_Vailima_, _Apia_, _Samoa_, _December_ 29_th_, 1890.
MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—It is terrible how little everybody writes, and how
much of that little disappears in the capacious maw of the Post Office.
Many letters, both from and to me, I now know to have been lost in
transit: my eye is on the Sydney Post Office, a large ungainly structure
with a tower, as being not a hundred miles from the scene of
disappearance; but then I have no proof. _The Tragic Muse_ you announced
to me as coming; I had already ordered it from a Sydney bookseller: about
two months ago he advised me that his copy was in the post; and I am
still tragically museless.
News, news, news. What do we know of yours? What do you care for ours?
We are in the midst of the rainy season, and dwell among alarms of
hurricanes, in a very unsafe little two-storied wooden box 650 feet above
and about three miles from the sea-beach. Behind us, till the other
slope of the island, desert forest, peaks, and loud torrents; in front
green slopes to the sea, some fifty miles of which we dominate. We see
the ships as they go out and in to the dangerous roadstead of Apia; and
if they lie far out, we can even see their topmasts while they are at
anchor. Of sounds of men, beyond those of our own labourers, there reach
us, at very long intervals, salutes from the warships in harbour, the
bell of the cathedral church, and the low of the conch-shell calling the
labour boys on the German plantations. Yesterday, which was Sunday—the
_quantième_ is most likely erroneous; you can now correct it—we had a
visitor—Baker of Tonga. Heard you ever of him? He is a great man here:
he is accused of theft, rape, judicial murder, private poisoning,
abortion, misappropriation of public moneys—oddly enough, not forgery,
nor arson: you would be amused if you knew how thick the accusations fly
in this South Sea world. I make no doubt my own character is something
illustrious; or if not yet, there is a good time coming.
But all our resources have not of late been Pacific. We have had
enlightened society: La Farge the painter, and your friend Henry Adams: a
great privilege—would it might endure. I would go oftener to see them,
but the place is awkward to reach on horseback. I had to swim my horse
the last time I went to dinner; and as I have not yet returned the
clothes I had to borrow, I dare not return in the same plight: it seems
inevitable—as soon as the wash comes in, I plump straight into the
American consul’s shirt or trousers! They, I believe, would come oftener
to see me but for the horrid doubt that weighs upon our commissariat
department; we have _often_ almost nothing to eat; a guest would simply
break the bank; my wife and I have dined on one avocado pear; I have
several times dined on hard bread and onions. What would you do with a
guest at such narrow seasons?—eat him? or serve up a labour boy
fricasseed?
Work? work is now arrested, but I have written, I should think, about
thirty chapters of the South Sea book; they will all want rehandling, I
dare say. Gracious, what a strain is a long book! The time it took me
to design this volume, before I could dream of putting pen to paper, was
excessive; and then think of writing a book of travels on the spot, when
I am continually extending my information, revising my opinions, and
seeing the most finely finished portions of my work come part by part in
pieces. Very soon I shall have no opinions left. And without an
opinion, how to string artistically vast accumulations of fact? Darwin
said no one could observe without a theory; I suppose he was right; ’tis
a fine point of metaphysic; but I will take my oath, no man can write
without one—at least the way he would like to, and my theories melt,
melt, melt, and as they melt the thaw-waters wash down my writing, and
leave unideal tracts—wastes instead of cultivated farms.
Kipling is by far the most promising young man who has appeared
since—ahem—I appeared. He amazes me by his precocity and various
endowment. But he alarms me by his copiousness and haste. He should
shield his fire with both hands ‘and draw up all his strength and
sweetness in one ball.’ (‘Draw all his strength and all His sweetness up
into one ball’? I cannot remember Marvell’s words.) So the critics have
been saying to me; but I was never capable of—and surely never guilty
of—such a debauch of production. At this rate his works will soon fill
the habitable globe; and surely he was armed for better conflicts than
these succinct sketches and flying leaves of verse? I look on, I admire,
I rejoice for myself; but in a kind of ambition we all have for our
tongue and literature I am wounded. If I had this man’s fertility and
courage, it seems to me I could heave a pyramid.
Well, we begin to be the old fogies now; and it was high time _something_
rose to take our places. Certainly Kipling has the gifts; the fairy
godmothers were all tipsy at his christening: what will he do with them?
Goodbye, my dear James; find an hour to write to us, and register your
letter.—Yours affectionately,