“King Solomon’s Mines” — Andrew Lang — Estimate of Lang’s character — Anecdotes of Lang — Cassells and “King Solomon’s Mines” — Instant success — Letters from R. L. S. — Bazett Haggard and R. L. S. in Samoa. — The writing of “Jess” and “She” — What I shall be remembered by — Fifteen months’ work — “She” dedicated to Lang — Published by Longmans — Letters about it — The Sherd of Amenartas.

Whether I wrote “King Solomon’s Mines” before or after I entered Bargrave Deane’s chambers I cannot now remember, but I think it must have been before. At any rate I recollect that we brought up from Ditchingham a certain pedestal writing-desk, which had always been in the house and has returned thither, for it now stands in my wife’s bedroom, and added it to the somewhat exiguous furniture of our hired abode. It stood in the dining-room, and on it in the evenings — for my days were spent in the Temple — I wrote “King Solomon’s Mines.” I think the task occupied me about six weeks. When the tale was finished I hawked it round to sundry publishers, Hurst and Blackett among them, none of whom if I remember rightly, thought it worth bringing out.

At length, I know not how, the manuscript, which today presents a somewhat battered appearance, reached the late W. E. Henley, who appears to have brought it to the notice of Mr. Andrew Lang. How I first came into contact with my friend Andrew Lang — that is, where and when I met him — I cannot recall. This, however, must have been subsequent to the following note:

1 Marloes Road: March 28 [1883].

My dear Sir, — Your paper “Bottles” has reached me as London editor of Harper’s. I am much pleased by it, but I am unable to accept anything except by permission of the American editor. . . . I am glad to take this opportunity of thanking you for the great pleasure “The Witch’s Head” has given me. I have not read anything so good for a long while.

Faithfully yours,
A. Lang.

What the paper “Bottles” may have been I am not now quite sure. I think, however, that I can identify it with a short tale which subsequently appeared in a magazine, perhaps the Cornhill, under the title of “The Blue Curtains.” At any rate I have forgotten the circumstances of the story, and do not know whether a copy of it remains in my possession.

When Lang’s next letter was written — it is only dated “Sunday” — I gather from its tone that I had made his personal acquaintance. Its subject is “King Solomon’s Mines,” and it runs:

Dear Mr. Rider Haggard, — I have got so far as Sir Henry’s duel with the king. Seldom have I read a book with so much pleasure: I think it perfectly delightful. The question is, what is the best, whereby I mean the coiniest, way to publish it? As soon as possible I will find out what Harper’s Boy’s Magazine is able to do. I believe that all boys’ magazines pay hopelessly badly. There is so much invention and imaginative power and knowledge of African character in your book that I almost prefer it to “Treasure Island.”

The rest of the letter deals with possible methods of bringing out the work.

Lang’s next letter on the subject is dated October 3rd, and shows that by now we were on more or less intimate terms.

Dear Rider Haggard, — Many thanks for “K.S.M.” How grand the map is. . . . Abstain from politics; let civilisation die decently as die it must, and as we have no fight in us. I don’t belong to the Voting classes. Ni Elettori ni Eletti.

Yours very truly,
A. Lang.

P.S. — My people, with whom I have been in Galloway, prefer “Dawn” to “The Witch’s Head.” I don’t. “Dawn” is too steep, especially Lady Bellamy, and George, and Philip, and the heroine. The writing and the sentiment pleased me very much, but I barred the Astral Body.

Perhaps before I go any further I should try to give some estimate of Andrew Lang, whose character I have had opportunities of observing through many years. Take him all in all I think him one of the sweetest-natured and highest-minded men whom it has ever been my privilege to know, although a certain obtrusive honesty which will out, and an indifferent off-handedness of manner, has prevented him from becoming generally popular. Moreover, he has always been supposed to be somewhat of a mocker and farceur, as is exemplified in his Press nickname of “Merry Andrew.” Yet the truth is that his laughter is often of the sort that is summoned to the lips to hide tears in the eyes. This may be seen by attentive students of his poems, and, in truth, few are more easily or more deeply moved by anything that appeals to the heart, be it national, or personal.

