King Solomon's Mines

by H. Rider Haggard, Bill Homewood (Narrated by)

Overview

King Solomon’s Mines is set in nineteenth-century Africa. Allan Quartermain, hunter, is commissioned by the valiant Sir Henry Curtis and his jovial friend Captain Good to lead them to the fabled lost mines of King Solomon. In the company of these dauntless men we undertake the most exciting safari ever described. We hunt big game, we go to war with the terrifying King Twala of Kukuanaland and his diabolical henchwoman Gagaoola – and are amazed by the twist at the end.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	2000003464302
Publisher:	Naxos Audiobooks Ltd.
Publication date:	03/13/2006
Series:	Junior Classics
Edition description:	Abridged

About the Author

Bill Homewood has an extensive record of leading classical roles with major companies: including the RSC. Television credits include Spy Trap, Crocodile Shoes, and his own series, Wise Guy.

Read an Excerpt

King Solomon's Mines

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By H. Rider Haggard

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 2016 Haggard, H. Rider
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4115-7

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CHAPTER 1

I MEET SIR HENRY CURTIS

It is a curious thing that at my age — fifty-five last birthday — I should find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history. I wonder what sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end of the trip! I have done a good many things in my life, which seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young, perhaps. At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my living as a trader in the old Colony. I have been trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since. And yet it is only eight months ago that I made my pile. It is a big pile now that I have got it — I don't yet know how big — but I do not think I would go through the last fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that I should come out safe at the end, pile and all. But then I am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure. I wonder why I am going to write this book: it is not in my line. I am not a literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the "Ingoldsby Legends." Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if I have any.

First reason: Because Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good asked me.

Second reason: Because I am laid up here at Durban with the pain in my left leg. Ever since that confounded lion got hold of me I have been liable to this trouble, and being rather bad just now, it makes me limp more than ever. There must be some poison in a lion's teeth, otherwise how is it that when your wounds are healed they break out again, generally, mark you, at the same time of year that you got your mauling? It is a hard thing when one has shot sixty-five lions or more, as I have in the course of my life, that the sixty-sixth should chew your leg like a quid of tobacco. It breaks the routine of the thing, and putting other considerations aside, I am an orderly man and don't like that. This is by the way.

Third reason: Because I want my boy Harry, who is over there at the hospital in London studying to become a doctor, to have something to amuse him and keep him out of mischief for a week or so. Hospital work must sometimes pall and grow rather dull, for even of cutting up dead bodies there may come satiety, and as this history will not be dull, whatever else it may be, it will put a little life into things for a day or two while Harry is reading of our adventures.

Fourth reason and last: Because I am going to tell the strangest story that I remember. It may seem a queer thing to say, especially considering that there is no woman in it — except Foulata. Stop, though! there is Gagaoola, if she was a woman, and not a fiend. But she was a hundred at least, and therefore not marriageable, so I don't count her. At any rate, I can safely say that there is not a petticoat in the whole history.

Well, I had better come to the yoke. It is a stiff place, and I feel as though I were bogged up to the axle. But, "sutjes, sutjes," as the Boers say — I am sure I don't know how they spell it — softly does it. A strong team will come through at last, that is, if they are not too poor. You can never do anything with poor oxen. Now to make a start.

I, Allan Quatermain, of Durban, Natal, Gentleman, make oath and say — That's how I headed my deposition before the magistrate about poor Khiva's and Ventvögel's sad deaths; but somehow it doesn't seem quite the right way to begin a book. And, besides, am I a gentleman? What is a gentleman? I don't quite know, and yet I have had to do with niggers — no, I will scratch out that word "niggers," for I do not like it. I've known natives who are, and so you will say, Harry, my boy, before you have done with this tale, and I have known mean whites with lots of money and fresh out from home, too, who are not.

