Death of Andrew Lang — Recent letters from him — Suggested further collaboration — Lecture tour in S. Africa proposed — Letter from Charles Longman — Queen Taia’s ring.

The day on which I commence this chapter of my reminiscences — July 22, 1912 — is a sad one for me, since the first 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 find 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, filled 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 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 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 justifies 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 find 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 trout-fishing, with fly. 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.

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 ill-omened 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 objections,” i.e. if we ever live to get at the thing, which I can’t do at present.

I think Kor was the mother of Egypt, which kept up a filial 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 ferret 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 find 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 discouraged 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 first 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 shor............