_Thursday_, 15_th_ _September_.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—On Tuesday, we had our young adventurer ready, and Fanny,
Belle, he and I set out about three of a dark, deadly hot, and deeply
unwholesome afternoon. Belle had the lad behind her; I had a pint of
champagne in either pocket, a parcel in my hands, and as Jack had a girth
sore and I rode without a girth, I might be said to occupy a very
unstrategic position. On the way down, a little dreary, beastly drizzle
beginning to come out of the darkness, Fanny put up an umbrella, her
horse bounded, reared, cannoned into me, cannoned into Belle and the lad,
and bolted for home. It really might and ought to have been an A1
catastrophe; but nothing happened beyond Fanny’s nerves being a good deal
shattered; of course, she could not tell what had happened to us until
she got her horse mastered.
Next day, Haggard went off to the Commission and left us in charge of his
house; all our people came down in wreaths of flowers; we had a boat for
them; Haggard had a flag in the Commission boat for us; and when at last
the steamer turned up, the young adventurer was carried on board in great
style, with a new watch and chain, and about three pound ten of tips, and
five big baskets of fruit as free-will offerings to the captain. Captain
Morse had us all to lunch; champagne flowed, so did compliments; and I
did the affable celebrity life-sized. It made a great send-off for the
young adventurer. As the boat drew off, he was standing at the head of
the gangway, supported by three handsome ladies—one of them a real
full-blown beauty, Madame Green, the singer—and looking very engaging
himself, between smiles and tears. Not that he cried in public.
My, but we were a tired crowd! However, it is always a blessing to get
home, and this time it was a sort of wonder to ourselves that we got back
alive. Casualties: Fanny’s back jarred, horse incident; Belle, bad
headache, tears and champagne; self, idiocy, champagne, fatigue; Lloyd,
ditto, ditto. As for the adventurer, I believe he will have a delightful
voyage for his little start in life. But there is always something
touching in a mite’s first launch.
* * * * *
_Date unknown_.
I am now well on with the third part of the _Débâcle_. The two first I
liked much; the second completely knocking me; so far as it has gone,
this third part appears the ramblings of a dull man who has forgotten
what he has to say—he reminds me of an M.P. But Sedan was really great,
and I will pick no holes. The batteries under fire, the red-cross folk,
the county charge—perhaps, above all, Major Bouroche and the operations,
all beyond discussion; and every word about the Emperor splendid.
* * * * *
_September_ 30_th_.
David Balfour done, and its author along with it, or nearly so. Strange
to think of even our doctor here repeating his nonsense about
debilitating climate. Why, the work I have been doing the last twelve
months, in one continuous spate, mostly with annoying interruptions and
without any collapse to mention, would be incredible in Norway. But I
_have_ broken down now, and will do nothing as long as I possibly can.
With David Balfour I am very well pleased; in fact these labours of the
last year—I mean _Falesá_ and _D. B._, not Samoa, of course—seem to me to
be nearer what I mean than anything I have ever done; nearer what I mean
by fiction; the nearest thing before was _Kidnapped_. I am not
forgetting the _Master of Ballantrae_, but that lacked all
pleasurableness, and hence was imperfect in essence. So you see, if I am
a little tired, I do not repent.
The third part of the _Débâcle_ may be all very fine; but I cannot read
it. It suffers from _impaired vitality_, and _uncertain aim_; two deadly
sicknesses. Vital—that’s what I am at, first: wholly vital, with a
buoyancy of life. Then lyrical, if it may be, and picturesque, always
with an epic value of scenes, so that the figures remain in the mind’s
eye for ever.
* * * * *
_October_ 8_th_.
Suppose you sent us some of the catalogues of the parties what vends
statutes? I don’t want colossal Herculeses, but about quarter size and
less. If the catalogues were illustrated it would probably be found a
help to weak memories. These may be found to alleviate spare moments,
when we sometimes amuse ourselves by thinking how fine we shall make the
palace if we do not go pop. Perhaps in the same way it might amuse you
to send us any pattern of wall paper that might strike you as cheap,
pretty and suitable for a room in a hot and extremely bright climate. It
should be borne in mind that our climate can be extremely dark too. Our
sitting-room is to be in varnished wood. The room I have particularly in
mind is a sort of bed and sitting-room, pretty large, lit on three sides,
and the colour in favour of its proprietor at present is a topazy yellow.
But then with what colour to relieve it? For a little work-room of my
own at the back. I should rather like to see some patterns of
unglossy—well, I’ll be hanged if I can describe this red—it’s not Turkish
and it’s not Roman and it’s not Indian, but it seems to partake of the
two last, and yet it can’t be either of them, because it ought to be able
to go with vermilion. Ah, what a tangled web we weave—anyway, with what
brains you have left choose me and send me some—many—patterns of this
exact shade.
A few days ago it was Haggard’s birthday and we had him and his cousin to
dinner—bless me if I ever told you of his cousin!—he is here anyway, and
a fine, pleasing specimen, so that we have concluded (after our own happy
experience) that the climate of Samoa must be favourable to cousins.
Then we went out on the verandah in a lovely moonlight, drinking port,
hearing the cousin play and sing, till presently we were informed that
our boys had got up a siva in Lafaele’s house to which we were invited.
It was entirely their own idea. The house, you must understand, is
one-half floored, and one-half bare earth, and the dais stands a little
over knee high above the level of the soil. The dais was the stage, with
three footlights. We audience sat on mats on the floor, and the cook and
three of our work-boys, sometimes assisted by our two ladies, took their
places behind the footlights and began a topical Vailima song. The
burden was of course that of a Samoan popular song about a white man who
objects to all that he sees in Samoa. And there was of course a special
verse for each one of the party—Lloyd was called the dancing man
(practically the Chief’s handsome son) of Vailima; he was also, in his
character I suppose of overseer, compared to a policeman—Belle had that
day been the almoner in a semi-comic distribution of wedding rings and
thimbles (bought cheap at an auction) to the whole plantation company,
fitting a ring on every man’s finger, and a ring and a thimble on both
the women’s. This was very much in character with her native name
_Teuila_, the adorner of the ugly—so of course this was the point of her
verse and at a given moment all the performers displayed the rings upon
their fingers. Pelema (the cousin—_our_ cousin) was described as
watching from the house and whenever he saw any boy not doing anything,
running and doing it himself. Fanny’s verse was less intelligible, but
it was accompanied in the dance with a pantomime of terror well-fitted to
call up her haunting, indefatigable and diminutive presence in a blue
gown.