Yesterday, Sunday, the Rev. Dr. Browne, secretary to the Wesleyan Mission, and the man who made the war in the Western Islands and was tried for his life in Fiji, came up, and we had a long, important talk about Samoa. O, if I could only talk to the home men! But what would it matter? none of them know, none of them care. If we could only have Macgregor here with his schooner, you would hear of no more troubles in Samoa. That is what we want; a man that knows and likes the natives, QUI PAYE DE SA PERSONNE, AND is not afraid of hanging when necessary. We don't want bland Swedish humbugs, and fussy, fostering German barons. That way the maelstrom lies, and we shall soon be in it.
I have to-day written 103 and 104, all perfectly wrong, and shall have to rewrite them. This tale is devilish, and Chapter XI. the worst of the lot. The truth is of course that I am wholly worked out; but it's nearly done, and shall go somehow according to promise. I go against all my gods, and say it is NOT WORTH WHILE to massacre yourself over the last few pages of a rancid yarn, that the reviewers will quite justly tear to bits. As for D.B., no hope, I fear, this mail, but we'll see what the afternoon does for me.
4.15.
Well, it's done. Those tragic 16 pp. are at last finished, and I have put away thirty-two pages of chips, and have spent thirteen days about as nearly in Hell as a man could expect to live through. It's done, and of course it ain't worth while, and who cares? There it is, and about as grim a tale as was ever written, and as grimy, and as hateful.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF J. L. HUISH, BORN 1856, AT HACKNEY, LONDON, Accidentally killed upon this Island, 10th September, 1889.
TUESDAY, 6.
I am exulting to do nothing. It pours with rain from the westward, very unusual kind of weather; I was standing out on the little verandah in front of my room this morning, and there went through me or over me a wave of extraordinary and apparently baseless emotion. I literally staggered. And then the explanation came, and I knew I had found a frame of mind and body that belonged to Scotland, and particularly to the neighbourhood of Callander. Very odd these identities of sensation, and the world of connotations implied; highland huts, and peat smoke, and the brown, swirling rivers, and wet clothes, and whiskey, and the romance of the past, and that indescribable bite of the whole thing at a man's heart, which is - or rather lies at the bottom of - a story.
I don't know if you are a Barbey d'Aurevilly-an. I am. I have a great delight in his Norman stories. Do you know the CHEVALIER DES TOUCHES and L'ENSORCELEE? They are admirable, they reek of the soil and the past. But I was rather thinking just now of LE RIDEAU CRAMOISI, and its adorable setting of the stopped coach, the dark street, the home-going in the inn yard, and the red blind illuminated. Without doubt, THERE was an identity of sensation; one of those conjunctions in life that had filled Barbey full to the brim, and permanently bent his memory.
I wonder exceedingly if I have done anything at all good; and who can tell me? and why should I wish to know? In so little a while, I, and the English language, and the bones of my descendants, will have ceased to be a memory! And yet - and yet - one would like to leave an image for a few years upon men's minds - for fun. This is a very dark frame of mind, consequent on overwork and the conclusion of the excruciating EBB TIDE. Adieu.
What do you suppose should be done with THE EBB TIDE? It would make a volume of 200 pp.; on the other hand, I might likely have some more stories soon: THE OWL, DEATH IN THE POT, THE SLEEPER AWAKENED; all these are possible. THE OWL might be half as long; THE SLEEPER AWAKENED, ditto; DEATH IN THE POT a deal shorter, I believe. Then there's the GO- BETWEEN, which is not impossible altogether. THE OWL, THE SLEEPER AWAKENED, and the GO-BETWEEN end reasonably well; DEATH IN THE POT is an ungodly massacre.