music furiously till about 2 (I suppose), when I turn into work again
till 4; fool from 4 to half-past, tired out and waiting for the bath
hour; 4.30, bath; 4.40, eat two heavenly mangoes on the verandah, and
see the boys arrive with the pack-horses; 5, dinner; smoke, chat on
verandah, then hand of cards, and at last at 8 come up to my room with a
pint of beer and a hard biscuit, which I am now consuming, and as soon
as they are consumed I shall turn in.
Such are the innocent days of this ancient and outworn sportsman; to-day
there was no weeding, usually there is however, edged in somewhere. My
books for the moment are a crib to Phaedo, and the second book of
Montaigne; and a little while back I was reading Frederic Harrison,
_Choice of Books_, etc.--very good indeed, a great deal of sense and
knowledge in the volume, and some very true stuff, _contra_ Carlyle,
about the eighteenth century. A hideous idea came over me that perhaps
Harrison is now getting _old_. Perhaps you are. Perhaps I am. Oh, this
infidelity must be stared firmly down. I am about twenty-three--say
twenty-eight; you about thirty, or, by'r lady, thirty-four; and as
Harrison belongs to the same generation, there is no good bothering
about him.
Here has just been a fine alert; I gave my wife a dose of chlorodyne.
"Something wrong," says she. "Nonsense," said I. "Embrocation," said
she. I smelt it, and--it smelt very funny. "I think it's just gone bad,
and to-morrow will tell." Proved to be so.
_Wednesday._--History of Tuesday.--Woke at usual time, very little work,
for I was tired, and had a job for the evening--to write parts for a new
instrument, a violin. Lunch, chat, and up to my place to practise; but
there was no practising for me--my flageolet was gone wrong, and I had
to take it all to pieces, clean it, and put it up again. As this is a
most intricate job--the thing dissolves into seventeen separate members,
most of these have to be fitted on their individual springs as fine as
needles, and sometimes two at once with the springs shoving different
ways--it took me till two. Then Lloyd and I rode forth on our errands;
first to Motootua, where we had a really instructive conversation on
weeds and grasses. Thence down to Apia, where we bought a fresh bottle
of chlorodyne and conversed on politics.
My visit to the King, which I thought at the time a particularly
nugatory and even schoolboy step, and only consented to because I had
held the reins so tight over my little band before, has raised a deuce
of a row--new proclamation, no one is to interview the sacred puppet
without consuls' permission, two days' notice, and an approved
interpreter--read (I suppose) spy. Then back; I should have said I was
trying the new horse; a tallish piebald, bought from the circus; he
proved steady and safe, but in very bad condition, and not so much the
wild Arab steed of the desert as had been supposed. The height of his
back, after commodious Jack, astonished me, and I had a great
consciousness of exercise and florid action, as I posted to his long,
emphatic trot. We had to ride back easy; even so he was hot and blown;
and when we set a boy to lead him to and fro, our last character for
sanity perished. We returned just neat for dinner; and in the evening
our violinist arrived, a young lady, no great virtuoso truly, but
plucky, industrious, and a good reader; and we played five pieces with
huge amusement, and broke up at nine. This morning I have read a
splendid piece of Montaigne, written this page of letter, and now turn
to _The Wrecker_.
_Wednesday._--November 16th or 17th--and I am ashamed to say mail day.
_The Wrecker_ is finished, that is the best of my news; it goes by this
mail to Scribner's; and I honestly think it a good yarn on the whole and
of its measly kind. The part that is genuinely good is Nares, the
American sailor; that is a genuine figure; had there been more Nares it
would have been a better book; but of course it didn't set up to be a
book, only a long tough yarn with some pictures of the manners of to-day
in the greater world--not the shoddy sham world of cities, clubs, and
colleges, but the world where men still live a man's life. The worst of
my news is the influenza; Apia is devastate; the shops closed, a ball
put off, etc. As yet we have not had it at Vailima, and, who knows? we
may escape. None of us go down, but of course the boys come and go.
Your letter had the most wonderful "I told you so" I ever heard in the
course of my life. Why, you madman, I wouldn't change my present
installation for any post, dignity, honour, or advantage conceivable to
me. It fills the bill; I have the loveliest time. And as for wars and
rumours of wars, you surely know enough of me to be aware that I like
that also a thousand times better than decrepit peace in Middlesex? I do
not quite like politics; I am too aristocratic, I fear, for that. God
knows I don't care who I chum with; perhaps like sailors best; but to go
round and sue and sneak to keep a crowd together--never. My
imagination, which is not the least damped by the idea of having my head
cut off in the bush, recoils aghast from the idea of a life like
Gladstone's, and the shadow of the newspaper chills me to the bone.
Hence my late eruption was interesting, but not what I like. All else
suits me in this (killed a mosquito) A1 abode.
About politics. A determination was come to by the President that he had
been an idiot; emissaries came to Gurr and me to kiss and be friends. My
man proposed I should have a personal interview; I said it was quite
useless, I had nothing to say; I had offered him the chance to inform
me, had pressed it on him, and had been very unpleasantly received, and
now "Time was." Then it was decided that I was to be made a culprit
against Germany; the German Captain--a delightful fellow and our
constant visitor--wrote to say that as "a German officer" he could not
come even to say farewell. We all wrote back in the most friendly
spirit, telling him (politely) that some of these days he would be
sorry, and we should be delighted to see our friend again. Since then I
have seen no German shadow.
Mataafa has been proclaimed a rebel; the President did this act, and
then resigned. By singular good fortune, Mataafa has not yet moved; no
thanks to our idiot governors. They have shot their bolt; they have made
a rebel of the only man (_to their own knowledge, on the report of their
own spy_) who held the rebel party in check; and having thus called on
war to fall, they can do no more, sit equally "expertes" of _vis_ and
counsel, regarding their handiwork. It is always a cry with these folks
that he (Mataafa) had no ammunition. I always said it would be found;
and we know of five boat-loads that have found their way to Malie
already. Where there are traders, there will be ammunition; aphorism by
R. L. S.
Now what am I to do next?
Lives of the Stevensons? _Historia Samoae_? A History for Children?
Fiction? I have had two hard months at fiction; I want a change.
Stevensons? I am expecting some more material; perhaps better wait.
Samoa? rather tempting; might be useful to the islands--and to me; for
it will be written in admirable temper; I have never agreed with any
party, and see merits and excuses in all; should do it (if I did) very
slackly and easily, as if half in conversation. History for Children?
This flows from my lessons to Austin; no book is any good. The best I
have seen is Freeman's _Old English History_; but his style is so
rasping, and a child can learn more, if he's clever. I found my sketch
of general Aryan history, given in conversation, to have been
practically correct--at least what I mean is, Freeman had very much the
same stuff in his early chapters, only not so much, and I thought not so
well placed; and the child remembered some of it. Now the difficulty is
to give this general idea of main place, growth, and movement; it is
needful to tack it on a yarn. Now Scotch is the only history I know; it
is the only history reasonably represented in my library; it is a very
good one for my purpose, owing to two civilisations having been face to
face throughout--or rather Roman civilisation face to face with our
ancient barbaric life and government, down to yesterday, to 1750 anyway.
But the _Tales of a Grandfather_ stand in my way; I am teaching them to
Austin now, and they have all Scott's defects and all Scott's hopeless
merit. I cannot compete with that; and yet, so far as regards teaching
History, how he has missed his chances! I think I'll try; I really have
some historic sense, I feel that in my bones. Then there's another
thing. Scott never knew the Highlands; he was always a Borderer. He has
missed that whole, long, strange, pathetic story of our savages, and,
besides, his style is not very perspicuous to childhood. Gad, I think
I'll have a flutter. Buridan's Ass! Whither to go, what to attack. Must
go to other letters; shall add to this, if I have time.
TO W. CRAIBE ANGUS
_Vailima, Samoa, November 1891._
MY DEAR MR. ANGUS,--Herewith the invaluable sheets. They came months
after your letter, and I trembled; but here they are, and I have
scrawled my vile name on them, and "thocht shame" as I did it. I am
expecting the sheets of your catalogue, so that I may attack the
preface. Please give me all the time you can. The sooner the better; you
might even send me early proofs as they are sent out, to give me more
incubation. I used to write as slow as judgment; now I write rather
fast; but I am still "a slow study," and sit a long while silent on my
eggs. Unconscious thought, there is the only method: macerate your
subject, let it boil slow, then take the lid off and look in--and there
your stuff is, good or bad. But the journalist's method is the way to
manufacture lies; it is will-worship--if you know the luminous quaker
phrase; and the will is only to be brought in the field for study and
again for revision. The essential part of work is not an act, it is a
state.
