CHAPTER XXIV.

BY ANOTHER HAND

A year has elapsed since our most dear friend Allan Quatermain wrote

the words “_I have spoken_” at the end of his record of our adventures.

Nor should I have ventured to make any additions to the record had it

not happened that by a most strange accident a chance has arisen of its

being conveyed to England. The chance is but a faint one, it is true;

but, as it is not probable that another will arise in our lifetimes,

Good and myself think that we may as well avail ourselves of it, such

as it is. During the last six months several Frontier Commissions have

been at work on the various boundaries of Zu-Vendis, with a view of

discovering whether there exists any possible means of ingress or

egress from the country, with the result that a channel of

communication with the outer world hitherto overlooked has been

discovered. This channel, apparently the only one (for I have

discovered that it was by it that the native who ultimately reached Mr

Mackenzie’s mission station, and whose arrival in the country, together

with the fact of his expulsion—for he _did_ arrive about three years

before ourselves—was for reasons of their own kept a dead secret by the

priests to whom he was brought), is about to be effectually closed. But

before this is done, a messenger is to be despatched bearing with him

this manuscript, and also one or two letters from Good to his friends,

and from myself to my brother George, whom it deeply grieves me to

think I shall never see again, informing them, as our next heirs, that

they are welcome to our effects in England, if the Court of Probate

will allow them to take them,[23]} inasmuchas as we have made up our

minds never to return to Europe. Indeed, it would be impossible for us

to leave Zu-Vendis even if we wished to do so.

[23] Of course the Court of Probate would allow nothing of the

sort.—Editor.

The messenger who is to go—and I wish him joy of his journey—is

Alphonse. For a long while he has been wearied to death of Zu-Vendis

and its inhabitants. “Oh, oui, c’est beau,” he says, with an expressive

shrug; “mais je m’ennuie; ce n’est pas chic.” Again, he complains

dreadfully of the absence of cafes and theatres, and moans continually

for his lost Annette, of whom he says he dreams three times a week. But

I fancy his secret cause of disgust at the country, putting aside the

homesickness to which every Frenchman is subject, is that the people

here laugh at him so dreadfully about his conduct on the occasion of

the great battle of the Pass about eighteen months ago, when he hid

beneath a banner in Sorais’s tent in order to avoid being sent forth to

fight, which he says would have gone against his conscience. Even the

little boys call out at him in the streets, thereby offending his pride

and making his life unbearable. At any rate, he has determined to brave

the horrors of a journey of almost unprecedented difficulty and danger,

and also to run the risk of falling into the hands of the French police

to answer for a certain little indiscretion of his own some years old

(though I do not consider that a very serious matter), rather than

remain in _ce triste pays_. Poor Alphonse! we shall be very sorry to

part with him; but I sincerely trust, for his own sake and also for the

sake of this history, which is, I think, worth giving to the world,

that he may arrive in safety. If he does, and can carry the treasure we

have provided him with in the shape of bars of solid gold, he will be,

comparatively speaking, a rich man for life, and well able to marry his

Annette, if she is still in the land of the living and willing to marry

her Alphonse.

Anyhow, on the chance, I may as well add a word or two to dear old

Quatermain’s narrative.

He died at dawn on the day following that on which he wrote the last

words of the last chapter. Nyleptha, Good and myself were present, and

a most touching and yet in its way beautiful scene it was. An hour

before the daybreak it became apparent to us that he was sinking, and

our distress was very keen. Indeed, Good melted into tears at the

idea—a fact that called forth a last gentle flicker of humour from our

dying friend, for even at that hour he could be humorous. Good’s

emotion had, by loosening the muscles, naturally caused his eyeglass to

fall from its accustomed place, and Quatermain, who always observed

everything, observed this also.

“At last,” he gasped, with an attempt at a smile, “I have seen Good

without his eyeglass.”

After that he said no more till the day broke, when he asked to be

lifted up to watch the rising of the sun for the last time.

“In a very few minutes,” he said, after gazing earnestly at it, “I

shall have passed through those golden gates.”

Ten minutes afterwards he raised himself and looked us fixedly in the

face.

“I am going a stranger journey than any we have ever taken together.

Think of me sometimes,” he murmured. “God bless you all. I shall wait

for you.” And with a sigh he fell back dead.

And so passed away a character that I consider went as near perfection

as any it has ever been my lot to encounter.

Tender, constant, humorous, and possessing of many of the qualities

that go to make a poet, he was yet almost unrivalled as a man of action

and a citizen of the world. I never knew any one so competent to form

an accurate judgment of men and their motives. “I have studied human

nature all my life,” he would say, “and I ought to know something about

it,” and he certainly did. He had but two faults—one was his excessive

modesty, and the other a slight tendency which he had to be jealous of

anybody on whom he concentrated his affections. As regards the first of

these points, anybody who reads what he has written will be able to

form his own opinion; but I will add one last instance of it.