Of his abilities I speak with some diffidence. On all hands he is admitted to be perhaps the soundest and ablest critic of his time, but when it comes to his place as an historian, or as a student and recorder of matters connected with myth, ritual, and religion, I find myself incompetent to judge of his real status, which doubtless the future will decide, though personally I believe it will be a very high one. On such matters, however, only experts can express opinions of real value. Lang never claimed to be a creator, and whenever he sets to work to create, which he has not done of late years, his wide knowledge and his marvellous memory of everything he has read — and little worth studying in ancient or modern literature has escaped him — prove positive stumbling-blocks in his path. I noticed this particularly when we were evolving “The World’s Desire.” With that modesty which so often distinguishes those who have much to be proud of, he once described himself to me as “A hodman of letters,” a description that may be paralleled by Mrs. Lynn Linton’s rather sharp saying — to myself I believe, although of this I am not sure — that “Andrew Lang would be the greatest writer in the language if only he had something to write about.” The fact is, of course, that he has always had too much. Like the amorous Frenchman he has ever been wont to eparpiller son coeur upon a hundred subjects. I should add that Mrs. Linton was one of his great admirers. In a letter which she wrote to me in 1890, and which is before me at this moment, she says, “I simply adore his work.” Again, further on in the same epistle, she speaks of her “delight in his most exquisite work.”

The truth is that Lang is par excellence a litterateur of the highest sort, perhaps the most literary man in England or America. When he is not reading he is writing, and he writes more easily than he talks, at any rate to most people. Also some of his poetry is wonderfully beautiful. If verses like “The White Pacha,” its companion “Midnight, January 25th, 1886,” and “A Dream” are doomed to die, and with them others as good, I wonder what will live! Again, what majestic lines are these upon the Odyssey:

So gladly, from the songs of modern speech

Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free

Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,

And through the music of the languid hours,

They hear like ocean on a western beach

The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

Of his extraordinary readiness I need say little, as it is known to all men. Still, as it may be forgotten when this book is published, if that ever happens, I will give two instances. Once he called on me; we were going for a walk together, but I was not ready to start. So he asked for paper, and in half an hour or so finished a leading article — I think it was for the Daily News — which he sent straight to the office by a cabman, to appear without the submission of a proof. I read that article afterwards; it was on some Shakespearian subject which involved many allusions and much quotation. I believe that it contained no error.

On another occasion I was travelling with them from St. Andrews to Edinburgh, and Dr. Boyd, better known as A.K.H.B., was our fellow-voyager. He was a great conversationalist and talked to Lang almost without ceasing. Presently Lang took off the tall hat he was wearing, placed it on his knee, produced paper and pencil, set the paper on the crown of the hat and began to write like a spiritualist automatist, if that is the right word, all the time keeping up a flow of argument and conversation with A.K.H.B. At Edinburgh I saw him post the results, without rereading, to the editor of the Saturday Review. The article appeared in due course without his seeing a proof, and written in his usual clear and beautiful style.

Such is the professional man, but of the friend I know not what to say, save that I reckon it as one of the privileges of my life to be able to call him by that much-misused name; the tenderest, the purest and the highest-minded of human creatures, one from whom true goodness and nobility of soul radiate in every common word and act, though often half-hidden in a jest, the most perfect of gentlemen — such is Andrew Lang.

To return to the history of “King Solomon’s Mines.” Ultimately that book found its way to Messrs. Cassells, recommended to them, I believe, by Mr. Henley. Subsequently Henley reproached me with having taken it out of his hands, and said that he could have got me much better terms. But I never did take it out of his hands; indeed I never knew that it was in his hands. If my memory serves me, I heard direct from Messrs. Cassells informing me that they would publish the book and asking me to call re the agreement.

At any rate I called and in that great building saw a business-like editor whose name I never knew. He pointed out that the company was prepared to offer me an alternative agreement. The first of the two agreements conveyed the copyright to Messrs. Cassells in return for a sum of, I think, 100 pounds paid down. The second offered me 50 pounds on account of royalties, to be calculated “at the rate of ten per cent. of the published price of the book on all copies sold by them during the continuance of the copyright, reckoning thirteen copies to the twelve.”