At any rate, I was born a gentleman, though I have been nothing but a poor travelling trader and hunter all my life. Whether I have remained so I known not, you must judge of that. Heaven knows I've tried. I have killed many men in my time, yet I have never slain wantonly or stained my hand in innocent blood, but only in self-defence. The Almighty gave us our lives, and I suppose He meant us to defend them, at least I have always acted on that, and I hope it will not be brought up against me when my clock strikes. There, there, it is a cruel and a wicked world, and for a timid man I have been mixed up in a great deal of fighting. I cannot tell the rights of it, but at any rate I have never stolen, though once I cheated a Kafir out of a herd of cattle. But then he had done me a dirty turn, and it has troubled me ever since into the bargain.

Well, it is eighteen months or so ago since first I met Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good. It was in this way. I had been up elephant hunting beyond Bamangwato, and had met with bad luck. Everything went wrong that trip, and to top up with I got the fever badly. So soon as I was well enough I trekked down to the Diamond Fields, sold such ivory as I had, together with my wagon and oxen, discharged my hunters, and took the post-cart to the Cape. After spending a week in Cape Town, finding that they overcharged me at the hotel, and having seen everything there was to see, including the botanical gardens, which seem to me likely to confer a great benefit on the country, and the new Houses of Parliament, which I expect will do nothing of the sort, I determined to go back to Natal by the Dunkeld, then lying at the docks waiting for the Edinburgh Castle due in from England. I took my berth and went aboard, and that afternoon the Natal passengers from the Edinburgh Castle transhipped, and we weighed and put to sea.

Among these passengers who came on board were two who excited my curiosity. One, a gentleman of about thirty, was perhaps the biggest-chested and longest-armed man I ever saw. He had yellow hair, a thick yellow beard, clear-cut features, and large grey eyes set deep in his head. I never saw a finer-looking man, and somehow he reminded me of an ancient Dane. Not that I know much of ancient Danes, though I knew a modern Dane who did me out of ten pounds; but I remember once seeing a picture of some of those gentry, who, I take it, were a kind of white Zulus. They were drinking out of big horns, and their long hair hung down their backs. As I looked at my friend standing there by the companion-ladder, I thought that if he only let his grow a little, put one of those chain shirts on to his great shoulders, and took hold of a battle-axe and a horn mug, he might have sat as a model for that picture. And by the way it is a curious thing, and just shows how the blood will out, I discovered afterwards that Sir Henry Curtis, for that was the big man's name, is of Danish blood. He also reminded me strongly of somebody else, but at the time I could not remember who it was.

The other man, who stood talking to Sir Henry, was stout and dark, and of quite a different cut. I suspected at once that he was a naval officer; I don't know why, but it is difficult to mistake a navy man. I have gone shooting trips with several of them in the course of my life, and they have always proved themselves the best and bravest and nicest fellows I ever met, though sadly given, some of them, to the use of profane language. I asked a page or two back, what is a gentleman? I'll answer the question now: A Royal Naval officer is, in a general sort of way, though of course there may be a black sheep among them here and there. I fancy it is just the wide seas and the breath of God's winds that wash their hearts and blow the bitterness out of their minds and make them what men ought to be.

Well, to return, I proved right again; I ascertained that the dark man was a naval officer, a lieutenant of thirty-one, who, after seventeen years' service, had been turned out of her Majesty's employ with the barren honour of a commander's rank, because it was impossible that he should be promoted. This is what people who serve the Queen have to expect: to be shot out into the cold world to find a living just when they are beginning really to understand their work, and to reach the prime of life. I suppose they don't mind it, but for my own part I had rather earn my bread as a hunter. One's halfpence are as scarce perhaps, but you do not get so many kicks.

The officer's name I found out — by referring to the passengers' lists — was Good — Captain John Good. He was broad, of medium height, dark, stout, and rather a curious man to look at. He was so very neat and so very clean-shaved, and he always wore an eye-glass in his right eye. It seemed to grow there, for it had no string, and he never took it out except to wipe it. At first I thought he used to sleep in it, but afterwards I found that this was a mistake. He put it in his trousers pocket when he went to bed, together with his false teeth, of which he had two beautiful sets that, my own being none of the best, have often caused me to break the tenth commandment. But I am anticipating.

