　letter　of　Lang’s　to　which　Longman　refers。　It　is　dated　from　St。　Andrews　on　December　20th；　and　begins：
You　Confounded　Ass。　The　thing　is　Rot。　Don’t　take　it　au　serieux。　At　least　that　is　how　it　strikes　me。　If　you　must　say　something；　say　what　I　leave　in。　The　novel　seems　to　me　perfectly　devoid　of　moral　harm。　There　are　sill　hopes　here　that　the　Samoan　story　is　a　lie　＇this　refers　to　the　death　of　Stevenson＇。　It　has　caused　me　sincere　grief；　but；　at　fifty；　one　seems　rather　case…hardened。　However；　don’t　you　go　and　leave　the　world　before　me。　R。　L。　S。　had　as　much　pluck；　and　as　kind　a　heart；　as　any　man　that　ever　lived；　and　extraordinary　charm。
The　“Liverpool　story”　to　which　Longman　refers　was；　I　believe；　one　of　those　detailed　in　the　anonymous　letters。　Evidently　he　caused　it　to　be　inquired　into　and　found　that　it　was　baseless。
The　end　of　the　matter　was　that　I　went　through　the　tale　carefully；　modified　or　removed　certain　passages　that　might　be　taken　to　suggest　that　holy　matrimony　is　not　always　perfect　in　its　working；　etc。；　and　wrote　a　short　preface　which　may　now　be　read　in　all　the　copies　printed　since　that　date。
As　I　have　said；　the　incident　disturbed　me　a　good　deal；　and　more　or　less　set　me　against　the　writing　of　novels　of　modern　life。　It　is　very　well　to　talk　about　art　with　a　large　A；　but　I　have　always　felt　that　the　author　of　books　which　go　anywhere　and　everywhere　has　some　responsibilities。　Therefore　I　have　tried　to　avoid　topics　that　might　inflame　even　minds　which　are　very　ready　to　be　set　on　fire。
The　charge　has　been　brought　against　me　that　my　pages　have　breathed　war。　I　admit　it；　and　on　this　point　am　quite　unrepentant。　Personally　I　may　say　that　I　have　a　perfect　horror　of　war；　and　hope　that　I　may　not　live　to　see　another　in　which　my　country　is　involved；　for　it　seems　to　me　terrible　that　human　beings　should　destroy　each　other；　often　enough　from　motives　that　do　not　bear　examination。　Yet　there　is　such　a　thing　as　righteous　war；　and　if　my　land　were　invaded　I　should　think　poorly　of　anyone；　myself　included；　who　did　not　fight　like　a　wild…cat。　I　am　not　even　sure　that　I　would　not　poison　the　wells　if　I　were　unable　to　get　rid　of　the　enemy　in　any　other　way。　What　is　the　difference　between　killing　a　man　with　a　drug　and　killing　him　with　a　bomb　or　by　hunger　and　thirst？　Patriotism　is　the　first　duty；　and　the　thing　is　to　be　rid　of　him　somehow　and　save　your　country。　However；　this　is　a　question　on　which　I　will　not　enter。
For　the　rest　war　brings　forth　many　noble　actions；　and　there　can　be　no　harm　in　teaching　the　young　that　their　hands　were　given　to　them　to　defend　their　flag　and　their　heads。　If　once　a　nation　forgets　to　learn　that　lesson　it　will　very　soon　be　called　upon　to　write　Finis　beneath　its　history。　I　fear　that　we；　or　some　of　us；　are　in　that　way　now　—　or　so　I　judge　from　the　horror　expressed　upon　every　side　at　the　doctrine　that　men　should　not　grudge　a　year　or　so　of　their　lives　to　be　spent　in　learning　the　art　of　war。　If　God　gave　us　our　homes；　I　presume　that　He　meant　for　us　to　protect　them！
