My Dear S. C., — You probably expect that now I am back at Vailima I shall resume the practice of the diary letter. A good deal is changed. We are more; solitude1 does not attend me as before; the night is passed playing Van John for shells; and, what is not less important, I have just recovered from a severe illness, and am easily tired.
I will give you today. I sleep now in one of the lower rooms of the new house, where my wife has recently joined me. We have two beds, an empty case for a table, a chair, a tin basin, a bucket and a jug4; next door in the dining-room, the carpenters camp on the floor, which is covered with their mosquito nets. Before the sun rises, at 5.45 or 5.50, Paul brings me tea, bread, and a couple of eggs; and by about six I am at work. I work in bed — my bed is of mats, no mattress5, sheets, or filth6 — mats, a pillow, and a blanket — and put in some three hours. It was 9.5 this morning when I set off to the stream-side to my weeding; where I toiled7, manuring the ground with the best enricher, human sweat, till the conch-shell was blown from our verandah at 10.30. At eleven we dine; about half-past twelve I tried (by exception) to work again, could make nothing on’t, and by one was on my way to the weeding, where I wrought9 till three. Half-past five is our next meal, and I read Flaubert’s Letters till the hour came round; dined, and then, Fanny having a cold, and I being tired, came over to my den10 in the unfinished house, where I now write to you, to the tune11 of the carpenters’ voices, and by the light — I crave12 your pardon — by the twilight13 of three vile14 candles filtered through the medium of my mosquito bar. Bad ink being of the party, I write quite blindfold15, and can only hope you may be granted to read that which I am unable to see while writing.
I said I was tired; it is a mild phrase; my back aches like toothache; when I shut my eyes to sleep, I know I shall see before them — a phenomenon to which both Fanny and I are quite accustomed — endless vivid deeps of grass and weed, each plant particular and distinct, so that I shall lie inert16 in body, and transact17 for hours the mental part of my day business, choosing the noxious18 from the useful. And in my dreams I shall be hauling on recalcitrants, and suffering stings from nettles19, stabs from citron thorns, fiery20 bites from ants, sickening resistances of mud and slime, evasions21 of slimy roots, dead weight of heat, sudden puffs22 of air, sudden starts from bird-calls in the contiguous forest — some mimicking23 my name, some laughter, some the signal of a whistle, and living over again at large the business of my day.
Though I write so little, I pass all my hours of field-work in continual converse24 and imaginary correspondence. I scarce pull up a weed, but I invent a sentence on the matter to yourself; it does not get written; autant en emportent les vents25; but the intent is there, and for me (in some sort) the companionship. To-day, for instance, we had a great talk. I was toiling26, the sweat dripping from my nose, in the hot fit after a squall of rain: methought you asked me — frankly27, was I happy. Happy (said I); I was only happy once; that was at Hyeres; it came to an end from a variety of reasons, decline of health, change of place, increase of money, age with his stealing steps; since then, as before then, I know not what it means. But I know pleasure still; pleasure with a thousand faces, and none perfect, a thousand tongues all broken, a thousand hands, and all of them with scratching nails. High among these I place this delight of weeding out here alone by the garrulous28 water, under the silence of the high wood, broken by incongruous sounds of birds. And take my life all through, look at it fore2 and back, and upside down, — though I would very fain change myself — I would not change my circumstances, unless it were to bring you here. And yet God knows perhaps this intercourse29 of writing serves as well; and I wonder, were you here indeed, would I commune so continually with the thought of you. I say ‘I wonder’ for a form; I know, and I know I should not.
So far, and much further, the conversation went, while I groped in slime after viscous30 roots, nursing and sparing little spears of grass, and retreating (even with outcry) from the prod31 of the wild lime. I wonder if any one had ever the same attitude to Nature as I hold, and have held for so long? This business fascinates me like a tune or a passion; yet all the while I thrill with a strong distaste. The horror of the thing, objective and subjective32, is always present to my mind; the horror of creeping things, a superstitious33 horror of the void and the powers about me, the horror of my own devastation34 and continual murders. The life of the plants comes through my fingertips, their struggles go to my heart like supplications. I feel myself blood-boltered; then I look back on my cleared grass, and count myself an ally in a fair quarrel, and make stout35 my heart.