As the reader will doubtless remember, it is a favourite trick of his

to talk of himself as a timid man, whereas really, though very

cautious, he possessed a most intrepid spirit, and, what is more, never

lost his head. Well, in the great battle of the Pass, where he got the

wound that finally killed him, one would imagine from the account which

he gives of the occurrence that it was a chance blow that fell on him

in the scrimmage. As a matter of fact, however, he was wounded in a

most gallant and successful attempt to save Good’s life, at the risk

and, as it ultimately turned out, at the cost of his own. Good was down

on the ground, and one of Nasta’s highlanders was about to dispatch

him, when Quatermain threw himself on to his prostrate form and

received the blow on his own body, and then, rising, killed the

soldier.

As regards his jealousy, a single instance which I give in justice to

myself and Nyleptha will suffice. The reader will, perhaps, recollect

that in one or two places he speaks as though Nyleptha monopolised me,

and he was left by both of us rather out in the cold. Now Nyleptha is

not perfect, any more than any other woman is, and she may be a little

_exigeante_ at times, but as regards Quatermain the whole thing is pure

imagination. Thus when he complains about my not coming to see him when

he is ill, the fact was that, in spite of my entreaties, the doctors

positively forbade it. Those little remarks of his pained me very much

when I read them, for I loved Quatermain as dearly as though he were my

own father, and should never have dreamed of allowing my marriage to

interfere with that affection. But let it pass; it is, after all, but

one little weakness, which makes no great show among so many and such

lovable virtues.

Well, he died, and Good read the Burial Service over him in the

presence of Nyleptha and myself; and then his remains were, in

deference to the popular clamour, accorded a great public funeral, or

rather cremation. I could not help thinking, however, as I marched in

that long and splendid procession up to the Temple, how he would have

hated the whole thing could he have been there to see it, for he had a

horror of ostentation.

And so, a few minutes before sunset, on the third night after his

death, they laid him on the brazen flooring before the altar, and

waited for the last ray of the setting sun to fall upon his face.

Presently it came, and struck him like a golden arrow, crowning the

pale brows with glory, and then the trumpets blew, and the flooring

revolved, and all that remained of our beloved friend fell into the

furnace below.

We shall never see his like again if we live a hundred years. He was

the ablest man, the truest gentleman, the firmest friend, the finest

sportsman, and, I believe, the best shot in all Africa.

And so ended the very remarkable and adventurous life of Hunter

Quatermain.

Since then things have gone very well with us. Good has been, and still

is, busily employed in the construction of a navy on Lake Milosis and

another of the large lakes, by means of which we hope to be able to

increase trade and commerce, and also to overcome some very troublesome

and warlike sections of the population who live upon their borders.

Poor fellow! he is beginning to get over the sad death of that

misguided but most attractive woman, Sorais, but it is a sad blow to

him, for he was really deeply attached to her. I hope, however, that he

will in time make a suitable marriage and get that unhappy business out

of his head. Nyleptha has one or two young ladies in view, especially a

daughter of Nasta’s (who was a widower), a very fine imperial-looking

girl, but with too much of her father’s intriguing, and yet haughty,

spirit to suit my taste.

As for myself, I should scarcely know where to begin if I set to work

to describe my doings, so I had best leave them undescribed, and

content myself with saying that, on the whole, I am getting on very

well in my curious position of King-Consort—better, indeed, than I had

any right to expect. But, of course, it is not all plain sailing, and I

find the responsibilities very heavy. Still, I hope to be able to do

some good in my time, and I intend to devote myself to two great

ends—namely, to the consolidation of the various clans which together

make up the Zu-Vendi people, under one strong central government, and

to the sapping of the power of the priesthood. The first of these

reforms will, if it can be carried out, put an end to the disastrous

civil wars that have for centuries devastated this country; and the

second, besides removing a source of political danger, will pave the

road for the introduction of true religion in the place of this

senseless Sun worship. I yet hope to see the shadow of the Cross of

Christ lying on the golden dome of the Flower Temple; or, if I do not,

that my successors may.

