_December_ 5_th_, 1892.
MY DEAR JAMES,—How comes it so great a silence has fallen? The still
small voice of self-approval whispers me it is not from me. I have
looked up my register, and find I have neither written to you nor heard
from you since June 22nd, on which day of grace that invaluable work
began. This is not as it should be. How to get back? I remember
acknowledging with rapture the — of the _Master_, and I remember
receiving _Marbot_: was that our last relation?
Hey, well! anyway, as you may have probably gathered from the papers, I
have been in devilish hot water, and (what may be new to you) devilish
hard at work. In twelve calendar months I finished _The Wrecker_, wrote
all of _Falesà_ but the first chapter (well, much of), the _History of
Samoa_, did something here and there to my _Life of my Grandfather_, and
began And Finished _David Balfour_. What do you think of it for a year?
Since then I may say I have done nothing beyond draft three chapters of
another novel, _The Justice-Clerk_, which ought to be shorter and a
blower—at least if it don’t make a spoon, it will spoil the horn of an
Aurochs (if that’s how it should be spelt).
On the hot water side it may entertain you to know that I have been
actually sentenced to deportation by my friends on Mulinuu, C. J.
Cedercrantz, and Baron Senfft von Pilsach. The awful doom, however,
declined to fall, owing to Circumstances over Which. I only heard of it
(so to speak) last night. I mean officially, but I had walked among
rumours. The whole tale will be some day put into my hand, and I shall
share it with humorous friends.
It is likely, however, by my judgment, that this epoch of gaiety in Samoa
will soon cease; and the fierce white light of history will beat no
longer on Yours Sincerely and his fellows here on the beach. We ask
ourselves whether the reason will more rejoice over the end of a
disgraceful business, or the unregenerate man more sorrow over the
stoppage of the fun. For, say what you please, it has been a deeply
interesting time. You don’t know what news is, nor what politics, nor
what the life of man, till you see it on so small a scale and with your
own liberty on the board for stake. I would not have missed it for much.
And anxious friends beg me to stay at home and study human nature in
Brompton drawing-rooms! _Farceurs_! And anyway you know that such is
not my talent. I could never be induced to take the faintest interest in
Brompton _qua_ Brompton or a drawing-room _qua_ a drawing-room. I am an
Epick Writer with a k to it, but without the necessary genius.
Hurry up with another book of stories. I am now reduced to two of my
contemporaries, you and Barrie—O, and Kipling—you and Barrie and Kipling
are now my Muses Three. And with Kipling, as you know, there are
reservations to be made. And you and Barrie don’t write enough. I
should say I also read Anstey when he is serious, and can almost always
get a happy day out of Marion Crawford—_ce n’est pas toujours la guerre_,
but it’s got life to it and guts, and it moves. Did you read the _Witch
of Prague_? Nobody could read it twice, of course; and the first time
even it was necessary to skip. _E pur si muove_. But Barrie is a
beauty, the _Little Minister_ and the _Window in Thrums_, eh? Stuff in
that young man; but he must see and not be too funny. Genius in him, but
there’s a journalist at his elbow—there’s the risk. Look, what a page is
the glove business in the _Window_! knocks a man flat; that’s guts, if
you please.
Why have I wasted the little time that is left with a sort of naked
review article? I don’t know, I’m sure. I suppose a mere ebullition of
congested literary talk I am beginning to think a visit from friends
would be due. Wish you could come!
Let us have your news anyway, and forgive this silly stale
effusion.—Yours ever,