It is but a little while since I lay sick in Sydney, beating the fields about the navy and Dean Swift and Dryden’s Latin hymns37; judge if I love this reinvigorating climate, where I can already toil8 till my head swims and every string in the poor jumping Jack38 (as he now lies in bed) aches with a kind of yearning39 strain, difficult to suffer in quiescence40.
As for my damned literature, God knows what a business it is, grinding along without a scrap41 of inspiration or a note of style. But it has to be ground, and the mill grinds exceeding slowly though not particularly small. The last two chapters have taken me considerably42 over a month, and they are still beneath pity. This I cannot continue, time not sufficing; and the next will just have to be worse. All the good I can express is just this; some day, when style revisits me, they will be excellent matter to rewrite. Of course, my old cure of a change of work would probably answer, but I cannot take it now. The treadmill43 turns; and, with a kind of desperate cheerfulness, I mount the idle stair. I haven’t the least anxiety about the book; unless I die, I shall find the time to make it good; but the Lord deliver me from the thought of the Letters! However, the Lord has other things on hand; and about six tomorrow, I shall resume the consideration practically, and face (as best I may) the fact of my incompetence44 and disaffection to the task. Toil I do not spare; but fortune refuses me success. We can do more, Whatever-his-name-was, we can deserve it. But my misdesert began long since, by the acceptation of a bargain quite unsuitable to all my methods.
To-day I have had a queer experience. My carter has from the first been using my horses for his own ends; when I left for Sydney, I put him on his honour to cease, and my back was scarce turned ere he was forfeit45. I have only been waiting to discharge him; and today an occasion arose. I am so much The Old Man virulent46, so readily stumble into anger, that I gave a deal of consideration to my bearing, and decided47 at last to imitate that of the late —. Whatever he might have to say, this eminently48 effective controversialist maintained a frozen demeanour and a jeering49 smile. The frozen demeanour is beyond my reach; but I could try the jeering smile; did so, perceived its efficacy, kept in consequence my temper, and got rid of my friend, myself composed and smiling still, he white and shaking like an aspen. He could explain everything; I said it did not interest me. He said he had enemies; I said nothing was more likely. He said he was calumniated50; with all my heart, said I, but there are so many liars51, that I find it safer to believe them. He said, in justice to himself, he must explain: God forbid I should interfere52 with you, said I, with the same factitious grin, but it can change nothing. So I kept my temper, rid myself of an unfaithful servant, found a method of conducting similar interviews in the future, and fell in my own liking53. One thing more: I learned a fresh tolerance54 for the dead —; he too had learned — perhaps had invented — the trick of this manner; God knows what weakness, what instability of feeling, lay beneath. Ce que c’est que de nous! poor human nature; that at past forty I must adjust this hateful mask for the first time, and rejoice to find it effective; that the effort of maintaining an external smile should confuse and embitter55 a man’s soul.
To-day I have not weeded; I have written instead from six till eleven, from twelve till two; with the interruption of the interview aforesaid; a damned letter is written for the third time; I dread56 to read it, for I dare not give it a fourth chance — unless it be very bad indeed. Now I write you from my mosquito curtain, to the song of saws and planes and hammers, and wood clumping57 on the floor above; in a day of heavenly brightness; a bird twittering near by; my eye, through the open door, commanding green meads, two or three forest trees casting their boughs58 against the sky, a forest-clad mountain-side beyond, and close in by the door-jamb a nick of the blue Pacific. It is March in England, bleak59 March, and I lie here with the great sliding doors wide open in an undershirt and p’jama trousers, and melt in the closure of mosquito bars, and burn to be out in the breeze. A few torn clouds — not white, the sun has tinged60 them a warm pink — swim in heaven. In which blessed and fair day, I have to make faces and speak bitter words to a man — who has deceived me, it is true — but who is poor, and older than I, and a kind of a gentleman too. On the whole, I prefer the massacre61 of weeds.
