the days of my life-第2部分

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e　other　things；　I　must　earn　my　livelihood　by　the　pen。　Now　of　this　I　should　not　have　plained　had　I　been　in　a　position　to　choose　my　own　subjects。　But　unhappily　those　subjects　which　attract　me；　such　as　agricultural　and　social　research；　are　quite　unremunerative。　Everybody　talks　of　the　resulting　volumes；　which　receive　full　and　solemn　review　in　all　the　newspapers；　but　very　few　people　buy　them　in　these　days。　So　far　as　I　am　aware；　remunerative　books　may　be　divided　roughly　into　three　classes：　（1）　School　or　technical　works；　which　must　be　purchased　by　scholars　preparing　for　examinations；　or　for　the　purposes　of　their　profession；　（2）　religious　works；　purchased　by　scholars　preparing　themselves　for　a　prosperous　career　in　another　world；　and　（3）　works　of　fiction；　purchased　—　or　rather　borrowed　from　libraries　（if　they　cost　more　than　fourpence…halfpenny1）　—　by　persons　wishing　to　be　amused。　It　has　been　my　lot　to　cater　for　the　last　of　these　three　classes；　and　as　there　is　other　work　which　I　should　have　much　preferred　to　do；　I　will　not　pretend　that　I　have　found；　or　find；　the　occupation　altogether　congenial；　perhaps　because　at　the　bottom　of　my　heart　I　share　some　of　the　British　contempt　for　the　craft　of　story…writing。
1　Written　in　1911。　—　Ed。
I　remember　a　few　years　ago　discussing　this　matter　fully　with　my　friend　Mr。　Rudyard　Kipling；　a　most　eminent　practitioner　of　that　craft；　and　finding　that　our　views　upon　it　were　very　similar；　if　not　identical。　He　pointed　out；　I　recollect；　that　all　fiction　is　in　its　essence　an　appeal　to　the　emotions；　and　that　this　is　not　the　highest　class　of　appeal。　Here；　however；　we　have　a　subject　that　might　be　argued　interminably　and　from　many　points　of　view；　especially　when　we　bear　in　mind　that　there　are　various　classes　of　imaginative　literature。　So　far　as　I　am　concerned　the　issue　is　that　though　I　feel　myself　more　strongly　drawn　to　other　pursuits；　such　as　administration　or　politics　or　even　law；　I　have　been　called　upon　to　earn　the　bread　of　myself　and　others　out　of　a　kind　of　by…product　of　my　brain　which　chances　to　be　saleable；　namely；　the　writing　of　fiction。
It　is　fortunate　for　writers　that　they　do　not　depend　wholly　upon　the　verdict　of　a　hundred　or　so　of　contemporary　critics。　The　history　of　literature　and　art　goes　to　show　that　contemporary　criticism　seldom　makes　and　never　can　destroy　a　reputation；　in　short；　that　Time　is　the　only　true　critic；　and　that　its　verdict　is　the　one　we　have　to　fear。　It　is　in　the　light　of　this　axiom　that　I　proceed　to　consider　my　own　humble　contributions　to　the　sum　of　romantic　literature。　I　can　assure　the　reader　that　I　approach　this　not　unamusing　task　without　any　prejudice　in　my　own　favour。　The　test　of　work　is　whether　it　will　or　will　not　live；　whether　it　contains　within　itself　the　vital　germ　necessary　to　a　long…continued　existence。
