Under the Wide and Starry Sky

CHAPTER 86

1894

“A letter from Colvin,” Louis remarked when he came out onto the porch, where Fanny and Maggie sat doing needlework. “He starts with just a few tidbits of news, and then— Listen to this.”

Do these things interest you at all; or do any of our white a?airs? I could remark in passing that for three letters or more you have not uttered a single word about anything but your beloved blacks—or chocolates—confound them; beloved no doubt to you; to us detested, as shutting out your thoughts, or so it often seems from the main currents of human a?airs, and oh so much less interesting than any dog, cat, mouse, house or jenny-wren of our own hereditary associations, loves and latitudes … Please let us have a letter or two with something besides native politics, prisons, kava feasts, and such things as our Cockney stomachs can ill assimilate.

“Ah, Sidney,” Maggie groaned. “Why doesn’t he write about the weather?” “How can such a cultivated man be so appallingly narrow?” Louis asked. “It appears to be ignorance, and it is, to a degree,” Maggie said. “But I just saw Sidney a
few months ago, and he adores you, Lou.”

“I know that. But with Colvin, it’s as if I have betrayed him. He feels I have repudiated my homeland by planting myself here. He forgets it was my lungs that rebelled against his precious literary air.”

“If I know Sidney,” Fanny said, “you will get an apology in the next mail.” Maggie put down her sewing.  “Sidney may be tired of Samoan news, but Henry James
laps it up like a kitten. He told me so when I was in London. He follows everything you write about it.”

“Colvin thinks I’ll lose my powers as a writer by separating myself from my roots. It’s the old refrain.”

“He’s wrong,” Maggie said. “You’ve said yourself that your South Seas stories are some of your best.”

“Ignore Sidney’s grousing. That’s the thinking of a man who lives in the British Museum, after  all,”  Fanny  said. “And  it’s  normal  for  those  left  behind  to  feel  abandoned  when someone they love moves far away. It’s a sign of his loyalty.”

Louis would write back to tell Colvin that he was still devoted to him but that he could not report any news without mentioning his “black and chocolates,” because the Samoans

were the people among whom he now passed his days. He loved many of them as friends and a handful of them as members of his family. To not discuss them would be to cut o? Colvin from his whole life.

No scolding was necessary to remind him how much he missed his friends back in Britain. Maybe  it  was  impossible  to  stay  attached  to  people  when  you  were  separated  by  ten thousand miles. So much life had occurred for everyone since he was in England. Henley and his wife had had a daughter and lost her, all in the space of ?ve years. Baxter’s wife had  just  died.  Symonds  had  ?nally  succumbed  to  consumption  in  Davos.  Even  Colvin, whose life seemed to have settled into permanent bachelorhood with Fanny Sitwell, had sent news of a change: Fanny’s wretched old husband, the vicar, had died. Maybe she and Colvin would finally marry.

Last week’s mail had brought news that made Louis feel exceedingly removed from his former life. Adelaide Boodle was going o? to be a missionary. Louis had responded with a fatherly  letter  o?ering  up  good  wishes,  but  he  was  unable  to  restrain  himself  from dispensing advice. Forget wholly and forever all small pruderies, and remember that you cannot change ancestral feelings of right and wrong without what is practically soul-murder.

How would Adelaide receive such advice? She might well take his words to be those of a world-weary old man. Maybe he was just such a man, for he thought almost every day about  death.  He  couldn’t  say  so  to  his  family,  only  to  Colvin.  But  he  could go  at  this moment and be glad of the event. My God, I am nearly forty-four. Never had he imagined he’d live so long. He had no taste for getting old if he was sickly; he could think of nothing worse than a wasting, prolonged deterioration followed by a tardy death. Healthier now than he had been in many years, he still su?ered a host of degrading ailments, even on his best days.

There is much to be thankful for. His mother, energetic and cheerful, had come back from Scotland, and the evening circle on the verandah had grown merrier for her presence. He’d had a long letter from Bob and felt their old bond regenerating in his cousin’s friendly words. Money worries had lessened, thanks to Baxter’s brilliant idea: a handsomely bound release of Louis’s collected works in a set to be called The Edinburgh Edition. Best of all, Baxter had promised to come to Samoa with a set of proofs. When that letter came, Louis had leaped to his feet and crowed the news to his startled family. “Baxter is coming! Baxter is really coming to Vailima!”

The  prospect  of  his  old  friend  joining  them  all  on  the  verandah  was  almost  more excitement than he could bear. He had told Baxter about Fanny’s troubles, but his friend would not see her as she’d been. Miraculously, in small, slow steps, Fanny had returned very nearly to herself. They were both tender, though, and spoke cautiously to each other. There were sore places that only time might heal.

The next day, bent on exercise, Louis set out to reach the top of Mount Vaea. He had wanted to climb it since they bought their land, so he packed a lunch and threw it in a knapsack.

“A blessing on your journey,” Talolo saluted Louis as he departed. “A blessing on the house,” Louis replied in Samoan.

He stepped over branches and vines in the heavy bush, pushing his way upward. It was a sunny morning of crystalline air, dewdrops on shiny leaves, and joyous birdsong. Along the way, he saw majestic banyan trees and an astonishing array of multicolored birds ?itting through the forest. The last part of the climb went straight up  to a  small plateau—the burial place of an ancient chief, Henry Simele once told him.

Sweating  profusely  when  he  reached  the  top,  Louis  shouted, “Talofa  lava!”  The magni?cent prospect ?t the requirements for a regal resting place, but there was no sign of humans anywhere.

He sat on the ground eating his sandwich with considerable satisfaction. How quiet it was in this place. How vivid and lovely the birdcalls. He lay on his back to soak up the sun and was flooded with another memory of Scotland.

He used to walk up  to Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, an ancient volcano similar to this place. To climb to that peak was worth it any time of year, but especially in winter, when he could look down and see the frozen ice of Duddingston Loch covered with skaters. He remembered vividly how he’d stayed through a winter sunset to watch one skater spark another’s torch until dots of twinkling light flitted across the dark ice.
The sun soaked him through with a peaceful feeling he’d not felt in all too long a time. Sated, he stood and broke up the remains of his bread into crumbs, then scattered them around the mountaintop. Below him he could see white sand beaches, the buildings of Apia, the red roof of Vailima.

It came clear to him as he stood at the top of Mount Vaea. This is where I shall be buried.