_Hotel Sebastopol_, _Noumea_, _August_ 1890.
MY DEAR CHARLES,—I have stayed here a week while Lloyd and my wife
continue to voyage in the _Janet Nicoll_; this I did, partly to see the
convict system, partly to shorten my stay in the extreme cold—hear me
with my extreme! _moi qui suis originaire d’Edinbourg_—of Sydney at this
season. I am feeling very seedy, utterly fatigued, and overborne with
sleep. I have a fine old gentleman of a doctor, who attends and cheers
and entertains, if he does not cure me; but even with his ministrations I
am almost incapable of the exertion sufficient for this letter; and I am
really, as I write, falling down with sleep. What is necessary to say, I
must try to say shortly. Lloyd goes to clear out our establishments:
pray keep him in funds, if I have any; if I have not, pray try to raise
them. Here is the idea: to install ourselves, at the risk of bankruptcy,
in Samoa. It is not the least likely it will pay (although it may); but
it is almost certain it will support life, with very few external
expenses. If I die, it will be an endowment for the survivors, at least
for my wife and Lloyd; and my mother, who might prefer to go home, has
her own. Hence I believe I shall do well to hurry my installation. The
letters are already in part done; in part done is a novel for Scribner;
in the course of the next twelve months I should receive a considerable
amount of money. I am aware I had intended to pay back to my capital
some of this. I am now of opinion I should act foolishly. Better to
build the house and have a roof and farm of my own; and thereafter, with
a livelihood assured, save and repay . . . There is my livelihood, all
but books and wine, ready in a nutshell; and it ought to be more easy to
save and to repay afterwards. Excellent, say you, but will you save and
will you repay? I do not know, said the Bell of Old Bow. . . . It seems
clear to me. . . . The deuce of the affair is that I do not know when I
shall see you and Colvin. I guess you will have to come and see me: many
a time already we have arranged the details of your visit in the yet
unbuilt house on the mountain. I shall be able to get decent wine from
Noumea. We shall be able to give you a decent welcome, and talk of old
days. _Apropos_ of old days, do you remember still the phrase we heard
in Waterloo Place? I believe you made a piece for the piano on that
phrase. Pray, if you remember it, send it me in your next. If you find
it impossible to write correctly, send it me _à la récitative_, and
indicate the accents. Do you feel (you must) how strangely heavy and
stupid I am? I must at last give up and go sleep; I am simply a rag.
The morrow: I feel better, but still dim and groggy. To-night I go to
the governor’s; such a lark—no dress clothes—twenty-four hours’
notice—able-bodied Polish tailor—suit made for a man with the figure of a
puncheon—same hastily altered for self with the figure of a bodkin—sight
inconceivable. Never mind; dress clothes, ‘which nobody can deny’; and
the officials have been all so civil that I liked neither to refuse nor
to appear in mufti. Bad dress clothes only prove you are a grisly ass;
no dress clothes, even when explained, indicate a want of respect. I
wish you were here with me to help me dress in this wild raiment, and to
accompany me to M. Noel-Pardon’s. I cannot say what I would give if
there came a knock now at the door and you came in. I guess Noel-Pardon
would go begging, and we might burn the fr. 200 dress clothes in the back
garden for a bonfire; or what would be yet more expensive and more
humorous, get them once more expanded to fit you, and when that was done,
a second time cut down for my gossamer dimensions.
I hope you never forget to remember me to your father, who has always a
place in my heart, as I hope I have a little in his. His kindness helped
me infinitely when you and I were young; I recall it with gratitude and
affection in this town of convicts at the world’s end. There are very
few things, my dear Charles, worth mention: on a retrospect of life, the
day’s flash and colour, one day with another, flames, dazzles, and puts
to sleep; and when the days are gone, like a fast-flying thaumatrope,
they make but a single pattern. Only a few things stand out; and among
these—most plainly to me—Rutland Square,—Ever, my dear Charles, your
affectionate friend,