_Vailima_, _Samoa_, _November_ 24, 1894.
MY DEAR EELES,—The hand, as you will perceive (and also the spelling!),
is Teuila’s, but the scrannel voice is what remains of Tusitala’s. First
of all, for business. When you go to London you are to charter a hansom
cab and proceed to the Museum. It is particular fun to do this on
Sundays when the Monument is shut up. Your cabman expostulates with you,
you persist. The cabman drives up in front of the closed gates and says,
‘I told you so, sir.’ You breathe in the porter’s ears the mystic name
of _Colvin_, and he immediately unfolds the iron barrier. You drive in,
and doesn’t your cabman think you’re a swell. A lord mayor is nothing to
it. Colvin’s door is the only one in the eastern gable of the building.
Send in your card to him with ‘From R. L. S.’ in the corner, and the
machinery will do the rest. Henry James’s address is 34 De Vere Mansions
West. I cannot remember where the place is; I cannot even remember on
which side of the park. But it’s one of those big Cromwell Road-looking
deserted thoroughfares out west in Kensington or Bayswater, or between
the two; and anyway, Colvin will be able to put you on the direct track
for Henry James. I do not send formal introductions, as I have taken the
liberty to prepare both of them for seeing you already.
Hoskyn is staying with us.
It is raining dismally. The Curaçoa track is hardly passable, but it
must be trod to-morrow by the degenerate feet of their successor the
Wallaroos. I think it a very good account of these last that we don’t
think them either deformed or habitual criminals—they seem to be a kindly
lot.
The doctor will give you all the gossip. I have preferred in this letter
to stick to the strictly solid and necessary. With kind messages from
all in the house to all in the wardroom, all in the gunroom, and (may we
dare to breathe it) to him who walks abaft, believe me, my dear Eeles,
yours ever,