The story spoken of in these letters as A _Vendetta in the West_ was
three parts written and then given up and destroyed.
[_Monterey, October 1879._]
MY DEAR HENLEY,--Many thanks for your good letter, which is the best way
to forgive you for your previous silence. I hope Colvin or somebody has
sent me the Cornhill and the New Quarterly, though I am trying to get
them in San Francisco. I think you might have sent me (1) some of your
articles in the P. M. G.[24]; (2) a paper with the announcement of
second edition; and (3) the announcement of the essays in Athenaeum. This
to prick you in the future. Again, choose, in your head, the best volume
of Labiche there is, and post it to Jules Simoneau, Monterey, Monterey
Co., California: do this at once, as he is my restaurant man, a most
pleasant old boy with whom I discuss the universe and play chess daily.
He has been out of France for thirty-five years, and never heard of
Labiche. I have eighty-three pages written of a story called _A Vendetta
in the West_, and about sixty pages of the first draft of the _Amateur
Emigrant_. They should each cover from 130 to 150 pages when done. That
is all my literary news. Do keep me posted, won't you? Your letter and
Bob's made the fifth and sixth I have had from Europe in three months.
At times I get terribly frightened about my work, which seems to advance
too slowly. I hope soon to have a greater burden to support, and must
make money a great deal quicker than I used. I may get nothing for the
_Vendetta_; I may only get some forty quid for the _Emigrant_; I cannot
hope to have them both done much before the end of November.
O, and look here, why did you not send me the Spectator which slanged
me? Rogues and rascals, is that all you are worth?
Yesterday I set fire to the forest, for which, had I been caught, I
should have been hung out of hand to the nearest tree, Judge Lynch being
an active person hereaway. You should have seen my retreat (which was
entirely for strategical purposes). I ran like hell. It was a fine
sight. At night I went out again to see it; it was a good fire, though I
say it that should not. I had a near escape for my life with a revolver:
I fired six charges, and the six bullets all remained in the barrel,
which was choked from end to end, from muzzle to breach, with solid
lead; it took a man three hours to drill them out. Another shot, and
I'd have gone to kingdom come.
This is a lovely place, which I am growing to love. The Pacific licks
all other oceans out of hand; there is no place but the Pacific Coast to
hear eternal roaring surf. When I get to the top of the woods behind
Monterey, I can hear the seas breaking all round over ten or twelve
miles of coast from near Carmel on my left, out to Point Pinas in front,
and away to the right along the sands of Monterey to Castroville and the
mouth of the Salinas. I was wishing yesterday that the world could
get--no, what I mean was that you should be kept in suspense like
Mahomet's coffin until the world had made half a revolution, then
dropped here at the station as though you had stepped from the cars; you
would then comfortably enter Walter's waggon (the sun has just gone
down, the moon beginning to throw shadows, you hear the surf rolling,
and smell the sea and the pines). That shall deposit you at Sanchez's
saloon, where we take a drink; you are introduced to Bronson, the local
editor ("I have no brain music," he says; "I'm a mechanic, you see," but
he's a nice fellow); to Adolpho Sanchez, who is delightful. Meantime I
go to the P. O. for my mail; thence we walk up Alvarado Street together,
you now floundering in the sand, now merrily stumping on the wooden
side-walks; I call at Hadsell's for my paper; at length behold us
installed in Simoneau's little white-washed back-room, round a dirty
tablecloth, with Francois the baker, perhaps an Italian fisherman,
perhaps Augustin Dutra, and Simoneau himself. Simoneau, Francois, and I
are the three sure cards; the others mere waifs. Then home to my great
airy rooms with five windows opening on a balcony; I sleep on the floor
in my camp blankets; you instal yourself abed; in the morning coffee
with the little doctor and his little wife; we hire a waggon and make a
day of it; and by night, I should let you up again into the air, to be
returned to Mrs. Henley in the forenoon following. By God, you would
enjoy yourself. So should I. I have tales enough to keep you going till
five in the morning, and then they would not be at an end. I forget if
you asked me any questions, and I sent your letter up to the city to one
who will like to read it. I expect other letters now steadily. If I have
to wait another two months, I shall begin to be happy. Will you remember
me most affectionately to your wife? Shake hands with Anthony from me;
and God bless your mother.
God bless Stephen! Does he not know that I am a man, and cannot live by
bread alone, but must have guineas into the bargain. _Burns_, I believe,
in my own mind, is one of my high-water marks; Meiklejohn flames me a
letter about it, which is so complimentary that I must keep it or get it
published in the Monterey Californian. Some of these days I shall send
an exemplaire of that paper; it is huge.--Ever your affectionate friend,