Soon after we had got under way evening closed in, and brought with it very dirty weather. A keen breeze sprung up off land, and a kind of aggravated Scotch mist soon drove everybody from the deck. As for the Dunkeld, she is a flat-bottomed punt, and going up light as she was, she rolled very heavily. It almost seemed as though she would go right over, but she never did. It was quite impossible to walk about, so I stood near the engines where it was warm, and amused myself with watching the pendulum, which was fixed opposite to me, swinging slowly backwards and forwards as the vessel rolled, and marking the angle she touched at each lurch.

"That pendulum's wrong; it is not properly weighted," suddenly said a somewhat testy voice at my shoulder. Looking round I saw the naval officer whom I had noticed when the passengers came aboard.

"Indeed, now what makes you think so?" I asked.

"Think so. I don't think at all. Why there" — as she righted herself after a roll — "if the ship had really rolled to the degree that thing pointed to, then she would never have rolled again, that's all. But it is just like these merchant skippers, they are always so confoundedly careless."

Just then the dinner-bell rang, and I was not sorry, for it is a dreadful thing to have to listen to an officer of the Royal Navy when he gets on to that subject. I only know one worse thing, and that is to hear a merchant skipper express his candid opinion of officers of the Royal Navy.

Captain Good and I went down to dinner together, and there we found Sir Henry Curtis already seated. He and Captain Good were placed together, and I sat opposite to them. The captain and I soon fell into talk about shooting and what not; he asking me many questions, for he is very inquisitive about all sorts of things, and I answering them as well as I could. Presently he got on to elephants.

"Ah, sir," called out somebody who was sitting near me, "you've reached the right man for that; Hunter Quatermain should be able to tell you about elephants if anybody can."

Sir Henry, who had been sitting quite quiet listening to our talk, started visibly.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, leaning forward across the table, and speaking in a low deep voice, a very suitable voice, it seemed to me, to come out of those great lungs. "Excuse me, sir, but is your name Allan Quatermain?"

I said that it was.

The big man made no further remark, but I heard him mutter "fortunate" into his beard.

Presently dinner came to an end, and as we were leaving the saloon Sir Henry strolled up and asked me if I would come into his cabin to smoke a pipe. I accepted, and he led the way to the Dunkeld deck cabin, and a very good cabin it is. It had been two cabins, but when Sir Garnet Wolseley or one of those big swells went down the coast in the Dunkeld, they knocked away the partition and have never put it up again. There was a sofa in the cabin, and a little table in front of it. Sir Henry sent the steward for a bottle of whisky, and the three of us sat down and lit our pipes.

"Mr. Quatermain," said Sir Henry Curtis, when the man had brought the whisky and lit the lamp, "the year before last about this time, you were, I believe, at a place called Bamangwato, to the north of the Transvaal."

"I was," I answered, rather surprised that this gentleman should be so well acquainted with my movements, which were not, so far as I was aware, considered of general interest.

"You were trading there, were you not?" put in Captain Good, in his quick way.

"I was. I took up a wagon-load of goods, made a camp outside the settlement, and stopped till I had sold them."

Sir Henry was sitting opposite to me in a Madeira chair, his arms leaning on the table. He now looked up, fixing his large grey eyes full upon my face. There was a curious anxiety in them, I thought.

"Did you happen to meet a man called Neville there?"

"Oh, yes; he outspanned alongside of me for a fortnight to rest his oxen before going on to the interior. I had a letter from a lawyer a few months back, asking me if I knew what had become of him, which I answered to the best of my ability at the time."