Now；　although　it　may　seem　much　to　claim；　my　belief　is　that　some　of　my　tales　will　live。　Possibly　this　belief　is　quite　erroneous；　in　which　case　in　years　to　e　I　may　be　laughed　at　for　its　expression。　It　is　obvious　also　that　a　great　deal　of　what　I　have　written　is　doomed　to　swift　oblivion；　since；　even　if　it　were　all　equally　good；　in　the　crowded　days　that　are　to　e；　days　even　more　crowded　than　our　own；　posterity　will　not　need　much　of　the　work　of　any　individual。　If　he　is　remembered　at　all　it　will　be　by　but　a　few　books。　The　present　question　is；　What　chance　have　I　of　being　so　remembered；　and　I　can　only　hope　that　my　belief　in　the　vitality　of　at　any　rate　some　of　my　books　may　be　justified。
As　it　happens　with　reference　to　this　question　of　the　possible　endurance　of　my　work；　I　am　in　the　position　of　having　a　second　string　to　my　bow。　Years　ago　I　turned　my　attention　to　agriculture　and　to　all　the　group　of　problems　connected　with　the　land。　First　I　wrote　“A　Farmer’s　Year。”　My　object　in　piling　that　record　—　which；　if　I　live；　I　hope　to　amplify　some　day　by　the　addition　of　a　second　volume　on　the　same　plan　—　was　that　in　its　pages　future　generations　might　see　a　picture　of　the　conditions　under　which　agriculture　was　practised　in　England　at　the　end　of　the　nieenth　century。
Afterwards　I　attempted　something　much　more　ambitious；　namely；　a　full　account　of　agricultural　and　social　researches　carried　out　during　the　years　1901　and　1902；　which　was　published　under　the　title　of　“Rural　England。”　To　be　frank；　this　description　is　perhaps　a　little　too　inclusive；　seeing　that　all　England　is　not　described　in　the　multitudinous　pages　of　my　book。　It　deals；　however；　with　twenty…seven　counties　and　the　Channel　Islands；　or　one　more　than　were　treated　of　by　Arthur　Young　a　century　or　so　earlier。　After　this　prolonged　effort　exhaustion　overtook　me；　and　I　retired　to　spend　an　arduous　year　or　so　in　classifying　and　writing　down　my　experiences。　Even　now　I　have　not　abandoned　the　hope　of　dealing　with　the　remaining　counties；　and　after　these　with　Wales；　Scotland；　and　Ireland；　but　at　my　present　age　I　feel　that　it　grows　a　little　faint。　The　work　is　too　tremendous　and；　I　may　add；　too　costly；　since　what　can　be　earned　from　the　sale　of　such　volumes　will　not　even　suffice　to　pay　their　expenses　and　that　of　the　necessary　journeys。
Still　I　hope　that　my　work　may　help　to　show　to　posterity　through　the　mouths　of　many　witnesses　what　was　the　state　of　the　agriculture　and　the　farmers　of　England　at　the　mencement　of　the　twentieth　century。　I　trust；　therefore；　that　should　my　novels　be　forgotten　in　the　passage　of　years；　“Rural　England”　and　my　other　books　on　agriculture　may　still　serve　to　keep　my　memory　green。
Now　I　will　close　this　introduction　and　get　to　my　story。　I　fear　that　the　reader　may　think　it　all　somewhat　egotistical；　but　unfortunately　that　is　a　fault　inherent　in　an　autobiography；　and　one　without　which　it　would　be　more　or　less　futile。
Ditchingham：
August　10；　1911。
Chapter　1　CHILDHOOD
Danish　origin　of　the　Haggards　—　Early　history　in　Herts　and　Norfolk　—　H。　R。　H。‘s　father　and　mother　—　His　birth　at　Bradenham；　Norfolk　—　Early　characteristics　—　First　school　—　Garsington　Rectory；　Oxon；　and　Farmer　Quatermain　—　Lively　times　at　Dunkirk　—　Adventure　at　Treport　—　Cologne　—　His　uncle　Fowle。
