the days of my life-第72部分

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etween　that　port　and　Vera　Cruz；　informed　us　that　this　she　would　not　do　because　of　a　“norther”　that　was　ing　up。　Now　a　“norther”　is　a　very　terrible　gale　which　blows　for　days　at　a　time　in　the　Gulf　of　Mexico；　making　it　impossible　for　even　the　finest　ship　to　approach　certain　of　the　ports；　and　the　agent　swore　that　his　telegraphic　information　as　to　its　arrival　was　correct。　This；　of　course；　meant　that　we　might　look　forward　to；　I　think；　another　fortnight　of　the　pleasures　of　Frontera。
However；　the　agent　was　ready　with　a　remedy。　The　tub　I　have　mentioned　was　sailing　for　Vera　Cruz　at　once。　It　would；　he　said；　get　there　before　the　liner　left；　or；　if　not；　it　would　signal　to　the　liner　to　stop　and　take　us　aboard。　Only　we　must　make　up　our　minds　instantly　—　within　five　minutes。　We　fell　into　the　trap；　paid　an　expensive　fare；　and　steamed　off　in　that　dreadful　ship。　During　the　night　we　sighted　the　American　liner　with　our　wives　on　board；　making　straight　for　Frontera！　To　municate　with　her　was　impossible；　indeed；　once　he　had　us　safe　at　sea　the　captain　laughed　at　the　idea。　On　the　following　morning　the　ladies　arrived　at　Frontera；　where　they　expected　to　meet　us；　but　were　told　by　the　consummate　villain　of　an　agent　who　had　shipped　us　off　in　his　own　boat　on　the　previous　day；　that　no　Englishmen　answering　to　our　description　had　been　even　heard　of　at　Frontera。　So　they　were　forced　to　proceed　upon　their　journey　in　a　state　of　some　anxiety。
We　also　had　anxieties；　for　the　machinery　of　our　tub　broke　down。　There　for　one　whole　night　we　rolled　about　off　the　coast　of　Mexico；　sleeping；　or　rather　sitting；　on　the　coils　of　rope　upon　the　deck　and　waiting　for　the　promised　“norther”　which　now　showed　every　sign　of　arrival。　Fortunately；　however；　it　did　not　develop　until　later；　for；　had　it　done　so；　our　ship　in　its　disabled　condition　would　in　all　probability　have　gone　to　the　bottom。　By　the　following　morning　the　engines　were　more　or　less　patched　up；　and　we　crept　into　Vera　Cruz　with　no　baggage　except　the　travel…stained　garments　in　which　we　stood　and　the　sack　of　fern　roots　whereof　I　have　spoken；　for　such　spare　clothes　as　we　possessed　had　been　left　behind。
The　end　of　it　was　that　we　journeyed　back　to　the　City　of　Mexico；　a　place　that　I　had　hoped　never　to　see　again；　where　we　bought　a　few　necessaries　and　took　the　train　to　New　York。
After　five　days　of　arduous　travel；　during　which　I　suffered　much　from　headache；　we　reached　that　city　to　find　that　our　womenkind　had　also　arrived　there　safely。　Two　or　three　things　remain　impressed　upon　my　mind　in　connection　with　this　long　train　journey。　One　is　the　sad　and　desolate　aspect　of　the　sandy　wildernesses　of　Upper　Mexico；　dotted　here　and　there　with　tall　cacti；　as　these　appeared　in　the　light　of　the　full　moon。　Another　is　the　sight　of　a　small　herd　of　bison　which　we　passed　on　the　great　plains　of　Texas；　I　suppose　among　the　last　that　were　left　in　that　country。　These　I　am　very　glad　to　have　seen　in　their　wild　state。　The　third　is　the　view　of　Niagara　as　we　saw　it　in　one　wintry　dawn。　The　train　pulled　up　to　allow　us　to　inspect　the　Falls；　and　for　a　while　we　stood　almost　on　the　brink　of　the　cataract　watching　the　great　ice　boulders　thunder　to　the　depths　below。　It　was　a　mighty　and　majestic　scene；　which　the　loneliness　of　the　hour　did　much　to　enhance。
From　New　York　we　took　ship　for　Liverpool；　where　we　arrived　without　accident　in　due　course。　I　was　not　well　at　the　time；　having　again　been　attacked　by　influenza　on　the　voyage。　Needless　to　say；　our　homeing　was　very　sad。　After；　I　think；　only　one　night　in　London　we　came　to　Ditchingham；　where　I　found　my　two　little　girls　dressed　in　black　and　—　a　grave。
Chapter　15　ANDREW　LANG
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　mence　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　mittee；　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　bee　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　e　across　a　scheme　we　had　（about　a　quarter　of　a　century　ago）　for　collaboration　in　a　novel　of　Old　Kor。
I　think