Читать книгу Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters - Daniel Stashower, Исмаил Шихлы - Страница 133

This is the most blackguardly country that ever was invented, I am counting the very days until we turn our prow homewards once again—Alas it is a long time yet. Never was there such a hole of a place, it is good for nothing but swearing at. I am just recovering from a smart attack of fever, and am so weak that the pen feels like an oar though I was only on my back for three days. It is our summer here, and while you are having crisp frosty mornings (it makes my feet tingle to think of them) we have an apoplectic looking sun glaring down at us in a disgusting manner, while there is never a breath of air, save when a whiff of miasma is bourne off the land. Here we are steaming from one dirty little port to another dirty little port, all as like as two peas, and only to be distinguished by comparing the smell of the inhabitants, though they all smell as if they had become prematurely putrid and should be buried without unnecessary delay. We have come 2000 miles down the coast now, and a hundred yards might stand for the lot—a row of breakers—a yellow strip of sand and a line of palm trees—never any [page missing]*

…closer together. She [Elmore Weldon] has £1300 and I have nothing except my brains, so how on earth we are going to knock it up I don’t know. I hate long engagements, but I have to wait like Mr Micawber for something to turn up.

Give my love to Jessie—I believe those days when she taught me to dance, and I helped to teach her to play lawn tennis, were about the happiest I ever had in my life. Believe me, I often think of you both, and of all the old Glee Club—Alas how is our glory fallen & our members scattered, & I the most scattered of the lot. Give my kind regards to the Websters—or perhaps you had better not, as it might come round to Mama’s ears I had written, & I don’t want her to see a grumbling letter, else she would begin hunting up a coffin for me & writing obituary notices.