There　has　always　been　a　tradition　in　my　family　that　we　sprang　from　a　certain　Sir　Andrew　Ogard；　or　Agard；　or　Haggard　（I　believe　his　name　is　spelt　in　all　three　ways　in　a　single　contemporaneous　document）；　a　Danish　gentleman　of　the　famous　Guildenstjerne　family　whose　seat　was　at　Aagaard　in　Jutland。
About　a　year　ago　I　visited　this　place　while　I　was　making　researches　for　my　book；　“Rural　Denmark。”　It　is　a　wild；　wind…swept　plain　dotted　with　tumuli　dating　from　unknown　times。　There　by　the　old　manor　house　stand　the　moated　ruins　of　the　castle　which　was　burnt　in　the　Peasant’s　War；　I　believe　when　Sir　Andrew’s　elder　brother　was　its　lord。　Here　the　Guildenstjerne　family　remained　for　generations　and　in　the　neighbouring　church　their　arms；　which　are　practically　the　same　as　those　we　bear　today；　are　everywhere　to　be　seen。
This　Sir　Andrew　was　a　very　remarkable　man。　He　appears　to　have　e　from　Denmark　with　nothing　and　to　have　died　possessed　of　manors　in　eleven　English　counties；　besides　much　money　and　the　Danish　estate　which　he　seems　to　have　inherited。2　Also　he　distinguished　himself　greatly　in　the　French　wars　of　the　time　of　Henry　VI；　where　he　held　high　mand　under　the　Duke　of　Bedford；　whose　executor　he　subsequently　became。　Moreover；　he　did　not　neglect　his　spiritual　welfare；　since；　together　with　his　father…inlaw；　Sir　John　Clifton；　he　erected　one　of　the　towers　of　Wymondham　Church；　in　which　he　is　buried　on　the　north　side　of　the　high　altar；　and　bequeathed　to　the　said　church　“a　piece　of　the　True　Cross　and　a　piece　of　the　Thorns　of　the　Crown。”
2　See　Carthew’s　History　of　West　and　East　Bradenham；　pp。　87…89。
I　regret　to　have　to　add　that　there　is　at　present　no　actual　proof　of　the　descent　of　my　family　from　this　Sir　Andrew。　Among　the　other　manors　that　he　possessed；　however；　was　that　of　Rye　in　Hertfordshire；　where　our　arms　are　still　to　be　seen　over　the　gateway　of　Rye　House；　which　he　appears　to　have　built；　that　afterwards　became　famous　in　connection　with　the　celebrated　Rye　House　Plot。
The　Haggard　family　reappears　at　Ware　within　a　few　miles　of　the　Rye　House　in　the　year　1561；　in　the　person　of　a　churchwarden　and　freeholder　of　the　town；　which　suggests　that　he　was　a　citizen　of　some　importance。　At　Ware　they　remained　for　about　150　years。　To　this　I　can　testify；　for　once　finding　myself　in　that　town　with　an　hour　to　spare　I　went　through　the　registers；　in　which　the　name　of　Haggard　occurs　frequently。　One　member　of　the　family；　I　recollect；　had　caused　a　number　of　his　children　to　be　baptised　on　the　same　day；　Oct。　28；　1688；　though　whether　this　was　because　he　suddenly　became　reconciled　to　the　Church　after　a　period　of　alienation；　or　is　to　be　accounted　for　by　a　quarrel　with　the　clergyman；　I　cannot　tell。　Or　had　the　civil　wars　anything　to　do　with　the　matter？
Subsequently　the　family　moved　to　Old　Ford　House；　St。　Mary　Stratford…le…Bow；　where；　I　believe；　they　owned　property　which；　if　they　had　kept　it；　would　have　made　them　very　rich　today。