I do not know why I write you this trash.
Many thanks for your handsome dedication. I have not yet had time to do
more than glance at Mrs. Begg; it looks interesting.--Yours very truly,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO MISS ANNIE H. IDE
_Vailima, Samoa [November 1891]._
MY DEAR LOUISA,--Your picture of the church, the photograph of yourself
and your sister, and your very witty and pleasing letter, came all in a
bundle, and made me feel I had my money's worth for that birthday. I am
now, I must be, one of your nearest relatives; exactly what we are to
each other, I do not know, I doubt if the case has ever happened
before--your papa ought to know, and I don't believe he does; but I
think I ought to call you in the meanwhile, and until we get the advice
of counsel learned in the law, my name-daughter. Well, I was extremely
pleased to see by the church that my name-daughter could draw; by the
letter, that she was no fool; and by the photograph, that she was a
pretty girl, which hurts nothing. See how virtues are rewarded! My first
idea of adopting you was entirely charitable; and here I find that I am
quite proud of it, and of you, and that I chose just the kind of
name-daughter I wanted. For I can draw too, or rather I mean to say I
could before I forgot how; and I am very far from being a fool myself,
however much I may look it; and I am as beautiful as the day, or at
least I once hoped that perhaps I might be going to be. And so I might.
So that you see we are well met, and peers on these important points. I
am very glad also that you are older than your sister. So should I have
been, if I had had one. So that the number of points and virtues which
you have inherited from your name-father is already quite surprising.
I wish you would tell your father--not that I like to encourage my
rival--that we have had a wonderful time here of late, and that they are
having a cold day on Mulinuu, and the consuls are writing reports, and I
am writing to the Times, and if we don't get rid of our friends this
time I shall begin to despair of everything but my name-daughter.
You are quite wrong as to the effect of the birthday on your age. From
the moment the deed was registered (as it was in the public press with
every solemnity), the 13th of November became your own _and only_
birthday, and you ceased to have been born on Christmas Day. Ask your
father: I am sure he will tell you this is sound law. You are thus
become a month and twelve days younger than you were, but will go on
growing older for the future in the regular and human manner from one
13th November to the next. The effect on me is more doubtful; I may, as
you suggest, live for ever; I might, on the other hand, come to pieces
like the one-horse shay at a moment's notice; doubtless the step was
risky, but I do not the least regret that which enables me to sign
myself your revered and delighted name-father,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO CHARLES BAXTER
[_Vailima, November 1891._]
DEAR CHARLES,--[After dealing with some matters of business] I believe
that's a'. By this time, I suppose you will have heard from McClure, and
the _Beach of Falesa_ will be decided on for better for worse. The end
of _The Wrecker_ goes by this mail, an awfae relief. I am now free and
can do what I please. What do I please? I kenna. I'll bide a wee.
There's a child's history in the wind; and there's my grandfather's life
begun; and there's a hist^{ry} of Samoa in the last four or five years
begun--there's a kind of sense to this book; it may help the Samoans, it
may help me, for I am bound on the altar here for anti-Germanism. Then
there's _The Pearl Fisher_ about a quarter done; and there's various
short stories in various degrees of incompleteness. De'il, there's
plenty grist; but the mill's unco slaw! To-morrow or next day, when the
mail's through, I'll attack one or other, or maybe something else. All
these schemes begin to laugh at me, for the day's far through, and I
believe the pen grows heavy. However, I believe _The Wrecker_ is a good
yarn of its poor sort, and it is certainly well nourished with facts; no
realist can touch me there; for by this time I do begin to know
something of life in the XIXth century, which no novelist either in
France or England seems to know much of. You must have great larks over
masonry. You're away up in the ranks now and (according to works that I
have read) doubtless design assassinations. But I am an outsider; and I
have a certain liking for a light unto my path which would deter me from
joining the rank and file of so vast and dim a confraternity. At your
altitude it becomes (of course) amusing and perhaps useful. Yes, I
remember the L.J.R.,[26] and the constitution, and my homily on Liberty,
and yours on Reverence, which was never written--so I never knew what
reverence was. I remember I wanted to write Justice also; but I forget
who had the billet. My dear papa was in a devil of a taking; and I had
to go and lunch at Ferrier's in a strangely begrutten state, which was
_infra dig_. for a homilist on liberty. It was about four, I suppose,
that we met in the Lothian Road,--had we the price of two bitters
between us? questionable!
Your bookseller (I have lost his letter, I mean the maid has, arranging
my room, and so have to send by you) wrote me a letter about Old Bailey
Papers. Gosh, I near swarfed; dam'd, man, I near had dee'd o't. It's
only yin or twa volumes I want; say 500 or 1000 pages of the stuff; and
the worthy man (much doubting) proposed to bury me in volumes. Please
allay his rage, and apologise that I have not written him direct. His
note was civil and purposelike. And please send me a copy of Henley's
_Book of Verses_; mine has disappeared.
R. L. S.
TO SIDNEY COLVIN
_Nov. 25th, 1891._
MY DEAR COLVIN, MY DEAR COLVIN,--I wonder how often I'm going to write
it. In spite of the loss of three days, as I have to tell, and a lot of
weeding and cacao planting, I have finished since the mail left four
chapters, forty-eight pages of my Samoa history. It is true that the
first three had been a good deal drafted two years ago, but they had all
to be written and re-written, and the fourth chapter is all new. Chapter
I. Elements of Discord--Native. II. Elements of Discord--Foreign. III.
The Success of Laupepa. IV. Brandeis. V. Will probably be called "The
Rise of Mataafa." VI. _Furor Consularis_--a devil of a long chapter.
VII. Stuebel the Pacificator. VIII. Government under the Treaty of
Berlin. IX. Practical Suggestions. Say three-sixths of it are done,
maybe more; by this mail five chapters should go, and that should be a
good half of it; say sixty pages. And if you consider that I sent by
last mail the end of _The Wrecker_, coming on for seventy or eighty
pages, and the mail before that the entire tale of the _Beach of Falesa,
_ I do not think I can be accused of idleness. This is my season; I
often work six and seven, and sometimes eight hours; and the same day I
am perhaps weeding or planting for an hour or two more--and I dare say
you know what hard work weeding is--and it all agrees with me at this
time of the year--like--like idleness, if a man of my years could be
idle.
My first visit to Apia was a shock to me; every second person the ghost
of himself, and the place reeking with infection. But I have not got the
thing yet, and hope to escape. This shows how much stronger I am; think
of me flitting through a town of influenza patients seemingly unscathed.
We are all on the cacao planting.
The next day my wife and I rode over to the German plantation, Vailele,
whose manager is almost the only German left to speak to us. Seventy
labourers down with influenza! It is a lovely ride, half-way down our
mountain towards Apia, then turn to the right, ford the river, and three
miles of solitary grass and cocoa palms, to where the sea beats and the
wild wind blows unceasingly about the plantation house. On the way down
Fanny said, "Now what would you do if you saw Colvin coming up?"
Next day we rode down to Apia to make calls.
Yesterday the mail came, and the fat was in the fire.
_Nov. 29th_ (?).--Book.[27] All right. I must say I like your order. And
the papers are some of them up to dick, and no mistake. I agree with you
the lights seem a little turned down. The truth is, I was far through
(if you understand Scots), and came none too soon to the South Seas,
where I was to recover peace of body and mind. No man but myself knew
all my bitterness in those days. Remember that, the next time you think
I regret my exile. And however low the lights are, the stuff is true,
and I believe the more effective; after all, what I wish to fight is the
best fought by a rather cheerless presentation of the truth. The world
must return some day to the word duty, and be done with the word reward.
There are no rewards, and plenty duties. And the sooner a man sees that
and acts upon it like a gentleman or a fine old barbarian, the better
for himself.
There is my usual puzzle about publishers. Chatto ought to have it, as
he has all the other essays; these all belong to me, and Chatto
publishes on terms. Longman has forgotten the terms we are on; let him
look up our first correspondence, and he will see I reserved explicitly,
as was my habit, the right to republish as I choose. Had the same
arrangement with Henley, Magazine of Art, and with Tulloch,
Fraser's.--For any necessary note or preface, it would be a real service
if you would undertake the duty yourself. I should love a preface by
you, as short or as long as you choose, three sentences, thirty pages,
the thing I should like is your name. And the excuse of my great
distance seems sufficient. I shall return with this the sheets corrected
as far as I have them; the rest I will leave, if you will, to you
entirely; let it be your book, and disclaim what you dislike in the
preface. You can say it was at my eager prayer. I should say I am the
less willing to pass Chatto over, because he behaved the other day in a
very handsome manner. He asked leave to reprint _Damien_; I gave it to
him as a present, explaining I could receive no emolument for a personal
attack. And he took out my share of profits, and sent them in my name to
the Leper Fund. I could not bear after that to take from him any of that
class of books which I have always given him. Tell him the same terms
will do. Clark to print, uniform with the others.
