_Vailima_, _Samoa_, _Nov._ 4, 1894.
MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,—I am asked to relate to you a little incident of
domestic life at Vailima. I had read your _Gleams of Memory_, No. 1; it
then went to my wife, to Osbourne, to the cousin that is within my gates,
and to my respected amanuensis, Mrs. Strong. Sunday approached. In the
course of the afternoon I was attracted to the great ’all—the winders is
by Vanderputty, which upon entering I beheld a memorable scene. The
floor was bestrewn with the forms of midshipmen from the
_Curaçoa_—‘boldly say a wilderness of gunroom’—and in the midst of this
sat Mrs. Strong throned on the sofa and reading aloud _Gleams of Memory_.
They had just come the length of your immortal definition of boyhood in
the concrete, and I had the pleasure to see the whole party dissolve
under its influence with inextinguishable laughter. I thought this was
not half bad for arthritic gout! Depend upon it, sir, when I go into the
arthritic gout business, I shall be done with literature, or at least
with the funny business. It is quite true I have my battlefields behind
me. I have done perhaps as much work as anybody else under the most
deplorable conditions. But two things fall to be noticed: In the first
place, I never was in actual pain; and in the second, I was never funny.
I’ll tell you the worst day that I remember. I had a hæmorrhage, and was
not allowed to speak; then, induced by the devil, or an errant doctor, I
was led to partake of that bowl which neither cheers nor inebriates—the
castor-oil bowl. Now, when castor-oil goes right, it is one thing; but
when it goes wrong, it is another. And it went _wrong_ with me that day.
The waves of faintness and nausea succeeded each other for twelve hours,
and I do feel a legitimate pride in thinking that I stuck to my work all
through and wrote a good deal of Admiral Guinea (which I might just as
well not have written for all the reward it ever brought me) in spite of
the barbarous bad conditions. I think that is my great boast; and it
seems a little thing alongside of your _Gleams of Memory_ illustrated by
spasms of arthritic gout. We really should have an order of merit in the
trade of letters. For valour, Scott would have had it; Pope too; myself
on the strength of that castor-oil; and James Payn would be a Knight
Commander. The worst of it is, though Lang tells me you exhibit the
courage of Huish, that not even an order can alleviate the wretched
annoyance of the business. I have always said that there is nothing like
pain; toothache, dumb-ague, arthritic gout, it does not matter what you
call it, if the screw is put upon the nerves sufficiently strong, there
is nothing left in heaven or in earth that can interest the sufferer.
Still, even to this there is the consolation that it cannot last for
ever. Either you will be relieved and have a good hour again before the
sun goes down, or else you will be liberated. It is something after all
(although not much) to think that you are leaving a brave example; that
other literary men love to remember, as I am sure they will love to
remember, everything about you—your sweetness, your brightness, your
helpfulness to all of us, and in particular those one or two really
adequate and noble papers which you have been privileged to write during
these last years.—With the heartiest and kindest good-will, I remain,
yours ever,