After my previous experiences as an author 100 pounds on the nail had great attractions. I had no particular belief in the story which I had thrown off in my leisure hours as a mere jeu d’esprit, especially after its rejection in other quarters. Even Mr. Lang’s kind expressions of opinion carried no conviction to my mind, for I did not understand all that it meant coming from such a source. I set him down as an amiable gentleman with a taste for savages and boys’ books; it did not occur to me that he saw such things every day, and that when he wrote to one who was practically a stranger that he almost preferred this particular boys’ book to “Treasure Island,” the compliment was high and indeed extraordinary. So after a brief moment of reflection I told the business-like editor that I would sell the copyright for 100 pounds, and he departed to fetch the agreement.

As it chanced, however, there sat in the corner of the room a quiet clerk, whom I had never even noticed. When the editor had departed this unobtrusive gentleman addressed me.

“Mr. Haggard,” he said in a warning voice, “if I were you I would take the other agreement.”

Then hearing some noise, once more he became absorbed in his work, and I understood that the conversation was not to be continued.

Still a moment remained for thought.

“Why the dickens,” I reflected to myself, “did he say that to me? He must have had some reason.” The business-like editor re-entered the room bearing the document in hand.

“I have changed my mind,” I said as he presented it to me: “I will not sell the copyright; I will take the royalty agreement.”

Undoubtedly the quiet clerk in the corner, who was acquainted with the estimate that had been formed of the book by his employers, did me a very good turn, as did my knowledge of men when I acted so promptly on his hint.

The royalty that I accepted might have been higher, at any rate after the sale of a certain number of copies, but it was infinitely better than the acceptance of a small sum down for the copyright of “King Solomon’s Mines,” of which the sale has been very great and at present shows signs of increase rather than of diminution.

Many years later this gentleman wrote reminding me of the incident and forwarding a book that he had published.

“King Solomon’s Mines,” which was produced as a five-shilling book, proved an instant success. Published about the beginning of October, on December 9th Messrs. Cassells wrote to me that they had already sold 5000 copies more or less, a large sale for a boys’ book by a practically unknown man. I wonder how many copies they have sold up to Christmas 1911! In one form and another the total must run to hundreds of thousands.

Before the book appeared we had gone down to Norfolk for part of the long vacation, not to Ditchingham, which was let, but to a farmhouse at Denton adjoining a farm of our own, where I employed my holiday in writing “Allan Quatermain,” the continuation of “King Solomon’s Mines.” One day I chanced to visit the little town of Bungay and there to see a copy of the Saturday Review which contained a two-column notice of the latter work. It was written by Lang, although this I did not know at the time. With delight my eye fell upon such sentences as “All through the battle piece, ‘The Last Stand of the Greys,’ Mr. Haggard, like Scott at Flodden, ‘never stoops his wing’”; and “to tell the truth we would give many novels, say eight hundred (that is about the yearly harvest), for such a book as ‘King Solomon’s Mines.’”

By the way, things in this respect have changed since 1885. I believe that the “yearly harvest” of British novels now numbers nearly three thousand.

I went back to the farm that night feeling sure that my book was going to succeed. A week or so later I received a note from Lang in which he says: “The Spectator in a ‘middle’ gives you more praise than I did, and is neither known personally to you, I fancy, nor an amateur of savages, like me. I hope they will give a review also. . . . I never read anything in the Spectator before with such pleasure.”