I have lost all the days since this letter began rehandling Chapter IV.
of the Samoa racket. I do not go in for literature; address myself to
sensible people rather than to sensitive. And, indeed, it is a kind of
journalism, I have no right to dally; if it is to help, it must come
soon. In two months from now it shall be done, and should be published
in the course of March. I propose Cassell gets it. I am going to call it
_A Footnote to History: Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa_, I believe. I
recoil from serious names; they seem so much too pretentious for a
pamphlet. It will be about the size of _Treasure Island_, I believe. Of
course, as you now know, my case of conscience cleared itself off, and I
began my intervention directly to one of the parties. The other, the
Chief Justice, I am to inform of my book the first occasion. God knows
if the book will do any good--or harm; but I judge it right to try.
There is one man's life certainly involved; and it may be all our lives.
I must not stand and slouch, but do my best as best I can. But you may
conceive the difficulty of a history extending to the present week, at
least, and where almost all the actors upon all sides are of my personal
acquaintance. The only way is to judge slowly, and write boldly, and
leave the issue to fate.... I am far indeed from wishing to confine
myself to creative work; that is a loss, the other repairs; the one
chance for a man, and, above all, for one who grows elderly, ahem, is to
vary drainage and repair. That is the one thing I understand--the
cultivation of the shallow solum of my brain. But I would rather, from
soon on, be released from the obligation to write. In five or six years
this plantation--suppose it and us still to exist--should pretty well
support us and pay wages; not before, and already the six years seem
long to me. If literature were but a pastime!
I have interrupted myself to write the necessary notification to the
Chief Justice.
I see in looking up Longman's letter that it was as usual the letter of
an obliging gentleman; so do not trouble him with my reminder. I wish
all my publishers were not so nice. And I have a fourth and a fifth
baying at my heels; but for these, of course, they must go wanting.
_Dec. 2nd._--No answer from the Chief Justice, which is like him, but
surely very wrong in such a case. The lunch bell! I have been off work,
playing patience and weeding all morning. Yesterday and the day before I
drafted eleven and revised nine pages of Chapter V., and the truth is, I
was extinct by lunch-time, and played patience sourly the rest of the
day. To-morrow or next day I hope to go in again and win. Lunch 2nd
Bell.
_Dec. 2nd, afternoon._--I have kept up the idleness; blew on the pipe to
Belle's piano; then had a ride in the forest all by my nainsel; back and
piped again, and now dinner nearing. Take up this sheet with nothing to
say. The weird figure of Faauma is in the room washing my windows, in a
black lavalava (kilt) with a red handkerchief hanging from round her
neck between her breasts; not another stitch; her hair close cropped and
oiled; when she first came here she was an angelic little stripling, but
she is now in full flower--or half-flower--and grows buxom. As I write,
I hear her wet cloth moving and grunting with some industry; for I had a
word this day with her husband on the matter of work and meal-time, when
she is always late. And she has a vague reverence for Papa, as she and
her enormous husband address me when anything is wrong. Her husband is
Lafaele, sometimes called the archangel, of whom I have writ you often.
Rest of our household, Talolo, cook; Pulu, kitchen boy, good, steady,
industrious lads; Henry, back again from Savaii, where his love affair
seems not to have prospered, with what looks like a spear-wound in the
back of his head, of which Mr. Reticence says nothing; Simi, Manuele,
and two other labourers outdoors. Lafaele is provost of the live-stock,
whereof now, three milk-cows, one bull-calf, one heifer, Jack,
Macfarlane, the mare, Harold, Tifaga Jack, Donald and Edinburgh--seven
horses--O, and the stallion--eight horses; five cattle; total, if my
arithmetic be correct, thirteen head of beasts; I don't know how the
pigs stand, or the ducks, or the chickens; but we get a good many eggs,
and now and again a duckling or a chickling for the table; the pigs are
more solemn, and appear only on birthdays and sich.
_Monday, Dec. 7._--On Friday morning about eleven 1500 cacao seeds
arrived, and we set to and toiled from twelve that day to six, and went
to bed pretty tired. Next day I got about an hour and a half at my
History, and was at it again by 8.10, and except an hour for lunch kept
at it till four P.M. Yesterday, I did some History in the morning, and
slept most of the afternoon; and to-day, being still averse from
physical labour, and the mail drawing nigh, drew out of the squad, and
finished for press the fifth chapter of my History; fifty-nine pages in
one month; which (you will allow me to say) is a devil of a large order;
it means at least 177 pages of writing; 89,000 words! and hours going to
and fro among my notes. However, this is the way it has to be done; the
job must be done fast, or it is of no use. And it is a curious yarn.
Honestly, I think people should be amused and convinced, if they could
be at the pains to look at such a damned outlandish piece of machinery,
which of course they won't. And much I care.
When I was filling baskets all Saturday, in my dull mulish way, perhaps
the slowest worker there, surely the most particular, and the only one
that never looked up or knocked off, I could not but think I should have
been sent on exhibition as an example to young literary men. Here is how
to learn to write, might be the motto. You should have seen us; the
verandah was like an Irish bog; our hands and faces were bedaubed with
soil; and Faauma was supposed to have struck the right note when she
remarked (_a propos_ of nothing), "Too much _eleele_ (soil) for me!" The
cacao (you must understand) has to be planted at first in baskets of
plaited cocoa-leaf. From four to ten natives were plaiting these in the
wood-shed. Four boys were digging up soil and bringing it by the boxful
to the verandah. Lloyd and I and Belle, and sometimes S. (who came to
bear a hand), were filling the baskets, removing stones and lumps of
clay; Austin and Faauma carried them when full to Fanny, who planted a
seed in each, and then set them, packed close, in the corners of the
verandah. From twelve on Friday till five P.M. on Saturday we planted
the first 1500, and more than 700 of a second lot. You cannot dream how
filthy we were, and we were all properly tired. They are all at it again
to-day, bar Belle and me, not required, and glad to be out of it. The
Chief Justice has not yet replied, and I have news that he received my
letter. What a man!
I have gone crazy over Bourget's _Sensations d'Italie_; hence the
enclosed dedication,[28] a mere cry of gratitude for the best fun I've
had over a new book this ever so!
TO FRED ORR
The following is in answer to an application for an autograph from a
young gentleman in the United States:--
_Vailima, Upolu, Samoa, November 28th, 1891._
DEAR SIR,--Your obliging communication is to hand. I am glad to find
that you have read some of my books, and to see that you spell my name
right. This is a point (for some reason) of great difficulty; and I
believe that a gentleman who can spell Stevenson with a v at sixteen,
should have a show for the Presidency before fifty. By that time
I, nearer to the wayside inn,
predict that you will have outgrown your taste for autographs, but
perhaps your son may have inherited the collection, and on the morning
of the great day will recall my prophecy to your mind. And in the papers
of 1921 (say) this letter may arouse a smile.
Whatever you do, read something else besides novels and newspapers; the
first are good enough when they are good; the second, at their best, are
worth nothing. Read great books of literature and history; try to
understand the Roman Empire and the Middle Ages; be sure you do not
understand when you dislike them; condemnation is non-comprehension. And
if you know something of these two periods, you will know a little more
about to-day, and may be a good President.
I send you my best wishes, and am yours,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
_Author of a vast quantity of little books_.
TO E. L. BURLINGAME
The next letter announces to his New York publishers the beginning of
his volume on the troubles of Samoa, _A Footnote to History_.
