I was inspired to reread Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines by noticing that it existed in an Oxford World’s Classics edition, edited by Roger Luckhurst, whose excellent edition of The Portrait of a Lady for the same series I had just finished. The temptation to see what contemporary literary criticism would make of this magnificent piece of hokum, which I last read when I was about eleven, was just too great.
Literally all that King Solomon’s Mines has in common with The Portrait of a Lady is the relative chronological proximity of their composition; James’s novel was published in 1880-81, Haggard’s classic yarn in 1885. As Luckhurst’s introduction to the latter makes clear, the turn to a renewed romance form on the part of writers like R.L. Stevenson and Haggard was in part a reaction to a perceived decadence in the tradition of the realist novel, as represented by James and his ilk. This decadence had a strong gender dimension, in Haggard’s perception, at least. Novels were girly! Some of them even had women as their protagonists, heaven forbid, “soliloquizing and dissecting”, while the men who appeared in them were “emasculated specimens of an overwrought age” (Gilbert Osmond and Ned Rosier, take a bow.)
No reader is ever going to accuse Haggard’s professional big game-hunter narrator, Allan Quatermain, nor his quest-fellow, the mighty and majestic Sir Henry Curtis, of being “emasculated specimens.” (I’m not quite so sure about the third in their party, the dandyish naval captain John Good, with his eyeglass and his taste for the ladies and his “beautiful white legs.”) The three set forth into unknown lands in search of Curtis’s lost brother, who has disappeared while searching in the dark heart of Africa (a.k.a. more or less Matabeleland, in modern Zimbabwe) for the fabled gold and diamond mines of the biblical King Solomon. Curtis is driven by pure family sentiment, while lucre is part of the incentive for Quatermain and Good.
The 1885 publicity campaign for King Solomon’s Mines billed it as “The Most Amazing Book Ever Written,” and I don’t have too much of a quibble about that description. Amazement follows on amazement in endless succession (in no particular order: uncanny mummifications, mass elephant slaughter, a near-death desert crossing, sinister witch cults, a full-scale civil war, a showdown in a labyrinthine cavern deep within the earth). Luckhurst notes that Jung was a fan of Haggard, and it’s not difficult to see why; archetypes abound. The novel is also fascinating as a reworking of the medieval romance, and its former updating, the Gothic novel. Although I don’t want to talk it up too much (Haggard isn’t a patch on his fellow fabulist Stevenson as a stylist), I’m glad I revisited King Solomon’s Mines; it’s a constantly thought-provoking read.
Part of what makes it so, of course, is its setting in Africa, which Haggard knew well from personal experience. One reason why I felt so curious to reread this book with the eyes of an adult was to see how it measured up ideologically, as a work crafted at the height of the so-called Scramble for Africa and dealing with three white men’s quest for treasure in that land.
I found it very interesting on that score and far more nuanced than I had been expecting. There are all kinds of words and deeds and attitudes in the novel that will make a modern reader cringe, of course, but I finished the book fully in accord with Luckhurst’s conclusion, that those who read Haggard’s imperial romances as simplistic forms of propaganda, cynically aimed at indoctrinating boys, big and little, into the glories of empire, fail to read the moral ambivalence that saturates “King Solomon’s Mines.” Haggard’s mysterious “lost tribe” race of noble warriors, the Kukuanas, are otherized and exoticized like crazy; but Haggard elegiacally celebrates their courage; and he unexpectedly sets up their young king, Ignosi, as a kind of black twin to his perfect English gentleman, Sir Henry Curtis. Luckhurst reads Haggard’s idealizing treatment of the solidarity between his white adventurers and the Kukuanas as a mournful fantasy revisiting of the recent Anglo-Zulu war (1879)—less a euphemistic mystification of the brutal realities of empire than a wistful imagining of what might have been.