Sunday.
When I had done talking to you yesterday, I played on my pipe till the conch sounded, then went over to the old house for dinner, and had scarce risen from table ere I was submerged with visitors. The first of these despatched, I spent the rest of the evening going over the Samoan translation of my Bottle Imp3 with Claxton the missionary62; then to bed, but being upset, I suppose, by these interruptions, and having gone all day without my weeding, not to sleep. For hours I lay awake and heard the rain fall, and saw faint, far-away lightning over the sea, and wrote you long letters which I scorn to reproduce. This morning Paul was unusually early; the dawn had scarce begun when he appeared with the tray and lit my candle; and I had breakfasted and read (with indescribable sinkings) the whole of yesterday’s work before the sun had risen. Then I sat and thought, and sat and better thought. It was not good enough, nor good; it was as slack as journalism63, but not so inspired; it was excellent stuff misused64, and the defects stood gross on it like humps upon a camel. But could I, in my present disposition65, do much more with it? in my present pressure for time, were I not better employed doing another one about as ill, than making this some thousandth fraction better? Yes, I thought; and tried the new one, and behold66, I could do nothing: my head swims, words do not come to me, nor phrases, and I accepted defeat, packed up my traps, and turned to communicate the failure to my esteemed67 correspondent. I think it possible I overworked yesterday. Well, we’ll see tomorrow — perhaps try again later. It is indeed the hope of trying later that keeps me writing to you. If I take to my pipe, I know myself — all is over for the morning. Hurray, I’ll correct proofs!
Pago-Pago, Wednesday.
After I finished on Sunday I passed a miserable68 day; went out weeding, but could not find peace. I do not like to steal my dinner, unless I have given myself a holiday in a canonical69 manner; and weeding after all is only fun, the amount of its utility small, and the thing capable of being done faster and nearly as well by a hired boy. In the evening Sewall came up (American consul) and proposed to take me on a malaga, which I accepted. Monday I rode down to Apia, was nearly all day fighting about drafts and money; the silver problem does not touch you, but it is (in a strange and I hope passing phase) making my situation difficult in Apia. About eleven, the flags were all half-masted; it was old Captain Hamilton (Samesoni the natives called him) who had passed away. In the evening I walked round to the U.S. Consulate70; it was a lovely night with a full moon; and as I got round to the hot corner of Matautu I heard hymns in front. The balcony of the dead man’s house was full of women singing; Mary (the widow, a native) sat on a chair by the doorstep, and I was set beside her on a bench, and next to Paul the carpenter; as I sat down I had a glimpse of the old captain, who lay in a sheet on his own table. After the hymn36 was over, a native pastor71 made a speech which lasted a long while; the light poured out of the door and windows; the girls were sitting clustered at my feet; it was choking hot. After the speech was ended, Mary carried me within; the captain’s hands were folded on his bosom72, his face and head were composed; he looked as if he might speak at any moment; I have never seen this kind of waxwork73 so express or more venerable; and when I went away, I was conscious of a certain envy for the man who was out of the battle. All night it ran in my head, and the next day when we sighted Tutuila, and ran into this beautiful land-locked loch of Pago Pago (whence I write), Captain Hamilton’s folded hands and quiet face said a great deal more to me than the scenery.
I am living here in a trader’s house; we have a good table, Sewall doing things in style; and I hope to benefit by the change, and possibly get more stuff for Letters. In the meanwhile, I am seized quite mal-a-propos with desire to write a story, The Bloody74 Wedding, founded on fact — very possibly true, being an attempt to read a murder case — not yet months old, in this very place and house where I now write. The indiscretion is what stops me; but if I keep on feeling as I feel just now it will have to be written. Three Star Nettison, Kit75 Nettison, Field the Sailor, these are the main characters: old Nettison, and the captain of the man of war, the secondary. Possible scenario76. Chapter I. . . .
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1
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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26
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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prod
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| vt.戳，刺；刺激，激励 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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49
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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50
calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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52
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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53
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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54
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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57
clumping
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| v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的现在分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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64
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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75
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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