(1894) Haggard bounces back completely from his previous novel, the lifeless Montezuma’s Daughter, written following the death of his son and the collapse of his own health. In more ways than one, then, was it good to see this artistic comeback.
“By George! this is quite affecting…”
It’s a Lost Race treasure-hunting sort of novel, where the main characters are taken for gods. So, very familiar territory. Yet it was apparently Haggard’s peculiar task to limit his strong imagination to the same scenarios over and over again in order to challenge it even more. The opening is a tour de force of mournfulness, as only he could do. It also gets you emotionally invested and wanting revenge within the first ten pages. The lovers’ quarrels in the beginning are as delightful as any in Trollope. And the book features maybe the best of Haggard’s many great sidekicks, in the black dwarf Otter, who made me laugh out loud several times and almost (I was reading in public) shed a tear.
Haggard keeps the plot moving in the middle, as the situation of the imposters starts to unravel. The people are growing restless. An evil priest-class is suspicious. The crew is disappearing one by one at night. Otter is becoming a drunk and a prey to spies. One of the protagonists is turning against the heroes, posing a threat from within. That damn mist won’t let up. All of this gives a sense of motion, however downward, to chapters that are sometimes lulls in his other works. For good measure, Haggard throws a giant crocodile-god into the mix.
As I’ve come to expect, the novel has some mad action scenes, one involving the ancient crocodile, and another an escape on a sled down mountain glaciers, written with the outlandishness of Poe and the sensory detail of Kipling, the author’s sometime writing companion (they would literally write side by side). It sounds like a truism to praise a novelist for his imagination, but it was almost a speciality with these writers of “romances,” the way they used their mind’s eye—picturing forth their fantastic conceits so realistically that it never failed to bring out a marvel or two. I mentioned Poe. Hawthorne was another early one. And Verne. But no period did it so consistently as that of Kipling, Doyle, Wells (especially), and Haggard. In this they are all following a tradition of speculative literature going back to Homer.
This isn’t a perfect book. The hero is worse than useless. When everyone is preparing themselves to be sacrificed to the crocodile, only Otter shows some pluck, fashioning a weapon in order to take the creature down with him. I had to wonder: couldn’t Leonard have thought of that? The mercurial heroine also annoyed me at times. And with a little effort eliminating repetitions, Haggard could’ve upped the tempo a bit. But when you enter his world you have to be willing to submit to his vision, ponderous passages and all. The book finishes strong. The denouement is heartwarming and dream-like but tinged with a little wistful realism.
My tenth Haggard novel and one of the best.
_____________________
Marginalia:
There are two mentions in this book of “cyclopean” stone walls. I wonder if this is where Lovecraft got it.
Allusion to a famous document by Pizarro, dividing the spoils of Peru, which Haggard suggests is one of the strangest ever drawn up.
____
Quotes:
“Thus the dwarf addressed himself, and it seemed to his bewildered brain that the words which he had imagined were true, and that Leonard really stood by and mocked him. At last he sprang to his feet, and crying, “Never, Baas!” so loudly that the cave rang with the echoes of his shout, he rushed straight at the foe…”
“Indeed Otter enlarged upon the theme… Leonard, he declared, had owned country as wide as a horse could gallop across in a day; moreover, he had two hundred tribesmen, heads of families, who fed upon oxen killed for them—twenty oxen a week; and ten principal wives had called him husband.”
“So he told her that and much more, speaking to her earnestly, hopefully, and most tenderly, as a man might speak to the woman whom he worshipped and with whom he is about to travel to that shore of which we know nothing, though day and night we hear the waves that bear us forward break yonder on its beach.”
“…it is terrible to watch the latest wax and ebb of life, and with the intelligence to comprehend that these flickerings, this coming and this going, these sinkings and these last recoveries are the trial flights of the animating and eternal principle—call it soul or what you will—before it trusts itself afar.”
“And yet, was Leonard altogether happy as he stood looking on these familiar things? Perhaps not quite, for yonder in the churchyard there was a grave, and within the church a monument in white marble, that was wonderfully like one who had loved him and whom he had loved, though time and trouble had written a strange difference on her face.”
“‘Don’t you see, Leonard,’ his wife said almost fiercely, ‘it is most amusing, you made a mistake. Your brother’s dying prophecy was like a Delphic oracle—it could be taken two ways, and, of course, you adopted the wrong interpretation.’” Nice ironic ending by Haggard.
“Juanna took the letter and perused it twice, by which time she knew it as well as she did the Lord’s Prayer, nor did she ever forget a single word of it.” Funny line. Ominous too. If Leonard forgets his first love, his wife will never let him.
“[Leonard] could not blame the dwarf, who after all was a savage and looked at things as a savage would... He sometimes wished, so deep was his depression, that he also was a savage and could do likewise.” It’s hard not to hear in that last quote the author wishing he too could drown his sorrows in drink.