I　recollect　my　father　telling　me　a　story　of　how　one　of　them；　I　think　it　must　have　been　John　Haggard　who　died　in　1776；　my　great；　great；　great…grandfather；　sold　the　Bow　property　and　moved　to　Bennington　in　Hertfordshire　because　of　a　burglary　that　took　place　at　his　house　which　seems　to　have　frightened　him　very　much。　His　son；　William　Henry；　settled　in　Norwich；　and　is　buried　in　St。　John’s　Maddermarket　in　that　city。　His　only　son；　also　named　William　Henry；　my　great…grandfather；　after　living　a　while　at　Knebworth；　Herts；　bought　Bradenham　Hall　in　this　county　of　Norfolk。　It　would　seem；　oddly　enough；　that　Bradenham　once　belonged　to　old　Sir　Andrew　Ogard；　or　Agard；　in　right　of　his　wife；　but　whether　this　circumstance　had　or　had　not　anything　to　do　with　its　purchase　by　my　great…grandfather　I　cannot　say。
His　son；　William　Haggard；　like　some　others　of　the　family；　was　concerned　in　banking　in　Russia；　and　in　1816　married　a　Russian　lady；　the　eldest　daughter　and　co…heiress　of　James　Meybohm　of　St。　Petersburg。　My　father；　William　Meybohm　Rider　Haggard；　was　the　eldest　child　of　this　union。　He　was　born　at　St。　Petersburg　April　19；　1817；　and　in　1844　married　my　mother；　Ella；　the　elder　daughter　and　co…heiress　of　Bazett　Doveton；　of　the　Bombay　Civil　Service；　who　was　born　at　Bombay　in　June　1819。
I　am　the　eighth　child　of　the　family　of　ten　—　seven　sons　and　three　daughters　—　who　were　born　to　my　father　and　mother。　As　it　chanced　I　first　saw　the　light　（on　June　22；　1856）；　not　at　Bradenham　Hall；　which　at　the　time　was　let；　but　at　the　Wood　Farm　on　that　property　whither；　on　her　return　from　France；　my　mother　retired　to　be　confined。　A　few　years　ago　I　visited　the　room　in　which　the　interesting　event　took　place。　It　is　a　typical　farmhouse　upper　chamber；　very　pleasant　in　its　way；　and　to　the　fact　of　my　appearance　there　I　have　always　been　inclined；　rather　fancifully　perhaps；　to　attribute　the　strong　agricultural　tastes　which　I　believe　I　alone　of　my　family　possess。
Here　I　will　tell　you　a　little　story　which　shows　how　untrustworthy　even　contemporary　evidence　may　be。　On　the　occasion　of　this　visit　I　was　acpanied　by　a　friend；　Sir　Frederick　Wilson；　and　his　niece；　who　were　anxious　to　see　my　birthplace。　Now　near　to　the　Wood　Farm　at　Bradenham　stands　another　farm；　which　for　some　unknown　reason　I　had　got　into　my　head　to　be　the　real　spot；　and　as　such　I　showed　it　to　my　friends。　When　I　had　finished　a　farmer；　the　late　James　Adcock；　who　was　standing　by　and　who　remembered　the　event；　ejaculated：
“What　be　you　a…talking　of；　Mr。　Rider？　You　weren’t　born　there　at　all；　you　were　born　yinder。”
“Of　course；”　I　said；　“I　remember；”　and　led　the　way　to　the　Wood　Farm　with　every　confidence；　where　I　showed　the　window　of　the　birth…chamber。
As　I　was　doing　so　an　old　lady　thrust　her　head　out　of　the　said　window　and　called　out：
“Whatever　be　you　a…talking　of；　Mr。　Rider？　You　weren’t　born　in　this　’ere　room；　you　were　born　in　that　room　yinder。”
Then　amidst　general　laughter　I　retired　disfited。　Such；　I　repeat；　is　often　the　value　of　even　contemporary　evidence；　although　it　is　true　that　in　this　case　James　Adcock　and　the　old　lady　were　the　real　contemporary　witnesses；　since　a　man　can　scarcely　be　expected　to　remember　the　room　in　which　he　was　born。
