to James Payn

Vailima, Samoa, Nov. 4, 1894.

MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,—I am asked to relate to you a little incident of domestic life at Vailima.  I had read your Gleams of Memory, No. 1; it then went to my wife, to Osbourne, to the cousin that is within my gates, and to my respected amanuensis, Mrs. Strong.  Sunday approached.  In the course of the afternoon I was attracted to the great ’all—the winders is by Vanderputty, which upon entering I beheld a memorable scene.  The floor was bestrewn with the forms of midshipmen from the Curaçoa—‘boldly say a wilderness of gunroom’—and in the midst of this sat Mrs. Strong throned on the sofa and reading aloud Gleams of Memory.  They had just come the length of your immortal definition of boyhood in the concrete, and I had the pleasure to see the whole party dissolve under its influence with inextinguishable laughter.  I thought this was not half bad for arthritic gout!  Depend upon it, sir, when I go into the arthritic gout business, I shall be done with literature, or at least with the funny business.  It is quite true I have my battlefields behind me.  I have done perhaps as much work as anybody else under the most deplorable conditions.  But two things fall to be noticed: In the first place, I never was in actual pain; and in the second, I was never funny.  I’ll tell you the worst day that I remember.  I had a hæmorrhage, and was not allowed to speak; then, induced by the devil, or an errant doctor, I was led to partake of that bowl which neither cheers nor inebriates—the castor-oil bowl.  Now, when castor-oil goes right, it is one thing; but when it goes wrong, it is another.  And it went wrong with me that day.  The waves of faintness and nausea succeeded each other for twelve hours, and I do feel a legitimate pride in thinking that I stuck to my work all through and wrote a good deal of Admiral Guinea (which I might just as well not have written for all the reward it ever brought me) in spite of the barbarous bad conditions.  I think that is my great boast; and it seems a little thing alongside of your Gleams of Memory illustrated by spasms of arthritic gout.  We really should have an order of merit in the trade of letters.  For valour, Scott would have had it; Pope too; myself on the strength of that castor-oil; and James Payn would be a Knight Commander.  The worst of it is, though Lang tells me you exhibit the courage of Huish, that not even an order can alleviate the wretched annoyance of the business.  I have always said that there is nothing like pain; toothache, dumb-ague, arthritic gout, it does not matter what you call it, if the screw is put upon the nerves sufficiently strong, there is nothing left in heaven or in earth that can interest the sufferer.  Still, even to this there is the consolation that it cannot last for ever.  Either you will be relieved and have a good hour again before the sun goes down, or else you will be liberated.  It is something after all (although not much) to think that you are leaving a brave example; that other literary men love to remember, as I am sure they will love to remember, everything about you—your sweetness, your brightness, your helpfulness to all of us, and in particular those one or two really adequate and noble papers which you have been privileged to write during these last years.—With the heartiest and kindest good-will, I remain, yours ever,

R. L. S.