25_th_ _April_.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—To-day early I sent down to Maben (Secretary of State) an
offer to bring up people from Malie, keep them in my house, and bring
them down day by day for so long as the negotiation should last. I have
a favourable answer so far. This I would not have tried, had not old Sir
George Grey put me on my mettle; ‘Never despair,’ was his word; and ‘I am
one of the few people who have lived long enough to see how true that
is.’ Well, thereupon I plunged in; and the thing may do me great harm,
but yet I do not think so—for I think jealousy will prevent the trial
being made. And at any rate it is another chance for this distracted
archipelago of children, sat upon by a clique of fools. If, by the gift
of God, I can do—I am allowed to try to do—and succeed: but no, the
prospect is too bright to be entertained.
To-day we had a ride down to Tanugamanono, and then by the new wood
paths. One led us to a beautiful clearing, with four native houses;
taro, yams, and the like, excellently planted, and old Folau—‘the Samoan
Jew’—sitting and whistling there in his new-found and well-deserved
well-being. It was a good sight to see a Samoan thus before the world.
Further up, on our way home, we saw the world clear, and the wide die of
the shadow lying broad; we came but a little further, and found in the
borders of the bush a Banyan. It must have been 150 feet in height; the
trunk, and its acolytes, occupied a great space; above that, in the peaks
of the branches, quite a forest of ferns and orchids were set; and over
all again the huge spread of the boughs rose against the bright west, and
sent their shadow miles to the eastward. I have not often seen anything
more satisfying than this vast vegetable.
* * * * *
_Sunday_.
A heavenly day again! the world all dead silence, save when, from far
down below us in the woods, comes up the crepitation of the little wooden
drum that beats to church. Scarce a leaf stirs; only now and again a
great, cool gush of air that makes my papers fly, and is gone.—The King
of Samoa has refused my intercession between him and Mataafa; and I do
not deny this is a good riddance to me of a difficult business, in which
I might very well have failed. What else is to be done for these silly
folks?
* * * * *
_May_ 12_th_.
And this is where I had got to, before the mail arrives with, I must say,
a real gentlemanly letter from yourself. Sir, that is the sort of letter
I want! Now, I’ll make my little proposal. I will accept _Child’s Play_
and _Pan’s Pipes_. Then I want _Pastoral_, _The Manse_, _The Islet_,
leaving out if you like all the prefacial matter and beginning at I. Then
the portrait of Robert Hunter, beginning ‘Whether he was originally big
or little,’ and ending ‘fearless and gentle.’ So much for _Mem. and
Portraits_. _Beggars_, sections I. and II., _Random Memories_ II., and
_Lantern Bearers_; I’m agreeable. These are my selections. I don’t know
about _Pulvis et Umbra_ either, but must leave that to you. But just
what you please.
About _Davie_ I elaborately wrote last time, but still _Davie_ is not
done; I am grinding singly at _The Ebb Tide_, as we now call the
_Farallone_; the most of it will go this mail. About the following, let
there be no mistake: I will not write the abstract of _Kidnapped_; write
it who will, I will not. Boccaccio must have been a clever fellow to
write both argument and story; I am not, _et je me recuse_.
We call it _The Ebb Tide_: _a Trio and Quartette_; but that secondary
name you may strike out if it seems dull to you. The book, however,
falls in two halves, when the fourth character appears. I am on p. 82 if
you want to know, and expect to finish on I suppose 110 or so; but it
goes slowly, as you may judge from the fact that this three weeks past, I
have only struggled from p. 58 to p. 82: twenty-four pages, _et encore_
sure to be rewritten, in twenty-one days. This is no prize-taker; not
much Waverley Novels about this!
* * * * *
_May_ 16_th_.
I believe it will be ten chapters of _The Ebb Tide_ that go to you; the
whole thing should be completed in I fancy twelve; and the end will
follow punctually next mail. It is my great wish that this might get
into _The Illustrated London News_ for Gordon Browne to illustrate. For
whom, in case he should get the job, I give you a few notes. A purao is
a tree giving something like a fig with flowers. He will find some
photographs of an old marine curiosity shop in my collection, which may
help him. Attwater’s settlement is to be entirely overshadowed
everywhere by tall palms; see photographs of Fakarava: the verandahs of
the house are 12 ft. wide. Don’t let him forget the Figure Head, for
which I have a great use in the last chapter. It stands just clear of
the palms on the crest of the beach at the head of the pier; the
flag-staff not far off; the pier he will understand is perhaps three feet
above high water, not more at any price. The sailors of the _Farallone_
are to be dressed like white sailors of course. For other things, I
remit this excellent artist to my photographs.
I can’t think what to say about the tale, but it seems to me to go off
with a considerable bang; in fact, to be an extraordinary work: but
whether popular! Attwater is a no end of a courageous attempt, I think
you will admit; how far successful is another affair. If my island ain’t
a thing of beauty, I’ll be damned. Please observe Wiseman and Wishart;
for incidental grimness, they strike me as in it. Also, kindly observe
the Captain and _Adar_; I think that knocks spots. In short, as you see,
I’m a trifle vainglorious. But O, it has been such a grind! The devil
himself would allow a man to brag a little after such a crucifixion! And
indeed I’m only bragging for a change before I return to the darned thing
lying waiting for me on p. 88, where I last broke down. I break down at
every paragraph, I may observe; and lie here and sweat, till I can get
one sentence wrung out after another. Strange doom; after having worked
so easily for so long! Did ever anybody see such a story of four
characters?