[_Vailima, December 1891._]
MY DEAR BURLINGAME,--The end of _The Wrecker_ having but just come in,
you will, I dare say, be appalled to receive three (possibly four)
chapters of a new book of the least attractive sort: a history of
nowhere in a corner, or no time to mention, running to a volume! Well,
it may very likely be an illusion; it is very likely no one could
possibly wish to read it, but I wish to publish it. If you don't cotton
to the idea, kindly set it up at my expense, and let me know your terms
for publishing. The great affair to me is to have per return (if it
might be) four or five--better say half a dozen--sets of the roughest
proofs that can be drawn. There are a good many men here whom I want to
read the blessed thing, and not one would have the energy to read MS. At
the same time, if you care to glance at it, and have the time, I should
be very glad of your opinion as to whether I have made any step at all
towards possibly inducing folk at home to read matter so extraneous and
outlandish. I become heavy and owlish; years sit upon me; it begins to
seem to me to be a man's business to leave off his damnable faces and
say his say. Else I could have made it pungent and light and lively. In
considering, kindly forget that I am R. L. S.; think of the four
chapters as a book you are reading, by an inhabitant of our "lovely but
fatil" islands; and see if it could possibly amuse the hebetated public.
I have to publish anyway, you understand; I have a purpose beyond; I am
concerned for some of the parties to this quarrel. What I want to hear
is from curiosity; what I want you to judge of is what we are to do with
the book in a business sense. To me it is not business at all; I had
meant originally to lay all the profits to the credit of Samoa; when it
comes to the pinch of writing, I judge this unfair--I give too much--and
I mean to keep (if there be any profit at all) one-half for the artisan;
the rest I shall hold over to give to the Samoans _for that which I
choose and against work done_. I think I have never heard of greater
insolence than to attempt such a subject; yet the tale is so strange and
mixed, and the people so oddly charactered--above all, the whites--and
the high note of the hurricane and the warships is so well prepared to
take popular interest, and the latter part is so directly in the day's
movement, that I am not without hope that some may read it; and if they
don't, a murrain on them! Here is, for the first time, a tale of
Greeks--Homeric Greeks--mingled with moderns, and all true; Odysseus
along-side of Rajah Brooke, _proportion gardee_; and all true. Here is
for the first time since the Greeks (that I remember) the history of a
handful of men, where all know each other in the eyes, and live close in
a few acres, narrated at length, and with the seriousness of history.
Talk of the modern novel; here is a modern history. And if I had the
misfortune to found a school, the legitimate historian might lie down
and die, for he could never overtake his material. Here is a little tale
that has not "caret"-ed its "vates"; "sacer" is another point.
R. L. S.
TO HENRY JAMES
Mr. Henry James was in the habit of sending out for Stevenson's
reading books that seemed likely to interest him, and among the last
had been M. Paul Bourget's _Sensations d'Italie_.
_December 7th, 1891._
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--Thanks for yours; your former letter was lost; so
it appears was my long and masterly treatise on the _Tragic Muse_. I
remember sending it very well, and there went by the same mail a long
and masterly tractate to Gosse about his daddy's life, for which I have
been long expecting an acknowledgment, and which is plainly gone to the
bottom with the other. If you see Gosse, please mention it. These gems
of criticism are now lost literature, like the tomes of Alexandria. I
could not do 'em again. And I must ask you to be content with a dull
head, a weary hand, and short commons, for to-day, as I am physically
tired with hard work of every kind, the labours of the planter and the
author both piled upon me mountain deep. I am delighted beyond
expression by Bourget's book: he has phrases which affect me almost like
Montaigne; I had read ere this a masterly essay of his on Pascal; this
book does it; I write for all his essays by this mail, and shall try to
meet him when I come to Europe. The proposal is to pass a summer in
France, I think in Royat, where the faithful could come and visit me;
they are now not many. I expect Henry James to come and break a crust or
two with us. I believe it will be only my wife and myself; and she will
go over to England, but not I, or possibly incog. to Southampton, and
then to Boscombe to see poor Lady Shelley. I am writing--trying to write
in a Babel fit for the bottomless pit; my wife, her daughter, her
grandson and my mother, all shrieking at each other round the house--not
in war, thank God! but the din is ultra martial, and the note of Lloyd
joins in occasionally, and the cause of this to-do is simply cacao,
whereof chocolate comes. You may drink of our chocolate perhaps in five
or six years from now, and not know it. It makes a fine bustle, and
gives us some hard work, out of which I have slunk for to-day.
I have a story coming out: God knows when or how; it answers to the name
of the _Beach of Falesa_, and I think well of it. I was delighted with
the _Tragic Muse_; I thought the Muse herself one of your best works; I
was delighted also to hear of the success of your piece, as you know I
am a dam failure,[29] and might have dined with the dinner club that
Daudet and these parties frequented.
_Next day._--I have just been breakfasting at Baiae and Brindisi, and
the charm of Bourget hag-rides me. I wonder if this exquisite fellow,
all made of fiddle-strings and scent and intelligence, could bear any of
my bald prose. If you think he could, ask Colvin to send him a copy of
these last essays of mine when they appear; and tell Bourget they go to
him from a South Sea Island as literal homage. I have read no new book
for years that gave me the same literary thrill as his _Sensations
d'Italie_. If (as I imagine) my cut-and-dry literature would be death to
him, and worse than death--journalism--be silent on the point. For I
have a great curiosity to know him, and if he doesn't know my work, I
shall have the better chance of making his acquaintance. I read _The
Pupil_ the other day with great joy; your little boy is admirable; why
is there no little boy like that unless he hails from the Great
Republic?
Here I broke off, and wrote Bourget a dedication; no use resisting; it's
a love affair. O, he's exquisite, I bless you for the gift of him. I
have really enjoyed this book as I--almost as I--used to enjoy books
when I was going twenty-twenty-three; and these are the years for
reading!
R. L. S.
TO SIDNEY COLVIN
_[Vailima] Tuesday, Dec. 1891._
SIR,--I have the honour to report further explorations of the course of
the river Vaea, with accompanying sketch plan. The party under my
command consisted of one horse, and was extremely insubordinate and
mutinous, owing to not being used to go into the bush, and being
half-broken anyway--and that the wrong half. The route indicated for my
party was up the bed of the so-called river Vaea, which I accordingly
followed to a distance of perhaps two or three furlongs eastward from
the house of Vailima, where the stream being quite dry, the bush thick,
and the ground very difficult, I decided to leave the main body of the
force under my command tied to a tree, and push on myself with the point
of the advance guard, consisting of one man. The valley had become very
narrow and airless; foliage close shut above; dry bed of the stream much
excavated, so that I passed under fallen trees without stooping.
Suddenly it turned sharply to the north, at right angles to its former
direction; I heard living water, and came in view of a tall face of rock
and the stream spraying down it; it might have been climbed, but it
would have been dangerous, and I had to make my way up the steep earth
banks, where there is nowhere any looting for man, only for trees, which
made the rounds of my ladder. I was near the top of this climb, which
was very hot and steep, and the pulses were buzzing all over my body,
when I made sure there was one external sound in my ears, and paused to
listen. No mistake; a sound of a mill-wheel thundering, I thought, close
by, yet below me, a huge mill-wheel, yet not going steadily, but with a
_schottische_ movement, and at each fresh impetus shaking the mountain.
There, where I was, I just put down the sound to the mystery of the
bush; where no sound now surprises me--and any sound alarms; I only
thought it would give Jack a fine fright, down where he stood tied to a
tree by himself, and he was badly enough scared when I left him. The
good folks at home identified it; it was a sharp earthquake.
[Illustration:
1. _Mepi tree._ 4, 4. _Banana patches_
2. _Carruthers' Road._ 5. _Waterfall._
3. _Vailima Plantation House._ 6. _Banyan tree._]
At the top of the climb I made my way again to the watercourse; it is
here running steady and pretty full; strange these intermittencies--and
just a little below the main stream is quite dry, and all the original
brook has gone down some lava gallery of the mountain--and just a little
further below, it begins picking up from the left hand in little boggy
tributaries, and in the inside of a hundred yards has grown a brook
again.[30] The general course of the brook was, I guess, S.E.; the
valley still very deep and whelmed in wood. It seemed a swindle to have
made so sheer a climb and still find yourself at the bottom of a well.
But gradually the thing seemed to shallow, the trees to seem poorer and
smaller; I could see more and more of the silver sprinkles of sky among
the foliage, instead of the sombre piling up of tree behind tree. And
here I had two scares--first, away up on my right hand I heard a bull
low; I think it was a bull from the quality of the low, which was
singularly songful and beautiful; the bulls belong to me, but how did I
know that the bull was aware of that? and my advance guard not being at
all properly armed, we advanced with great precaution until I was
satisfied that I was passing eastward of the enemy. It was during this
period that a pool of the river suddenly boiled up in my face in a
little fountain. It was in a very dreary, marshy part among dilapidated
trees that you see through holes in the trunks of; and if any kind of
beast or elf or devil had come out of that sudden silver ebullition, I
declare I do not think I should have been surprised. It was perhaps a
thing as curious--a fish, with which these head waters of the stream
are alive. They are some of them as long as my finger, should be easily
caught in these shallows, and some day I'll have a dish of them.
