_Yacht_ ‘_Casco_,’ _at Sea_, 14_th_ _January_, 1889.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—Twenty days out from Papeete. Yes, sir, all that, and
only (for a guess) in 4° north or at the best 4° 30′, though already the
wind seems to smell a little of the North Pole. My handwriting you must
take as you get, for we are speeding along through a nasty swell, and I
can only keep my place at the table by means of a foot against the divan,
the unoccupied hand meanwhile gripping the ink-bottle. As we begin (so
very slowly) to draw near to seven months of correspondence, we are all
in some fear; and I want to have letters written before I shall be
plunged into that boiling pot of disagreeables which I constantly expect
at Honolulu. What is needful can be added there.
We were kept two months at Tautira in the house of my dear old friend,
Ori a Ori, till both the masts of this invaluable yacht had been
repaired. It was all for the best: Tautira being the most beautiful
spot, and its people the most amiable, I have ever found. Besides which,
the climate suited me to the ground; I actually went sea-bathing almost
every day, and in our feasts (we are all huge eaters in Taiarapu) have
been known to apply four times for pig. And then again I got wonderful
materials for my book, collected songs and legends on the spot; songs
still sung in chorus by perhaps a hundred persons, not two of whom can
agree on their translation; legends, on which I have seen half a dozen
seniors sitting in conclave and debating what came next. Once I went a
day’s journey to the other side of the island to Tati, the high chief of
the Tevas—_my_ chief that is, for I am now a Teva and Teriitera, at your
service—to collect more and correct what I had already. In the meanwhile
I got on with my work, almost finished the _Master of Ballantrae_, which
contains more human work than anything of mine but _Kidnapped_, and wrote
the half of another ballad, the _Song of Rahero_, on a Taiarapu legend of
my own clan, sir—not so much fire as the _Feast of Famine_, but promising
to be more even and correct. But the best fortune of our stay at Tautira
was my knowledge of Ori himself, one of the finest creatures extant. The
day of our parting was a sad one. We deduced from it a rule for
travellers: not to stay two months in one place—which is to cultivate
regrets.
At last our contemptible ship was ready; to sea we went, bound for
Honolulu and the letter-bag, on Christmas Day; and from then to now have
experienced every sort of minor misfortune, squalls, calms, contrary
winds and seas, pertinacious rains, declining stores, till we came almost
to regard ourselves as in the case of Vanderdecken. Three days ago our
luck seemed to improve, we struck a leading breeze, got creditably
through the doldrums, and just as we looked to have the N.E. trades and a
straight run, the rains and squalls and calms began again about midnight,
and this morning, though there is breeze enough to send us along, we are
beaten back by an obnoxious swell out of the north. Here is a page of
complaint, when a verse of thanksgiving had perhaps been more in place.
For all this time we must have been skirting past dangerous weather, in
the tail and circumference of hurricanes, and getting only annoyance
where we should have had peril, and ill-humour instead of fear.
I wonder if I have managed to give you any news this time, or whether the
usual damn hangs over my letter? ‘The midwife whispered, Be thou dull!’
or at least inexplicit. Anyway I have tried my best, am exhausted with
the effort, and fall back into the land of generalities. I cannot tell
you how often we have planned our arrival at the Monument: two nights
ago, the 12th January, we had it all planned out, arrived in the lights
and whirl of Waterloo, hailed a hansom, span up Waterloo Road, over the
bridge, etc. etc., and hailed the Monument gate in triumph and with
indescribable delight. My dear Custodian, I always think we are too
sparing of assurances: Cordelia is only to be excused by Regan and
Goneril in the same nursery; I wish to tell you that the longer I live,
the more dear do you become to me; nor does my heart own any stronger
sentiment. If the bloody schooner didn’t send me flying in every sort of
direction at the same time, I would say better what I feel so much; but
really, if you were here, you would not be writing letters, I believe;
and even I, though of a more marine constitution, am much perturbed by
this bobbery and wish—O ye Gods, how I wish!—that it was done, and we had
arrived, and I had Pandora’s Box (my mail bag) in hand, and was in the
lively hope of something eatable for dinner instead of salt horse, tinned
mutton, duff without any plums, and pie fruit, which now make up our
whole repertory. O Pandora’s Box! I wonder what you will contain. As
like as not you will contain but little money: if that be so, we shall
have to retire to ’Frisco in the _Casco_, and thence by sea _via_ Panama
to Southampton, where we should arrive in April. I would like fine to
see you on the tug: ten years older both of us than the last time you
came to welcome Fanny and me to England. If we have money, however, we
shall do a little differently: send the _Casco_ away from Honolulu empty
of its high-born lessees, for that voyage to ’Frisco is one long dead
beat in foul and at last in cold weather; stay awhile behind, follow by
steamer, cross the States by train, stay awhile in New York on business,
and arrive probably by the German Line in Southampton. But all this is a
question of money. We shall have to lie very dark awhile to recruit our
finances: what comes from the book of the cruise, I do not want to touch
until the capital is repaid.