I　think　that　the　next　book　I　wrote　after　“Eric；”　or　at　any　rate　the　next　that　was　printed；　was　“Nada　the　Lily；”　which　I　began　upon　June　27；　1889；　and　finished　on　January　15；　1890。　It　is　pure　Zulu　story；　and；　as　I　believe　I　have　said；　I　consider　it　my　best　or　one　of　my　best　books。　At　any　rate；　the　following　letter　from　my　friend　Rudyard　Kipling　seems　to　show　that　this　story　has　one　claim　on　the　gratitude　of　the　world。
Vermont；　U。S。A。：
October　20；　1895。
Dear　Haggard；　—　Watt　has　just　forwarded　me　a　letter　addressed　to　you　from　a　bee…keeping　man　ething　of　a　jungle　tale　of　mine。　I　dare　say　it　didn’t　amuse　you；　but　it　made　me　chuckle　a　little　and　reminded　me；　incidentally；　that　the　man　was　nearer　the　mark　than　he　knew：　for　it　was　a　chance　sentence　of　yours　in　“Nada　the　Lily”　that　started　me　off　on　a　track　that　ended　in　my　writing　a　lot　of　wolf　stories。　You　remember　in　your　tale　where　the　wolves　leaped　up　at　the　feet　of　a　dead　man　sitting　on　a　rock？　Somewhere　on　that　page　I　got　the　notion。　It’s　curious　how　things　e　back　again；　isn’t　it？　I　meant　to　tell　you　when　we　met；　but　I　don’t　remember　that　I　ever　did。
Yours　always　sincerely；
Rudyard　Kipling。
Here　are　some　extracts　from　Lang’s　letters　on　the　subject　of　“Nada。”
April　20th。
I　read　right　through　to　Chaka’s　death。　It　is　admirable；　the　epic　of　a　dying　people；　but　it　wants　relief。　Massacre　palls。　The　old　boy　（i。e。　the　narrator　of　the　story；　Mopo）　would　have　given　no　relief；　naturally；　but　an　idyll　or　two　seem　needed。　The　style　is　as　good　as　it　can　be；　an　invention。　I　think　a　word　or　two　more　in　the　preface　might　be　useful。　I　have　made　a　slight　suggestion　or　so。　I　like　“Eric”　better；　but　this　is　perhaps　more　singular。　How　any　white　man　can　have　such　a　natural　gift　of　savagery；　I　don’t　know。　The　Wolves　are　astonishing。
Yours　ever；
A。　L。
The　next　letter　is　undated；　but　was　probably　written　within　a　day　or　two　of　that　just　quoted。
I’ve　finished　“Nada。”　If　all　the　reviewers　in　the　world　denied　it；　you　can　do　the　best　sagas　that　have　been　done　yet：　except　“Njala”　perhaps。　Poor　Nada！　I　hope　it　will　be　done　into　Zulu。　The　old　wolf　Death…grip　was　a　nice　wolf。
May　13th。
Many　thanks　for　the　book。　You　know　exactly　what　I　think　of　“B。”　＇“Beatrice”＇；　but　I　like　your　natural　novels　better　a　long　way　than　your　modern　ones　at　the　best；　which　this　probably　is。　Beatrice　is　all　right　when　anything　flares　up；　and　all　right　when　in　the　open　air；　but　the　Lady　Honorias　of　this　world　are　not　in　your　beat　nor　mine。　。　。　。　But；　oh；　how　much　I　prefer　Galazi　and　Skallagrim　to　these　moderns！
St。　Andrews：　January　18th。
I’ll　return　“Nada”　tomorrow。　The　Wolves　are　the　best　thing　of　yours　I　know。　Indeed　the　unity　of　tone　and　savagery　throughout　are　unique。　But　there　will　be　rows　about　the　endless　massacres。　I　have　no　doubt　a　Zulu　epic　would　be　like　this；　but　reviewers　are　not　Zulus；　worse　luck。　I　think　that　it　is　excellent；　and　quite　alone　in　literature　as　a　picture　of　a　strange　life。　But　one　knows　the　public。　It　is　far　more　veracious　than　“Eric；”　and　far　less　modern：　also　far　less　rhetorical。　Chaka　is　a　masterpiece。　But　I　am　a　voice　clamantis　in　eremo：　people　won’t　understand。　The　realien　are　awfully　well　done；　no　appearance　of　cram　about　them。