Very soon after I came to where the stream collects in another banana
swamp, with the bananas bearing well. Beyond, the course is again quite
dry; it mounts with a sharp turn a very steep face of the mountain, and
then stops abruptly at the lip of a plateau, I suppose the top of Vaea
mountain: plainly no more springs here--there was no smallest furrow of
a watercourse beyond--and my task might be said to be accomplished. But
such is the animated spirit in the service that the whole advance guard
expressed a sentiment of disappointment that an exploration, so far
successfully conducted, should come to a stop in the most promising view
of fresh successes. And though unprovided either with compass or
cutlass, it was determined to push some way along the plateau, marking
our direction by the laborious process of bending down, sitting upon,
and thus breaking the wild cocoanut trees. This was the less regretted
by all from a delightful discovery made of a huge banyan growing here in
the bush, with flying-buttressed flying buttresses, and huge arcs of
trunk hanging high overhead and trailing down new complications of root.
I climbed some way up what seemed the original beginning; it was easier
to climb than a ship's rigging, even rattled; everywhere there was
foot-hold and hand-hold. It was judged wise to return and rally the main
body, who had now been left alone for perhaps forty minutes in the bush.
The return was effected in good order, but unhappily I only arrived
(like so many other explorers) to find my main body or rear-guard in a
condition of mutiny; the work, it is to be supposed, of terror. It is
right I should tell you the Vaea has a bad name, an _aitu
fafine_--female devil of the woods--succubus--haunting it, and doubtless
Jack had heard of her; perhaps, during my absence, saw her; lucky Jack!
Anyway, he was neither to hold nor to bind, and finally, after nearly
smashing me by accident, and from mere scare and insubordination several
times, deliberately set in to kill me; but poor Jack! the tree he
selected for that purpose was a banana! I jumped off and gave him the
heavy end of my whip over the buttocks! Then I took and talked in his
ear in various voices; you should have heard my alto--it was a dreadful,
devilish note--I _knew_ Jack _knew_ it was an _aitu_. Then I mounted him
again, and he carried me fairly steadily. He'll learn yet. He has to
learn to trust absolutely to his rider; till he does, the risk is always
great in thick bush, where a fellow must try different passages, and put
back and forward, and pick his way by hair's-breadths.
The expedition returned to Vailima in time to receive the visit of the
R. C. Bishop. He is a superior man, much above the average of priests.
_Thursday._--Yesterday the same expedition set forth to the southward by
what is known as Carruthers' Road. At a fallen tree which completely
blocks the way, the main body was as before left behind, and the advance
guard of one now proceeded with the exploration. At the great tree known
as _Mepi Tree_, after Maben the surveyor, the expedition struck forty
yards due west till it struck the top of a steep bank which it
descended. The whole bottom of the ravine is filled with sharp lava
blocks quite unrolled and very difficult and dangerous to walk among; no
water in the course, scarce any sign of water. And yet surely water must
have made this bold cutting in the plateau. And if so, why is the lava
sharp? My science gave out; but I could not but think it ominous and
volcanic. The course of the stream was tortuous, but with a resultant
direction a little by west of north; the sides the whole way exceeding
steep, the expedition buried under fathoms of foliage. Presently water
appeared in the bottom, a good quantity; perhaps thirty or forty cubic
feet, with pools and waterfalls. A tree that stands all along the banks
here must be very fond of water; its roots lie close-packed down the
stream, like hanks of guts, so as to make often a corrugated walk, each
root ending in a blunt tuft of filaments, plainly to drink water. Twice
there came in small tributaries from the left or western side--the whole
plateau having a smartish inclination to the east; one of the
tributaries in a handsome little web of silver hanging in the forest.
Twice I was startled by birds; one that barked like a dog; another that
whistled loud ploughman's signals, so that I vow I was thrilled, and
thought I had fallen among runaway blacks, and regretted my cutlass
which I had lost and left behind while taking bearings. A good many
fishes in the brook, and many crayfish; one of the last with a queer
glow-worm head. Like all our brooks, the water is pure as air, and runs
over red stones like rubies. The foliage along both banks very thick and
high, the place close, the walking exceedingly laborious. By the time
the expedition reached the fork, it was felt exceedingly questionable
whether the _moral_ of the force were sufficiently good to undertake
more extended operations. A halt was called, the men refreshed with
water and a bath, and it was decided at a drumhead council of war to
continue the descent of the Embassy Water straight for Vailima, whither
the expedition returned, in rather poor condition, and wet to the waist,
about 4 P.M.
Thus in two days the two main watercourses of this country have been
pretty thoroughly explored, and I conceive my instructions fully carried
out. The main body of the second expedition was brought back by another
officer despatched for that purpose from Vailima. Casualties: one horse
wounded; one man bruised; no deaths--as yet, but the bruised man feels
to-day as if his case was mighty serious.
_Dec. 25, '91._--Your note with a very despicable bulletin of health
arrived only yesterday, the mail being a day behind. It contained also
the excellent Times article, which was a sight for sore eyes. I am
still _taboo_; the blessed Germans will have none of me; and I only hope
they may enjoy the Times article. 'Tis my revenge! I wish you had sent
the letter too, as I have no copy, and do not even know what I wrote the
last day, with a bad headache, and the mail going out. However, it must
have been about right, for the Times article was in the spirit I wished
to arouse. I hope we can get rid of the man before it is too late. He
has set the natives to war; but the natives, by God's blessing, do not
want to fight, and I think it will fizzle out--no thanks to the man who
tried to start it. But I did not mean to drift into these politics;
rather to tell you what I have done since I last wrote.
Well, I worked away at my _History_ for a while, and only got one
chapter done; no doubt this spate of work is pretty low now, and will be
soon dry; but, God bless you, what a lot I have accomplished; _Wrecker_
done, _Beach of Falesa_ done, half the _History: c'est etonnant_. (I
hear from Burlingame, by the way, that he likes the end of the
_Wrecker_; 'tis certainly a violent, dark yarn with interesting, plain
turns of human nature), then Lloyd and I went down to live in Haggard's
rooms, where Fanny presently joined us. Haggard's rooms are in a strange
old building--old for Samoa, and has the effect of the antique like some
strange monastery; I would tell you more of it, but I think I'm going to
use it in a tale. The annexe close by had its door sealed; poor Dowdney
lost at sea in a schooner. The place is haunted. The vast empty sheds,
the empty store, the airless, hot, long, low rooms, the claps of wind
that set everything flying--a strange uncanny house to spend Christmas
in.
_Jan. 1st,'92._--For a day or two I have sat close and wrought hard at
the _History_, and two more chapters are all but done. About thirty
pages should go by this mail, which is not what should be, but all I
could overtake. Will any one ever read it? I fancy not; people don't
read history for reading, but for education and display--and who
desires education in the history of Samoa, with no population, no past,
no future, or the exploits of Mataafa, Malietoa, and Consul Knappe?
Colkitto and Galasp are a trifle to it. Well, it can't be helped, and it
must be done, and, better or worse, it's capital fun. There are two to
whom I have not been kind--German Consul Becker and the English Captain
Hand, R.N.
On Dec. 30th I rode down with Belle to go to (if you please) the Fancy
Ball. When I got to the beach, I found the barometer was below 29 deg., the
wind still in the east and steady, but a huge offensive continent of
clouds and vapours forming to leeward. It might be a hurricane; I dared
not risk getting caught away from my work, and, leaving Belle, returned
at once to Vailima. Next day--yesterday--it was a tearer; we had storm
shutters up; I sat in my room and wrote by lamplight--ten pages, if you
please, seven of them draft, and some of these compiled authorities, so
that was a brave day's work. About two a huge tree fell within sixty
paces of our house; a little after, a second went; and we sent out boys
with axes and cut down a third, which was too near the house, and
buckling like a fishing rod. At dinner we had the front door closed and
shuttered, the back door open, the lamp lit. The boys in the cook-house
were all out at the cook-house door, where we could see them looking in
and smiling. Lauilo and Faauma waited on us with smiles. The excitement
was delightful. Some very violent squalls came as we sat there, and
every one rejoiced; it was impossible to help it; a soul of putty had to
sing. All night it blew; the roof was continually sounding under
missiles; in the morning the verandahs were half full of branches torn
from the forest. There was a last very wild squall about six; the rain,
like a thick white smoke, flying past the house in volleys, and as
swift, it seemed, as rifle balls; all with a strange, strident hiss,
such as I have only heard before at sea, and, indeed, thought to be a
marine phenomenon. Since then the wind has been falling with a few
squalls, mostly rain. But our road is impassable for horses; we hear a
schooner has been wrecked and some native houses blown down in Apia,
where Belle is still and must remain a prisoner. Lucky I returned while
I could! But the great good is this; much bread-fruit and bananas have
been destroyed; if this be general through the islands, famine will be
imminent; and _whoever blows the coals, there can be no war_. Do I then
prefer a famine to a war? you ask. Not always, but just now. I am sure
the natives do not want a war; I am sure a war would benefit no one but
the white officials, and I believe we can easily meet the famine--or at
least that it can be met. That would give our officials a legitimate
opportunity to cover their past errors.