"Yes," said Sir Henry, "your letter was forwarded to me. You said in it that the gentleman called Neville left Bamangwato at the beginning of May in a wagon with a driver, a voorlooper, and a Kafir hunter called Jim, announcing his intention of trekking if possible as far as Inyati, the extreme trading post in the Matabele country, where he would sell his wagon and proceed on foot. You also said that he did sell his wagon, for six months afterwards you saw the wagon in the possession of a Portuguese trader, who told you that he had bought it at Inyati from a white man whose name he had forgotten, and that he believed the white man with the native servant had started off for the interior on a shooting trip."

"Yes."

Then came a pause.

"Mr. Quatermain," said Sir Henry suddenly, "I suppose you know or can guess nothing more of the reasons of my — of Mr. Neville's journey to the northward, or as to what point that journey was directed?"

"I heard something," I answered, and stopped. The subject was one which I did not care to discuss.

Sir Henry and Captain Good looked at each other, and Captain Good nodded.

"Mr. Quatermain," went on the former, "I am going to tell you a story, and ask your advice, and perhaps your assistance. The agent who forwarded me your letter told me that I might rely on it implicitly, as you were," he said, "well known and universally respected in Natal, and especially noted for your discretion."

I bowed and drank some whisky and water to hide my confusion, for I am a modest man — and Sir Henry went on.

"Mr. Neville was my brother."

"Oh," I said, starting, for now I knew of whom Sir Henry had reminded me when first I saw him. His brother was a much smaller man and had a dark beard, but now that I thought of it, he possessed eyes of the same shade of grey and with the same keen look in them: the features too were not unlike.

"He was," went on Sir Henry, "my only and younger brother, and till five years ago I do not suppose that we were ever a month away from each other. But just about five years ago a misfortune befell us, as sometimes does happen in families. We quarrelled bitterly, and I behaved unjustly to my brother in my anger."

Here Captain Good nodded his head vigorously to himself. The ship gave a big roll just then, so that the looking-glass, which was fixed opposite us to starboard, was for a moment nearly over our heads, and as I was sitting with my hands in my pockets and staring upwards, I could see him nodding like anything.

"As I daresay you know," went on Sir Henry, "if a man dies intestate, and has no property but land, real property it is called in England, it all descends to his eldest son. It so happened that just at the time when we quarrelled our father died intestate. He had put off making his will until it was too late. The result was that my brother, who had not been brought up to any profession, was left without a penny. Of course it would have been my duty to provide for him, but at the time the quarrel between us was so bitter that I did not — to my shame I say it (and he sighed deeply) — offer to do anything. It was not that I grudged him justice, but I waited for him to make advances, and he made none. I am sorry to trouble you with all this, Mr. Quatermain, but I must to make things clear, eh, Good?"

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from King Solomon's Mines by H. Rider Haggard. Copyright © 2016 Haggard, H. Rider. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents

Preface
Introduction
H. Rider Haggard: A Brief Chronology
A Note on the Text

King Solomon’s Mines

Appendix A: Victorian Critical Reaction

1. The Saturday Review, 10 October 1885
2. Robert Louis Stevenson, 1885
3. The Spectator, 7 November 1885
4. The Literary World, 23 January 1886
5. Gerard Manley Hopkins, 28 October 1886
6. The Dial, May 1887
7. The Book Buyer, August 1887
8. The Church Quarterly Review, January 1888
9. Fortnightly Review, 1 September 1888
10. Forum, May 1889

Appendix B: Haggard on Africa and Romance

1. “Notes on King Solomon’s Mines” (1906)
2. “Anecdote” (c. 1876)
3. “A Zulu War-Dance” (1877)
4. “About Fiction” (1877)

Appendix C: Historical Documents: Natives and Imperialists in South Africa

1. Fred Fynney, Zululand and the Zulus (1880)
2. John Ruskin, Lectures on Art (1873)
3. Cecil Rhodes,“Confession of Faith” (1877)
4. Cecil Rhodes, Speeches (1881-1900)
5. Olive Schreiner, Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland (1897)
6. Olive Schreiner, Thoughts on South Africa (1890-92)

