My Dear Colvin, — I begin again. I was awake this morning about half-past four. It was still night, but I made my fire, which is always a delightful1 employment, and read Lockhart’s ‘Scott’ until the day began to peep. It was a beautiful and sober dawn, a dove-coloured dawn, insensibly brightening to gold. I was looking at it some while over the down-hill profile of our eastern road, when I chanced to glance northward2, and saw with extraordinary pleasure the sea lying outspread. It seemed as smooth as glass, and yet I knew the surf was roaring all along the reef, and indeed, if I had listened, I could have heard it — and saw the white sweep of it outside Matautu.
I am out of condition still, and can do nothing, and toil3 to be at my pen, and see some ink behind me. I have taken up again The High Woods of Ulufanua. I still think the fable4 too fantastic and far-fetched. But, on a re-reading, fell in love with my first chapter, and for good or evil I must finish it. It is really good, well fed with facts, true to the manners, and (for once in my works) rendered pleasing by the presence of a heroine who is pretty. Miss Uma is pretty; a fact. All my other women have been as ugly as sin, and like Falconet’s horse (I have just been reading the anecdote5 in Lockhart), mortes forbye.
News: Our old house is now half demolished6; it is to be rebuilt on a new site; now we look down upon and through the open posts of it like a bird-cage, to the woods beyond. My poor Paulo has lost his father and succeeded to thirty thousand thalers (I think); he had to go down to the Consulate7 yesterday to send a legal paper; got drunk, of course, and is still this morning in so bemused a condition that our breakfasts all went wrong. Lafaele is absent at the deathbed of his fair spouse8; fair she was, but not in deed, acting9 as harlot to the wreckers at work on the warships10, to which society she probably owes her end, having fallen off a cliff, or been thrust off it — inter11 pocula. Henry is the same, our stand-by. In this transition stage he has been living in Apia; but the other night he stayed up, and sat with us about the chimney in my room. It was the first time he had seen a fire in a hearth12; he could not look at it without smiles, and was always anxious to put on another stick. We entertained him with the fairy tales of civilisation13 — theatres, London, blocks in the street, Universities, the Underground, newspapers, etc., and projected once more his visit to Sydney. If we can manage, it will be next Christmas. (I see it will be impossible for me to afford a further journey this winter.) We have spent since we have been here about 2500 pounds, which is not much if you consider we have built on that three houses, one of them of some size, and a considerable stable, made two miles of road some three times, cleared many acres of bush, made some miles of path, planted quantities of food, and enclosed a horse paddock and some acres of pig run; but ’tis a good deal of money regarded simply as money. K. is bosh; I have no use for him; but we must do what we can with the fellow meanwhile; he is good-humoured and honest, but inefficient14, idle himself, the cause of idleness in others, grumbling15, a self-excuser — all the faults in a bundle. He owes us thirty weeks’ service — the wretched Paul about half as much. Henry is almost the only one of our employes who has a credit.
May 17th.
Well, am I ashamed of myself? I do not think so. I have been hammering Letters ever since, and got three ready and a fourth about half through; all four will go by the mail, which is what I wish, for so I keep at least my start. Days and days of unprofitable stubbing and digging, and the result still poor as literature, left-handed, heavy, unillumined, but I believe readable and interesting as matter. It has been no joke of a hard time, and when my task was done, I had little taste for anything but blowing on the pipe. A few necessary letters filled the bowl to overflowing16.
My mother has arrived, young, well, and in good spirits. By desperate exertions17, which have wholly floored Fanny, her room was ready for her, and the dining-room fit to eat in. It was a famous victory. Lloyd never told me of your portrait till a few days ago; fortunately, I had no pictures hung yet; and the space over my chimney waits your counterfeit18 presentment. I have not often heard anything that pleased me more; your severe head shall frown upon me and keep me to the mark. But why has it not come? Have you been as forgetful as Lloyd?
18th.
