_Union Club_, _Sydney_, _August_ 19_th_, 1890.
MY DEAR MR. SCHWOB,—_Mais_, _alors_, _vous avez tous les bonheurs_,
_vous_! More about Villon; it seems incredible: when it is put in order,
pray send it me.
You wish to translate the _Black Arrow_: dear sir, you are hereby
authorised; but I warn you, I do not like the work. Ah, if you, who know
so well both tongues, and have taste and instruction—if you would but
take a fancy to translate a book of mine that I myself admired—for we
sometimes admire our own—or I do—with what satisfaction would the
authority be granted! But these things are too much to expect. _Vous ne
détestez pas alors mes bonnes femmes_? _moi_, _je les déteste_. I have
never pleased myself with any women of mine save two character parts, one
of only a few lines—the Countess of Rosen, and Madame Desprez in the
_Treasure of Franchard_.
I had indeed one moment of pride about my poor _Black Arrow_: Dickon
Crookback I did, and I do, think is a spirited and possible figure.
Shakespeare’s—O, if we can call that cocoon Shakespeare!—Shakespeare’s is
spirited—one likes to see the untaught athlete butting against the
adamantine ramparts of human nature, head down, breach up; it reminds us
how trivial we are to-day, and what safety resides in our triviality.
For spirited it may be, but O, sure not possible! I love Dumas and I
love Shakespeare: you will not mistake me when I say that the Richard of
the one reminds me of the Porthos of the other; and if by any sacrifice
of my own literary baggage I could clear the _Vicomte de Bragelonne_ of
Porthos, _Jekyll_ might go, and the _Master_, and the _Black Arrow_, you
may be sure, and I should think my life not lost for mankind if half a
dozen more of my volumes must be thrown in.
The tone of your pleasant letters makes me egotistical; you make me take
myself too gravely. Comprehend how I have lived much of my time in
France, and loved your country, and many of its people, and all the time
was learning that which your country has to teach—breathing in rather
that atmosphere of art which can only there be breathed; and all the time
knew—and raged to know—that I might write with the pen of angels or of
heroes, and no Frenchman be the least the wiser! And now steps in M.
Marcel Schwob, writes me the most kind encouragement, and reads and
understands, and is kind enough to like my work.
I am just now overloaded with work. I have two huge novels on hand—_The
Wrecker_ and the _Pearl Fisher_, {198} in collaboration with my stepson:
the latter, the _Pearl Fisher_, I think highly of, for a black, ugly,
trampling, violent story, full of strange scenes and striking characters.
And then I am about waist-deep in my big book on the South Seas: _the_
big book on the South Seas it ought to be, and shall. And besides, I
have some verses in the press, which, however, I hesitate to publish.
For I am no judge of my own verse; self-deception is there so facile.
All this and the cares of an impending settlement in Samoa keep me very
busy, and a cold (as usual) keeps me in bed.
Alas, I shall not have the pleasure to see you yet awhile, if ever. You
must be content to take me as a wandering voice, and in the form of
occasional letters from recondite islands; and address me, if you will be
good enough to write, to Apia, Samoa. My stepson, Mr. Osbourne, goes
home meanwhile to arrange some affairs; it is not unlikely he may go to
Paris to arrange about the illustrations to my South Seas; in which case
I shall ask him to call upon you, and give you some word of our
outlandish destinies. You will find him intelligent, I think; and I am
sure, if (_par hasard_) you should take any interest in the islands, he
will have much to tell you.—Herewith I conclude, and am your obliged and
interested correspondent,