_Jan. 2nd._--I woke this morning to find the blow quite ended. The
heaven was all a mottled grey; even the east quite colourless; the
downward slope of the island veiled in wafts of vapour, blue like smoke;
not a leaf stirred on the tallest tree; only, three miles away below me
on the barrier reef, I could see the individual breakers curl and fall,
and hear their conjunct roaring rise, as it still rises at 1 P.M., like
the roar of a thoroughfare close by. I did a good morning's work,
correcting and clarifying my draft, and have now finished for press
eight chapters, ninety-one pages, of this piece of journalism. Four more
chapters, say fifty pages, remain to be done; I should gain my wager and
finish this volume in three months, that is to say, the end should leave
me per February mail; I cannot receive it back till the mail of April.
Yes, it can be out in time; pray God that it be in time to help.
How do journalists fetch up their drivel? I aim only at clearness and
the most obvious finish, positively at no higher degree of merit, not
even at brevity--I am sure it could have been all done, with double the
time, in two-thirds of the space. And yet it has taken me two months to
write 45,500 words; and, be damned to my wicked prowess, I am proud of
the exploit! The real journalist must be a man not of brass only, but
bronze. Chapter IX. gapes for me, but I shrink on the margin, and go on
chattering to you. This last part will be much less offensive (strange
to say) to the Germans. It is Becker they will never forgive me for;
Knappe I pity and do not dislike; Becker I scorn and abominate. Here is
the tableau. I. Elements of Discord: Native. II. Elements of Discord:
Foreign. III. The Sorrows of Laupepa. IV. Brandeis. V. The Battle of
Matautu. VI. Last Exploits of Becker. VII. The Samoan Camps. VIII.
Affairs of Lautii and Fangalii. IX. "_Furor Consularis_." X. The
Hurricane. XI. Stuebel Recluse. XII. The Present Government. I estimate
the whole roughly at 70,000 words. Should anybody ever dream of reading
it, it would be found amusing. 70000/300 = 233 printed pages; a
respectable little five-bob volume, to bloom unread in shop windows.
After that, I'll have a spank at fiction. And rest? I shall rest in the
grave, or when I come to Italy. If only the public will continue to
support me! I lost my chance not dying; there seems blooming little fear
of it now. I worked close on five hours this morning; the day before,
close on nine; and unless I finish myself off with this letter, I'll
have another hour and a half, or _aiblins twa_, before dinner. Poor man,
how you must envy me, as you hear of these orgies of work, and you
scarce able for a letter. But Lord, Colvin, how lucky the situations are
not reversed, for I have no situation, nor am fit for any. Life is a
steigh brae. Here, have at Knappe, and no more clavers!
_Jan. 3rd._--There was never any man had so many irons in the fire,
except Jim Pinkerton.[31] I forgot to mention I have the most gallant
suggestion from Lang, with an offer of MS. authorities, which turns my
brain. It's all about the throne of Poland and buried treasure in the
Mackay country, and Alan Breck can figure there in glory.
Yesterday, J. and I set off to Blacklock's (American Consul) who lives
not far from that little village I have so often mentioned as lying
between us and Apia. I had some questions to ask him for my _History_;
thence we must proceed to Vailele, where I had also to cross-examine the
plantation manager about the battle there. We went by a track I had
never before followed down the hill to Vaisigano, which flows here in a
deep valley, and was unusually full, so that the horses trembled in the
ford. The whole bottom of the valley is full of various streams posting
between strips of forest with a brave sound of waters. In one place we
had a glimpse of a fall some way higher up, and then sparkling in
sunlight in the midst of the green valley. Then up by a winding path
scarce accessible to a horse for steepness, to the other side, and the
open cocoanut glades of the plantation. Here we rode fast, did a mighty
satisfactory afternoon's work at the plantation house, and still faster
back. On the return Jack fell with me, but got up again; when I felt him
recovering I gave him his head, and he shoved his foot through the rein;
I got him by the bit however, and all was well; he had mud over all his
face, but his knees were not broken. We were scarce home when the rain
began again; that was luck. It is pouring now in torrents; we are in the
height of the bad season. Lloyd leaves along with this letter on a
change to San Francisco; he had much need of it, but I think this will
brace him up. I am, as you see, a tower of strength. I can remember
riding not so far and not near so fast when I first came to Samoa, and
being shattered next day with fatigue; now I could not tell I have done
anything; have re-handled my battle of Fangalii according to yesterday's
information--four pages rewritten; and written already some half-dozen
pages of letters.
I observe with disgust that while of yore, when I own I was guilty, you
never spared me abuse--but now, when I am so virtuous, where is the
praise? Do admit that I have become an excellent letter-writer--at least
to you, and that your ingratitude is imbecile.--Yours ever,
R. L. S.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "In the missionary work which is being done among the Samoans,
Mr. Stevenson was especially interested. He was an observant,
shrewd, yet ever generous critic of all our religious and
educational organisations. His knowledge of native character and
life enabled him to understand missionary difficulties, while his
genial contact with all sorts and conditions of men made him keen to
detect deficiencies in men and methods, and apt in useful
suggestion." The above is the testimony of the Mr. Clarke here
mentioned (Rev. W. E. Clarke of the London Missionary Society). This
gentleman was from the first one of the most valued friends of Mr.
Stevenson and his family in Samoa, and, when the end came, read the
funeral service beside his grave on Mount Vaea.
[2] The lady in the _Vicar of Wakefield_ who declares herself "all
in a muck of sweat."
[3] First published in the New Review, January 1895.
[4] Afterwards changed into _The Beach of Falesa_.
[5] Mr. Lloyd Osbourne had come to England to pack and wind up affairs
at Skerryvore.
[6] The lines beginning "I heard the pulse of the besieging sea"; see
Vol. xxiv., p. 366.
[7] "The Monument" was his name for my house at the British Museum,
and George was my old faithful servant, George Went.
[8] The late Mr. John Lafarge, long an honoured _doyen_ among New
York artists, whose record of his holiday in the South Seas, in the
shape of a series of water-colour sketches of the scenery and people
(with a catalogue full of interesting notes and observations), was
one of the features of the Champ de Mars Salon in 1895.
[9] Mrs. B. W. Procter, the stepdaughter of Basil Montagu and widow
of Barry Cornwall. The death of this spirited veteran in 1888
snapped one of the last links with the days and memories of Keats
and Coleridge. A shrewd and not too indulgent judge of character,
she took R. L. S. into warm favour at first sight, and never spoke of
or inquired after him but with unwonted tenderness.
[10] On a projected expedition to Sydney.
[11] See _A Footnote to History_ for more in praise of Dr. Stuebel,
and of his exceptional deserts among white officials in Samoa.
[12] One of the many aliases of the wicked Skye-terrier of Hyeres,
Davos, and Bournemouth days, celebrated in the essay _On the
Character of Dogs_.
[13] _Battre les champs_, to wander in mind.
[14] _Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin_, by R. L. S., prefixed to _Papers
Literary, Scientific, etc., by the late Fleeming Jenkin, F.R.S.,
LL.D._; 2 vols. London, Longmans, 1887. The first chapters consist
of a genealogical history of the family. This, to my mind one of the
best works of R. L. S., has lately been separately reprinted, having
long been accessible only in the Edinburgh and Pentland editions. Of
_Delafleld_ I never heard; the plan of _Shovel_, which was to be in
great part a story of the Peninsular War, had been sketched out and
a few chapters written as long ago as the seventies.
[15] _The Misadventures of John Nicholson._
[16] The South Sea Letters.
[17] The price advanced for these Letters was among the considerations
which originally induced the writer to set out on his Pacific voyage.