One day I took the manuscript of “King Solomon’s Mines” to be bound by Mr. H. Glaisher the bookseller. In the carriage of the Underground Railway I perceived an old lady engaged in a close, indeed an almost ferocious study of the map printed at the beginning of the printed volume which rested on her knees. This was too much for me. Drawing the original map from my pocket, I placed it on my knee — we were seated opposite to each other — and began to study it with like attention. The old lady looked up and saw. She stared first at her map and then at mine, and stared, and stared. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, but I suppose was too shy, nor did I, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of my map, written in blood upon a dirty piece of torn linen, the shirt-tail of Don Jose de Silvestra, give her the slightest encouragement. The end of it was that she seemed to come to the conclusion that that railway carriage in which we were alone together was no place for her. Suddenly, as we were about to leave a station, she sprang up and leapt from the train, at which, the unfolded map still in her hand, she gazed bewildered until it vanished into the tunnel.

Among the many letters that I received about “King Solomon’s Mines,” perhaps the most interesting that I can find are from Robert Louis Stevenson. The first of these, undated, as they all are, is written from Skerryvore, Bournemouth, where he was living at the time. Here I should state that to my sorrow I never met Stevenson face to face: always we just missed each other.

Dear Sir, — Some kind hand has sent me your tale of Solomon’s Mines; I know not who did this good thing to me; and so I send my gratitude to headquarters and the fountainhead. You should be more careful; you do quite well enough to take more trouble, and some parts of your book are infinitely beneath you. But I find there flashes of a fine weird imagination and a fine poetic use and command of the savage way of talking: things which both thrilled me. The reflections of your hero before the battle are singularly fine; the King’s song of victory a very noble imitation. But how, in the name of literature, could you mistake some lines from Scott’s “Marmion” — ay, and some of the best — for the slack-sided, clerical-cob effusions of the Rev. Ingoldsby? Barham is very good, but Walter Scott is vastly better. I am, dear sir,

Your obliged reader,
Robert Louis Stevenson.

Of course I answered Stevenson’s letter — by the way, I have not the least idea who sent him the book — thanking him and pointing out that he had overlooked the fact that Allan Quatermain’s habit of attributing sundry quotations to the Old Testament and the Ingoldsby Legends, the only books with which he was familiar, was a literary joke.

Stevenson wrote back, again in an undated letter from Bournemouth and on a piece of manuscript paper:

Dear Mr. Haggard, — Well, yes, I have sinned against you; that was the part of a bad reader. But it inclines me the more to explain my dark saying. As thus:

You rise in the course of your book to pages of eloquence and poetry; and it is quite true that you must rise from something lower; and that the beginning must infallibly (?) be pitched low and kept quiet. But you began (pardon me the word) slipshod. If you are to rise, you must prepare the mind in the quiet parts, with at least an accomplished neatness. To this you could easily attain. In other words, what you have still to learn is to take trouble with those parts which do not excite you.

Excuse the tone of a damned schoolmaster, and believe me,

Yours truly,
Robert Louis Stevenson.

The next letter, also from Skerryvore, Bournemouth, which, because of its allusions to “King Solomon’s Mines,” although undated, must have been written at this time, is an enigma to me. I have not the faintest idea to what it refers.

Dear Mr. Haggard, — Is it not possible to make a gratuitous donation inter vivos? Could not that be done in a separate instrument? I know not if it matters; but if there were any ready way of gaining the point, I might adopt it. My law is all to the wind; and indeed I never knew but a taste.

I thank you at least for the remark.

I come rarely to town, and am usually damned sick when I do. But if I can, I’ll try to see you. (I know a cousin of yours here by the way.)

What are you about? I am again at a boys’ story; but I’ve been a year at it already and may be longer.

Yours very truly,
R. L. Stevenson.

P.S. — Further reflection on “K.S.M.” makes me think you are one who gets up steam slowly. In that case, when you have your book finished, go back and rewrite the beginning up to the mark.

My case is the reverse: I always begin well, and often finish languidly or hurriedly.

P.P.S. — How about a deed of partnership?

This “deed of partnership” on the face of it would seem to suggest some scheme of collaboration. Yet I do not think that this could have been the case — for the following reason. I remember that my late brother Bazett, who was afterwards an intimate friend of Stevenson’s in Samoa, told me that someone, I know not who, had written to him suggesting that he and I should collaborate in a story, and that he had returned an angry and offensive answer to the suggestion, as I dare say it was quite natural that he should do. This answer, it seems, had however weighed upon his mind. At any rate Bazett informed me that Stevenson on several occasions spoke to him with deep regret as to his petulant reply. This is all I know, or at any rate all that I can recollect, of the matter. Yet what else can have been referred to in the above letter I am at a loss to guess.