Lang　was　quite　right　about　the　reviewers。　They　for　the　most　part；　not　having　mixed　with　savages；　and　never　having　heard　of　Chaka　and　only　dimly　of　the　Zulus　—　for　by　this　time　our　war　with　that　people　was　forgotten　—　saw　little　in　the　book　except　unnecessary　bloodshed。　But　there　it　is：　a　picture；　as　Lang　says；　“of　a　dying　people。”　I　hope　that　hundreds　of　years　hence　the　highly　educated　descendants　of　the　Zulu　race　may　read　it　and　learn　therefrom　something　of　the　spirit　of　their　own　savage　ancestors。
I　cannot　find　many　letters　about　“Nada。”　Here；　however；　is　one　from　Charles　Longman；　dated　May　14；　1890。
“Nada”　strikes　me　with　wonder　and　awe。　It　is　in　some　ways　the　greatest　feat　you　have　performed：　I　mean　because　you　have　constructed　a　story　in　which　the　dramatis　personae　are　all　savages　and　yet　you　have　kept　the　interest　going　throughout。　There　will　of　course　be　a　terrible　outcry　about　gore。　I　never　read　such　a　book。　It　is　frightful；　and　the　only　justification　for　it　is　the　fact　that　it　is　history；　not　imagination。　Wherever　it　is　possible　I　would　tone　down　the　effect　rather　than　heighten　it；　so　as　to　avoid　the　charge　of　wallowing　or　gloating　as　far　as　possible。　The　wolves　and　the　wolf　brethren　are　delightful；　I　wish　you　could　have　given　us　more　of　them。　I　was　very　glad　to　meet　our　old　friend　Umslopogaas　as　a　boy。
These　two　letters　are　from　Sir　Theophilus　Shepstone　to　whom　the　work　was　dedicated。　The　first　is　headed　Durban；　Natal；　August　18；　1891。
My　dear　Haggard；　—　I　was　very；　very　glad　to　see　your　handwriting　again　in　a　note　addressed　to　me。　For　I　know　not　how　long　past；　I　have　never　thought　of　you　without　a　pang　of　conscience；　and　I　need　not　say　that　I　have　often　and　often　thought　of　you；　and　felt　proud　of　you；　and　rejoiced　at　your　success。
The　truth　is　that　for　a　time　I　had　always　the　intention　in　my　mind　of　writing　to　you；　but　I　thought　that　a　short　note　would　not　be　worth　sending；　so　the　doing　of　it　was　postponed　from　one　time　to　another　until　at　last　the　difficulty　became　insuperable　apparently；　for　I　could　scarcely　hope　that　after　so　long　a　silence　and　seeming　indifference　any　letter　from　me　could　be　wele。　Your　kind　note　and　still　kinder　proposal；　however；　clear　all　that　unfortable　feeling　away；　and　I　am　pleased　accordingly　to　find　that　after　all　you　bear　no　ill…will。　Of　course　I　shall　take　it　as　a　great　pliment　and　a　gracious　and　christian　way　of　turning　the　other　cheek　to　be　smitten　if　you　carry　out　your　proposal　to　dedicate　your　new　Zulu　novel　to　me。　If　I　had　known　that　you　were　engaged　upon　such　a　work　I　might　have　helped　you　with　materials。　。　。　。　But　when　I　saw　that　you　were　oscillating　between　the　North　and　South　Poles；　calling　at　Cairo　and　dallying　a　bit　at　the　Equator　in　your　erratic　course　I　concluded　that　your　interest　in　these　parts　had　ceased　。　。　。　。
I　have　been　for　some　time　past　very　unwell；　and　two　months　ago　they　sent　me　down　here　for　change　of　air。　I　am　not　to　go　back　till　the　end　of　this　mon