Appendix D: Historical Documents: Spoils of Imperialism: Gold, Diamonds, and Ivory

1. The Bible, I Kings 10: 1-13
2. Kebra Negast (c. 14th Century)
3. “The Ophir of Scripture,” The Illustrated London News, 11 January 1873
4. Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley, The Ruined Cities of Zulu Land (1869)
5. Olive Schreiner, “Diamond Fields” (c. 1880)
6. Frederick Courteney Selous, A Hunter’s Wanderings in Africa (1890)

Works Cited and Recommended Reading

Reading Group Guide

1. H. Rider Haggard is said to have written King Solomon’s Mines on a bet, and in a scant six weeks. Does the novel show signs of the author’s haste? Does it seem to have been written more for commercial success than out of any sense of artistic expression?

2. The novel was indeed an astonishing blockbuster in its day, and has remained in print for well over a hundred years. Does its success then, or its endurance to this day, surprise you?

3. Haggard spent some years living in Africa, and he fills King Solomon’s Mines with details he absorbed. Do his depictions of the African landscape and its people feel authentic to you? Do you find it surprising that his detailed portrayal of a tribal battle is actually very close to the truth?

4. Consider the author’s portrayals of, particularly, Umbopa, Twala, Gagool, and Foulata, and of blacks in general. Does Haggard attempt to make his black characters seem real (or at least as real as his white characters), or does he succumb, do you think, to racial stereotyping? Consider that Haggard describes the virtuous Umbopa as very attractive (and relatively light-skinned), while Twala, the villain, is ugly (and dark-skinned). How does Haggard’s portrayal of blacks affect your appreciation of the novel?

5. Haggard dedicates the novel to “big and little boys.” Is there anything in the novel to hold the interest of big or little girls? Does the absence of a romantic plot (with one notable exception) surprise you? Or does it seem in keeping with the tastes of the novel’s intended audience? Consider the fact that the most famous film versions of King Solomon’s Mines introduce significant female characters who are not in the novel, and that these movies are as much about romance as about adventure. What does this tell you about Haggard’s audience - and Hollywood’s?

6. Do you think that readers in Haggard’s day found the interracial romance of Good and Foulata, however lightly touched upon it may be, shocking? Are you surprised that Haggard presents it so matter-of-factly? Would he have dared, do you think, to present a romance between a black man and a white woman?

7. King Solomon’s Mines is largely a realistic novel. Does the sequence in the Place of Death seem to veer into the realm of fantasy? Does it break the tone of the rest of the book?

8. Allan Quatermain proved so popular with readers that, even having killed him off in a sequel, Haggard felt compelled to revisit this character in numerous further novels and short stories. Can you understand the enduring fascination of this elephant hunter? Consider the popular characters of recent pop culture who have appeared in numerous sequels: Batman, Harry Potter, and particularly Indiana Jones, who might be seen to owe a creative debt to Quatermain. Why do you think such characters inspire ongoing interest?

9. Alexandra Fuller, in her Introduction to this Modern Library Paperback Classic, finds much in King Solomon’s Mines that is relevant to her experience of Africa in recent years and today. Consider what, if anything, twenty-first-century readers may learn from Haggard’s novel about current issues of imperialism, colonialism, race relations, even the environment.

Editorial Reviews

A peculiarly thrilling and vigorous tale of adventure.” —Andrew Lang

From the Publisher

"Scholars, students and general readers will welcome Gerald Monsman's new edition, which comes lavishly supplied with illuminating contextual documents. In a provocative introductory essay, Professor Monsman describes the mythopoeic ambition of King Solomon's Mines by recovering its intellectual context in Victorian anthropology. Haggard sought to create an Africa of the imagination, more precious for the access it gave modern readers to their alienated psychic origins than for its material resources. Readers of this excellent new edition will find that the fictions of imperialism were richer and stranger than they had thought."

Ian Duncan University of California