[18] The first serial tale, says Mr. Clarke, ever read by Samoans in
their own language was the story of the _Bottle Imp_, "which found
its way into print at Samoa, and was read with wonder and delight in
many a thatched Samoan hut before it won the admiration of readers
at home." In the English form the story was published first in Black
and White, and afterwards in the volume called _Island Nights'
Entertainments_.
[19] Boating expedition: pronounce _malanga_.
[20] Portraits of myself for which he had asked.
[21] Miss Fanny Macpherson, now Lady Holroyd.
[22] In reply to a suggestion which ultimately took effect in the
shape of the volume called _Across the Plains_ (Chatto & Windus,
1892).
[23] The steam-yacht of the Commissioners of Northern Lights, on
which he had been accustomed as a lad to accompany his father on the
official trips of inspection round the coast.
[24] Mr. Rudyard Kipling was at this time planning a trip to Samoa,
but the plan was unfortunately not carried out, and he and Stevenson
never met.
[25] Readers of _The Wrecker_ will not need to be reminded that this
is the name of the personage on whom the mystery in that story
hinges.
[26] See vol. xxiii. pp. 46, 48.
[27] _Across the Plains._ The papers specially referred to in the
next lines are those written at Saranac Lake in the winter of
1887-88, including _A Letter to a Young Gentleman_, _Pulvis et
Umbra_, _A Christmas Sermon_.
[28] For the volume _Across the Plains_.
[29] _i.e._ on the stage.
[30] As to this peculiar intermittency of the Samoan streams, full
in their upper course, but below in many places dry or lost, compare
the late Lord Pembroke's _South Sea Bubbles_, p. 212:--"One odd
thing connected with these ravines is the fact that the higher you
go the more water you find. Unlike the Thames, which begins, I
believe, in half a mile of dusty lane, and expands in its brimming
breadth as it approaches the sea, a Samoan stream begins in bubbling
plenty and ends in utter drought a mile or two from the salt water.
Gradually as you ascend you become more and more hopeful; moist
patches of sand appear here and there, then tiny pools that a fallen
leaf might cover, then larger ones with little thread-like runs of
water between them; larger and larger, till at last you reach some
hard ledge of trap, over which a glorious stream gurgles and
splashes into a pool ample enough for the bath of an elephant."
[31] In _The Wrecker_. As to the story thus suggested by Mr. Andrew
Lang, see below, pp. 171, 187, etc.
XII
LIFE IN SAMOA--_Continued_
SECOND YEAR AT VAILIMA
JANUARY-DECEMBER 1892
The New Year found Stevenson down with his first attack of the influenza
epidemic, then virulent all over the world. But the illness was not
sufficient to stop his work, and in the first two months of the year he
was busy continuing his conscientious labours on _The Footnote to
History_, seeing _The Wrecker_ and _The Beach of Falesa_ through the
press, planning the South Sea plantation novel _Sophia Scarlet_, which
never got beyond that inchoate stage, and writing the continuation to
_Kidnapped_, first intended to bear the name of the hero, David Balfour,
and afterwards changed to _Catriona_. With this he proceeded swimmingly,
completing it between February and September, in a shorter time than any
other of his sustained narratives; and on publication its success was
great. By May he had finished the _Footnote_, and then had a dash at the
first chapters of _The Young Chevalier_, which stand in their truncated
state a piece of work as vivid and telling as he had ever done. Early in
the autumn he struck a still fuller note in the draft of the first
chapters of _Weir of Hermiston_.
During this year the household at Vailima received a new temporary
inmate in the person of Mr. Graham Balfour, a cousin whom Stevenson had
not previously known, but with whom he soon formed the closest and most
confidential friendship of his later life. In the summer and early
autumn he was much taken up both with politics and with hospitalities.
As hereinafter narrated, he made, and was thwarted in, a serious attempt
to effect a reconciliation between the two rival chiefs; and continued
his series of letters to the Times showing up the incompetence, and
worse, of the responsible Treaty officials. In August he took lively
pleasure in a visit paid to the islands by Lady Jersey and some members
of her family from Australia. During the course of their stay he
conducted the visitors to the rebel camp under aliases, as the needs of
the time required, and in a manner that seemed like the realisation of a
chapter of a Waverley novel. A month or two later he became aware, with
more amusement than alarm, of measures for his deportation set on foot
but not carried through by the Treaty officials. For a man of his
temper, the political muddle and mismanagement of which the Samoan
Islands were the scene--and not only these, however much he might lament
them for the sake of the inhabitants, but even the risks he ran of
serious personal consequences from his own action,--added to life at
least as much of zest and excitement as of annoyance.
In October he determined, not without serious financial misgivings and
chiefly in deference to his mother's urgency, to enlarge his house at
Vailima by putting up a new block adjoining and communicating with that
which he had hitherto inhabited. The work was promptly and efficiently
carried out by the German Firm and completed by the end of the year.
Quite towards the close of December, copies of _The Footnote to
History_ reached Samoa, and the book, so far from being a cause of
offence to his friends the managers of that firm, as both he and they
had feared, was found acceptable and devoid of offence by them: a result
celebrated in the convivial manner described in the last letter of this
section. On the whole the year had been a prosperous one, full of
successful work and eager interests, although darkened in its later
months by disquietude on account of his wife's health. He had himself
well maintained the improved strength and the renewed capacity both for
literary work and outdoor activity which life in the South Seas had
brought him from the first.
TO E. L. BURLINGAME
_[Vailima] Jan, 2nd, '92._
MY DEAR BURLINGAME,--Overjoyed you were pleased with _The Wrecker_, and
shall consider your protests. There is perhaps more art than you think
for in the peccant chapter, where I have succeeded in packing into one a
dedication, an explanation, and a termination. Surely you had not
recognised the phrase about boodle? It was a quotation from Jim
Pinkerton, and seemed to me agreeably skittish. However, all shall be
prayerfully considered.
To come to a more painful subject. Herewith go three more chapters of
the wretched History; as you see, I approach the climax. I expect the
book to be some 70,000 words, of which you have now 45. Can I finish it
for next mail? I am going to try! 'Tis a long piece of journalism, and
full of difficulties here and there, of this kind and that, and will
make me a power of friends to be sure. There is one Becker who will
probably put up a window to me in the church where he was baptized; and
I expect a testimonial from Captain Hand.
Sorry to let the mail go without the Scott; this has been a bad month
with me, and I have been below myself. I shall find a way to have it
come by next, or know the reason why. The mail after, anyway.
A bit of a sketch map appears to me necessary for my History; perhaps
two. If I do not have any, 'tis impossible any one should follow; and I,
even when not at all interested, demand that I shall be able to follow;
even a tourist book without a map is a cross to me; and there must be
others of my way of thinking. I inclose the very artless one that I
think needful. Vailima, in case you are curious, is about as far again
behind Tanugamanono as that is from the sea.
M'Clure is publishing a short story of mine, some 50,000 words, I think,
_The Beach of Falesa_; when he's done with it, I want you and Cassell to
bring it out in a little volume; I shall send you a dedication for it; I
believe it good; indeed, to be honest, very good. Good gear that pleases
the merchant.
The other map that I half threaten is a chart for the hurricane. Get me
Kimberley's report of the hurricane: not to be found here. It is of most
importance; I _must_ have it with my proofs of that part, if I cannot
have it earlier, which now seems impossible.--Yours in hot haste,
R. L. STEVENSON.
TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE
At the news that his correspondent was occupied teaching and
entertaining a class of children in a Kilburn basement, Stevenson
bethinks himself of helping her by writing an account of Samoa and
Samoan life for children.
