Well, it is not a good world—nobody can say that it is save those who wilfully blind themselves to facts. How can a world be good in which money is the moving power, and self-interest the guiding star? The wonder is not that it is so bad, but that there should be any good left in it.
Still, now that my life is over, I am glad to have lived, glad to have known the dear breath of woman’s love, and that true friendship which can even surpass the love of woman; glad to have heard the laughter of little children, to have seen the sun and the moon and the stars, to have felt the kiss of the salt sea on my face, and watched the wild game trek down to the water in the moonlight. But I should not wish to live again!
Everything is changing to me. The darkness draws near, and the light departs. And yet it seems to me that through that darkness I can already see the shining welcome of many a long-lost face. Harry is there, and others; one above all, to my mind the sweetest and most perfect woman that ever gladdened this grey earth. But of her I have already written elsewhere, and at length, so why speak of her now? Why speak of her after this long silence, now that she is again so near to me?
The sinking sun is turning the golden roof of the great Temple to a fiery flame, and my fingers tire.
So to all who have known me, or who can think one kindly thought of the old hunter, I stretch out my hand from the far-off shore and bid a long farewell.
And now into the hands of Almighty God, who sent it, do I commit my spirit.
“I have spoken,” as the Zulus say.
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 inasmuch 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.
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 cafés 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
