_Vailima_, 1894.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—This must be a very measly letter. I have been trying
hard to get along with _St. Ives_. I should now lay it aside for a year
and I daresay I should make something of it after all. Instead of that,
I have to kick against the pricks, and break myself, and spoil the book,
if there were anything to spoil, which I am far from saying. I’m as sick
of the thing as ever any one can be; it’s a rudderless hulk; it’s a
pagoda, and you can just feel—or I can feel—that it might have been a
pleasant story, if it had been only blessed at baptism.
Our politics have gone on fairly well, but the result is still doubtful.
* * * * *
_Sept._ 10_th_.
I know I have something else to say to you, but unfortunately I awoke
this morning with collywobbles, and had to take a small dose of laudanum
with the usual consequences of dry throat, intoxicated legs, partial
madness and total imbecility; and for the life of me I cannot remember
what it is. I have likewise mislaid your letter amongst the
accumulations on my table, not that there was anything in it. Altogether
I am in a poor state. I forgot to tell Baxter that the dummy had turned
up and is a fine, personable-looking volume and very good reading.
Please communicate this to him.
I have just remembered an incident that I really must not let pass. You
have heard a great deal more than you wanted about our political
prisoners. Well, one day, about a fortnight ago, the last of them was
set free—Old Poè, whom I think I must have mentioned to you, the
father-in-law of my cook, was one that I had had a great deal of trouble
with. I had taken the doctor to see him, got him out on sick leave, and
when he was put back again gave bail for him. I must not forget that my
wife ran away with him out of the prison on the doctor’s orders and with
the complicity of our friend the gaoler, who really and truly got the
sack for the exploit. As soon as he was finally liberated, Poè called a
meeting of his fellow-prisoners. All Sunday they were debating what they
were to do, and on Monday morning I got an obscure hint from Talolo that
I must expect visitors during the day who were coming to consult me.
These consultations I am now very well used to, and seeing first, that I
generally don’t know what to advise, and second that they sometimes don’t
take my advice—though in some notable cases they have taken it, generally
to my own wonder with pretty good results—I am not very fond of these
calls. They minister to a sense of dignity, but not peace of mind, and
consume interminable time always in the morning too, when I can’t afford
it. However, this was to be a new sort of consultation. Up came Poè and
some eight other chiefs, squatted in a big circle around the old
dining-room floor, now the smoking-room. And the family, being
represented by Lloyd, Graham, Belle, Austin and myself, proceeded to
exchange the necessary courtesies. Then their talking man began. He
said that they had been in prison, that I had always taken an interest in
them, that they had now been set at liberty without condition, whereas
some of the other chiefs who had been liberated before them were still
under bond to work upon the roads, and that this had set them considering
what they might do to testify their gratitude. They had therefore agreed
to work upon my road as a free gift. They went on to explain that it was
only to be on my road, on the branch that joins my house with the public
way.
Now I was very much gratified at this compliment, although (to one used
to natives) it seemed rather a hollow one. It meant only that I should
have to lay out a good deal of money on tools and food and to give wages
under the guise of presents to some workmen who were most of them old and
in ill-health. Conceive how much I was surprised and touched when I
heard the whole scheme explained to me. They were to return to their
provinces, and collect their families; some of the young men were to live
in Apia with a boat, and ply up and down the coast to A’ana and A’tua
(our own Tuamasaga being quite drained of resources) in order to supply
the working squad with food. Tools they did ask for, but it was
especially mentioned that I was to make no presents. In short, the whole
of this little ‘presentation’ to me had been planned with a good deal
more consideration than goes usually with a native campaign.
(I sat on the opposite side of the circle to the talking man. His face
was quite calm and high-bred as he went through the usual Samoan
expressions of politeness and compliment, but when he came on to the
object of their visit, on their love and gratitude to Tusitala, how his
name was always in their prayers, and his goodness to them when they had
no other friend, was their most cherished memory, he warmed up to real,
burning, genuine feeling. I had never seen the Samoan mask of reserve
laid aside before, and it touched me more than anything else. A.M.)
This morning as ever was, bright and early up came the whole gang of
them, a lot of sturdy, common-looking lads they seemed to be for the most
part, and fell to on my new road. Old Poè was in the highest of good
spirits, and looked better in health than he has done any time in two
years, being positively rejuvenated by the success of his scheme. He
jested as he served out the new tools, and I am sorry to say damned the
Government up hill and down dale, probably with a view to show off his
position as a friend of the family before his work-boys. Now, whether or
not their impulse will last them through the road does not matter to me
one hair. It is the fact that they have attempted it, that they have
volunteered and are now really trying to execute a thing that was never
before heard of in Samoa. Think of it! It is road-making—the most
fruitful cause (after taxes) of all rebellions in Samoa, a thing to which
they could not be wiled with money nor driven by punishment. It does
give me a sense of having done something in Samoa after all.
Now there’s one long story for you about ‘my blacks.’—Yours ever,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.