Miserable19 comforters are ye all! I read your esteemed20 pages this morning by lamplight and the glimmer21 of the dawn, and as soon as breakfast was over, I must turn to and tackle these despised labours! Some courage was necessary, but not wanting. There is one thing at least by which I can avenge22 myself for my drubbing, for on one point you seem impenetrably stupid. Can I find no form of words which will at last convey to your intelligence the fact that these letters were never meant, and are not now meant, to be other than a quarry23 of materials from which the book may be drawn24? There seems something incommunicable in this (to me) simple idea; I know Lloyd failed to comprehend it, I doubt if he has grasped it now; and I despair, after all these efforts, that you should ever be enlightened. Still, oblige me by reading that form of words once more, and see if a light does not break. You may be sure, after the friendly freedoms of your criticism (necessary I am sure, and wholesome25 I know, but untimely to the poor labourer in his landslip) that mighty26 little of it will stand.
Our Paul has come into a fortune, and wishes to go home to the Hie Germanie. This is a tile on our head, and if a shower, which is now falling, lets up, I must go down to Apia, and see if I can find a substitute of any kind. This is, from any point of view, disgusting; above all, from that of work; for, whatever the result, the mill has to be kept turning; apparently27 dust, and not flour, is the proceed. Well, there is gold in the dust, which is a fine consolation28, since — well, I can’t help it; night or morning, I do my darndest, and if I cannot charge for merit, I must e’en charge for toil, of which I have plenty and plenty more ahead before this cup is drained; sweat and hyssop are the ingredients.
We are clearing from Carruthers’ Road to the pig fence, twenty-eight powerful natives with Catholic medals about their necks, all swiping in like Trojans; long may the sport continue!
The invoice29 to hand. Ere this goes out, I hope to see your expressive30, but surely not benignant countenance31! Adieu, O culler32 of offensive expressions — ‘and a’ — to be a posy to your ain dear May!’ — Fanny seems a little revived again after her spasm33 of work. Our books and furniture keep slowly draining up the road, in a sad state of scatterment and disrepair; I wish the devil had had K. by his red beard before he had packed my library. Odd leaves and sheets and boards — a thing to make a bibliomaniac shed tears — are fished out of odd corners. But I am no bibliomaniac, praise Heaven, and I bear up, and rejoice when I find anything safe.
19th.
However, I worked five hours on the brute34, and finished my Letter all the same, and couldn’t sleep last night by consequence. Haven’t had a bad night since I don’t know when; dreamed a large, handsome man (a New Orleans planter) had insulted my wife, and, do what I pleased, I could not make him fight me; and woke to find it was the eleventh anniversary of my marriage. A letter usually takes me from a week to three days; but I’m sometimes two days on a page — I was once three — and then my friends kick me. C’est-y-bete! I wish letters of that charming quality could be so timed as to arrive when a fellow wasn’t working at the truck in question; but, of course, that can’t be. Did not go down last night. It showered all afternoon, and poured heavy and loud all night.
You should have seen our twenty-five popes (the Samoan phrase for a Catholic, lay or cleric) squatting35 when the day’s work was done on the ground outside the verandah, and pouring in the rays of forty-eight eyes through the back and the front door of the dining-room, while Henry and I and the boss pope signed the contract. The second boss (an old man) wore a kilt (as usual) and a Balmoral bonnet36 with a little tartan edging and the tails pulled off. I told him that hat belong to my country — Sekotia; and he said, yes, that was the place that he belonged to right enough. And then all the Papists laughed till the woods rang; he was slashing37 away with a cutlass as he spoke38.
The pictures have decidedly not come; they may probably arrive Sunday.
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1
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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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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4
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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6
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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7
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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warships
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| 军舰，战舰( warship的名词复数 )； 舰只 | |
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11
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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13
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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15
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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16
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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17
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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18
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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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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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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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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22
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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23
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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28
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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29
invoice
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| vt.开发票；n.发票，装货清单 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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31
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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32
culler
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| 检尺员；挑选家禽工；挑选工 | |
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33
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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34
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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35
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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37
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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38
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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