It　seems　that　I　was　a　whimsical　child。　At　least　Hocking；　my　mother’s　maid；　a　handsome；　vigorous；　black…eyed；　raw…boned　Cornishwoman　who　spent　most　of　her　active　life　in　the　service　of　the　family；　informed　me　in　after　years　that　nothing　would　induce　me　to　go　to　sleep　unless　a　clean　napkin　in　a　certain　way　was　placed　under　my　head；　which　napkin　I　called　“an　ear。”　To　this　day　I　have　dim　recollections　of　crying　bitterly　until　this　“ear”　was　brought　to　me。　Also　I　was　stupid。　Indeed；　although　she　always　indignantly　denied　the　story　in　after　years；　I　remember　when　I　was　about　seven　my　dear　mother　declaring　that　I　was　as　heavy　as　lead　in　body　and　mind。
I　fear　that　I　was　more　or　less　of　a　dunderhead　at　lessons。　Even　my　letters　presented　difficulties　to　me；　and　I　well　recollect　a　few　years　later　being　put　through　an　examination　by　my　future　brother…inlaw；　the　Rev。　Charles　Maddison　Green；　with　the　object　of　ascertaining　what　amount　of　knowledge　I　had　acquired　at　a　day　school　in　London；　where　we　then　were　living　at　24　Leinster　Square。
The　results　of　this　examination　were　so　appalling　that　when　he　was　apprised　of　them　my　indignant　father　burst　into　the　room　where　I　sat　resigned　to　fate；　and；　in　a　voice　like　to　that　of　an　angry　bull；　roared　out　at　me　that　I　was　“only　fit　to　be　a　greengrocer。”　Even　then　I　wondered　why　this　affront　should　be　put　upon　a　useful　trade。　After　the　row　was　over　I　went　for　a　walk　with　my　brother　Andrew　who　was　two　years　older　than　myself　and　who；　it　appeared；　had　assisted　at　my　disfiture　from　behind　a　door。　Just　ain　street；　I　think　it　is　Westbourne　Grove　—　at　any　rate　in　those　days　Whiteley　had　a　single　little　shop　not　far　off　at　which　my　mother　used　to　deal　—　there　is；　or　was；　a　fruit　and　vegetable　store　with　no　glass　in　the　window。　My　brother　stood　contemplating　it　for　a　long　while。　At　last　he　said：
“I　say；　old　fellow；　when　you　bee　a　greengrocer；　I　hope　you’ll　let　me　have　oranges　cheap！”
To　this　day　I　have　never　quite　forgiven　Andrew　for　that　most　heartless　remark。
After　all　it　was　not　perhaps　strange　that　I　did　not　learn　much　at　these　London　day　schools　—　for　I　went　to　two　of　them。　The　first　I　left　suddenly。　It　was　managed　by　the　head　master　and　an　usher　whose　names　I　have　long　forgotten。　The　usher　was　a　lanky；　red…haired；　pale…faced　man　whom　we　all　hated　because　of　his　violent　temper　and　injustice。　On　one　occasion　when　his　back　was　turned　to　the　class　to　which　I　belonged；　that　I　presume　was　the　lowest；　I　amused　myself　and　my　panions　by　shaking　my　little　fists　at　him；　whereon　they　laughed。　The　usher　wheeled　round　and　asked　why　we　were　laughing；　when　some　mean　boy　piped　out：
“Please；　sir；　because　Haggard　is　shaking　his　fists　at　you。”
He　called　me　to　him　and　I　perceived　that　he　was　trembling　with　rage。
“You　young　brute！”　he　said。　“I’ll　see　you　in　your　grave　before　you　shake　your　fists　at　me　again。”
Then　he　doubled　his　own　and；　striking　me　first　on　one　side　of　the　head　and　then　on　the　other；　knocked　me　all　the　way　down　the　long　room　and　finally　over　a　chair　into　a　heap　of　slates　in　a　corner；　where　I　lay　a　while　almost　senseless。　I　recovered　and　went　home。　Here　my　eldest　sister　Ella；　noticing　my　bruised　and　dazed　condition；　cros