There is one more thing that I intend to devote myself to, and that is

the total exclusion of all foreigners from Zu-Vendis. Not, indeed, that

any more are ever likely to get here, but if they do, I warn them

fairly that they will be shown the shortest way out of the country. I

do not say this from any sense of inhospitality, but because I am

convinced of the sacred duty that rests upon me of preserving to this,

on the whole, upright and generous-hearted people the blessings of

comparative barbarism. Where would all my brave army be if some

enterprising rascal were to attack us with field-guns and

Martini-Henrys? I cannot see that gunpowder, telegraphs, steam, daily

newspapers, universal suffrage, etc., etc., have made mankind one whit

the happier than they used to be, and I am certain that they have

brought many evils in their train. I have no fancy for handing over

this beautiful country to be torn and fought for by speculators,

tourists, politicians and teachers, whose voice is as the voice of

Babel, just as those horrible creatures in the valley of the

underground river tore and fought for the body of the wild swan; nor

will I endow it with the greed, drunkenness, new diseases, gunpowder,

and general demoralization which chiefly mark the progress of

civilization amongst unsophisticated peoples. If in due course it

pleases Providence to throw Zu-Vendis open to the world, that is

another matter; but of myself I will not take the responsibility, and I

may add that Good entirely approves of my decision. Farewell.

HENRY CURTIS.

December 15, 18—.

PS—I quite forgot to say that about nine months ago Nyleptha (who is

very well and, in my eyes at any rate, more beautiful than ever)

presented me with a son and heir. He is a regular curly-haired,

blue-eyed young Englishman in looks, and, though he is destined, if he

lives, to inherit the throne of Zu-Vendis, I hope I may be able to

bring him up to become what an English gentleman should be, and

generally is—which is to my mind even a prouder and a finer thing than

being born heir apparent to the great House of the Stairway, and,

indeed, the highest rank that a man can reach upon this earth.

H. C.

NOTE BY GEORGE CURTIS, Esq.

The MS of this history, addressed to me in the handwriting of my dear

brother Henry Curtis, whom we had given up for dead, and bearing the

Aden postmark, reached me in safety on December 20, 18—, or a little

more than two years after it left his hands in the far centre of

Africa, and I hasten to give the astonishing story it contains to the

world. Speaking for myself, I have read it with very mixed feelings;

for though it is a great relief to know that he and Good are alive and

strangely prosperous, I cannot but feel that for me and for all their

friends they might as well be dead, since we can never hope to see them

more.

They have cut themselves off from old England and from their homes and

their relations for ever, and perhaps, under the circumstances, they

were right and wise to do so.

How the MS came to be posted I have been quite unable to discover; but

I presume, from the fact of its being posted at all, that the little

Frenchman, Alphonse, accomplished his hazardous journey in safety. I

have, however, advertised for him and caused various inquiries to be

made in Marseilles and elsewhere with a view of discovering his

whereabouts, but so far without the slightest success. Possibly he is

dead, and the packet was posted by another hand; or possibly he is now

happily wedded to his Annette, but still fears the vengeance of the

law, and prefers to remain incognito. I cannot say, I have not yet

abandoned my hopes of finding him, but I am bound to say that they grow

fainter day by day, and one great obstacle to my search is that nowhere

in the whole history does Mr Quatermain mention his surname. He is

always spoken of as “Alphonse”, and there are so many Alphonses. The

letters which my brother Henry says he is sending with the packet of

manuscript have never arrived, so I presume that they are lost or

destroyed.

George Curtis

AUTHORITIES

A novelist is not usually asked, like a historian, for his “Quellen”.

As I have, however, judging from certain experiences in the past, some

reason to anticipate such a demand, I wish to acknowledge my

indebtedness to Mr Thomson’s admirable history of travel “Through Masai

Land” for much information as to the habits and customs of the tribes

inhabiting that portion of the East Coast, and the country where they

live; also to my brother, John G. Haggard, RN, HBM’s consul at

Madagascar, and formerly consul at Lamu, for many details furnished by

him of the mode of life and war of those engaging people the Masai;

also to my sister-in-law, Mrs John Haggard, who kindly put the lines of

p. 183 into rhyme for me; also to an extract in a review from some book

of travel of which I cannot recollect the name, to which I owe the idea

of the great crabs in the valley of the subterranean river.[24] But if

I remember right, the crabs in the book when irritated projected their

eyes quite out of their heads. I regret that I was not able to

“plagiarize” this effect, but I felt that, although crabs may, and

doubtless do, behave thus in real life, in romance they “will not do

so.”

[24] It is suggested to me that this book is The Cruise of the

‘Falcon’, with which work I am personally unacquainted.

There is an underground river in “Peter Wilkins”, but at the time of

writing the foregoing pages I had not read that quaint but entertaining

work.

It has been pointed out to me that there exists a similarity between

the scene of Umslopogaas frightening Alphonse with his axe and a scene

in Far from the Madding Crowd. I regret this coincidence, and believe

that the talented author of that work will not be inclined to accuse me

of literary immorality on its account.

Finally, I may say that Mr Quatermain’s little Frenchman appears to

belong to the same class of beings as those English ladies whose long

yellow teeth and feet of enormous size excite our hearty amusement in

the pages of the illustrated Gallic press.

The Writer of “Allan Quatermain.”