_Vailima, January 4th, 1892._
MY DEAR ADELAIDE,--We were much pleased with your letter and the news of
your employment. Admirable, your method. But will you not run dry of
fairy stories? Please salute your pupils, and tell them that a long,
lean, elderly man who lives right through on the under side of the
world, so that down in your cellar you are nearer him than the people in
the street, desires his compliments. This man lives in an island which
is not very long, and extremely narrow. The sea beats round it very
hard, so that it is difficult to get to shore. There is only one harbour
where ships come, even that is very wild and dangerous; four ships of
war were broken there a little while ago, and one of them is still lying
on its side on a rock clean above water, where the sea threw it as you
might throw your fiddle bow on the table. All round the harbour the town
is strung out, it is nothing but wooden houses, only there are some
churches built of stone, not very large, but the people have never seen
such fine buildings. Almost all the houses are of one story. Away at one
end lives the king of the whole country. His palace has a thatched roof
which stands upon posts; it has no walls, but when it blows and rains,
they have Venetian blinds which they let down between the posts and make
it very snug. There is no furniture, and the king and queen and the
courtiers sit and eat on the floor, which is of gravel: the lamp stands
there too, and every now and then it is upset. These good folks wear
nothing but a kilt about their waists, unless to go to church or for a
dance, or the New Year, or some great occasion. The children play
marbles all along the street; and though they are generally very jolly,
yet they get awfully cross over their marbles, and cry and fight like
boys and girls at home. Another amusement in country places is to shoot
fish with a bow and arrow. All round the beach there is bright shallow
water where fishes can be seen darting or lying in shoals. The child
trots round the shore, and wherever he sees a fish, lets fly an arrow
and misses, and then wades in after his arrow. It is great fun (I have
tried it) for the child, and I never heard of it doing any harm to the
fishes: so what could be more jolly? The road up to this lean man's
house is uphill all the way and through forests; the forests are of
great trees, not so much unlike the trees at home, only here and there
are some very queer ones mixed with them, cocoa-nut palms, and great
forest trees that are covered with blossom like red hawthorn, but not
near so bright; and from all the trees thick creepers hang down like
ropes, and nasty-looking weeds that they call orchids grow in the forks
of the branches; and on the ground many prickly things are dotted which
they call pine-apples: I suppose every one has eaten pineapple drops.
On the way up to the lean man's house you pass a little village, all of
houses like the king's house, so that as you ride through you can see
everybody sitting at dinner, or if it be night, lying in their beds by
lamplight; for all these people are terribly afraid of ghosts, and would
not lie in the dark for any favour. After the village, there is only one
more house, and that is the lean man's. For the people are not very
many, and live all by the sea, and the whole inside of the island is
desert woods and mountains. When the lean man goes into this forest, he
is very much ashamed to say it, but he is always in a terrible fright.
The wood is so great and empty and hot, and it is always filled with
curious noises; birds cry like children and bark like dogs, and he can
hear people laughing and felling trees; and the other day (when he was
far in the woods) he heard a great sound like the biggest mill-wheel
possible going with a kind of dot-and-carry-one movement like a dance.
That was the noise of an earthquake away down below him in the bowels of
the earth, and that is the same thing as to say away up towards you in
your cellar in Kilburn. All these noises make him feel lonely and
scared, and he doesn't quite know what he is scared of. Once when he was
just about to cross a river, a blow struck him on the top of his head
and knocked him head-foremost down the bank and splash into the water.
It was a nut, I fancy, that had fallen from a tree, by which accidents
people are sometimes killed. But at the time he thought it was a black
boy.
Aha, say you, and what is a black boy? Well, there are here a lot of
poor people who are brought here from distant islands to labour as
slaves for the Germans. They are not at all like the king or his people,
who are brown and very pretty; but these are black as negroes and as
ugly as sin, poor souls, and in their own lands they live all the time
at war and cook and eat men's flesh. The Germans thrash them with whips
to make them work, and every now and then some run away into the Bush,
as the forest is called, and build little sheds of leaves, and eat nuts
and roots and fruit, and dwell there by themselves in the great desert.
Sometimes they are bad and wild and come down in the villages and steal
and kill; and people whisper to each other that some of them have gone
back to their horrid old habits, and catch men and women in order to eat
them. But it is very likely not true; and the most of them are only
poor, stupid, trembling, half-starved, pitiful creatures like frightened
dogs. Their life is all very well when the sun shines, as it does eight
or nine months in the year. But it is very different the rest of the
time. The wind rages here most violently. The great trees thrash about
like whips; the air is filled with leaves and great branches flying
about like birds; and the sound of the trees falling shakes the earth.
It rains too as it never rains at home. You can hear a shower while it
is yet half a mile away, hissing like a shower-bath in the forest; and
when it comes to you, the water blinds your eyes, and the cold drenching
takes your breath away as though some one had struck you. In that kind
of weather it must be dreadful indeed to live in the woods, one man
alone by himself. And you must know that, if the lean man feels afraid
to be in the forest, the people of the island and the black boys are
much more afraid than he. For they believe the woods to be quite filled
with spirits; some are like pigs, and some are like flying things; but
others (and these are thought the most dangerous) come in the shape of
beautiful young women and young men, beautifully dressed in the island
manner, with fine kilts and fine necklaces and crowns of scarlet seeds
and flowers. Woe betide he or she who gets to speak with one of these!
They will be charmed out of their wits, and come home again quite silly,
and go mad and die. So that the poor black boy must be always trembling
and looking about for the coming of the women-devils.
Sometimes the women-devils go down out of the woods into the villages,
and here is a tale the lean man heard last year. One of the islanders
was sitting in his house, and he had cooked fish. There came along the
road two beautiful young women, dressed as I told you, who came into his
house and asked for some of his fish. It is the fashion in the islands
always to give what is asked, and never to ask folk's names. So the man
gave them fish and talked to them in the island jesting way. And
presently he asked one of the women for her red necklace, which is good
manners and their way; he had given the fish, and he had a right to ask
for something back. "I will give it you by and by," said the woman, and
she and her companion went away; but he thought they were gone very
suddenly, and the truth is they had vanished. The night was nearly come,
when the man heard the voice of the woman crying that he should come to
her and she would give the necklace. And he looked out, and behold she
was standing calling him from the top of the sea, on which she stood as
you might on the table. At that, fear came on the man; he fell on his
knees and prayed, and the woman disappeared. It was known afterwards
that this was once a woman indeed, but should have died a thousand years
ago, and has lived all that while as a devil in the woods beside the
spring of a river. Saumai-afe (Sow-my-affy) is her name, in case you
want to write to her.--Ever your friend Tusitala (tale-writer),
_alias_ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
TO SIDNEY COLVIN
The South Sea novel here mentioned, _Sophia Scarlet_, never got
beyond the rough draft of an opening chapter or two.
_[Vailima] Jan. 31st, '92._
MY DEAR COLVIN,--No letter at all from you, and this scratch from me!
Here is a year that opens ill. Lloyd is off to "the coast" sick--_the
coast_ means California over most of the Pacific--I have been down all
month with influenza, and am just recovering--I am overlaid with proofs,
which I am just about half fit to attend to. One of my horses died this
morning, and another is now dying on the front lawn--Lloyd's horse and
Fanny's. Such is my quarrel with destiny. But I am mending famously,
come and go on the balcony, have perfectly good nights, and though I
still cough, have no oppression and no hemorrhage and no fever. So if I
can find time and courage to add no more, you will know my news is not
altogether of the worst; a year or two ago, and what a state I should
have been in now! Your silence, I own, rather alarms me. But I tell
myself you have just miscarried; had you been too ill to write, some one
would have written me. Understand, I send this brief scratch not because
I am unfit to write more, but because I have 58 galleys of _The Wrecker_
and 102 of _The Beach of Falesa_ to get overhauled somehow or other in
time for the mail, and for three weeks I have not touched a pen with my
finger.
_Feb. 1st._--The second horse is still alive, but I still think dying.
The first was buried this morning. My proofs are done; it was a rough
two days of it, but done. _Consummatum est; ua uma_. I believe _The
Wrecker_ ends well; if I know what a good yarn is, the last four
chapters make a good yarn--but pretty horrible. _The Beach of Falesa_ I
still think well of, but it seems it's immoral and there's a to-do, and
financially it may prove a heavy disappointment. The plaintive request
sent to me, to make the young folks married properly before "that
night," I refused; you will see what would be left of the yarn, had I
consented.[32] This is a poison bad world for the romancer, this
Anglo-Saxon world; I usually get out of it by not having any women in it
at all; but when I remember I had _The Treasure of Franchard_ refused as
unfit for a family magazine, I feel despair weigh upon my wrists.
As I know you are always interested in novels, I must tell you that a
new one is now entirely planned. It is to be called _Sophia Scarlet_,
and is in two parts. Part I. The Vanilla Planter. Part II. The
Overseers. No chapters, I think; just two dense blocks of narrative, the
first of which is purely sentimental, but the second has some rows and
quarrels, and winds up with an explosion, if you please! I am just
burning to get at _Sophia_, but I _must_ do this Samoan
journalism--that's a cursed duty. The first part of _Sophia_, bar the
first twenty or thirty pages, writes itself; the second is more
difficult, involving a good many characters--about ten, I think--who
have to be kept all moving, and give the effect of a society. I have
three women to handle, out and well-away! but only Sophia is in full
tone. Sophia and two men, Windermere, the Vanilla Planter, who dies at
the end of Part I., and Rainsforth, who only appears in the beginning of