to Henry James

December 5th, 1892.

MY DEAR JAMES,—How comes it so great a silence has fallen?  The still small voice of self-approval whispers me it is not from me.  I have looked up my register, and find I have neither written to you nor heard from you since June 22nd, on which day of grace that invaluable work began.  This is not as it should be.  How to get back?  I remember acknowledging with rapture the — of the Master, and I remember receiving Marbot: was that our last relation?

Hey, well! anyway, as you may have probably gathered from the papers, I have been in devilish hot water, and (what may be new to you) devilish hard at work.  In twelve calendar months I finished The Wrecker, wrote all of Falesà but the first chapter (well, much of), the History of Samoa, did something here and there to my Life of my Grandfather, and began And Finished David Balfour.  What do you think of it for a year?  Since then I may say I have done nothing beyond draft three chapters of another novel, The Justice-Clerk, which ought to be shorter and a blower—at least if it don’t make a spoon, it will spoil the horn of an Aurochs (if that’s how it should be spelt).

On the hot water side it may entertain you to know that I have been actually sentenced to deportation by my friends on Mulinuu, C. J. Cedercrantz, and Baron Senfft von Pilsach.  The awful doom, however, declined to fall, owing to Circumstances over Which.  I only heard of it (so to speak) last night.  I mean officially, but I had walked among rumours.  The whole tale will be some day put into my hand, and I shall share it with humorous friends.

It is likely, however, by my judgment, that this epoch of gaiety in Samoa will soon cease; and the fierce white light of history will beat no longer on Yours Sincerely and his fellows here on the beach.  We ask ourselves whether the reason will more rejoice over the end of a disgraceful business, or the unregenerate man more sorrow over the stoppage of the fun.  For, say what you please, it has been a deeply interesting time.  You don’t know what news is, nor what politics, nor what the life of man, till you see it on so small a scale and with your own liberty on the board for stake.  I would not have missed it for much.  And anxious friends beg me to stay at home and study human nature in Brompton drawing-rooms!  Farceurs!  And anyway you know that such is not my talent.  I could never be induced to take the faintest interest in Brompton qua Brompton or a drawing-room qua a drawing-room.  I am an Epick Writer with a k to it, but without the necessary genius.

Hurry up with another book of stories.  I am now reduced to two of my contemporaries, you and Barrie—O, and Kipling—you and Barrie and Kipling are now my Muses Three.  And with Kipling, as you know, there are reservations to be made.  And you and Barrie don’t write enough.  I should say I also read Anstey when he is serious, and can almost always get a happy day out of Marion Crawford—ce n’est pas toujours la guerre, but it’s got life to it and guts, and it moves.  Did you read the Witch of Prague?  Nobody could read it twice, of course; and the first time even it was necessary to skip.  E pur si muove.  But Barrie is a beauty, the Little Minister and the Window in Thrums, eh?  Stuff in that young man; but he must see and not be too funny.  Genius in him, but there’s a journalist at his elbow—there’s the risk.  Look, what a page is the glove business in the Window! knocks a man flat; that’s guts, if you please.

Why have I wasted the little time that is left with a sort of naked review article?  I don’t know, I’m sure.  I suppose a mere ebullition of congested literary talk I am beginning to think a visit from friends would be due.  Wish you could come!

Let us have your news anyway, and forgive this silly stale effusion.—Yours ever,

Robert Louis Stevenson.