* * * * *
_Later_, 2.30.
It may interest you to know that I am entirely _tapu_, and live apart in
my chambers like a caged beast. Lloyd has a bad cold, and Graham and
Belle are getting it. Accordingly, I dwell here without the light of any
human countenance or voice, and strap away at _The Ebb Tide_ until (as
now) I can no more. Fanny can still come, but is gone to glory now, or
to her garden. Page 88 is done, and must be done over again to-morrow,
and I confess myself exhausted. Pity a man who can’t work on along when
he has nothing else on earth to do! But I have ordered Jack, and am
going for a ride in the bush presently to refresh the machine; then back
to a lonely dinner and durance vile. I acquiesce in this hand of fate;
for I think another cold just now would just about do for me. I have
scarce yet recovered the two last.
* * * * *
_May_ 18_th_.
My progress is crabwise, and I fear only IX. chapters will be ready for
the mail. I am on p. 88 again, and with half an idea of going back again
to 85. We shall see when we come to read: I used to regard reading as a
pleasure in my old light days. All the house are down with the influenza
in a body, except Fanny and me. The influenza appears to become endemic
here, but it has always been a scourge in the islands. Witness the
beginning of _The Ebb Tide_, which was observed long before the Iffle had
distinguished himself at home by such Napoleonic conquests. I am now of
course ‘quite a recluse,’ and it is very stale, and there is no
amanuensis to carry me over my mail, to which I shall have to devote many
hours that would have been more usefully devoted to _The Ebb Tide_. For
you know you can dictate at all hours of the day and at any odd moment;
but to sit down and write with your red right hand is a very different
matter.
* * * * *
_May_ 20_th_.
Well, I believe I’ve about finished the thing, I mean as far as the mail
is to take it. Chapter X. is now in Lloyd’s hands for remarks, and
extends in its present form to p. 93 incl. On the 12th of May, I see by
looking back, I was on p. 82, not for the first time; so that I have made
11 pages in nine livelong days. Well! up a high hill he heaved a huge
round stone. But this Flaubert business must be resisted in the
premises. Or is it the result of influenza? God forbid. Fanny is down
now, and the last link that bound me to my fellow men is severed. I sit
up here, and write, and read Renan’s _Origines_, which is certainly
devilish interesting; I read his Nero yesterday, it is very good, O, very
good! But he is quite a Michelet; the general views, and such a piece of
character painting, excellent; but his method sheer lunacy. You can see
him take up the block which he had just rejected, and make of it the
corner-stone: a maddening way to deal with authorities; and the result so
little like history that one almost blames oneself for wasting time. But
the time is not wasted; the conspectus is always good, and the blur that
remains on the mind is probably just enough. I have been enchanted with
the unveiling of Revelations. And how picturesque that return of the
false Nero! The Apostle John is rather discredited. And to think how
one had read the thing so often, and never understood the attacks upon
St. Paul! I remember when I was a child, and we came to the Four Beasts
that were all over eyes, the sickening terror with which I was filled.
If that was Heaven, what, in the name of Davy Jones and the aboriginal
night-mare, could Hell be? Take it for all in all, _L’Antéchrist_ is
worth reading. The _Histoire d’Israël_ did not surprise me much; I had
read those Hebrew sources with more intelligence than the New Testament,
and was quite prepared to admire Ahab and Jezebel, etc. Indeed, Ahab has
always been rather a hero of mine; I mean since the years of discretion.
* * * * *
_May_ 21_st_.
And here I am back again on p. 85! the last chapter demanding an entire
revision, which accordingly it is to get. And where my mail is to come
in, God knows! This forced, violent, alembicated style is most abhorrent
to me; it can’t be helped; the note was struck years ago on the _Janet
Nicoll_, and has to be maintained somehow; and I can only hope the
intrinsic horror and pathos, and a kind of fierce glow of colour there is
to it, and the surely remarkable wealth of striking incident, may guide
our little shallop into port. If Gordon Browne is to get it, he should
see the Brassey photographs of Papeete. But mind, the three waifs were
never in the town; only on the beach and in the calaboose. By George,
but it’s a good thing to illustrate for a man like that! Fanny is all
right again. False alarm! I was down yesterday afternoon at Paupata,
and heard much growling of war, and the delightful news that the C. J.
and the President are going to run away from Mulinuu and take refuge in
the Tivoli hotel.
* * * * *
23_rd_. _Mail day_.
And lots of pleasures before me, no doubt! Among others the attempt to
extract an answer from—before mail time, which may succeed or may not.
_The Ebb Tide_, all but (I take it) fifteen pages, is now in your
hands—possibly only about eleven pp. It is hard to say. But there it
is, and you can do your best with it. Personally, I believe I would in
this case make even a sacrifice to get Gordon Browne and copious
illustration. I guess in ten days I shall have finished with it; then I
go next to _D. Balfour_, and get the proofs ready: a nasty job for me, as
you know. And then? Well, perhaps I’ll take a go at the family history.
I think that will be wise, as I am so much off work. And then, I
suppose, _Weir of Hermiston_, but it may be anything. I am discontented
with _The Ebb Tide_, naturally; there seems such a veil of words over it;
and I like more and more naked writing; and yet sometimes one has a
longing for full colour and there comes the veil again. _The Young
Chevalier_ is in very full colour, and I fear it for that reason.—Ever,
R. L S.