Stevenson’s remark as to his finishing languidly is interesting, and, so far as my judgment goes, his romantic work shows its truth. Thus to my fancy the first part of “Treasure Island” is far and away better than its end. In an adventure story what is called style, however brilliant, is not enough: the living interest must be kept up to the last page; it should increase to the very end. Of course I know that many of our critics, like those of Alexandria in the first centuries of our era, think and preach that style is the really important thing, much more important than the substance of the story. I cannot believe that they are right. The substance is, as it were, the soul of the matter; the style is its outward and visible body. I prefer a creation with a great soul, even if its form is somewhat marred, to one with a beautifully finished form and very little soul. Of course when the two are found together, a rare event, there is perfection. Also people differ in their ideas of what style really is. By it some understand inverted sentences, unusual words and far-fetched metaphors or allusions, making up a whole that is difficult to comprehend. Others hold that the greater the simplicity of the language, the better the style. I am not an authority, but my own view is that above all things the written word should be clear and absolutely readable, and that work which does not fulfil these conditions can scarcely be expected to endure. It runs a grave risk of passing with the fashion of the hour. To take a single instance, the Authorised version of the Old Testament, considered as literature, seems to me to fulfil all the requisites of good writing, in fact to be style in the truest sense. Yet the meaning remains perfectly clear, and were those books to cease to be studied for their religious contents, they would still always be read as a model of plain and vigorous English.

But to return to Stevenson. Here I will add the last letter save one that I received from him, though again I do not know to what it refers, since the enclosure of which he speaks is missing, or at any rate has not been found at present. Like the others it is undated, but the allusion to “Nada the Lily” shows that it must have been written about twenty years ago, at the beginning of 1892.

Valima Plantation, Samoan Islands.

Rider Haggard, Esq.

Dear Haggard, — In cleaning up the hideous mess which accumulates about the man of letters I came on the enclosed sheet. Its filthiness will indicate its age. But there is internal evidence which to me dates it still further back; and that is the reference to your brother Bazett. I now know him well and regard him with the most sincere and lively affection and respect. Indeed we are companions in arms and have helped each other back and forth in some very difficult and some very annoying affairs. This has given a wonderful jog to my sense of intimacy with yourself until I have a difficulty in remembering that I have never seen you. Two remarks and I leave my filthy enclosure to speak for itself. First, the equations on the fly-leaf were not in the least intended for you — they’re pieces of a lesson in the Samoan language — and you must kindly regard them as non-existent. Second, “Nada the Lily” is A1.

Sincerely yours,
Robert Louis Stevenson.

I only wish I could find the “filthy enclosure,” or at least remember with what it had to do.

I have one more allusion to my brother besides the letter which came to me with “The Man Haggard.” It is written on a little triangular bit of foolscap pinned into the manuscript of “Nada the Lily.” I suppose that Lang must have sent it to me.

“If you see Haggard, tell him we have a great affection for his brother. Our home rejoices when we see him coming; and that Chaka mourning for his mother is great.”

Here is this last letter pinned into the first of the two accompanying, parchment-bound volumes, that which is entitled “An Object of Pity; or, The Man Haggard. A Romance. By Many Competent Hands. Imprinted at Amsterdam.” These volumes were sent to me by Stevenson in July 1893.

Tivoli Hotel, Apia, Samoa,
South Paci.

Dear Rider Haggard, — I send you herewith a couple of small (and, so to speak, indecent) volumes in which your brother and I have been indulging in the juvenile sport of shying bricks at each other. Honi soit qui mal y pense, say I. And I hope you will say the same. We are a large party, with nothing to do — Lady Jersey, my wife, Captain Leigh, your brother and I, and Mrs. Strong, my daughter-inlaw — and that which we wrote was not according to wisdom. I have............